This annoyed him. For he disapproved of sickness in every shape or
form. His own state of body was far from satisfactory at that moment;
Africa--he was Bishop of Bampopo in the Equatorial Regions--had played
the devil with his lower gastric department and made him almost an
invalid; a circumstance of which he was nowise proud, seeing that
ill-health led to inefficiency in all walks of life. There was nothing
he despised more than inefficiency. Well or ill, he always insisted on
getting through his tasks in a businesslike fashion. That was the way
to live, he used to say. Get through with it. Be perfect of your kind,
whatever that kind may be. Hence his sneaking fondness for the
natives--they were such fine, healthy animals.

Fine, healthy animals; perfect of their kind! Africa liked them to "get
through with it" according to their own lights. But there was evidently
a little touch of spitefulness and malice about Africa; something
almost human. For when white people try to get through with it after
their particular fashion, she makes hay of their livers or something.
That is what had happened to Thomas Heard, D.D., Bishop of Bampopo. He
had been so perfect of his kind, such an exemplary pastor, that there
was small chance of a return to the scenes of his episcopal labours.
Anybody could have told him what would happen. He ought to have allowed
for a little human weakness, on the part of the Black Continent. It
could not be helped. For the rest, he was half inclined to give up the
Church and take to some educational work on his return to England.
Perhaps that was why he at present preferred to be known as "Mr.
Heard." It put people at their ease, and him too.

Whence now this novel and unpleasant sensation in the upper gastric
region? Most annoying! He had dined discreetly at his hotel the evening
before; had breakfasted with moderation. And had he not voyaged in many