He is an elderly Scotchman, spiritually a
little weatherbeaten, as having to navigate his creed in strange
waters crowded with other craft but still a convinced son of the
Free Church and the North African Mission, with a faithful brown
eye, and a peaceful soul. Physically a wiry small-knit man, well
tanned, clean shaven, with delicate resolute features and a
twinkle of mild humor. He wears the sun helmet and pagri, the
neutral-tinted spectacles, and the white canvas Spanish sand
shoes of the modern Scotch missionary: but instead of a cheap
tourist's suit from Glasgow, a grey flannel shirt with white
collar, a green sailor knot tie with a cheap pin in it, he wears
a suit of clean white linen, acceptable in color, if not in cut,
to the Moorish mind.
The view from the garden includes much Atlantic Ocean and a long
stretch of sandy coast to the south, swept by the north east
trade wind, and scantily nourishing a few stunted pepper trees,
mangy palms, and tamarisks. The prospect ends, as far as the
land is concerned, in little hills that come nearly to the sea:
rudiments, these, of the Atlas Mountains. The missionary, having
had daily opportunities of looking at this seascape for thirty
years or so, pays no heed to it, being absorbed in trimming a
huge red geranium bush, to English eyes unnaturally big, which,
with a dusty smilax or two, is the sole product of his pet
flower-bed. He is sitting to his work on a Moorish stool.
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