Slater, the cathedral
organist.
St. Andrew's Scottish Presbyterian Church stands in its own wooded
grounds in which there are two large ponds, or, as Anglo-Indians
would put it, it stands in a compound with large tanks. The church
is consequently infested with mosquitoes. The last time that I was
in Calcutta, the Gordon Highlanders had just relieved an English
regiment in the fort, and on the first Sunday after their arrival,
four hundred Gordons were marched to a parade service at St.
Andrew's. The most optimistic mosquito had never in his wildest
dreams imagined such a succulent banquet as that afforded by four
hundred bare-kneed, kilted Highlanders, and the mosquitoes made
the fullest use of their unique opportunity. Soon the church
resounded with the vigorous slapping of hands on bare knees and
thighs, as the men endeavoured to kill a few of their little
tormentors. The minister, hearing the loud clapping, but entirely
misapprehending its purport, paused in his sermon, and said, "My
brethren, it is varra gratifying to a minister of the Word to
learn that his remarks meet with the approbation of his hearers,
but I'd have you remember that all applause is strictly oot of
place in the Hoose of God.
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