Benjamin opened the door, and pushed the fishermen out.
“Remember,” he said, as they departed, “if I hear a word about the matter in the bar of any hotel, our bargain is off and not a cent will you get for your pains.”
“Look ’ere, cap’n.” Rock Cod turned suddenly round. “We passed you our word: ain’t that good enough?”
“My trusty friend, it is. So-long. Go, and drink my health.”
Without another word the fishermen went, and the goldsmith returned to put the finishing touches to his fraudulent work.
CHAPTER XIII.
What the Bush Robin Saw.
The Bush Robin had a pale yellow breast, and his dominion extended from the waterfall, at the bottom of which lay a deep, dark, green pool, to the place where the rimu tree had fallen across the creek.
His life was made up of two things; hunting for big white grubs in the rotten barrels of dead trees, and looking at the yellow pebbles in the stream. This last was a habit that the wood-hen had taught him. She was the most inquisitive creature in the forest, and knew all that was going on beyond the great river, into which the creek fell, and as far away as the Inaccessible Mountains, which were the end of the world: not that she travelled far, but that all wood-hens live in league, and spend their time in enquiring into other people’s business.