"Did Mr. Lee think of building a saw-mill?" Edwin's reply ended with the counter-inquiry, "Had Mr. Hirpington got home?"
Dunter shook his head. "Not he: we all hold on as long as the light lasts. He is away with the men, laying down a bit of corduroy road over an earthslip, just to keep a horse-track through the worst of the winter."
Whilst Edwin was being initiated into the mysteries of road-making in the bush, the coach drove up.
Horses and driver were alike covered with mud, and the coach itself exhibited more than its usual quota of flax-leaf bandages—all testifying to the roughness of the journey.
"It is the last time you will see me this season," groaned Ottley, as he got off the box. "I shall get no farther." He caught sight of Edwin, and recognized his presence with a friendly nod. The passengers, looking in as dilapidated and battered condition as the coach, were slowly getting out, thankful to find themselves at a stopping-place. Among them Edwin noticed a remarkable old man.
His snowy hair spoke of extreme old age, and when he turned a tattooed cheek towards the boy, Edwin's attention was riveted upon him at once. Lean, lank, and active still, his every air and gesture was that of a man accustomed to command.
"Look at him well," whispered Dunter. "He is a true old tribal chief from the other side of the mountains, if I know anything; one of the invincibles, the gallant old warrior-chiefs that are dying out fast. You will never see his like again. If you had heard them, as I have, vow to stand true for ever and ever and ever, you would never forget it.—Am I not right, coachee?" he added in a low aside to Ottley, as he took the fore horse by the head.
The lantern flickered across the wet ground. The weary passengers were stamping their numbed feet, and shaking the heavy drops of moisture from hat-brims and overcoats. Edwin pressed resolutely between, that he might catch the murmur of Ottley's reply.
"He got in at the last stopping-place, but I do not know him."
There was such a look of Whero in the proud flash of the aged Maori's eye, that Edwin felt a secret conviction, be he who he might, they must be kith and kin. He held his letter aloft to attract the coachman's attention, calling out at his loudest, "Here, Mr. Ottley, I have brought a letter for you to post at last."