The man’s aspect was for the moment so fierce that Don involuntarily stole his hand towards the pistol at his side. But his countenance softened directly after.
“That’s neither here nor there, mate,” said the man. “There’s been chaps sent out abroad who were innocent, and others who have been punished more than they deserved; and you aren’t the sort of fellow to go talking like that, and making trouble for a fellow who never did you any harm.”
“Not I,” said Jem; “it’s no business of mine.”
“And he isn’t the fellow to make trouble,” put in Don.
“That he isn’t,” said the man, smiling. “’Sides I’m a Maori chief now, and I’ve got a couple of hundred stout fellows who would fight for me. Eh, Ngati?” he said, addressing some words in the savage tongue.
“Pah, ha, ha!” roared the great fellow beside him, brandishing his spear; and seizing the greenstone paddle-like weapon, which hung from his neck, in his left hand, as he struck an attitude, turned up his eyes till the whites only were visible, distorted his face hideously, and thrust out his great tongue till it was far below his chin.
“Brayvo! Brayvo! Brayvo!” cried Jem, hammering the side of the boat; “brayvo, waxworks! I say, mate, will he always go off like that when you pull the string?”
“Yes,” said the Englishman, laughing; “and two hundred more like him.”
“Then it must be a werry pretty sight indeed; eh, Mas’ Don?”
“Ah, it’s all very well to laugh,” said the Englishman good-humouredly; “but when they mean mischief, it’s heads off and a feast.”