“But is that true?”
“About being cannibals? Yes it’s true enough,” said the man seriously; “and very horrid it is; but it’s only when there’s war.”
He had succeeded in striking a light now, and was smoking placidly enough on the boat’s edge, but dreamily thoughtful, as if he were recalling matters that were past.
“Has he ever—been at war?” said Don, altering the fashion of his inquiry when it was half uttered.
“Often.”
“And—? You know,” said Jem, who felt no delicacy about the matter.
The Englishman nodded his head slowly, and sent forth a tremendous puff of smoke, while his companion moved toward Don, and smiled at him, tapping him on the shoulder with his hand, and seeming to nod approval.
“Pakeha!” he said, excitedly; “my pakeha; Maori pakeha.”
“What does he mean by that?” said Don, after he had suffered these attentions patiently for a few minutes.
“Means he wants you to be his pakeha.”