Ngati was close at hand with his men all standing in a group, and at first sight it seemed as if they were laughing at the little, stoutly-built, pink-faced man, but, on the contrary, they were smiles of admiration.
“I couldn’t ha’ believed it, Mas’ Don,” said Jem; “I feel as fresh as a daisy, and—well, I never did! Mas’ Don, what a guy you do look!”
Don, after a momentary thought that he looked something like one of the old Romans in a toga, just as he had seen them in an engraving, had been so taken up with the beauty of the ferny gully, with the sun gilding here and there the steamy vapour which rose from the hot springs, that he had thought no more of his personal appearance till Jem spoke.
“Guy?” he said, laughing, as he ran his eye over Jem. “I say, did you ever hear the story of the pot and the kettle?”
“Yes, of course; but I say, my lad, I don’t look so rum as you, do I?”
“I suppose you look just about the same, Jem.”
“Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we’re into ’em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas’ Don, it’s werry awkward; you can’t say anything to that big savage without him shouting ‘pakeha.’ How shall we ask for our clothes?”
“Wait,” said Don. “We’ve got to think about getting further away.”
“Think they’ll send to look for us, Mas’ Don?”
“I should say they would.”