Don stopped short, for, from a distance, came a faint hail, followed by another nearer, which seemed to be in answer.
“They’re arter us, sir, and if we’re to be ketched I don’t mean to be ketched like this.”
“What are you going to do, Jem?”
“Do?” said Jem, unrolling his bundled-up clothes, and preparing to sit down, “make myself look like an ornery Chrishtun.”
“Don’t sit down there, Jem!” cried Don, as Ngati gave a warning cry at the same moment, and started back.
But they were too late, for Jem had chosen a delicately green mossy and ferny patch, and plumped himself down, to utter a cry of horror, and snatch at the extended hands. For the green ferny patch was a thin covering over a noisome hole full of black boiling mud, into which the poor fellow was settling as he was dragged out.
“Fah!” ejaculated Jem, pinching his nose. “Here, I’ve had ’most enough o’ this place. Nice sort o’ spot this would be to turn a donkey out to graze. Why, you wouldn’t find nothing but the tips of his ears to-morrow morning.”
Another hail rang out, and was answered in two places.
“I say, Mas’ Don, they’re hunting for us, and we shall have to run.”
He made signs to the chief indicative of a desire to run, but Ngati shook his head, and pointed onward.