The owner of the face climbed up to the shelf, followed by another bronzed figure, when Don recognised the second as the tattooed Englishman, while there was no mistake about the first, for he made Jem give an angry grunt as a human voice shouted,—
“My pakeha.”
“Somebody calling you, Mas’ Don?”
“My pakeha!” shouted the New Zealander again. “Jemmeree Wimbee.”
“Eh! Here, I say, call a fellow by his right name!” cried Jem, stepping forward.
The chief met him with advancing step, and caught him by the shoulders, and before Jem could realise what he was going to do, placed his blue nose against that which was coppery white, and gave it a peculiar rub.
“Here, I say, don’t!” cried Jem, struggling to free himself, when the chief seized Don in turn, and bent down and served him the same.
“Don’t you stand it, Mas’ Don. Hit out.”
“Don’t you, youngster,” said the Englishman. “It’s only his friendly way.”
“Yes, that’s what they say at home when a big dog goes at you, and nearly rolls you over,” grumbled Jem. “I say, have you got anything to eat?”