“I did at first, Jem,” replied Don; “but they seem such a set of ridiculous idiots, that I am more disposed to laugh at them.”
“That’s just how I feel, my lad, only aggrawated like, too. I should like to go among ’em with a big stick. I never see such faces as they make. It is all flam; they won’t fight.”
The war-song went on as if the enemy were exciting themselves for the affray, and all the time the men of Tomati and Ngati stood firm, and as watchful as could be of their foes, who leaped, and stamped, and sang till Jem turned to Don, and said in a low voice,—
“Look here, Mas’ Don, it’s my opinion that these here chaps never grew inside their heads after they was six or seven. They’ve got bodies big enough, but no more brains than a little child. Look at that six-foot-four chap making faces at us; why, it’s like a little boy. They won’t fight.”
It seemed so to Don, and that it was all going to be an attempt to frighten the tribe he was with. But all the same, the enemy came by degrees nearer and nearer, as they yelled and leaped; and a suspicion suddenly crossed Don’s mind that there might be a motive in all this.
“Jem, they mean to make a rush.”
“Think so, Mas’ Don?”
“Yes, and our people know it. Look out!”
The followers of Tomati had thoroughly grasped the meaning of the indirect approach, just as a man who has practised a certain manoeuvre is prepared for the same on the part of his enemy, and they had gradually edged towards the entrance to the pah, which was closed, but which naturally presented the most accessible way to the interior.
The howling chorus and the dancing continued, till, at a signal, the rush was made, and the fight began.