“Yes, poor fellows, all but the prisoners,” said Don, speaking slowly, in the hope that the chief might grasp some of his words.
But he did not understand a syllable, though he seemed to feel that Don was sympathising with him, and he shook hands again gravely.
“My pakeha,” he said, pressing Don’s hand. Then turning to Jem, he held out his other hand, and said slowly, “Jemmeree. Good boy.”
“Well, that’s very kind of you,” said Jem, quietly. “We don’t understand one another much, but I do think you a good fellow, Ngati; so I shake hands hearty; and I’ll stand by you, mate, as you’ve stood by me.”
“Good, good,” said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking grave and pained again, he pointed over the mountain. “Maori kill,” he said. “Want eat?”
“Yes; eat, eat,” said Jem, making signs with his mouth. “Pig—meat.”
“No pig; no meat,” said Ngati, grasping the meaning directly; and going to a palm-like tree, he broke out some of its tender growth and handed it to his companions.
“Eat,” he said; and he began to munch some of it himself.
“Look at that now,” said Jem. “I should ha’ gone by that tree a hundred times without thinking it was good to eat. What’s it like, Mas’ Don?”
“Something like stalky celery, or nut, or pear, all mixed up together.”