“Yes; ’tarn’t bad,” said Jem. “What’s he doing now?”
Ngati was busily hunting about for something, peering amongst the trees, but he did not seem to find that of which he was in search. He uttered a cry of satisfaction the next minute, though, as he stooped down and took a couple of eggs from a nest upon the ground.
“Good—good!” he exclaimed, eagerly; and he gave them to Don to carry, while he once more resumed his search, which this time was successful, for he found a young tree, and stripped from its branches a large number of its olive-like berries.
“There now,” said Jem. “Why, it’s all right, Mas’ Don; ’tarn’t tea and coffee, and bread and butter, but it’s salad and eggs and fruit. Why, fighting cocks’ll be nothing to it. We shall live like princes, see if we don’t. What’s them things like?”
“Like very ripe apples, Jem, or medlars,” replied Don, who had been tasting the fruit carefully.
“That’ll do, then. Pity we can’t find some more of them eggs, and don’t light a fire to cook ’em. I say, Ngati.”
The Maori looked at him inquiringly.
“More, more,” said Jem, holding up one of the eggs, and pointing to the ferny thicket.
“No, no,” said Ngati, shaking his head. “Moa, moa.”
He stooped down and held his hands apart in different directions, as if he were describing the shape of a moderate-sized oval pumpkin. Then, rising erect, he raised one hand to the full extent of his arm, bending the fingers so as to imitate the shape of a bird’s head, pressed his head against his arm, placed the left arm close to his body and a little forward, and then began to stalk about slowly.