“Moa, moa,” he said, dropping his arm again, and pointing to the eggs, “Kiwi, kiwi.”
“Kiwi, kiwi,” said Jem. “Can’t make out what he means, Mas’ Don; but it don’t matter. Shall we suck the eggs raw?”
He made a gesture as if to break one, but Ngati snatched it away.
“No, no!” he cried sharply, and snatched the other away.
“Pig!” ejaculated Jem. “Well, I do call that greedy.”
But if the chief was greedy over the eggs, which he secured in a roughly-made bag, of palm strips, ingeniously woven, he was generous enough over the fruit and palm, upon which they made a fair breakfast; after which Ngati examined Jem’s wounds, and then signed to him to come down to the side of the stream, seizing him by the wrist, and half dragging him in his energetic way.
“Is he going to drown me, Mas’ Don?”
“No, no, Jem. I know: he wants to bathe your wound.”
So it proved, for Ngati made him lie down by a pool, and tenderly washed the injuries, ending by applying some cool bruised leaves to the places, and binding them up with wild flax.
This done, he examined Don’s head, smiling with satisfaction because it was no worse.