“But they was too big for that.”
“Nay, not they. Looked big in the mist, same as things allus do in a fog.”
“I don’t care; I see that great bird quite plain, and I’m sure I hit him, and he fell somewhere—hah!”
There was the sharp click, click of a gun being cocked, and a voice roared out,—
“Here, you, Mike Bannock, don’t shoot me.”
There was a loud rustling among the ferns, and then Jem shouted again.
“Mas’ Don—Ngati! Why—hoi—oh! It’s all right!”
The familiar voice—the name Mike Bannock, and Jem’s cheery, boyish call, made Don rise, wondering more than ever whether this was not a dream.
The day was rapidly growing lighter, and after answering Jem’s hail, Don caught sight of him standing under a tree in company with three wild, gaunt-looking men.
“Mas’ Don! Ahoy! Mas’ Don!”