“Who was there after you?” said Mike Bannock, suspiciously.
“Some of a tribe of Maoris,” replied Jem.
“No one else?”
“No.”
“Ah, well, we arn’t afeared of them.” He patted the stock of his gun meaningly. “Soon make a tribe of them run home to their mothers. See them big birds as we shot at? And I say, young Lavington, what have you been doing to your face? Smudging it to keep off the flies?”
Don coloured through the grey mud, and involuntarily clapped his hand to his face, for he had forgotten the rough disguise.
“Never you mind about his face,” said Jem grinning. “What birds?”
“Them great birds as we shot at,” said Mike. “I brought one of ’em down.”
“You! You couldn’t hit a haystack,” said Jem. “You hit no bird.”