“Well, they arn’t the sort of chaps I should choose, Mas’ Don; but they say they’re gen’lemen, so we must make the best of it. All right, Mike, we’re coming.”
“That’s your sort. Now, then, let’s find my big bird, and then I’m with you.”
“Yah! There’s no big bird,” said Jem. “We was the birds, shamming so as to get away from the savages.”
“Then you may think yourself precious lucky you weren’t shot. Come on.”
Mike led the way, and Don and his companions followed, the two rough followers of Mike Bannock coming behind with their guns cocked.
“Pleasant that, Mas’ Don,” said Jem. “Like being prisoners again. But they can’t shoot.”
“Why did you say that, Jem?” said Don anxiously.
“Because we’re going to make a run for it before long, eh, my pakeha?”
“My pakeha,” said Ngati, laying his hand on Don’s shoulder, and he smiled and looked relieved, for the proceedings during the last half-hour had puzzled him.
Don took the great fellow’s arm, feeling that in the Maori chief he had a true friend, and in this way they followed Mike Bannock round one of the shoulders of the mountain, towards where a jet of steam rose with a shrieking noise high up into the air.