“What I think. Depend upon it he was sent out to Botany Bay, and run off to this country.”
“No, no, Jem; don’t ask.”
“He can’t have come out here honest, Mas’ Don. Look at him, there arn’t a honest hair in his head.”
“But we don’t want to offend him, Jem.”
“Don’t we? Tell you what we do want, Mas’ Don; we want to get hold o’ them old rusty muskets and the powder and shot, and then we could make them sing small. Eh? What say?”
This was in answer to something said in a low voice by Ngati, who looked from one to the other inquiringly.
Ngati spoke again, and then struck his fist into his hand with a look of rage and despair.
“Yes, I feel the same,” said Don, laying his hand upon the great fellow’s arm. “I’d give anything to be able to understand what you say, Ngati.”
The chief smiled, as if he quite comprehended; and grasped Don’s hand with a friendly grip, offering the other to Jem.
“It’s all right, old boy,” said the latter. “We can’t understand each other’s lingo, but we know each other’s hearts. We’ve got to wait a bit and see.”