A week passed rapidly away, during which, in his rougher moods, Mike treated his prisoners as if they were slaves, calling upon Ngati to perform the most menial offices for the little camp, all of which were patiently performed after an appealing look at Don, who for the sake of gaining time gave up in every way.
Jem grumbled, but he did what he was told, for the slightest appearance of resistance was met by a threatening movement with the muskets, which never left the men’s hands.
They were fairly supplied with food; fish from the streams and from a good-sized lake, Ngati proving himself to be an adept at capturing the large eels, and at discovering fresh supplies of fruit and roots.
But in a quiet way, as he watched his English companions like a dog, he always seemed to comprehend their wishes, and to be waiting the time when they should call upon him to fly at their tyrants and then help them to escape.
“Didn’t know I was coming out to look after you, did you, young Don?” said Mike one evening. “King sent me out o’ purpose. Told one of the judges to send me out here, and here I am; and I’ve found you, and I ought to take you home, but I won’t. You always liked furrin countries, and I’m going to keep you here.”
“What for?” said Don.
“To make you do for me what I used to do for you. I was your sarvant; now you’re mine. Ups and downs in life we see. Now you’re down and I’m up; and what d’yer think o’ that, Jem Wimble?”
“Think as you was transported, and that you’ve took to the bush.”
“Oh, do you?” said Mike, grinning. “Well, never mind; I’m here, and you’re there, and you’ve got to make the best of it.”
To make the best of it was not easy. The three convicts, after compelling their prisoners to make the resting-place they occupied more weather-proof and warm, set them to make a lean-to for themselves, to which they were relegated, but without arms, Mike Bannock having on the first day they were at work taken possession of their weapons.