“You won’t want them,” he said, with an ugly grin; “we’ll do the hunting and fighting, and you three shall do the work.”
Jem uttered a low growl, at which Mike let the handle of one of the spears fall upon his shoulder, and as Jem fiercely seized it, three muskets were presented at his head.
“Oh, all right,” growled Jem, with a menacing look.
“Yes, it’s all right, Jem Wimble. But look here, don’t you or either of you cut up rough; for if you do, things may go very awkward.”
“I should like to make it awkward for them, Mas’ Don,” whispered Jem, as the convicts turned away; “but never mind, I can wait.”
They did wait, day after day, working hard, ill fed, and suffering endless abuse, and often blows, which would have been resented by Ngati, but for a look from Don; and night by night, as they gathered together in their little lean-to hut, with a thick heap of fern leaves for their bed their conversation was on the same subject—how could they get the muskets and spears, and escape.
There was no further alarm on the part of the Maoris, who seemed, after they had been discouraged in their pursuit, and startled by the guns, to have given up all intention of recapturing the escaped prisoners.
“If we could only get the guns and spears, Jem,” said Don one evening for the hundredth time.
“Yes, and I’d precious soon have them,” replied Jem; “only they’re always on the watch.”
“Yes, they’re too cunning to leave them for a moment. Was any one ever before so unlucky as we are?”