Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati’s hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief.
Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.
If it was true, what would happen at the little farm?
He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house.
“Ngati,” he said excitedly, “danger!”
The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt as if he were trying to get some great dog to comprehend his wishes.
He had learned scores of Maori words, but now that he wanted to use them, some would not come, and others would not fit.
“Ngati!” he cried again piteously, as he pointed toward the farm, “pakehas—bad pakehas.”
The chief could understand pakehas—white men, but he was rather hazy about bad, whether it did not mean good, and he gave a low grunt.
“Bad pakehas. Fight. Jem,” panted Don.