“Of course,” said Gordon. “Come in; but I think you are frightening yourselves at shadows, and—”
He stopped short, for Jem Wimble dashed at the door and banged it to just as Ngati sprang to the corner of the big log kitchen and caught up a spear.
“Mike and them two beauties, Mas’ Don!” cried Jem.
“Then it’s war, is it?” said Gordon grimly, as he reconnoitred from the window. “Eight—ten—twelve—about thirty Maori savages, and three white ones. Hand round the guns, Don Lavington. You can shoot, can’t you?”
“Yes, a little.”
“That’s right. Can we depend on Ngati? If we can’t, he’d better go.”
“I’ll answer for him,” said Don.
“All right!” said Gordon. “Look here, Ngati,”—he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear—“bad pakehas, bad—bad, kill.”
Ngati grunted, and his eyes flashed.
“Kill pakehas—bad pakehas,” he said in a deep, fierce voice. “Kill!” Then tapping the Englishmen one by one on the shoulder, “Pakeha good,” he said smiling, and then taking Don by the arm, “My pakeha,” he added.