It was a Maori. The man was grinning broadly, yet he did not say a single word.
"Te Paheka!" exclaimed Malcolm in astonishment. "You here?"
A few months previously, when Malcolm saw Te Paheka vanishing round a corner as he drove juggernaut at a furious rate, the lad had come to the conclusion that he had seen the last of his Maori friend for many a long day. And now, by one of the vagaries of fate, Te Paheka was on board the Pomfret Castle, rigged out in khaki, and bound for the goal of freedom--the Western Front.
"Yes, I came along," explained Te Paheka. "Since you added a few years to your age I thought I would make a corresponding reduction in mine. Things were a bit dull. You heard about the car? Selwyn told you, then? I've cleared out. Sold every acre of land that I could legally dispose of. The rest the paternal Government prevents me getting rid of; but it's let, so I think I'm good for about four hundred a year. By the time I return--if I ever do see Wairakato again--I'll have enough to buy the out-and-out top-hole racing car in New Zealand."
Just then four men hurried along the alley-way. By the letters S.A.H.A. on their shoulder-straps, Malcolm knew that they belonged to the South African Heavy Artillery. As the foremost passed by he deliberately lurched against Te Paheka.
"Out of my way, Zwartnek!" he shouted, adding something in Taal which, fortunately for him, neither Malcolm nor the Maori understood.
As the last of the four men passed, Malcolm, seething with indignation, caught a glimpse of his features.
"Dash it all!" he soliloquized. "Where have I seen that fellow before?"
Te Paheka took no notice of the insult.
"I would have told that fellow to impshie pretty sharp if I'd been you, Te Paheka," observed the lad.