"I am a Christchurch boy," cried another voice from the deck of the
steamer. "But the Christchurch schools are all closed for the winter
holidays."
There were hurried questions exchanged between the brothers after father
and Effie. But the answers were interrupted by the appearance of Mr.
Bowen.
"Pay your rower," he shouted to Edwin, "and join our party. I am taking
your little brother and sister home, for I am going to the hills to make
inquiries into the state of distress."
Before Edwin could reply, Whero, with a look at the old identity as if
he defied the whole world to interfere with him, was whispering to
Edwin,--
"These men are fooling us. They will not take us to Christchurch. They
are going the wrong way."
Edwin was as much alarmed as Whero at the thought of going back; but he
knew Mr. Bowen had no authority to detain him against his will.
"Our errand admits of no delay," he answered, as he resigned the paddle
to Whero.
The canoe shot forward.
"Good-bye! good-bye!" cried Edwin.
Sailors and passengers were exclaiming at their reckless speed, for
Whero was rowing with all his might. The number of the boats and barges
increased as they drew nearer the coast.
"Lie down again amongst the rushes," entreated Whero, "or we may meet
some other pakeha who will know your English face."
Their voyage was almost at its end. They were in sight of the goal.
Black, trailing lines of smoke, from the coasting-steamers at the mouth
of the river, flecked the clear brilliancy of the azure sky.
Edwin was as much afraid as Whero of another chance encounter. Audrey
might turn up to stop him. Some one might be sending her home by water,
who could say? Another of the shipwrecked sailors might be watching for
a coaster to take him on board. So he lay down in the bottom of the
canoe as if he were asleep, and Whero pulled the rushes over him.
*CHAPTER XIX.*
*MET AT LAST.*
The boys were recovering their equanimity, when the stiff sea-breeze
blowing in their faces scattered the rushes and sent them sailing down
the stream.
Whero drew his canoe to the bank as they came to a quiet nook where
rushes were growing abundantly, that he might gather more.
Whero was out of his latitude, in a _terra incognita_, where he knew not
how to supply the want of a dinner. How could he stop to discover the
haunts of the wild ducks to look for their eggs? How could he reach the
cabbage in the top of those tall and graceful ti trees, which shook
their waving fronds in the wintry breezes? Ah! if it had been summer,
even here he would not have longed in vain. His bundle of rushes was
under his arm, when he noticed a hollow willow growing low to the
river-side. A swarm of bees in the recent summer had made it their
home, and their store of winter honeycomb had filled the trunk. Swarms
of bees gone wild had become so frequent near the English settlements,
wild honey was often found in large quantities. But to Whero it was a
rare treat. He was far too hungry to be able to pass it by. He
scrambled up the bank, and finding the bees were dead or torpid with the
cold, he began to break off great pieces of the comb, and lay them on
his rushes to carry away.
As he was thus engaged a man came through the clustering ti trees and
asked him to give him a bit.
Whero was ready enough to share his spoils with the stranger, for there
was plenty. As he turned to offer the piece he had just broken off, he
saw he was an ill-looking man, with his hat slouched over his eyes,
carrying a roll of pelts and a swag at the end of a stick, which had
evidently torn a hole through the shoulder of the wretched old coat the
man was wearing.
"Much craft on the river here?" asked the man. "Any barges passing that
would take a fellow down to the coast?"
"I am a stranger here," answered Whero; "I do not know." As he spoke,
his quick eye detected the stains of the hateful blue volcanic mud on
the man's dirty clothes.
"I'll be off," he thought. "Who are you? You are from the hills,
whoever you are."
He gave him another great piece of the honeycomb, for fear he should
follow him to ask for more.
"That is so old," objected the man; "look how dark it is. Give me a
better bit."
But he took it notwithstanding, and tried to put it in his ragged
pocket. The holes were so large it fell through.
"There is plenty more in the tree," said Whero. "Why do you not go and
help yourself?" He took up his rushes and walked quickly to the canoe.
Edwin was making a screen for his face with the few remaining rushes.
Whero saw that he was looking eagerly through them, not at the honeycomb
he was bringing, but at the man on the bank.
"Do you know him?" asked Whero.
"Yes, yes; it is Lawford," answered Edwin, under his breath. "Look, he
has got his rabbit-skins and his swag. How careful he is over it! He
has set his foot on it whilst he gets the honey."
The canoe was completely hidden by the tall tufts of bulrush growing
between it and the willow, so they could watch unseen. The man was
enjoying the honeycomb immensely. He was choosing out the best pieces.
Whero gave Edwin the kaka, lest it should betray them.
"You are sure it is Lawford?" asked Whero.
"Yes, quite," replied Edwin, beginning to eat.
The best of the honeycomb was higher up in the hollow trunk, where the
rain could not wash out its sweetness. As Lawford was stretching up his
arm to get at it, the sweet-brier, now so plentiful in New Zealand, that
was growing about its roots caught the ragged old coat. They heard the
rent; something fell out of the pocket on the other side.
He picked it up hastily, shaking off the dirt into which it had fallen.
"It is my father's belt!" exclaimed Edwin. Whero was over the side of
the canoe in a moment, and crawling through the bed of rushes with the
noiseless swiftness of a wild animal watching its prey.
He saw Lawford unpack what New Zealanders call a swag--that is, a piece
of oil-cloth provided with straps, which takes the place of knapsack or
portmanteau amongst travellers of Lawford's description. If a man has
not even got a swag, he is reckoned a sundowner in colonial eyes. Swags
are always to be bought at the smallest stores. No difficulty about
that. As Whero drew nearer, he saw the swag was a new one. Everything
else about the man looked worn out.
Lawford was unpacking it on the ground, throwing suspicious glances over
his shoulder as he did so; but his recent companion seemed to have
vanished. He stood up and looked all round him, but there was no one to
be seen.
He took out a small bundle packed up in flax-leaves, which he began
slowly to unwind.
Did not Whero know the bag which his own mother had woven? Could
anything produce those tell-tale stains but the hateful mud from which
it had been dug up?
Lawford wrapped the belt round the bag, and bound the flax-leaves over
both as before. When he began to strap up the swag, Whero crept back to
the canoe. His eyes were ablaze with passion.
"Pull off your coat," he whispered, "and leave it in the rushes. Take
mine, or he will know you."
Edwin eagerly complied.
"Sleep deep; lie on your face!" whispered Whero, covering him over with
the rushes he had brought. Then, before Edwin had the least idea of what
he was purposing, Whero pushed out his canoe into the middle of the
river, and paddled quickly to a handy landing-place a little farther on.
He ran up the bank shouting to Lawford, "If you want a boat to go down
river to meet a coaster, I'll row you in my canoe. But you will have to
pay me."
"You would not work without that if you are a Maori, I know," retorted
the other, taking out a well-worn purse.
"Come along," shouted Whero; "that's a' right." The unsuspecting
Lawford took his seat in the canoe, and gave Edwin an unwary kick.
"Who have you got here?" he asked.
"A chum asleep," answered Whero, indifferently, as he stroked his kaka.
Edwin was feeling anything but indifferent. He knew not how to lie
still. "If we are not dead unlucky," he thought, "we shall get all
back--Nga-Hepe's bag, and father's belt too. We must mind we do not
betray ourselves. If we can manage to go on board the same steamer,
when we are right out to sea I'll tell the captain all; and we will give
Lawford in charge as he lands." Such was Edwin's plan; but he could not
be sure that Whero's was the same. He dare not exchange a look or sign;
"for," he said to himself, "if Lawford catches sight of me, it is all
over."
They passed another little steamer going up the river, with its
coal-barge in tow.
Edwin felt as if Audrey's sedate face would be looking down upon him
from its deck, but he was wrong.
"Nothing is certain but the unforeseen," he sighed; but he remembered
his part, and the sigh became a snore, which he carefully repeated at
intervals, for Lawford's benefit.
He little thought how soon his words would be fulfilled. The steamer
was some way ahead, and Whero was making towards it steadily. The barge
behind them was lessening in the distance, when the Maori boy fixed his
fingers like a vice in the strap of Lawford's swag, and upset his canoe.
Whero knew that Edwin could swim well, and that Lawford was unused to
the water. Whero had detected that by the awkward way in which he
stepped into the canoe.
The two struggled in the water for the possession of the swag. At last
the man relinquished his hold, and Whero swam to shore triumphantly,
leaving him to drown.
"He shall not drown!" cried Edwin, hastening towards him with vigorous
strokes; but before he could reach the spot, Lawford had sunk. Edwin
swam round and round, watching for him to rise.
It was a moment of anguish so intense he thought life, reason, all
within him, would give way before the dreadful question, "What have I
been? An accomplice in this man's death--all unknowing, it is true; but
that cannot save him. Oh! it does matter," he groaned, "what kind of
fellows a boy is forced to take for his chums."
The drowning man rose to the surface. Edwin grasped him by the coat.
For a little while they floated with the current, until Lawford's weight
began to drag Edwin down.
"Better die with him than live to know I have killed him," thought
Edwin. One hurried upward glance into the azure sky brought back the
remembrance of One who is ever present, ever near, and strong to save us
to the uttermost. This upheld him. A tree came floating by; he caught
at its branches. Lawford had just sense enough to follow his example and
cling for dear life to the spreading arms.
A bargee, unloading his freight of coal upon the bank, perceived their
danger, and swam out with a rope. He threw it to Lawford, but he missed
it. A second was flung from the barge, and the noose at the end of it
caught among the branches flapping up and down in the water. Men's
lives were at stake, but as the value of the drift-wood would well repay
its capture, they hauled it in with the bold young swimmer clinging to
its boughs; for the first of the watermen who came to their help had
seized Lawford, who relinquished his hold on the tree to snatch at the
rope he brought him.
The two men swam to the barge. Edwin was drawn in to shore. He
scrambled up the bank and looked around him for Lawford.
He saw the rabbiter half lying on the deck of the barge, panting with
rage and fear, and shouted to him, "Safe! all safe!"
But Lawford answered with a bitter imprecation on the son of the
cannibal, who had purposely flung him over, tossed him like a bone to
the hungry sharks.
"Ask yourself why," retorted Edwin. "And what might not I have done to
you, if I had never heard such words as, 'Neither do I condemn thee: go,
and sin no more'?"
"Come," interposed the waterman to Lawford, "shut up. Such language as
this is wonderfully unbecoming from the mouths of fellows scarce
snatched back from a watery grave, and we don't care to hear it. Say
what you will to the young 'un, he made a bold fight with the tide to
save you. Let him alone."
"Where were you bound for?" said the bargee aside to Edwin, as the boy
poured out his gratitude for their timely assistance.
"I wanted to take a passage on board the steamer for Christchurch, and a
Maori boy was rowing me down to meet it. This man was in the same
canoe, and had robbed the boy who was rowing us. In the struggle
between them the canoe was upset."
"Go on with him, then," advised the bargee, "and give him in charge when
he lands."
"No," answered Edwin resolutely, "for the boy recovered his own. But
this man is a bad one, and I would rather stay where I am than be in his
company another hour."
"Run off, then," returned the bargee kindly; "run until you are dry, and
you will take no harm. As for this fellow, we will ship him off to the
South Island, if that is where he wants to go."
Edwin wrung the bargee's horny hand, and followed his counsel with all
speed. Lawford's jeering laugh was ringing in his ears.
"He thinks I am running away from him; if he fancies I am afraid, he
makes a mistake, that is all," reflected Edwin, racing onward.
But where was Whero? A run of half-a-mile brought Edwin back to the
river-brink again, but nearer to the spot where the canoe was upset.
Whero had recovered it, and was looking about for his friend. Edwin
could see his tiny "dug-out" zigzagging round the boulders, and still
rushing seawards, as he paused to reconnoitre a leafless bush on the
water's edge, which seemed to bear a fancied resemblance to the figure
of a crouching boy. Edwin pulled off his jacket and waved it high in
the air. He threw up his arms. He shouted. He did everything he could
think of to attract Whero's attention. But his back was towards him.
All his signals seemed in vain, but not quite; for the kaka was swinging
high up among the top-most branches of an enormous willow near the scene
of the upset. From such an elevation it espied Edwin, and recognizing
Whero's jacket, which he was waving flag-like over his head, it swooped
down upon him with an angry scream, and seizing the jacket by the
sleeve, tugged at it with all its might. If Whero could not distinguish
the shout of his friend from the rush of the water, the doleful "Hoke"
of his bird could not be mistaken, and Edwin soon saw him rowing swiftly
towards them.
"What for?" demanded Whero; "what for go bother about a thief? What is
he good for? Throw him over, and have done with him."
"Ah!" retorted Edwin, "but we never should have done with him. The life
we had let him lose would have lain like a terrible weight on us,
growing heavier and heavier as we too drew nearer to the grave. For
Christ himself refuses to lift the murderer's load. But you do not know;
you are not to blame, as I should have been."
The overmastering feelings which prompted Edwin to say this shot from
his eyes and quivered in his voice, and Whero, swayed by a force he
could not understand, reaching him only by words, yielded to the
influence of the light thus vibrating from soul to soul.
"Yes," he said, reflectively, "there is something greater than killing,
and I want the greatest things."
*CHAPTER XX.*
*JUST IN TIME.*
"What an ass Lawford must have been not to put on father's belt! If he
had, we could not have got it away from him," said Edwin, as the two
seated themselves on the sunny bank and unpacked the swag. Whero took
out the precious bag, slung it round his own neck, and concealed it
under his shirt. Edwin claimed his father's belt, and as he shook off
the mud and dirt which had accumulated upon it during its sojourn in
Lawford's pocket, he saw why the man had been unable to wear it. In his
haste to get it off Mr. Lee whilst he lay unconscious, he had not waited
to unbuckle it, for fear Hal should see him. He had taken out his
pocket-knife and ripped it open. This helped to get it into his
possession, and helped him to lose it too. The apparent gain was
nothing but the earnest-money of the self-sought calamity which drove
him a beggar from the gangway of the San Francisco mail before many
months were over.
As the boys weighed the weight of coin in their hands, they nodded
significantly at each other. No wonder it wore Lawford's old pockets
into holes before the end of his journey. Reluctant as he must have
been, he was forced to buy his swag at one or other of the would-be
townships, with their fine names, which dot the lower reaches of the
bush road. They turned the poor unlucky bit of oil-cloth over and over
with contempt and loathing, and finally kicked it into the river. Edwin
folded his father's belt together, and once more resuming his own
jacket--to the great satisfaction of the kaka--he changed the belt into
a breastplate, and buttoned his jacket tightly over it.
To get back to the ford as quickly as they could was now their chief
desire. It was aggravating--it was enough to make a fellow feel mad all
over--to think that Effie and Cuthbert and the Bowens had passed them
just that little bit too soon. Edwin grew loud in his regrets. Audrey
would have called it crying over spilt milk. He could do nothing but
think of Audrey and her philosophical proverbs. To practise the
patience which was their outcome was a little more difficult. To sit
down where they were and wait for the next steamer up stream to help
them on their way was tantalizing indeed, when nobody could tell what
might be taking place at the ford at that very moment.
But they had not long to wait, for the sight of a Maori boy, a Hau-Hau
from the King country, in the heart of the hills, had a special
attraction for every New Zealander coming from the coast. All were
breathless for the particulars of the dire eruption, which had
overwhelmed their sunny vales, and changed their glassy lakes to Stygian
pools.
Not a sailor who could pull a rope, not a passenger lounging on its tiny
deck, would willingly forego the chance of hearing something definite
and detailed. The steamer stopped, and the man at the wheel asked
eagerly for news, any more news from the doomed hills, looming gaunt and
gray in the dim distance.
No sooner did they touch the deck than the two boys found themselves the
centre of an earnest questioning group, athirst for the latest
intelligence. It was a grave responsibility for both of them. They
chose to remain on deck, keeping as near to the master of the vessel as
they could without attracting attention. For each one knew that he was
carrying his father's hoard, and their recent experiences made them
regard the rough appearance of most of the men around them with
mistrust.
It was a secret belief with both the boys that they were safer alone in
their canoe; but Whero's strength was expended. He leaned on Edwin's
arm for support, and was only restrained from falling into one of his
cat-like dozes by the fear that another thievish hand might steal away
his treasure while he slept. They could not return as they came; rest
and food must be had.
A coil of rope provided the one, and the steward promised the other.
But before the boys were permitted to taste the dinner so freely
offered, Edwin had to describe afresh the strange and startling
phenomena appearing on that night of terror, which rumour with her
double tongue could scarcely magnify. He described them as only an
eye-witness, with the horror of the night still over him, could describe
them; and the men stood round him spell-bound. All the while his words
were painting the vivid scenes, his thoughts were debating the very
practical question, "Ought I, or ought I not, to spend some of father's
money, now I have got it back, and buy more meat and flour and cheese to
carry home?" He thought of the widespread dearth, and he knew that the
little store he had found unhurt at the valley farm might all be gone on
his return, and yet he was afraid to venture with the wealth of gold he
had about him into doubtful places. No, he dare not risk it again.
They must trust for to-morrow's bread.
When they quitted the steamer the short wintry day had long passed its
noon, and the wind blew cold around them as they returned to the open
boat. Edwin was rowing now; for when they drew nearer to the hills, both
he and Whero agreed that he must lie down again beneath the rushes. The
kaka had hidden its head under its wing when the exchange was made. The
weary Maori boy could scarcely make his way against roaring wind and
rushing water. They were long in getting as far as the ravine where the
tiny kainga nestled.
Whero moored his canoe in a little cleft of the rock, where it was
concealed from view, and landed alone. Edwin's heart beat fast when he
heard light steps advancing to the water's edge. His hand was cold as
the ice congealing on the duck-weed as a dusky face peered round the
ledge of rock and smiled. It was Marileha.
"Good food make Ingarangi boy anew," she said, putting into Edwin's hand
a steaming kumara, or purple-coloured Maori potato. Whilst he was
eating it Whero brought round a larger "dug-out," used now by his
father. It was piled with savoury-smelling roasted pig, newly-baked
cakes of dirty-looking Maori wheat, with roasted wekas or wingless
moor-hens hanging in pairs across a stick. Like a wise woman, Marileha
had spent the day in providing the savoury meat much loved by one she
wanted to propitiate.
"They have not yet come back," said Whero, beckoning to Edwin to join
him in the larger canoe, where he could be more easily concealed beneath
the mats on which the provisions were laid.
"We are going to take them their supper," added Whero. "When the men
are eating I can get my father to hear me; then I put this bag in his
hands and tell him all. Then, and not till then, will it be safe for
you to be seen."
"The Ingarangi boy lies safely here," whispered Marileha, smiling, happy
in her womanly device for keeping the peace. "My skirt shall cover him.
I leave not the canoe. You, Whero, shall take from my hand and carry to
your father the supper we bring to himself and his people."
Edwin guessed what Marileha's anticipation might embrace when he found
his pillow was a bundle of carefully-prepared flax fibres, enveloping
little bunches of chips--the splints and bandages of the bush. Edwin had
a vision of broken heads and gaping spear-thrusts, and a ride in an
ambulance after the battle. What had taken place that day?
But the question was shortly answered. They were not bound for the
lake, or the ruins of the Rota Pah, but the nearer wreck of the
ford-house.
His visions grew in breadth and in detail; smoke and fire were darkening
their background when the canoe stopped at the familiar boating-stairs.
What did he see? A party of dusky-browed and brawny-armed fellows hard
at work clearing away the last remains of the overturned stables.
Mr. Hirpington, giving away pipes and tobacco with a lavish hand, was
walking in and out among them, praising the thoroughness of their work,
and exhorting them to continue.
"Pull them down," he was repeating. "We will not leave so much as a
stick or a stone standing. If the bag is there we will have it. We
must find it."
The emphasis on the "will" and the "must" called forth the ever-ready
smiles of the Maori race. Mother and son were radiant.
With a basket of cakes in his hand and a joint of roast-pig on a mat on
his head, Whero marched up the landing-stairs, and went in amongst his
countrymen as they threw down their tools and declared their work was
done.
He was talking fast and furiously in his native tongue, with many
outbursts of laughter at the expense of his auditors. But neither Edwin
nor Mr. Hirpington could understand what he was saying, until he flung
the bag at his father's feet with a shout of derision--the fifth
commandment being unknown in Maori-land.
Nga-Hepe took up the bag and changed it from hand to hand.
Kakiki Mahane leaned forward and felt its contents. "Stones and dirt,"
he remarked, choosing English words to increase the impression.
"Sell it to me, then," put in Mr. Hirpington. "What shall I give you for
it? three good horses?"
He held out his hand to receive the bag of many adventures, and then the
cunning old chief could be the first to bid Nga-Hepe open it and see.
But the remembrance of the tana was too vivid in his son-in-law's mind
for him to wish to display his secreted treasure before the greedy eyes
of his tribe. He was walking off to deposit it in Marileha's lap, when
Mr. Hirpington intercepted him, saying in a tone of firm control and
good-natured patience, in the happy proportion which gave him his
influence over his unmanageable neighbours: "Come now, that is not fair.
Untie the bag, and let us see if it has come back to you all right or
not. You have pulled down my stables to find it; who is to build them
up again?"
"Give us four horses for the loss of time," said one of the Maoris.
"Agreed, if you will give me five for the mischief you have done me," he
answered readily.
"You can't get over him," said Nga-Hepe. "It is of no use talking."
Kneeling down on the landing-stairs, he opened his treasure on his
wife's now greasy silk, displaying sharks' teeth, gold, bank-notes,
greenstone, kauri gum--every precious thing of which New Zealand could
boast. They began to count after their native manner.
Mr. Hirpington stepped aside to Kakiki. "You took my advice and
Ottley's: you carried your money to the Auckland bank. Make Nga-Hepe do
the same."
"Before another moon is past I will," the old chief answered, grasping
the hand of his trusty counsellor, who replied,--
"It may not be lost and found a second time."
"True, it may not," said the old gray-beard, "if, as he meant to do, he
has killed the finder."
Mr. Hirpington started and turned pale.
"He has not killed the finder," said Marileha, rising with the dignity
of a princess; and taking Edwin by the hand, she led him up to Mr.
Hirpington. The "Thank God" which trembled on his lips was deep as low.
But aloud he shouted, "Dunter, Dunter! here is your bird flown back to
his cage. Chain him, collar him, keep him this time, if you brick him
in."
Dunter's hand was on the boy's shoulder in a moment. Edwin held out his
to Nga-Hepe, who took the curling feathers from his own head-dress to
stick them in Edwin's hair. The boy was stroking the kaka's crimson
breast. He lifted up his face and shot back the smile of triumph in
Whero's eyes, as Dunter hauled him away, exclaiming, "Now I've got you,
see if I don't keep you!"
*CHAPTER XXI.*
*THE VALLEY FARM.*
Edwin laughed a merry laugh as Mr. Hirpington and his man led him away
between them. A ladder had been found in the pulling down of the
stables. It greatly assisted the descent into the "dungeonized"
kitchen, as Edwin called it. But within, everything was as dirty and
comfortless as before.
"They laugh who win," he whispered, undoing a single button of his
jacket, and displaying a corner of the wash-leather belt. "Where is
father?" he asked, looking eagerly along the row of open doors, and
singling out his recent cage as the most comfortable of the little
dormitories. A glance told him it was not without an inhabitant. But
it was Hal's voice which answered from the midst of the blankets, in
tones of intense self-congratulation, "I'm in bed, lad. Think o' that.
Really abed."
"And mind you keep there," retorted Edwin, looking back to Mr.
Hirpington for a guiding word, as he repeated impatiently, "Where's
father? Has he seen the captain?"
"Father," echoed Mr. Hirpington, "is safe, safe at home; and we will
follow him there as soon as I get rid of these troublesome guests."
"Sit down, boy, if you do not mind the mud and cold. Sit down and eat,"
said Dunter kindly. He opened the kitchen cupboard, and pointed to some
biscuits and cheese which he had reserved for their own supper. "It is
all they have left us," he sighed. "We have fed them a whole day just to
keep the Queen's peace. We thought they would eat us up when they
marched down on us, clamouring for you and the bag you had stolen from
Nga-Hepe and hidden in our hayloft. But master is up to 'em. 'Well,'
says he, 'if the bag has ever been in my hay-loft, it is there still;
and if it is there, we'll find it. Pull the loft down. Clear out every
stick and stone that is left of my stables, an' welcome.' You see, it
must all be cleared down before we could begin to build up again," added
Dunter, confidentially.
"It was a happy thought," said Mr. Hirpington, rubbing his hands, "and
it took. I ran myself to set the example, and knocked over the shaky
door-post, and then the work of demolition went forward with a will.
Nothing like a good spell of hard work to cool a man down. Of course
they did not find the bag. But Nga-Hepe's neighbours have found so many
old nails and hooks and hinges they have stuck to their task; they are
at it yet, but the dusk will disperse them. Their excuse is gone.
Still," he went on, "'all is well that ends well.' You might have found
the place a smouldering ash-heap. We know their Maori ways when they
mean to dislodge an English settler. They come as they came last night,
set fire to his house, pull up his fences, and plough up his fields.
The mud preserved me from anything of that sort beginning unawares.
Nothing would burn. We have picked up more than one charred stick, so
they had a try at it; and as for the fences, they are all buried. When
the coast is clear you and I must prepare for a starlight walk through
the bush to your father's farm."
"Will they molest father?" asked Edwin anxiously.
"No, no," answered both in a breath. "Your father's farm is on the
other side of the river, not on Hau-Hau ground. It belonged to another
tribe, the Arewas, who are 'friendless,' as we say. We told you your
father was safe if we could but get him home. And so am I," continued
Mr. Hirpington, "for I can always manage my neighbours and appreciate
them too; for they are men at heart, and we like each other. And there
is a vein of honour in Nga-Hepe and his son according to their light
which you may safely trust, yet they are not civilized Englishmen."
"But Whero will be--" Edwin began; but his bright anticipations for the
future of his Maori friend were cut short by a strange, unearthly
sound--a wild, monotonous chant which suddenly filled the air. As the
dusk fell around them, the Maoris still sitting over Marileha'a supper
had begun to sing to drive away the fairies, which they imagine are in
every dancing leaf and twittering bird. Then, one by one, the canoes
which had brought them there began to fill, and as the swarthy faces
disappeared, silence and loneliness crept over the dismantled ford.
Nga-Hepe proved his friend's assertions true, for Beauty was honourably
returned. They found him tied by the bridle to the only post on the
premises which had been left standing. Perhaps it had been spared for
the purpose. The gun was loaded, such wraps as Dunter could get
together were all put on, and Edwin and Mr. Hirpington started. The
first step was not a pleasant one--a plunge into the icy river and a
scramble up the opposite bank, from which even Beauty seemed to shrink.
But the gallop over the frosty ground which succeeded took off the
comfortless chill and dried their draggled coats. Mr. Hirpington got
down and walked by Beauty's head, as they felt the gradual descent
beginning, and heard the splash of the rivulet against the stones, and
saw the bright lights from Edwin's home gleam through the evening
shadows. A scant half-hour that almost seemed a year in its reluctance
to slip away, a few more paces, and Beauty drew up at the gateless
enclosure. A bar thrown across kept them outside. A gleeful shout, a
thunderous rain of blows upon the bar, and the impatient stamping of
Beauty's feet brought Cuthbert and Arthur Bowen almost tumbling over one
another to receive them. The welcome sound of the hammer, the stir and
movement all about the place, told Edwin that the good work of
restoration had already begun. The bar went down with a thud. It was
Cuthbert, in his over-joy at seeing his brother, who had banged it to
the ground. The noise brought out the captain.
"It is a short journey to Christchurch," exclaimed Cuthbert. "How many
miles?"
"I'm in no mood for arithmetic," retorted Edwin, bounding up the remnant
of a path beside the captain, with Cuthbert grasping him by the other
hand. Arthur Bowen took Beauty by the bridle.
"I'll see after him," said Mr. Hirpington.
But young Bowen responded gaily, "Think me too fresh from Greek and
Latin to supper a horse, do you? I'll shoe him too if occasion requires
it, like a true-born New Zealander."
"Brimful of self-help," retorted Mr. Hirpington; "and, after all, it is
the best help.-- Well, well," he added, as he paused in the doorway,
"to take the measure of our recuperative power would puzzle a stranger.
You beat me hollow."
He had walked into the sometime workshop; but all the debris of the
recent carpentering had been pushed aside and heaped into a distant
corner, while an iron chimney, with a wooden framework to support it,
had been erected in another.
"In simply no time," as Mr. Hirpington declared in his astonishment.
To which the old identity, Mr. Bowen, retorted from the other room,
asking if two men with a hammer to hand and a day before them were to be
expected to do nothing but look at each other.
Mr. Lee was reposing on a comfortable bed by the blazing fire, with
Effie standing beside him, holding the tin mug from which he was taking
an occasional sip of tea; everything in the shape of earthenware having
gone to smash in the earthquake. The kitten was purring on the corner
of his pillow, stretching out an affectionate paw towards his undefended
eyes.
"I am reaping the fruit of your good deeds," smiled the sick man. "Is
not this luxury?"
With a leap and a bound Edwin was at the foot of the bed, holding up the
recovered belt before his father's astonished eyes.
Audrey peeped out from the door of the store-room. With a piece of
pumice-stone to serve her for a scrubbing-brush, she was endeavouring to
reduce its shelves to cleanliness and order.
"You here!" exclaimed Edwin, delighted to find themselves all at home
once more; "ready for the four-handed reel which we will dance to-night
if it does not make father's head ache," he declared, escaping from
Effie's embracing arms to Audrey's probing questions about that journey
to Christchurch.
"Since you must have dropped from the skies yourself to have reached
home at all, it need excite no wonder," he said.
"Me!" she replied demurely. "Why, I arrived at my father's door, like a
correct young lady, long enough before any of you wanderers and
vagabonds thought of returning. Our good friend the oyster-captain, as
Cuth will call him, sent me a message by one of Mr. Feltham's shepherds
that my father wanted me to nurse him, and I hastened to obey. Mrs.
Feltham lent me her own habit, and I rode home with my groom, behind me,
in grand style for an honest charwoman just released from washing
teacups and beating eggs. My wages taken in kind loaded the panniers of
my steed, and I felt like a bee or an ant returning to the hive with its
store of honey."
"That is my best medicine," murmured Mr. Lee, as the merry laugh with
which Audrey's words were greeted rang through the house.
Mr. Lee was slowly counting his remaining coin. He looked at Audrey.
Without another word she led her brothers away, Effie following as a
matter of course, and left him with his friend.
"Come and look round," whispered Audrey to Edwin.
"And help," he answered. "It does not square with my ideas to let
strangers put a prop against the falling roof and I stand idle."
"Conceited boy!" cried Audrey, "to match your skill against our
oyster-captain's."
She ran lightly down the veranda steps and pointed to the bluff sailor,
hammering at a sheet of iron he had brought from the ruins of the stable
to patch the tumble-down walls of the house.
With the rough-and-ready skill of a ship-carpenter he had set himself to
the task the moment he arrived.
"No, no thanks, my boys," he said, as Edwin and Cuthbert looked up at
the strong framework of beam and cross-bar which he had erected in so
brief a space, and burst into exclamations of wonder and delight.
"It was the one thing we could not do; it was beyond us all," added
Edwin. "It is true, the poles lay ready on the ground and the nails
were rusting on the workshop floor, but the skill that could splice a
beam or shore up a rafter was not ours. There was nobody about us who
could do it."
"I saw what was wanting when I helped to bring your father home, and it
set my compass, so I came back to do it. A Jack-of-all-trades like me I
knew could make the old place ship-shape in a couple of days, and when
the old gentleman and his grandson saw what I was after, their coats
were off in a moment, and they have worked beside me with a will all
day," replied the captain.
Finding Mr. Lee awake, Mr. Bowen had taken the opportunity to join the
quiet council over ways and means which he was holding with his friend.
"Now just look on me as a neighbour, for what is fifty miles in New
Zealand? and remember I do not want anybody to tell me this disaster
leaves you both in an awkward strait. If there is one thing we have
learned in our far-off corner in the Southern Ocean, it is to practise
our duty to our neighbour. Dr. Hector bears me out in thinking that
after such an eruption as this there will probably be peace in the hills
again, perhaps for hundreds of years. No one remembers such an outbreak
of subterranean force, no one ever heard of such an one before, and all
we can do is to help each other. If a loan will be of use to you to
tide over it, just tell me the figure, and I'll write it down. No
counting, Mr. Lee, if you please; I tell you the debtor account is all
on my side. Those little lads--"
The thud of the captain's hammer drowned his voice.
"The same feeling," he added, "which lends its ring to that hammer
points my pen, and you must just remember, while you are lying here, how
we all envy you your quartette."
They could hear the merry laughter from the group in the veranda, where
Audrey was singing,--
"What lads ere did our lads will do;
Were I a lad, I would follow him too."
Effie gravely expostulated with her sister. "I really do think, Audrey,
we ought to say now what our lads have done."
"Ah! but I fear they have something more to do," cried Edwin, suddenly
catching his little sister round the waist, not in play but in panic
fear, as he heard the trampling as of many horses crossing the bush. He
whirled her into the house and pushed Audrey after her, as the captain
ceased nailing to listen.
Arthur Bowen was by Edwin's side as he spoke. With one impulse the bar
was lifted to its place, and the trio retreated to the veranda. A long
train of pack-horses came winding down the valley.
Which was coming--friend or foe?
The boys stood very close to each other, ready to bolt in-doors at a
moment's warning. Edwin was at once the bravest and the most
apprehensive.
"You had better go to father and leave us two to watch," he said to his
brother.
"But old Cuth won't go," muttered the little fellow, squaring his
shoulders and planting his foot firmly on the ground as he took his
stand between them.
"Holloa! ho! oh!" shouted a cheery voice they all knew well.
"It is Ottley! it is Ottley!" was echoed from side to side.
Down went the bar once more. Out ran the trio, leaping, jumping,
chasing each other over the uneven ground, strewed with the broken arms
from the fallen giants of the neighbouring forest. They raced each
other across the valley in the exuberance of their boyish spirits, let
loose by the momentary relief from the pressure and the fetters which
had been crushing them to earth.
"Until the coach can run again," said Ottley, as they came up to him
laughing and panting, "I have started a pack-horse team to carry up
supplies. The roadmen are rebuilding their huts, and as I came along
they warned me one and all to avoid the ford to-night. They were
anticipating a bit of warm work up there with their Maori neighbours,
and were holding themselves ready to answer the fordmaster's signal at
any moment. They told me of a crossing lower down the stream. The
fords were sure to shift their places after such a time as we have had.
I found myself so near the valley farm, I turned aside to water my
horses at the rivulet, and rest for the night."
"Come along," cried Edwin; "father will be glad to see you. But there
has been no scrimmage at the ford; trust Mr. Hirpington for that."
Ottley paused to release his weary team, and let them slake their thirst
with the so-called water at their feet, which really was not all sulphur
and sludge.
"I am not sure," he said compassionately, as he brought up the tired
horses one after another, "that the poor animals have not had a worse
time of it than we men; for their food and drink are gone, and it
grieved me to see them dying by the wayside as I came."
The boys helped him to measure out the corn and hobble them for the
night in the shelter of the valley.
Then Ottley looked around to ascertain the state of Mr. Lee's new
fields. Three men were lingering by the site of the charcoal fires.
"There are the rabbiters," said Cuthbert, "just as usual!"
"Nonsense," returned his brother; "the gang is dispersed."
"Well, there they are," he persisted; and he was right.
They marched on steadily, as if they were taking their nightly round,
but instead of the familiar traps, each one carried a young pig in his
arms.
Pig-driving, as Pat does it at Ballyshannon fair, is a joke to
pig-carrying when the pig is a wild one, born and reared in the bush.
On they came with their living burdens, after a fashion which called
forth the loudest merriment on the part of the watchers.
"Is Farmer Lee about again?" they asked, as they came up with the
pack-horse train.
Ottley shook his head and pointed to the laughing boys beside him,
saying, "These are his sons."
"No matter," they replied, with a dejected air. "We cannot get our gang
together. Hal is down, and Lawford missing. We've been hunting a pig
or two over Feltham's run, and we've brought 'em up to Farmer Lee. They
are good 'uns, and they will make him three fat hogs by-and-by, if he
likes to keep 'em. We have heard something of what that Lawford has been
after, and we are uncommon mad about it, for fear the farmer should
think we had any hand in it."
"He knows you had not," returned Edwin. "It is all found out. But I do
not think Lawford will show his face here any more. I am sure my father
will be pleased with such a present, and thank you all heartily." As he
spoke he held out his hand, and received a true old Yorkshire gripe.
"There are three of us," he went on, glancing at Arthur and Cuthbert;
"but can we get such gifties home?"
"And what will you do with them when they are there?" asked Arthur;
"unless, like Paddy, you house them in the corner of the cabin."
Ottley, always good at need, came to the help, and proposed to lend his
empty corn-bags for the transit.
Back they went in triumph, each with a sack on his back and a struggling
pig fighting his way out of it.
The kicking and the squealing, the biting and the squalling, the screams
and the laughs, broke up the conference within doors, and augmented the
party at the supper, which Audrey and Effie were preparing from the
contents of the panniers.
"The pack-horse train a realized fact!" exclaimed Mr. Bowen.--"Come,
Arthur; that means for us the rest of our journey made easy. We must be
ready for a start at any hour."
"If your time is to be my time," interposed Ottley, who was entering at
the moment, "we shall all wait for the morning."
"Wait for the morning," repeated the captain, as he lit his pipe.
"There is a bigger world of wisdom in that bit of advice than you think
for. It is what we have all got to do at times, as we sailors soon find
out."
A light tread beneath the window caught Edwin's ear. Surely he knew
that step. It was--it must be Whero's.
He was out on the veranda in a moment. There was his Maori friend
wandering round the house in the brilliant starshine, stroking his kaka.
"I cannot live upon my hill alone," said Whero. "I have followed you,
but I should cry hoke to you in vain. I will take my bird and go back
to Tuaranga--it will be safe among my Maori school-fellows--until hunger
shall have passed away from the hills."
Edwin's arm went round him as he cried out gleefully, "Ottley, Ottley,
here are two more passengers for the pack-horse train!"