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-Hepé 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-Hepé 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-Hepé. “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-Hepé 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-Hepé, 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!”