Part 16

"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.