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Chapter IX.

Jack Stanley was awakened very early on the following morning by the breath of some animal upon his face. He opened his eyes in some consternation, not remembering, in his vague ideas of New Zealand natural history, whether it might not be a lion or a bear, or some other savage beast, who was paying him this attention. To his astonishment, he found the head of his horse close to his arm: the animal was sniffing him all over, with a look of puzzled concern in his eyes, as if he was doubtful whether Jack was alive or no.

“Why, you dear old fellow,” said Jack, taking the horse's head in his two hands, “how did you find me out? Where did you come from?”

Bernard roused up on hearing Jack's voice, and exclaimed, at sight of the horse,

“Perhaps after all we are not so very far from the river. I wonder if the horse knows his way back again.”

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“You may be sure he does,” said Jack. “Horses are much cleverer than we are: they don't need to climb trees.”

“But how shall we make him understand we want him to return to the river?”

“I'll get on his back,” said Stanley.

He did so, and the horse seemed to understand at once what was wanted of him. He scrambled through the adjoining thicket, and trotted through a clump of trees on to the bank of the river.

“Only think, we were as near as that, and did not know it, last night. How very odd that the horse should have come in search of us! I wonder what made him do so?” said Jack Stanley.

“We might this morning have turned away in the wrong direction,” remarked Bernard.

“But the horse did not know that,” said Jack.

“But God did,” answered Bernard, simply.

“Why, Hope, you don't mean to say you think that God had anything to do with that horse finding us out this morning?”

“Why not?” asked Bernard. “Why should not God make use of that horse in order to save our lives? It was all very well, Jack, to make light of it, while doing the reverse might make us lose heart; but there is no doubt that, had we not recovered the river, we must have died but for some interposition of this sort.”

They were like two schoolboys playing at “Robinson Crusoe.” Now that their anxiety was removed, they were once more in the highest glee. They collected piles of dry wood—of which there was abundance strewn about —and set it alight. The conduct of the tea-kettle was received with shouts of laughter, for this kettle, entering into the fun of the occasion, would not consent to sit upon the fire for more than a few seconds in an orthodox position: sometimes it fell on one side, at others it tumbled over into the middle of the fire; then it hissed in such a venomous manner, and its lid wobbled about so, that Bernard was quite afraid of touching it, and held it at arm's length, as if it had been a poisonous reptile. Some tea was put in the kettle, and itself placed on one side to keep hot without boiling, while Jack proceeded to mix some flour and water into cakes. Of course he put twice too much water—for people are born cooks, not made: like poets—and the paste stuck to his fingers in sticky smears. However, it was all right in time; and in the meanwhile, Hope Bernard had skinned the poor ka-kas, or parrots, and had stuck them upon sticks round the fire. I dare say they tasted very smoky when done; but he and Jack did not find it out, and they complimented themselves and each other the whole of breakfast-time upon being such first-rate cooks. The dampers page 94 were decidedly heavy, and would have verified their names in proving dampers to the appetites of any but two hungry fellows in the bush; but the tea was first-rate, though, of course, they had to drink it without milk.

The breakfast come to an end, somehow our friends felt very sleepy, for their night's sleep had not been very comfortable or very lengthy, and they had gone through a great deal of fatigue and excitement the previous day, so they agreed to lie down and rest for a couple of hours.

The rest became a continuous snore, and the couple of hours prolonged themselves indefinitely, until when, on waking with a start, Jack found that the sun was quite low in the heavens, he roused Bernard from his “little nap.”

It had been so comfortable, wrapped up in their blankets, with their saddles for pillows; so different to the night before. They turned at times, they groaned, they muttered, as the sand-flies attacked them in their defenceless state; they even stretched themselves in their sleep; but they remembered little of it afterwards, but for the marks of the sand-flies about their faces and hands, which had been exposed to the enemy. Jack Stanley thought that the river and the grassy slopes and the dense forest behind them, which henceforth had to be looked upon as a thing to be avoided singlehanded, looked yet more lovely in the sunset than it had done before; but Bernard declared that Jack must keep his rhapsodizing until later, for he was too hungry to wait for sentiment before he had something to eat.

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“Hungry again!” said Jack. “Why, it is but now that you ate an enormous breakfast.”

“And now it is evening again. Come, will you saddle your horse and start yourself without anything to eat?”

“Why, no,” said Jack; “not exactly. I will have just a little snack before we mount.”

But Jack's “little snack” became a standing joke thenceforth to his friend; for as soon as Stanley began to eat, he found that he was just as hungry as Bernard.

“But really,” said the latter, “I think we had better move forward when we have dined, or, at this rate, we shall not reach Auckland in a twelvemonth, if ever.”

After a time the forest became so thick that Bernard and Stanley were afraid of leaving the bank of the river, lest they should lose their way, as on the day before. They agreed that discretion was the better part of the spirit of adventure as well as of valour.

As night advanced, and they were beginning to think of bivouacking, they came all at once upon an opening in the forest. Trees were cut down and placed in piles by the river-side. After a time they reached a shed built of wood, and thatched, surrounded by palisades, within which was a straw-yard with grunting pigs, and shortly afterwards they encountered several cows feeding on the river bank. Then a violent but always familiar barking saluted their ears, and immediately afterwards they saw a large dot tied to a tree.

“I hope we are not trespassing,” said Jack. “I don't page 96 see any board, but there may be mantraps or spring guns somewhere.”

“Dada! dada!” screamed a little voice, “peoples is coming—not Maoris,” and the horsemen caught sight of the figure of a little child of four years or thereabouts, dressed in an ordinary print frock.

The child turned and ran towards a building which now came into view—a pleasant-looking farm house apparently, the walls being made of the trunks of trees closely placed together, and the roof covered with thatch. The front door stood wide open, as if there was no fear on the part of the inmates of any unfriendly intrusion. Bernard and Jack pulled up close by the river facing the house, and looked at it. Flocks of fowls and turkeys ran about, and numbers of ducks upon the banks. A pretty little flower garden was close to the house, gay with every coloured flower, while the native creepers ran up the sides and hung in festoons from the roof. As the strangers looked in silent admiration, a gentleman issued from the house. He was dressed in a coloured flannel shirt and cotton trousers, and on his head was a broad-brimmed straw hat; but I say a gentleman, for any one could see he was that at a glance. He and the young men raised their hats to each other as he approached, and then the stranger held out his hand.

“Are you from Wellington?” he asked; and finding that they answered in the affirmative, he continued, “You must get off and come in and rest: my wife will be delighted page 97 to see you. There, let me take your horses: I'll show them the way to the stable.”

It was in vain that Bernard and Jack apologized for intrusion: the gentleman would take no refusal; and everything about the place looked so particularly pleasant, that they by no means felt inclined to insist upon pursuing their way; so when they had accompanied their new host to the stables, and had seen the horses committed to the care of a native groom, Bernard and Jack Stanley obeyed the invitation of their friend, and followed him as he led the way to the house.

They were not unannounced, for the same little child who had proclaimed their coming, now preceded them, exclaiming, with great glee,

“Mamma! mamma! two mans is come! Dada has found two mans!”