sired him for a day or an hour at branding-time, and—came the sheep in a mixed draught from Westland or Wairarapa or Nelson—Danny laid his finger unerringly on each, and told off the present owner. Every man has his own gift to cultivate. Danny had cultivated his into genius. It was polyglot jabber to Roddy; but Murray jotted it down, quick-fingered.
“Thanks,” he said, snapping his note-book. “I might find some stray skins round Dick’s paddocks.”
“Yer keep yer eyebrows shiftin’ for Pipi Wepeha,” said Danny, wisely. “He curses chaps as he don’t like.”
“We all do that,” said Murray, and laughed.
“Yer conspirin’ enough ter know the differ when a old Maori tohunga starts that game, ain’t yer?” demanded Danny, tartly. “If Pipi puts his foolery on ter you, Murray, yer’ll smart fur it.”
“Bah!” said Murray, and swung off, clean-limbed and alert.
Roddy, having fear of all things which he did not understand, fed that fear on all possible occasions.
“W-what would Pipi do?” he asked nervously.
Lou’s clear laugh sounded behind him.
“Do? He’d put makutu on him for a start. Then Murray———”
