down for the time, and he did not care who knew it. For there was nothing more shameful than body-ache behind. But this was the last day that Murray laid aside his armour before man.
“He’s thursty be the sound of corks,” said Tod. “Lou—ye’re all koinds of a villain.”
The accordeon crept slowly, mysteriously into one of the old, old Maori chants that few Europeans dare meddle with. Above it Lou was singing softly in the liquid Maori tongue. To the pakeha who did not understand, the tune carried a quiver and throb that hurried the blood in the veins. To him who knew, it was a call to strip the clothes of civilisation off his senses. And this call comes more often than the world guesses. Ted Douglas frowned.
“You’re going to give Murray a tough bone to chew, Lou,” he said.
“Well, it’s a free show. You can watch him chew it,” said Lou, cheerfully.
Ike shivered, and Mogger noticed the tension of his body with a puzzled contempt. To three Colonials in ten the great Things that God has made, and that man cannot conquer, send their souls awash with secret gropings and beliefs in more than can be lathered into shape by the tongue. The remainder take their schooling because the State orders it, and their wetting on the wild ranges because Nature orders it, and gain just so much knowl-
