The Tale of Timber Town Part 23

Tresco drew himself up with dignity.

"This is quite unexpected," he said. "The honour is great. Who do I see here but Fish-ho and his amiable mate? It is sad, gentlemen, but I'm off flounders since the Chinaman, who died aboard the barque, was buried in the bay. It is a great misfortune for Fish-ho to have dead Chinamen buried on his fishing-grounds, but such is the undoubted fact."

"You need have no fear on that score, mister," said the red-headed sailor. "They've not come to sell fish. Speak up, Macaroni."

"We come to tella you we come from Mr. Crookendena. We come to you accepta ze service of Rocka Codda and Macaroni."

For one brief moment Tresco looked perplexed. Then his face a.s.sumed its usual complacence. "Are you in the know, too?" he asked of the seaman.

"All I know is that I was told to pilot these two men to your shop. That done, I say good-day."

"And the same to you," said Tresco. "Happy to have met you, sir, and I'm sorry there's nothing to offer you in the jug but water."

"There's no bones broke anyway," replied the sailor as he edged towards the door. "But if you'll say when the real old stingo is on tap, I'll show you how to use the water."

"Certainly," said Tresco. "Nothing will please me better. Good afternoon. Sorry you must go so soon. Take great care of yourself. Good men are scarce."

As the door closed behind the sailor the goldsmith turned to the fishermen.

"So you were sent to me by Mr. Crookenden?"

"That's so." It was Rock Cod who answered. "He give us the price of a drink, an' says he, 'There'll be five pound each for you if you do as Mr. Tresco tells you.' We're a-waitin' orders; ain't that so, Macaroni?"

"Rocka Codda spik alla right--he understanda ze Inglese. I leave-a it to him."

"You are good men in a boat, I have no doubt. Very good." The goldsmith pursed his lips, and looked very important. "Mr. Crookenden has entrusted me with a mission. You row the boat--I carry out the mission.

All you have to do is to bring your boat round to Mr. Crookenden's wharf at ten o'clock to-night, and the rest is simple. Your money will be paid you in the morning, in full tale, up to the handle, without fail. You understand? Five pounds a piece for a few hours' hire of your boat and services."

"We catch your drift all right," said Rock Cod.

"But, remember"--the goldsmith looked very serious--"mum's the word."

"I have ze mum," said Macaroni. "I spik only to Rocka Codda, he spik only to me--zat alla right?"

"Quite so, but be punctual. We shall go out at ten o'clock, wet or fine.

Till then, adieu."

"Ze same to you," said the Italian. "You ze fine fella."

"Take this, and drink success to my mission." Tresco handed them a silver coin.

"That part of the business is easy," remarked Rock Cod. "But as to the job you've got in hand, well, the nature o' that gets over _me_."

"All you're asked to do is to row," said Tresco. "As to the rest, that lies with me and my resourcefulness. Now git."

Benjamin opened the door, and pushed the fishermen out.

"Remember," he said, as they departed, "if I hear a word about the matter in the bar of any hotel, our bargain is off and not a cent will you get for your pains."

"Look 'ere, cap'n." Rock Cod turned suddenly round. "We pa.s.sed you our word: ain't that good enough?"

"My trusty friend, it is. So-long. Go, and drink my health."

Without another word the fishermen went, and the goldsmith returned to put the finishing touches to his fraudulent work.

CHAPTER XIII.

What the Bush Robin Saw.

The Bush Robin had a pale yellow breast, and his dominion extended from the waterfall, at the bottom of which lay a deep, dark, green pool, to the place where the _rimu_ tree had fallen across the creek.

His life was made up of two things; hunting for big white grubs in the rotten barrels of dead trees, and looking at the yellow pebbles in the stream. This last was a habit that the wood-hen had taught him. She was the most inquisitive creature in the forest, and knew all that was going on beyond the great river, into which the creek fell, and as far away as the Inaccessible Mountains, which were the end of the world: not that she travelled far, but that all wood-hens live in league, and spend their time in enquiring into other people's business.

The _tui_ and the bell-bird might sing in the tops of the tall trees, but the Bush Robin hardly ever saw them, except when they came down to drink at the creek. The pigeons might coo softly, and feed on _tawa_ berries till actually they were ready to burst, and could not fly from the trees where they had gorged themselves--as great gluttons as ever there were in Rome: but the Bush Robin hardly knew them, and never spoke to them. He was a bird of the undergrowth, a practical entomologist, with eyes for nothing but bugs, beetles, larvae, stick-insects, and the queer yellow things in the river.

Being a perfectly inoffensive bird, he objected to noise, and for that reason he eschewed the company of the kakas and paroquets who ranged the forest in flocks, and spoilt all quietude by quarrelling and screeching in the tree-tops. But for the _kakapo_, the green ground-parrot who lived in a hollow _rata_ tree and looked like a bunch of maiden-hair fern, he had great respect. This was a night-bird who interfered with no one, and knew all that went on in the forest between dark and dawn.

Then there was the red deer, the newest importation into those woods.

The Bush Robin never quite knew the reason of his own inquisitiveness, and the roaming deer never quite knew why the little bird took so much interest in his movements, but the fact remained that whenever the antlered autocrat came to drink at the stream, the Bush Robin would stand on a branch near by, and sing till the big buck thought the little bird's throat must crack. His thirst quenched, the red deer would be escorted by the Bush Robin to the confine of the little bird's preserve, and with a last twitter of farewell, Robin would fly back rapidly to tell the news to his mate.

I had almost forgotten her. She was slightly bigger than Robin himself, and possessed a paler breast. But no one saw them together; and though they were the most devoted pair, none of the forest folk ever guessed the fact, but rather treated their tender relationship with a certain degree of scepticism.

Therefore, these things having been set forth, it was not strange that the Bush Robin, having eaten a full meal of fat white grubs, should sit on a bough in the shade of a big _totara_ tree and watch, with good-natured interest begotten of the knowledge that he had dined, the movements of the world around him. The broken ground, all banks and holes and roots, was covered with dead leaves, moss, sticks, and beds of ferns, and was overgrown with supple-jacks, birch-saplings and lance-wood. On every side rose immense trees, whose dark boughs, stretching overhead, shut out the sun from the gloomy shades below.

The Bush Robin, whose sense of hearing was keen and discriminating, heard a strange sound which was as new as it was interesting to him. He had heard the roaring of the stags and the screeching of the parrots, but this new sound was different from either, though somewhat like both.

There it was again. He must go and see what it could mean. In a moment, he was flitting beneath the trees, threading his way through the leafy labyrinth, in the direction of the strange noise. As he alighted on a tall rock, which reared itself abruptly from the hurly-burly of broken ground, before him he saw two strange objects, the like of which he had never seen, and of which his friend the wood-hen, who travelled far and knew everything, had not so much as told him. They must be a new kind of stag, but they had no horns--yet perhaps those would grow in the spring.

One had fallen down a mossy bank, and the other, who was dangling a supple-jack to a.s.sist his friend in climbing, was making the strange noise. The creature upon the ground grunted like the wild pigs, from whose rootings in the earth the Bush Robin was wont to derive immense profit in the shape of a full diet of worms; but these new animals walked on two feet, in a manner quite new to the little bird.

Then the strange beings picked up from the ground queer things which the Bush Robin failed to comprehend, and trudged on through the forest. The one that led the way struck the trees with a glittering thing, which left the boles marked and scarred, and both held in their mouths sticks which gave off smoke, a thing beyond the comprehension of the little bird, and more than interesting to his diminutive mind. Here were new wonders, creatures who walked on two legs, but not as birds--the one with the beard like a goat's must be the husband of the one who had none; and both breathed from their mouths the vapour of the morning mist.

The Bush Robin followed them, and when they paused to rest on the soft couch of ferns beneath a _rimu_ tree, the bird alighted on the ground and hopped close to them.

"I could catch the little beggar with my hand," said one.

"Don't hurt him," said the other, "he'll bring us luck."

"Then give me a match--my pipe's gone out."

The match was lighted, and the cloud of smoke from the re-lit pipe floated up to the boughs overhead. The Bush Robin watched the miracle, but it was the yellow flame which riveted his attention. The lighted match had been thrown away, and before the smoker could put his foot on it, the little bird darted forward, seized the white stem and, with the burning match in his beak, flitted to the nearest bough.

The men laughed, and watched to see what would happen.

Pleased beyond expression with his new prize, the Bush Robin held it in his beak till a fresh sensation was added to the new things he was experiencing: there was a sudden shake of his little head, the match fell, and went out.

The men undid their swags and began to eat, and the Bush Robin feasted with them on white crumbs which looked, like the match-stick, as if they might be grubs, but tasted quite different.