me to peep in at the opening.  I could see the women rushing out by an opening at the other side; pigs, dogs, nets, and other valuables were being carried off; they were rushing off wildly away into the bush.  I was very anxious to get right in, and meant to before I went to the boat.  My beads were all done up in small parcels, so I could throw them about easily.  A poor old woman was sitting under the nearest house, bewailing her sad lot, with an infant, the mother of which had very likely gone off to the bush to hide the valuables and to return for the child, or perhaps she was upstairs packing up.  I threw the poor old dame a packet of beads for herself and another for the child.  Spying another old lady close by on the opposite side, I threw her one.  It had the desired effect; my friend, the chief, who stood guard at the opening, now conceived the “happy thought” that something could be made out of me.

“Would you like to walk round and look at the village?”

“Yes, I should.”

“Come, then;” and, giving me his hand, he led me, attended by an armed crowd, to every house, on the verandahs of which I deposited a packet of beads.  He was the chief, and was named Gidage.  When going round he said—­

“You are no longer Tamate, you are Gidage.”

“Right, my friend; you are no longer Gidage, you are Tamate.”

I gave him an extra present, and he gave me a return one, saying, “Gidage, we are friends; stay, and I, Tamate, will kill you a pig.”

“No, Tamate.  Gidage must go; but hopes to re-return, and will then eat Tamate’s pig.”

“No, stay now; we are friends, and you must be fed!”

“No, I cannot stay; but when I return, then pig-eating”—­not a very pleasant employment when, other things can be had.

Pigs are very valuable animals here, and much thought of, and only true friends can be regaled with them.  The women nurse the pig.  I have seen a woman suckling a child at one breast and a small pig at the other; that was at South Cape.  I have seen it also at Hula and Aroma.  Proceeding to the beach, we parted, old and well-known friends.

“Gidage, must you go?”

“Yes; I cannot now stay, Tamate.”

“Go, Gidage; how many moons until you return?”

“Tamate, I cannot say; but hope to return.”

“Kaione (good-bye), Tamate.”

“Kaione, Gidage;” and away he started, leaving Tamate on the beach, surrounded by an interesting crowd of natives.

It was near here, a few years after, that a beche-de-mer party of seven were murdered; and on the opposite side of the bay two cedar-seekers were waylaid, and lost their lives.  We went into Sandbank Bay, and I landed at the village of Domara.  What a scene it was!  The women rushed into the long grass, and I was led, after a good deal of talk, up to the village—­only to see, at the other end, grass petticoats disappearing, the wearers hidden by the quantity of stuff they were carrying.  One poor woman, heavily laden with treasures, had perched above all her child, and away she, too, was flying.  Never had white man landed there before, and who knows what he may be up to?