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he went to the store, drew a lot of slops against his credit, and gave them to the Maoris for Rogers. The Natives did not touch Rogers after that, but looked on him as Hughes’ property. The poor fellow came with us afterwards, and died while in our service.

“While I was going in and out among the Maoris an incident occurred, which will give you an idea of life among these people. Three American whalers were lying off Weller’s place, having put in to refresh with wood and water before going further with their cruise. The carpenter belonging to one of these ships was on shore, staying at the house of a man named James Brown. There were a good many fellows about, and they had been making too free with the grog. One of the chaps there was a Maori, son of one of the petty chiefs, and he too had been drinking, just for once in a way—at any rate, what he bad taken had got into his head. Well, this chief’s son he fell out with Brown, the master of the house, because Brown would not give him any more grog; upon which the Maori went away, loaded his gun, and came and stood outside Brown’s window, waiting to get a chance to shoot Brown. While he was waiting there the carpenter happened to go to the door, and the Maori seized the chance to fire. I don’t know whether he knew who it was at the door, but any way it was the carpenter who got the benefit of it, and he fell dead on the spot. The Maori at once made a bolt of it, and could not be found for two or three days. He was stowed away in the bush. At last old Taiaroa went and hunted him out and brought him to the store. “Here,” he said, “is the man who shot the white man; do as you like to him.” The Maoris seemed to look on it as a matter of honor to find him. Mr. Weller put the man in irons, and sent word all round to muster as many whites as possible. He thought that this outrage