They reappeared in a few minutes, and Pickering manned his boat and left us. The brigantine was soon running off on her course, and the convict was again at work among the rest. "His fingers are itching for that thirty pounds, Mr. Grafton," said the old man. "He didn't make anything by coming here. I didn't tell him any lies though--or, at least, nothing but Quaker lies," said he, compromising with his conscience. The mate laughed, evidently understanding what he meant; but Mr. Dunham inquired his meaning. "Well," said the captain, in explanation, "you don't remember Uncle Reuben the shoemaker, but Mr. Grafton does. I went there to be measured for a pair of boots, and, of course, I asked him when they would be done? 'Well,' said he, 'thee may come in seventh-day night.' So at the appointed time, I went for my boots, and he hadn't begun on them yet. I was much disappointed, for I expected to have worn them on Sunday, and I said to him, indignantly: 'You told me they would be done Saturday night.' 'O, no!' said Uncle Reuben, in his mild way; 'I didn't tell thee so. I told thee, _thee might come_ seventh-day night, and that was just what I meant. If they were done, thee could have them; if not, I would tell thee when to come again.' Now that was as near a lie as anything that I said to Captain Pickering." We finished boiling and stowing down our oil, and again cracked sail on the ship. On the twelfth day after leaving our port we made the North Cape of New Zealand, and the islands named, by Tasman, "The Three Kings." We stood in near the coast, looking for an eligible place to set our man ashore, and the old man said to him: "I suppose, Mike, you wouldn't want to be landed very near the Bay of Islands?" "No," said the convict, "I would rather not. Put me among the Maories, and that is all I want. There is a headland here not far off. I'll tell you when we come to it. There, I can see it now," said Mike, who appeared to be better acquainted with the coast than any one on board. "There is the entrance to a snug, land-locked bay called by the natives, Wangaroa. It's not generally known to whalers yet, but will be visited more, by and by. Put me on the rocks, anywhere within the entrance, and I'll give you no more trouble. I am known among that tribe there. The English authorities will not find me, there. The Maories are in a state of war with the English, and they are not to be despised when they fight in their own way, among their native mountains."