Well, one day I had to carry despatches up to Waihi, a distance of some fifteen miles. I was well mounted on the horse I had first bought, who had turned out a slashing charger, very fast, with great staying powers, very sure-footed and a grand swimmer, the latter such a necessary accomplishment in a country abounding with tidal rivers and no bridges. It was a lovely afternoon, and I rode with stripped saddle, carrying only a brace of revolvers. The road ran for some miles along the beach, the tide being out, and I enjoyed my canter over the hard, firm sand although I had two rivers to cross, one of which I had to swim; these, however, were negotiated comfortably and I turned inland, where the track ran through manuka scrub, patches of bush and fern. I at once started a bright lookout, but saw nothing to guard against until I came to a place where the track ran through a natural clearing about a mile in length, and no more than one hundred yards across. (_Note._--These natural clearings are common enough in New Zealand scrub, especially on the Taupo and Kaingaroa plains. How formed no one knows.) The road ran up the centre of the clearing, which was covered with short tussocky grass that grew in little detached knobs like the wool on a nigger’s head. I had just entered this clearing when my eye caught the gleam of something bright that sparkled for a moment in the scrub more than half way along the length of it, and knew it was caused by the sunshine flashing on the head of a tomahawk or the barrel of a firelock. Catching hold of my horse’s head I slightly increased the pace, at the same time dropping my right hand on the butt of my revolver and preparing for a lively time. I may have ridden a third of the way up the clearing, when bizz came a bullet past my nose, followed up by perhaps a score more. Thank the Lord a Maori could not shoot for toffee, and I saw at least forty natives at the far end of the clearing jump out of the scrub and make for the road, to try and cut me off, while yells from my rear told me retreat would be worse than going on, and I knew there was nothing for it but to break through or be caught; in which case even suppose I was not shot dead I must shoot myself, as it would never do to fall alive into the hands of these fiends. I therefore let my willing horse break into a gallop, and charged along the road as if Old Nick had kicked me.