“Come on, Burke,” shouted Hutton; “just in time. Squat down on your blankets and buckle to.” And no sooner had I taken my seat than two men entered bearing a steaming pot and a bucket full of tea. In a moment these were placed on the ground, each man dipping his tin pannikin into the bucket and securing his allowance of sweetened though milkless black liquid, on the top of which floated innumerable small sticks, which caused the said liquid to be called, through the forces, post and rail tea. In the meantime the piece of plank that served as a lid had been removed from the pot, when at once a goodly odour filled the tent, and on being handed a deep tin plateful, I found the taste to more than justify the scent. But the cook himself! He was a big, raw-boned Frenchman from the south of France, bearded like a pard, his open and tattered jumper revealing a huge crucifix tattooed on his chest, while his long hairy arms and huge hands were also covered with red and blue figures. The only other garment he wore was a greasy, ragged shawl, worn very short, and fastened round his waist by a belt in which was thrust a murderous-looking knife. Head, feet and legs were bare, the former being covered with a thatch of long, thick black hair, and the latter with a skin nearly burnt black by exposure to sun and weather. No sooner had he served out his delicious ragout, with a big iron ladle, than he squatted down alongside his companion and fed with him out of the pot, the two combined making a picture that if painted would have been received in any art gallery as a study of gnomes feeding. For his mate, the man who had brought in the tea bucket, was, as far as dress and appearance went, his exact duplicate, though not of the same nationality, as he was a Levantine Greek who, although a tall, wiry man, was by no means as big or powerful as his French partner. These two beauties were presented to me as Pierre De Feugeron and George Kantuarius, and were as extraordinary a half section as I have ever tumbled across. Each man, in his youth, had been a sailor, Pierre having originally started as a French naval man, George probably as a pirate, to which latter profession, at the time I met them, if one could judge by appearances, they both seemed fully qualified, notwithstanding the fact that Pierre, especially after his tongue had been loosened with a tot or two, always asserted that he had, at one time, been _chef de cuisine_ to the French Admiral commanding the Mediterranean Fleet, and had on more than one occasion cooked dinner for the Emperor himself. Certainly he was the most wonderful cook, though how he came to abandon that profession was always a mystery he would never divulge. He and George had been mates for years, having met in Central America, where they had served together under Walker and Garibaldi. They had drifted over to New Zealand with a cargo of mules, had joined the Rangers, and were here. I shall relate more of them later on.