So far, our rambling had revealed nothing of any service to us; but just then, struck by the appearance of a plant which was growing profusely in a glade we were passing over, I made bold to taste one of the leaves.  What the botanical name of the vegetable is, I do not know; but, under the designation of “Maori cabbage,” it is well known in New Zealand.  It looks like a lettuce, running to seed; but it tastes exactly like young turnip-tops, and is a splendid anti-scorbutic.  What its discovery meant to us, I can hardly convey to any one who does not know what an insatiable craving for potatoes and green vegetables possesses seamen when they have for long been deprived of these humble but necessary articles of food.  Under the circumstances, no “find” could have given us greater pleasure—­that is, in the food line—­than this did.

Taking it all round, however, the place as a foraging ground was not a success.  We chased a goat of very large size, and beard voluminous as a Rabbi’s, into a cave, which may have been the one the Halsteads took shelter in, for we saw no other.  One of the Kanakas volunteered to go in after him with a line, and did so.  The resultant encounter was the best bit of fun we had had for many a day.  After a period of darksome scuffling within, the entangled pair emerged, fiercely wrestling, Billy being to all appearance much the fresher of the two.  Fair play seemed to demand that we should let them fight it out; but, sad to say, the other Kanakas could not see things in that light, and Billy was soon despatched.  Rather needless killing, too; for no one, except at starvation-point, could have eaten the poor remains of leathery flesh that still decorated that weather-beaten frame.

But this sort of thing was tiring and unprofitable.  The interest of the place soon fizzled out, when it was found there was so little worth taking away; so, as the day was getting on, it was decided to launch off and start fishing.  In a few minutes we were afloat again, and anchored, in about four fathoms, in as favourable a spot for our sport as ever I saw.  Fish swarmed about us of many sorts, but principally of the “kauwhai,” a kind of mullet very plentiful about Auckland, and averaging five or six pounds.  Much to my annoyance, we had not been able to get any bait, except a bit of raw salt-pork, which hardly any fish but the shark tribe will look at.  Had I known or thought of it, a bit of goat would have been far more attractive.

However, as there was no help for it, we baited up and started.  “Nary nibble ermong ’em!” growled Sam, as we sat impatiently waiting for a bite.  When we hauled up to see what was wrong, fish followed the hook up in hundreds, letting us know plainly as possible that they only wanted something tasty.  It was outrageous, exasperating beyond measure!  At last Samuela grew so tired of it that he seized his harpoon, and hurled it into the middle of a company of kauwhai that were calmly nosing around the bows.