‘He’s only an actor.’

‘Mr Geoffrey Gaunt. He is a man of great distinction.’

‘Then you know all about it, do you?’

‘I think so,’ said old Rua.

Smith licked his cigarette and hung it from the corner of his mouth.

‘Questing’s at the back of it,’ he said. Rua stirred slightly. ‘He’s kidded this Gaunt the mud’ll fix his leg for him. He’s falling over himself polishing the old dump up. You ought to see the furniture. Questing!’ added Smith viciously. ‘By cripes, I’d like to see that joker get what’s coming to him.’

Unexpectedly Rua gave a subterranean chuckle.

‘Look!’ Smith said. ‘He’s got something coming to him all right, that joker. The old doctor’s got it in for him, and so’s everybody else but Claire. I reckon Claire’s not so keen, either, but Questing’s put him where he just can’t squeal. That’s what I reckon.’

He lit the cigarette and looked out of the corners of his eyes at Rua. ‘You don’t say much,’ he said. His hand moved shakily over the bulge in his mackintosh. ‘Like a spot?’ he asked.

‘No, thank you. What should I say? It is no business of mine.’

‘Look, Rua,’ said Smith energetically. ‘I like your people. I get on with them. Always have. That’s a fact, isn’t it?’

‘You are intimate with some of my people.’

‘Yes. Well, I came up here to tell you something. Something about Questing.’ Smith paused. The quiet of evening had impregnated the countryside. The air was clear and the smallest noises from below reached the hilltop with uncanny sharpness. Down in the native reserve a collection of small brown boys milled about, squabbling. Several elderly women with handkerchiefs tied over their heads sat round one of the cooking pools. The smell of steaming sweet potatoes was mingled with the fumes of sulphur. On the other side, the van crawled up to the main road sounding its horn. From inside the Claires’ house hollow bumping noises still continued. The sun was now behind Rangi’s Peak.

‘Questing’s got a great little game on,’ said Smith. ‘He’s going round your younger lot talking about teams of poi girls and kids diving for pennies, and all the rest of it. He’s offering big money. He says he doesn’t see why the Arawas down at Rotorua should be the only tribe to profit by the tourist racket.’

Rua got slowly to his feet. He turned away from the Springs side of the hill to the east and looked down into his own hamlet, now deep in shadow.

‘My people are well contented,’ he said. ‘We are not Arawas. We go our own way.’