“Poaka, Poaka!”

We were paddling up a long smooth reach between two rapids, when we saw two black objects on the surface of the stream ahead of us. These were an old boar and his consort swimming across the river. The boar landed first, and, though we were close up, he turned and stood there champing his jaws and grunting defiantly at us until the sow scrambled safely up the bank. Then the loving couple turned and dived into the depths of the bush.

“You chivalrous old hog!” said my pakeha mate.

“Good feller that poaka for his missus,” said Piko.

But our pig-dog—no Maori travels without a hunting dog on such an expedition—if he heard these compliments, disregarded them. He ripped out a fearful howl, and flew overboard, swam ashore and bounded into the bush after the Captain Cooks. The futile chase led him up on to a mountain-top. We had to draw into the bank and patiently await his return.