as the bank was, go she must, of course, and see; and up, pumpkin and all, she climbed. Aha! Something inside. What? . . . Bread; and, inside the bread? Jam; thick, sweet, deep-red jam, very thick, very sweet, very good!
Next to tobacco, Pipi loved sweet things. She did not expend much pity upon the school-child that, heedlessly running along the top edge of the bank that morning, had lost its lunch and spent a hungry dinner-hour; neither did the somewhat travelled appearance of the sandwich trouble her. She scrambled down again on to the firmer footing of the road, and there she stood, and licked and licked at the jam. Miria’s face, if she had caught her at it! Oho, that face!—the very fancy of its sourness made the tit-bit sweeter. The bread itself she threw away. Her stomach was not hungry, Miria saw to that; but her imagination was, and that was why this chance-come, wayside dainty had a relish that no good, dull dinner in the whare ever had. Sport was good to-day. First that pumpkin, now this jam! Ka pai the catch! What next?
She resumed her journey up-hill, but had no sooner reached the top than she suddenly squatted down on the bank by the roadside, as if at a word of command, with next to no breath left in her lungs, but hope once more lively in her heart—for here, surely, advancing to meet her, was the Next—a tall young pakeha woman, with a basket on her arm. Only a woman. That was a pity, for there was the less chance of topeka; still, what had that kit got in it?
Pipi knew all about strategical advantages by
