-about, as
a cat would shake a mouse. But still we two men hold on to that hind leg
of hers, careless of our hurts, prone on our faces, but straining every
muscle to keep the grip. Presently we get a chance; together we get our
knees upon a log, together we put our backs into the effort, and heave.
Over she goes.

Hurrah! On to her at once! Sit on her belly and keep her down! Never
mind the kicking legs in the air! Get a hand between the struggling
forelegs, gently, along the neck! Now then, out with the ready
sheath-knife, and dig it in! There! Right to the heart, till the blood
spurts out over us! Hurrah! Good! There's another mother of a family the
less!

And now we may take breath for a minute or two, praise old Katipo, and
cut off the pig's ears as a trophy. Only for the shortest possible
minute, though, for the hunt is going on with headlong haste and hurry.
We must be up and off after more pigs, and must rejoin the rest of the
scattered party, whose shouts may be heard in various directions; there
must be no loitering when pigs are near, for _they_ will not wait, we
may be sure.

As we run and scramble on through the scrub, making way upwards along
the gully, we pass several dead pigs at intervals, which show that the
rest of the boys have been well employed. Presently we come upon the
Saint, in the midst of a gloomy thicket of birch, sitting astride of a
great dead boar, and employed with his tomahawk in endeavouring to chop
out the tusks.

Then Katipo discovers a small family of pigs comfortably stowed away
among the dense vegetation of a little marshy hollow. These give the
three of us some diversion; we manage to kill two of them, and drive out
the remainder upwards through the bush. Following them up hotly for
about a mile, Katipo lays hold of one after another, which we turn over
and stick as we can, killing two or three more in this way.

But the work is very arduous, and the day is wearing towards noon, and
is consequently very hot--March being here equivalent to an English
September, but much warmer and drier. We are dripping with sweat, our
shirts torn and muddied, blood all over us--both pigs' and our own--and
we feel well-nigh exhausted for the time being by the tremendous and
violent exertions we have been making.

After the next pig is finally, and with desperate fighting, slaughtered,
there seems to be a general tacit advance towards taking a rest. Katipo
and another dog that we have picked