like what Bret
Harte writes of in the Rocky Mountains.

We had had to pay a tax of five shillings each upon our pistols before
bringing them on shore. We were now told that this tax was a main source
of the Government revenue. Again, we were told that the exportation of
new-chums' pistols to the United States was one of the main industries
of the colony. But our purgatory was over at last, and our splendid
outfits had passed into Hebrew hands, leaving a very meagre sum of money
with us to represent them. And now we are ready to start in earnest.

Low down in the water, almost beneath the timbers of the wharf, is lying
a queer little steam-tub, the _Gemini_, which will convey us on the
first stage of our journey. A loafer on the wharf cautions us mockingly
to step aboard with care, lest we overset the little steamer, or break
through her somewhat rickety planking. She is about the size of some of
those steam-launches that puff up and down the English Thames, but she
would look rather out of place among them; for the _Gemini_ and her
sister boat, the _Eclipse_, which carry on the steam service of the
Waitemata, are neither handsome nor new. They are rough and ready boats,
very much the worse for wear. Such as they are, however, they suffice
for the limited traffic up to Riverhead, and to the districts reached
through that place. When that increases, doubtless their enterprising
owner will replace them with more serviceable craft.

Punctuality is by no means one of the chief points of the _Gemini_, and
it is an hour or two after the advertised time before we get off. There
is a good deal of snorting and shrieking, of backing and filling, on the
part of our bark, and then at last we are fairly on our way up the
river. We take a last long look at the good ship that brought us from
England, as she lies out at anchor in the harbour, and when a bend in
the river hides Auckland's streets and terraces from our view, we feel
that we have turned our backs on civilization for a while, and are fast
getting among the pioneers.

On board the _Gemini_ is a face we know. It is that of Dobbs, a sometime
shipmate of ours. He is a farm labourer from Sussex, and he and his
wife have come out among our ship-load of emigrants. There is a chronic
look of wonder on their broad English faces. They are in speechless
surprise at everything they see, but chiefly, apparently, at finding
themselves actually in a new country at all.

Dobbs touches