"Gee!" exclaimed Will. "You've got to hand it to the British if they
train colored police to refuse money."

The askari, it seemed, was a man of more than one kind of discretion.
Without another word to the Goanese he saluted the lot of us with a
sweep of his arm, turned on his heel and vanished--not stopping in his
hurry to put on the sandals that lay on the door-step. We amused
ourselves while he was gone by flying questions at the Goanese,
calculated to disturb what might be left of his equanimity without
giving him ground for lawsuits.

"How old are you?"--"How much pay do you get?"--"How long have you held
your job?"--"Do you ever get drunk?"--"Are you married?"--"Does your
wife love you?"--"Do you keep white mice?"--"Is your life
insured?"--"How often have you been in jail?"--"Are you honest?"--"Are
you vaccinated against the jim-jams?"--"Why is your name Fernandez and
not Braganza?"

The man was about distracted, for he had been unwise enough to try to
answer, when suddenly the collector came in great haste and stalked
through the office into the inner room.

"Fernandez!" he called as he passed, and the Goanese hurried after him,
hugely relieved. There was five minute's consultation behind the
partition in tones too low for us to catch more than a word or two, and
then Fernandez came out again with a "Now wait and see, my hearties!"
smile on his face. He was actually rubbing his palms together, sure of
a swift revenge.

"He says you are to go in there," he announced.