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.
So we filed in, Fred Oakes first, and it seemed to me the moment I saw the collector's face that the outlook was not so depressing.

He looked neither young nor incompetent.

His jaw was neither receding nor too prominent.