"Oh, well, I shall wait till he takes possession of his own solitary bungalow, then I shall secure him! Oh dear, if that isn't a big goat trespassing among my precious crotons," and, tucking up her skirts, the little lady darted after the intruder. The Collector stood watching her with a comical smile on his face, while Mrs. Goldring gazed with sullen contempt on what she afterwards described as "Mrs. Samptor's vulgar antics." Not content with protecting the crotons, the agile lady was bent on chasing the trespasser from the compound, but the Indian black goat was more than a match for her. Scrambling up a tree, he clung there, looking down triumphantly; but the owner of the trampled crotons was not to be outdone. Up she scrambled after him, though it was only on receiving some stinging cuffs that the goat acknowledged himself beaten and made off. "Wonderful person that! When would you or I have energy to perform such a feat, Mrs. Goldring?" said the Collector, shaking with laughter as he went forward to proffer assistance. Mrs. Samptor, however, disclaimed his help and alighted airily on the ground, making him an elegant curtsey with outspread skirts. "Well done, Mrs. Samptor! My only regret is that your husband did not witness the acrobatic performance. Mrs. Goldring and I were too small an audience." The Judge's wife scorned the imputation of being one of the spectators of such a scene. In fact, she afterwards explained, she tried to shut her eyes during its progress. She moved off in majestic solitude, filled with even more resentment against the little woman than she felt against the Collector for his scathing rebuke. Mrs. Samptor, meanwhile, was unconscious of treachery. Of the chameleon type, she had no scruples in changing her point of view when brought face to face with the frank young civilian; moreover, his gracious acceptance of her hospitality had quite won her heart. "Let Mrs. Pate say what she likes, that boy is not an East Indian, Harry!" she whispered to her husband. "Anyhow, I'll not believe it! I'm off to warn Mrs. Goldring not to say a word about it to the Collector. She'll catch it if she does, if I'm not mistaken. I can see from the look of his eyelids that he has taken a fancy to the young man already"; and off she had bounded to the croton walk, to perceive, however, that she had come too late. "The fat was in the fire," she narrated to her husband that evening as they sat in the verandah after dinner. "I couldn't help the woman mismanaging him, could I now, Harry? If she'd had eyes in her head she could have seen the Collector was as pleased with the boy as a child with its latest toy. It really wasn't my fault if she brought down his wrath upon herself, was it now?" The jailer was too deep in his after dinner nap to make any response, but Mrs. Samptor was used to forego responses, and frequently counted them as spoken when the only reply was a snore. CHAPTER XI.