“He’s the son of a woman we knew. What does your science tell you of him?”
“Let’s see. Remove your cap.”
Manuel removed his cap.
“He’s a Celt,” proclaimed Horacio. “Fine race. Facial angle open; broad forehead; not much jaw....”
“And what does all this signify?” queried Manuel.
“In the final analysis, nothing. Have you any money?”
“I? Not a button.”
“Then let me tell you this: since you have no money, and aren’t a man of prey, and can’t use your intelligence, even though you may have some, which I believe is the case, you’ll probably die in a hospital.”
“How rude!” exclaimed the baroness. “Don’t talk like that to the boy.”
Manuel greeted the prognostication with laughter; it seemed very comical to him.