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“Yes, sir.”

“In the meantime, I’ll be looking after your position.”

On the following day Manuel distributed a package of circulars and returned at meal time with his task accomplished.

He was getting tired of waiting when Mingote appeared in his room; he stopped in front of Manuel, swept his cane rapidly through the air, struck the boy’s arms, stood still, recoiled, and shouted:

“Ah! Rogue! Bandit! Mountebank!”

“What’s the trouble?” asked Manuel in fright.

“The trouble? You knave! The trouble? Wretch, you! You’re the luckiest fellow on two feet; your future is assured; you’ve landed a job.”

“As what?”

“As a son.”

“As a son? I don’t understand.”

Mingote planted himself squarely, gazed at the ceiling, saluted with his cane as a fencing-master would with his foil, and added:

“You’re going to pass for the son of nothing less than a baroness!”

“Who? I?”

“Yes. You’ve no cause for complaint, you rogue! You rise out of the gutter to the heights of aristocracy. You may even manage to acquire a title.”