"At least," Parker defended, "they are a more wholesome people than southern Europeans. And they are not Mongolians."
"You have been reading Japanese propaganda," he replied. "Of course they are Mongolians. Everybody who has reached the age of reason knows that. One does not have to be a biologist to know that they are Mongolians. Indeed, the only people who deny it are the Japanese, and they do not believe it. As for southern Europeans, have you not observed that nearly all of them possess brachycephalic skulls, indicating the influence upon them of Mongolian invasions thousands of years ago and supplying, perhaps, a very substantial argument that, if we find the faintly Mongoloid type of emigrant repugnant to us, we can never expect to assimilate the pure-bred Mongol."
"What do you mean, 'brachycephalic'?" Parker queried, uneasily.
"They belong to the race of round heads. Didn't you know that ethnologists grub round in ancient cemeteries and tombs and trace the evolution and wanderings of tribes of men by the skulls they find there?"
Kay commenced to giggle at her father's confusion. The latter had suddenly, as she realized, made the surprising discovery that in this calm son of the San Gregorio he had stumbled upon a student, to attempt to break a conversational lance with whom must end in disaster. His daughter's mirth brought him to a realization of the sorry figure he would present in argument.
"Well, my dear, what are you laughing at?" he demanded, a trifle austerely.
"I'm laughing at you. You told me yesterday you were loaded for these Californians and could flatten their anti-Japanese arguments in a jiffy."
"Perhaps I am loaded still. Remember, Kay, Mr. Farrel has done all of the talking and we have been attentive listeners. Wait until I have had my innings."
"By the way, Mr. Parker," Farrel asked, "who loaded you up with pro-Japanese arguments?"
Parker flushed and was plainly ill at ease. Farrel turned to Kay.
"I do not know yet where you folks came from, but I'll make a bet that I can guess--in one guess."
"What will you bet, my erudite friend?" the girl bantered.
"I'll bet you Panchito against a box of fifty of the kind of cigars your father smokes."
"Taken. Where do we hail from, Don Mike?"