"I shall try to remember that," Pablo replied, bitterly. "Forgive me,
Don Miguel, for forgetting it. Perhaps I have not played well my part
as the representative of my master during his absence."

"Do not distress yourself further in the matter, Pablo. What food have
we at the ranch? Is there sufficient with which to enable Carolina to
serve breakfast?"

"To serve it where, Don Miguel?"

"Where but in my home?"

"Blood of the devil!" Pablo slapped his thigh and grinned in the
knowledge that the last of the Farrels, having come home, had decided
to waste no time in assuming his natural position as the master of the
Rancho Palomar. "We have oranges," he began, enumerating each course
of the forthcoming meal on his tobacco-stained fingers. "Then there is
flour in my possession for biscuits, and, two weeks ago, I robbed a
bee-tree; so we have honey. Our coffee is not of the best, but it is
coffee. And we have eggs."

"Any butter, sugar, and cream?"

"Alas, no, Don Miguel!"

"Saddle a horse at once, go down to the mission, and borrow some from
Father Dominic. If he has none, ride over to the Gonzales rancho and
get it. Bacon, also, if they have it. Tell Carolina I will have
breakfast for five at half after eight."