wavy, a medium crop, of average fineness, and jet black."

The captain laughed at his frankness.

"Very well, Farrel; I'll admit you're clean-strain white. But tell me:
How much of you is Latin and how much Farrel?"

It was Farrel's turn to chuckle now.

"Seriously, I cannot answer that question. My grandmother, as I have
stated, was pure-bred Castilian or Catalonian, for I suppose they mixed.
The original Michael Joseph Farrel (I am the third of the name) was
Tipperary Irish, and could trace his ancestry back to the fairies--to
hear him tell it. But one can never be quite certain how much Spanish
there is in an Irishman from the west, so I have always started with the
premise that the result of that marriage--my father--was three-fifths
Latin. Father married a Galvez, who was half Scotch; so I suppose I'm an
American."

"I should like to see you on your native heath, Farrel. Does your dad
still wear a conical-crowned sombrero, bell-shaped trousers, bolero
jacket, and all that sort of thing?"

"No, sir. The original Mike insisted upon wearing regular trousers and
hats. He had all of the prejudices of his race, and regarded folks who
did things differently from him as inferior people. He was a lieutenant
on a British sloop-of-war that was wrecked on the coast of San Marcos
County in the early 'Forties. All hands were drowned, with the exception
of my grandfather, who was a very contrary man. He swam ashore and
strolled up to the hacienda of the Rancho Palomar, arriving just before