an elk and teach him how to haul a cart."

"Oh, nonsense, Farrel! You're the hardest-working man I have ever known."

Farrel smiled boyishly.

"That was in Siberia, and I had to hustle to keep warm. But I know I'll
not be home six months before that delicious _mañana_ spirit will settle
over me again, like mildew on old boots."

The captain shook his head.

"Any man who can see so clearly the economic faults of his race and
nevertheless sympathize with them is not one to be lulled to the ruin
that has overtaken practically all of the old native California families.
That strain of Celt and Gael in you will triumph over the easy-going
Latin."

"Well, perhaps. And two years in the army has helped tremendously to
eradicate an inherited tendency toward procrastination."

"I shall like to think that I had something to do with that," the officer
answered. "What are your plans?"

"Well, sir, this hungry world must be fed by the United States for the
next ten years, and I have an idea that the Rancho Palomar can pull
itself out of the hole with beef cattle. My father has always raised
short-legged, long-horned scrubs, descendants of the old Mexican breeds,
and there is no money in that sort of stock. If I can induce him to turn
the ranch over to me, I'll try to raise sufficient money to buy a couple