"Well, my father will not be able to hear a word I say until Padre
Dominic shuts off his motor; so my father will yell at him and ask him
what the devil he's doing out there and to come in, and be quick about
it, or he'll throw his share of the dinner to the hogs. We always dine
at seven; so we'll be in time for dinner. But before we go in to dinner,
my dad will ring the bell in the compound, and the help will report.
Amid loud cries of wonder and delight, I shall be welcomed by a mess of
mixed breeds of assorted sexes, and old Pablo, the majordomo, will be
ordered to pass out some wine to celebrate my arrival. It's against the
law to give wine to an Indian, but then, as my father always remarks on
such occasions: 'To hell with the law! They're my Indians, and there are
damned few of them left.'

"Padre Dominic, my father, and I will, in all probability, get just a
little bit jingled at dinner. After dinner, we'll sit on the porch
flanking the patio and smoke cigars, and I'll smell the lemon verbena and
heliotrope and other old-fashioned flowers modern gardeners have
forgotten how to grow. About midnight, Father Dominic's brain will have
cleared, and he will be fit to be trusted with his accursed automobile;
so he will snort home in the moonlight, and my father will then carefully
lock the patio gate with a nine-inch key. Not that anybody ever steals
anything in our country, except a cow once in a while--and cows never
range in our patio--but just because we're hell-benders for conforming to
custom. When I was a boy, Pablo Artelan, our majordomo, always slept
athwart that gate, like an old watchdog. I give you my word I've climbed
that patio wall a hundred times and dropped down on Pablo's stomach
without wakening him. And, for a quarter of a century, to my personal
knowledge, that patio gate has supported itself on a hinge and a half.
Oh, we're a wonderful institution, we Farrels!"