"How old is your father, Farrel?"

"Seventy-eight."

"And he rides a horse!"

"He does worse than that." Farrel laughed. "He rides a horse that would
police you, sir. On his seventieth birthday, at a rodeo, he won first
prize for roping and hog-tying a steer."

"I'd like to meet that father of yours, Farrel."

"You'd like him. Any time you want to spend a furlough on the Palomar,
we'll make you mighty welcome. Better come in the fall for the
quail-shooting." He glanced at his wrist-watch and sighed. "Well, I
suppose I'd do well to be toddling along. Is the captain going to remain
in the service?"

The captain nodded.

"My people are hell-benders on conforming to custom, also," he added.
"We've all been field-artillerymen.

"I believe I thanked you for a favor you did me once, but to prove I
meant what I said, I'm going to send you a horse, sir. He is a chestnut
with silver points, five years old, sixteen hands high, sound as a
Liberty Bond, and bred in the purple. He is beautifully reined, game,
full of ginger, but gentle and sensible. He'll weigh ten hundred in
condition, and he's as active as a cat. You can win with him at any