THE PRIDE of PALOMAR

I

For the first time in sixty years, Pablo Artelan, the majordomo of the
Rancho Palomar, was troubled of soul at the approach of winter. Old
Don Miguel Farrel had observed signs of mental travail in Pablo for a
month past, and was at a loss to account for them. He knew Pablo
possessed one extra pair of overalls, brand-new, two pairs of boots
which young Don Miguel had bequeathed him when the Great White Father
at Washington had summoned the boy to the war in April of 1917, three
chambray shirts in an excellent state of repair, half of a fat steer
jerked, a full bag of Bayo beans, and a string of red chilli-peppers
pendant from the rafters of an adobe shack which Pablo and his wife,
Carolina, occupied rent free. Certainly (thought old Don Miguel) life
could hold no problems for one of Pablo's race thus pleasantly situated.

Coming upon Pablo this morning, as the latter sat in his favorite seat
under the catalpa tree just outside the wall of the ancient adobe
compound, where he could command a view of the white wagon-road winding
down the valley of the San Gregorio, Don Miguel decided to question his
ancient retainer.

"My good Pablo," he queried, "what has come over thee of late? Thou
art of a mien as sorrowful as that of a sick steer. Can it be that thy
stomach refuses longer to digest thy food? Come; permit me to examine
thy teeth. Yes, by my soul; therein lies the secret. Thou hast a
toothache and decline to complain, thinking that, by thy silence, I
shall be saved a dentist's bill." But Pablo shook his head in
negation. "Come!" roared old Don Miguel. "Open thy mouth!"