grandmother
Noriaga went with him, we were pure-bred Spanish blonds. My grandmother
had red hair, brown eyes, and a skin as white as an old bleached-linen
napkin. Grandfather Farrel is the fellow to whom I am indebted for my
saddle-colored complexion."

"Siberia has bleached you considerably. I should say you're an ordinary
brunet now."

Farrel removed his overseas cap and ran long fingers through his hair.

"If I had a strain of Indian in me, sir," he explained, "my hair would be
straight, thick, coarse, and blue-black. You will observe that it is
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
luncheon. What with a twenty-mile hike in the sun, he was dry by the
time he arrived, and in his uniform, although somewhat bedraggled, he
looked gay enough to make a hit with my great-grandfather Noriaga, who
invited him to luncheon and begged him to stay a while. Michael Joseph
liked the place; so he stayed. You see, there were thousands of horses
on the ranch and, like