gorio.

The wasted energies of these peons finally commenced to irritate John
Parker.

"How long are you going to tolerate the presence of this healthy lot of
_cholo_ loafers and grafters, Farrel?" he demanded one day. "Have you
any idea of what it is costing you to support that gang?"

"Yes," Farrel replied. "About ten dollars a day."

"You cannot afford that expense."

"I know it. But then, they're the local color, they've always been and
they will continue to be while I have title to this ranch. Why, their
hearts would be broken if I refused them permission to nestle under the
cloak of my philanthropy, and he is a poor sort of white man who will
disappoint a poor devil of a _cholo_."

"You're absolutely incomprehensible," Parker declared.

Farrel laughed. "You're not," he replied. "Know anything about a
stop-watch?"

"I know _all_ about one."

"Well, your daughter has sent to San Francisco for the best stop-watch
money can buy, and it's here. I've had my father's old stop-watch
cleaned and regulated. Panchito's on edge and we're going to give him
a half-mile tryout to-morrow, so I want two stop-watches on him. Will
you oblige, sir?"

Parker willingly consented, and the following morning Farrel and his
guests repaired to the race-track. Kay, mounted on Panchito in racing
gear, was, by courtesy, given a position next to the rail. Eighty
pounds of dark meat, answering to the name of Allesandro Trujillo and
claiming Pablo Artelan as his grandfather, drew next position on
Peep-sight, as Farrel had christened Panchito's half-brother, while
three other half-grown _cholo_ youths, gathered at random here and
there, faced the barrier on the black mare, the old gray roping horse
and a strange horse belonging to one of the volunteer jockeys.

There was considerable backing, filling and some bucking at the
barrier, and Pablo and two of his relatives, acting as starters, were
kept busy straightening out the field. Finally, with a shrill yip,
Pablo released the web and the flighty young Peep-sight was away in
front, with the black mare's nose at his saddle-girth and the field
spread out behind him, with Panchito absolutely last.

At the quarter-pole Kay had worked her mount easily up through the ruck
to contend with Peep-sight. The half-thoroughbred was three years old
and his muscles had been hardened by many a wild scramble up and down
the hills of El Palomar; he was game, he was willing, and for half