“Well, sir, this hungry world must be fed by the United States for the next ten years, and I have an idea that the Rancho Palomar can pull itself out of the hole with beef cattle.  My father has always raised short-legged, long-horned scrubs, descendants of the old Mexican breeds, and there is no money in that sort of stock.  If I can induce him to turn the ranch over to me, I’ll try to raise sufficient money to buy a couple of car-loads of pure-bred Hereford bulls and grade up that scrub stock; in four or five years I’ll have steers that will weigh eighteen hundred to two thousand pounds on the hoof, instead of the little eight-hundred-pounders that have swindled us for a hundred years.”

“How many head of cattle can you run on your ranch?”

“About ten thousand—­one to every ten acres.  If I could develop water for irrigation in the San Gregorio valley, I could raise alfalfa and lot-feed a couple of thousand more.”

“What is the ranch worth?”

“About eight per acre is the average price of good cattle-range nowadays.  With plenty of water for irrigation, the valley-land would be worth five hundred dollars an acre.  It’s as rich as cream, and will grow anything—­with water.”

“Well, I hope your dad takes a back seat and gives you a free hand, Farrel.  I think you’ll make good with half a chance.”

“I feel that way also,” Farrel replied seriously.

“Are you going south to-night?”

“Oh, no.  Indeed not!  I don’t want to go home in the dark, sir.”  The captain was puzzled.  “Because I love my California, and I haven’t seen her for two years,” Farrel replied, to the other’s unspoken query.  “It’s been so foggy since we landed in San Francisco I’ve had a hard job making my way round the Presidio.  But if I take the eight-o’clock train tomorrow morning, I’ll run out of the fog-belt in forty-five minutes and be in the sunshine for the remainder of the journey.  Yes, by Jupiter—­and for the remainder of my life!”

“You want to feast your eyes on the countryside, eh?”

“I do.  It’s April, and I want to see the Salinas valley with its oaks; I want to see the bench-lands with the grape-vines just budding; I want to see some bald-faced cows clinging to the Santa Barbara hillsides, and I want to meet some fellow on the train who speaks the language of my tribe.”

“Farrel, you’re all Irish.  You’re romantic and poetical, and you feel the call of kind to kind.  That’s distinctly a Celtic trait.”

“Quien sabe?  But I have a great yearning to speak Spanish with somebody.  It’s my mother tongue.”

“There must be another reason,” the captain bantered him.  “Sure there isn’t a girl somewhere along the right of way and you are fearful, if you take the night-train, that the porter may fail to waken you in time to wave to her as you go by her station?”

Farrel shook his head.

“There’s another reason, but that isn’t it.  Captain, haven’t you been visualizing every little detail of your home-coming?”