“Oh, splendid!” Kay cried, enthusiastically.

“The day starts more auspiciously than I had hoped,” her mother declared.  “I really believe the Rancho Palomar is going to develop into a regular place with you around, Mr. Farrel.”

XI

“I am convinced,” said Miguel Farrel, as he followed his guests out of the dining-room onto the veranda, “that the Parkers’ invasion of my home is something in the nature of a mixed misfortune.  I begin to feel that my cloud has a silver lining.”

“Of all the young men I have ever met, you can say the nicest things,” Mrs. Parker declared.  “I don’t think you mean that last remark the least bit, but still I’m silly enough to like to hear you say it.  Do sit down here awhile, Mr. Farrel, and tell us all about yourself and family.”

“At the risk of appearing discourteous, Mrs. Parker, I shall have to ask you to excuse me this morning.  I have a living to make.  It is now a quarter past nine, and I should have been on the job at seven.”

“But you only got home from the army last night,” Kay pleaded.  “You owe yourself a little rest, do you not?”

“Not a minute.  I must not owe anything I cannot afford.  I have approximately seven months in which to raise approximately a quarter of a million dollars.  Since I am without assets, I have no credit; consequently, I must work for that money.  From to-day I am Little Mike, the Hustler.”

“What’s your program, Mr. Farrel?” Parker inquired, with interest.

“I should be grateful for an interview with you, sir, if you can spare the time.  Later, I shall ride out over the ranch and make an inventory of the stock.  Tomorrow, I shall go in to El Toro, see my father’s attorney, ascertain if father left a will, and, if so, whom he named as executor.  If he died intestate, I shall petition for letters of administration.”

“Come, Kay, dear,” Mrs. Parker announced; “heavy business-man stuff!  I can’t bear it!  Will you take a walk with us, Mr. Okada?”

“Very much pleased,” the potato baron replied, and flashed his fine teeth in a fatuous grin.

Farrel smiled his thanks as the good lady moved off with her convoy.  Parker indicated a chair and proffered a cigar.

“Now then, Mr. Farrel, I am quite at your service.”

Miguel Farrel lighted his cigar and thoughtfully tossed the burnt match into a bed of pansies.  Evidently, he was formulating his queries.

“What was the exact sum for which the mortgage on this ranch was foreclosed, Mr. Parker?”

“Two hundred and eighty-three thousand, nine hundred and forty-one dollars, and eight cents, Mr. Farrel.”

“A sizable wad.  Mortgage covered the entire ranch?”

Parker nodded.