“I’m quite certain that fiery Don Mike will never consent to the lease, John,” his wife remarked.

“If he declines to approve the lease, I shall be quite embarrassed I fear, Kate.  You see, dear, Loustalot bought about fifteen thousand sheep to pasture on the Palomar, and now he’s going to find himself in the unenviable position of having the sheep but no pasture.  He’ll probably sue me to recover his loss, if any.”

“It’s too bad you didn’t wait ten days before signing that lease, John.”

“Yes,” he replied, a trifle testily.  “But we all were convinced that young Farrel had been killed in Siberia.”

“But you hadn’t completed your title to this ranch, John?”

“You wouldn’t murder a man who was going to commit suicide, would you?  The ranch was as good as mine.  If I had waited to make absolutely certain Farrel was dead, the wait might have cost me fifty thousand dollars.  I rented the ranch at fifty cents per acre.”

“One hundred thousand acres, more or less, for two years, at fifty cents per acre per annum.  So, instead of making fifty thousand you’ve lost that sum,” his wife mused aloud.

“I’ve lost one hundred thousand,” he corrected.  “A one-year lease is not desirable; Loustalot was my sole client, and I’ve lost him for good.”

“Why despair, John?  I’ve a notion that if you give Don Mike fifty thousand dollars to confirm Loustalot in the lease, he will forget his enmity and agree to the lease.  That would, at least, prevent a law-suit.”

Parker’s face brightened.

“I might do that,” he assented.  “The title will remain in Farrel’s name for another year, and I have always believed that half a loaf was better than none at all.  If young Farrel subscribes to the same sentiments, all may yet go nicely.”

“Fifty thousand dollars would be rather a neat sum to save out of the wreck,” she observed, sagely.  “He seems quite a reasonable young man.”

“I like him,” Parker declared.  “I like him ever so much.”

“So do I, John.  He’s an old-fashioned gentleman.”

“He’s a he man—­the sort of chap I’d like to see Kay married to some day.”

Mrs. Parker looked searchingly at her husband.

“He told Kay he was half greaser, John.  Would you care to have our little daughter married to that sort of man?”

“How like a woman!  You always take the personal viewpoint.  I said I’d like to see Kay married to a he man like Miguel Farrel.  And Farrel is not half greaser.  A greaser is, I take it, a sort of mongrel—­Indian and Spanish.  Farrel is clean-strain Caucasian, Kate.  He’s a white man—­inside and out.”

“His financial situation renders him impossible, of course.”

“Naturally.”

“I wish it were otherwise, Johnny.  Perhaps, if you were a little easy with him—­if you gave him a chance—­”

“Kate, I’d always be afraid of his easy-going Latin blood.  If I should put him on his feet, he would, in all probability, stand still.  He might even walk a little, but I doubt me if he’d ever do a Marathon.”