“So have the Chinese.  Among Americans, however, I thought all that sort of thing was confined to the descendants of the Pilgrim Fathers.”

“If I had an ancestor who had been a Pilgrim Father,” Farrel declared, “I’d locate his grave and build a garbage-incinerator on it.”

“What’s your grouch against the Pilgrim Fathers?”

“They let their religion get on top of them, and they took all the joy out of life.  My Catalonian ancestors, on the other hand, while taking their religion seriously, never permitted it to interfere with a fiesta.  They were what might be called ‘regular fellows.’”

“Your Catalonian ancestors?  Why, I thought you were black Irish, Farrel?”

“The first of my line that I know anything about was a lieutenant in the force that marched overland from Mexico to California under command of Don Gaspar de Portola.  Don Gaspar was accompanied by Fray Junipero Serra.  They carried a sword and a cross respectively, and arrived in San Diego on July first, 1769.  So, you see, I’m a real Californian.”

“You mean Spanish-Californian.”

“Well, hardly in the sense that most people use that term, sir.  We have never intermarried with Mexican or Indian, and until my grandfather Farrel arrived at the ranch and refused to go away until my 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?”