Although he had been the first man in the battery to receive his
discharge, Farrel was the last man to leave the Presidio. He waited
until the captain, having distributed the discharges, came out of the
pay-office and repaired again to his deserted orderly-room; whereupon the
former first sergeant followed him.
"I hesitate to obtrude, sir," he announced, as he entered the room, "but
whether the captain likes it or not, he'll have to say good-by to me. I
have attended to everything I can think of, sir; so, unless the captain
has some further use for me, I shall be jogging along."
"Farrel," the captain declared, "if I had ever had a doubt as to why I
made you top cutter of B battery, that last remark of yours would have
dissipated it. Please do not be in a hurry. Sit down and mourn with me
for a little while."
"Well, I'll sit down with you, sir, but I'll be hanged if I'll be
mournful. I'm too happy in the knowledge that I'm going home."
"Where is your home, sergeant?"
"In San Marcos County, in the southern part of the state. After two
years of Siberia and four days of this San Francisco fog, I'm fed up on
low temperatures, and, by the holy poker, I want to go home. It isn't
much of a home--just a quaint, old, crumbling adobe ruin, but it's home,
and it's mine. Yes, sir; I'm going home and sleep in the bed my
great-greatgrandfather was born in."
"If I had a bed that old, I'd fumigate it," the captain declared.
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