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.
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