Occasionally they roused themselves long enough to justify
their inroads upon Don Mike's groceries by harvesting a forty-acre
field of alfalfa and irrigating it for another crop, for which purpose
a well had been sunk in the bed of the dry San Gregorio.
The wasted energies of these peons finally commenced to irritate John
Parker.
"How long are you going to tolerate the presence of this healthy lot of
_cholo_ loafers and grafters, Farrel?" he demanded one day. "Have you
any idea of what it is costing you to support that gang?"
"Yes," Farrel replied. "About ten dollars a day."
"You cannot afford that expense."
"I know it. But then, they're the local color, they've always been and
they will continue to be while I have title to this ranch. Why, their
hearts would be broken if I refused them permission to nestle under the
cloak of my philanthropy, and he is a poor sort of white man who will
disappoint a poor devil of a _cholo_."
"You're absolutely incomprehensible," Parker declared.
Farrel laughed. "You're not," he replied. "Know anything about a
stop-watch?"
"I know _all_ about one."
"Well, your daughter has sent to San Francisco for the best stop-watch
money can buy, and it's here. I've had my father's old stop-watch
cleaned and regulated. Panchito's on edge and we're going to give him
a half-mile tryout to-morrow, so I want two stop-watches on him.
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