The Pride of Palomar | Page 4

babbling became
incoherent, the aged master of Palomar controlled his twitching hands
sufficiently to roll and light a cigarette. Then he reread the telegram.
Yes; it was true. It was from Washington, and signed by the
adjutant-general; it informed Don Miguel José Farrel, with regret, that
his son, First Sergeant Miguel José Maria Federico Noriaga Farrel,
Number 765,438, had been killed in action in Siberia on the fourth
instant.
"At least," the old don murmured, "he died like a gentleman. Had he
returned to the Rancho Palomar, he could not have continued to live
like one. Oh, my son, my son!"
He rose blindly and groped his way along the wall until he came to the
inset gate leading into the patio; like a stricken animal retreating to its
lair, he sought the privacy of his old-fashioned garden, where none
might intrude upon his grief.

II
First Sergeant Michael Joseph Farrel entered the orderly-room and
saluted his captain, who sat, with his chair tilted back, staring
mournfully at the opposite wall.
"I have to report, sir, that I have personally delivered the battery
records, correctly sorted, labeled, and securely crated, to the
demobilization office. The typewriter, field-desk, and stationery have
been turned in, and here are the receipts."
The captain tucked the receipts in his blouse pocket.
"Well, Sergeant, I dare say that marks the completion of your
duties--all but the last formation." He glanced at his wrist-watch. "Fall
in the battery and call the roll. By that time, I will have organized my
farewell speech to the men. Hope I can deliver it without making a fool
of myself."

"Very well, sir."
The first sergeant stepped out of the orderly-room and blew three long
blasts on his whistle--his signal to the battery to "fall in." The men
came out of the demobilization-shacks with alacrity and formed within
a minute; without command, they "dressed" to the right and
straightened the line. Farrel stepped to the right of it, glanced down the
long row of silent, eager men, and commanded,
"Front!"
Nearly two hundred heads described a quarter circle.
Farrel stepped lithely down the long front to the geometrical center of
the formation, made a right-face, walked six paces, executed an
about-face, and announced complainingly:
"Well, I've barked at you for eighteen months--and finally you made it
snappy. On the last day of your service, you manage to fall in within
the time-limit and dress the line perfectly. I congratulate you." Covert
grins greeted his ironical sally. He continued: "I'm going to say
good-by to those of you who think there are worse tops in the service
than I. To those who did not take kindly to my methods, I have no
apologies to offer. I gave everybody a square deal, and for the
information of some half-dozen Hot-spurs who have vowed to give me
the beating of my life the day we should be demobilized, I take
pleasure in announcing that I will be the first man to be discharged, that
there is a nice clear space between these two demobilization-shacks and
the ground is not too hard, that there will be no guards to interfere, and
if any man with the right to call himself 'Mister' desires to air his
grievance, he can make his engagement now, and I shall be at his
service at the hour stipulated. Does anybody make me an offer?" He
stood there, balanced nicely on the balls of his feet, cool, alert, glancing
interestedly up and down the battery front. "What?" he bantered,
"nobody bids? Well, I'm glad of that. I part friends with everybody.
Call rolls!"
The section-chiefs called the rolls of their sections and reported them

present. Farrel stepped to the door of the orderly-room.
"The men are waiting for the captain," he reported.
"Sergeant Farrel," that bedeviled individual replied frantically, "I can't
do it. You'll have to do it for me."
"Yes, sir; I understand."
Farrel returned to the battery, brought them to attention, and said:
"The skipper wants to say good-by, men, but he isn't up to the job. He's
afraid to tackle it; so he has asked me to wish you light duty, heavy pay,
and double rations in civil life. He has asked me to say to you that he
loves you all and will not soon forget such soldiers as you have proved
yourselves to be."
"Three for the Skipper! Give him three and a tiger!" somebody pleaded,
and the cheers were given with a hearty generosity which even the most
disgruntled organization can develop on the day of demobilization.
The skipper came to the door of the orderly-room.
"Good-by, good luck, and God bless you, lads!" he shouted, and nod
with the discharges under his arm, while the battery "counted off," and,
in command of Farrel (the