“‘Souls in bondage’ is right,” he said, setting his feet to the floor and reaching for his boots.  “In bondage to their own helplessness, and helpless because they’re so damned ignorant.  But,” he added grimly while he stamped his right foot into its boot, “they ain’t going at it the right way.  They’re tryin’ to tear down, when they ain’t ready to build anything on the wreck.  They’re right about the wrong; but they’re wrong as the devil about the way to mend it.  Them pamphlets will sure raise hell amongst the Mexicans, if the thing ain’t stopped pronto.”

He dressed for riding, and went out and fed Rabbit before he went thoughtfully up to the hotel for his breakfast.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

HELEN MAY SIGHS FOR ROMANCE

Helen May was toiling over the ridgy upland which in New Mexico is called a mesa, when it is not a desert—­and sometimes when it is one—­taking her turn with the goats while Vic nursed a strained ankle and a grouch under the mesquite tree by the house.  With Pat to help, the herding resolved itself into the exercise of human intelligence over the dog’s skill.  Pat, for instance, would not of his own accord choose the best grazing for his band, but he could drive them to good grazing once it was chosen for him.  So, theoretically, Helen May was exercising her human intelligence; actually she was exercising her muscles mostly.  And having an abundance of brain energy that refused to lie dormant, she had plenty of time to think her own thoughts while Pat carried out her occasional orders.

For one thing, Helen May was undergoing the transition from a mild satisfaction with her education and mentality, to a shamed consciousness of an appalling ignorance and mental crudity.  Holman Sommers was unwittingly the cause of that.  There was nothing patronizing or condescending in the attitude of Holman Sommers, even if he did run to long words and scientifically accurate descriptions of the smallest subjects.  It was the work he placed before her that held Helen May abashed before his vast knowledge.  She could not understand half of what she deciphered and typed for him, and because she could not understand she realized the depth of her benightedness.

She was awed by the breadth and the scope which she sensed more or less vaguely in The Evolution of Sociology.  Holman Sommers quoted freely, and discussed boldly and frankly, such abstruse authors as Descartes, Spinoza, Schopenhauer, Comte, Gumplowicz, some of them names she had never heard of and could not even spell without following her copy letter by letter.  Holman Sommers seemed to have read all of them and to have weighed all of them and to be able to quote all of them offhand; whereas Schopenhauer was the only name in the lot that sounded in the least familiar to Helen May, and she had a guilty feeling that she had always connected the name with music instead of the sort of things Holman Sommers quoted him as having said or written, she could not make out which.