Pat turned his bead a trifle and sent her a tolerant glance, but the hair did not lie down on his neck, and the growl did not cease to rumble in his throat.

“Pat!” Helen May began to recover a little from the reaction.  “Come here to me!  I—­don’t think he’ll bite you, Mr. Sommers.  It’s—­it’s only Mexicans that he’s supposed to hate.  I—­I didn’t know it was you.”

Holman Sommers, being careful to keep a safe distance between himself and Pat, came around to where he could see her face.  “As a matter of fact,” he began, “it’s really my sister who came to visit you.  Your brother informed us that you were out here, and I came to tell you.  Why, did I frighten you so badly, Miss Stevenson?  Your face is absolutely colorless.  What did I do to so terrify you?  I surely never intended—­” His eyes were remorseful as he stood and looked at her.

“It was just the way Pat acted.  I—­I’d been hearing about rabid coyotes, and I thought one was behind me, Pat acted so queer.  Lie down, Pat!”

Holman Sommers spoke to the dog ingratiatingly, but Pat did not exhibit any tail-wagging desire for friendly acquaintance.  He slunk over to Helen May and flattened himself on his belly with his nose on his paws, and his eyes, that still showed greenish lights and bloodshot whites, fixed on the man.

“It may be,” said Sommers judgmatically, “that he has been taught to resent strangers coming in close proximity to the animals he has in charge.  A great many dogs are so trained, and are therefore in no wise to blame for exhibiting a certain degree of ferocity.  The canine mind is wholly lacking in the power of deduction, its intelligence consisting rather of a highly developed instinctive faculty for retaining impressions which invariably express themselves in some concrete form such as hate, fear, joy, affection and like primitive emotions.  Pat, for instance, has been taught to regard strangers as interlopers.  He therefore resents the presence of all strangers, and has no mental faculty for distinguishing between strangers, as such, and actual intruders whose presence is essentially undesirable.”

Helen May gave a little, half-hysterical laugh, and Holman Sommers looked at her keenly, as a doctor sometimes looks at a patient.

“I am intensely sorry that my coming frightened you,” he said gently.  Then he laughed.  “I am also deeply humiliated at the idea of being mistaken, in the broad light of midday, for a rabid coyote.  May I ask just wherein lies the resemblance?”

Helen May looked at him, saw the dancing light in his eyes and a mirthful quirk of his lips, and blushed while she smiled.

“It’s just that I happened to be thinking about them,” she said, instinctively belittling her fear.  “And then I never saw Pat act the way he’s acting now.”

Holman Sommers regarded the dog with the same keen, studying look he had given Helen May.  Pat did not take it as calmly, however, as Helen May had done.  Pat lifted his upper lip again and snarled with an extremely concrete depiction of the primitive emotion, hate.