“What?” Helen had forgotten what they had been talking about. She looked up absently, still rubbing Patsy’s sides.
“Education,” the foreman said, “I was afraid mebby it had.”
“Nonsense, Sandy, Education doesn’t hurt people.”
“N-o-,” Sandy’s acquiescence was deliberative. “Not people o’ intellectooals, that has savez naturally,” he said, “but the critter that gets it fed to him regular wants to be kind o’ wide between the ears allee samee.”
“Didn’t you enjoy going to school when you were a boy, Sandy?” Helen asked; she loved to draw the cow-puncher out.
“Me?” he questioned, unsuspectingly, “Sure: I’d a liked it first rate if I’d ever a’ went.
“I never did go none till I was growed,” he went on. “Then we started a night-school, back to Michigan, where I was raised. They was a bunch of us set out to see it through, all young fellers that worked the farms day-times. We was plum in love with the idee o’ that night-school.”
“It must have been interesting,” Helen suggested, “You would all have a strong purpose at that age.”
“Sure,” Sandy grew reminiscent. “We went the first night,” he said, “An’ we’d forgot to bring any candles. We went the next night an’ the teacher’d forgot to come.”
He gazed across the plain, lost in memory of those far, fond days. “Then we went the third night,” he resumed, dreamily, “an’ reviewed what we’d learned the two previous evenin’s, and’ I cal’late that finished my schoolin’.”