Thomas Dixon 
The Traitor 

WHAS the mather with the latch! He shook it gently. “ No mistake about it—grown solid to the fence. I’ll have to climb over.” He touched the points of the sharp pickets, suddenly straightened himself with dignity and growled: “ I won’t climb over my own fence, and I won’t scratch under. I’ll walk straight through.” A vicious lurch against the gate smashed the latch and he fell heavily inside. He had scarcely touched the ground when a fair girl of eighteen, dressed in spotless white, reached the gate, running breathlessly, darted inside, seized his arm and helped him to his feet. “ Mr. John, you must come home with me, ” she said eagerly. “ Grot to see old Butler, Miss Susie.” “ You’re in no condition to see Judge Butler.” She spoke with tenderness and yet with authority. “ And why not?” he argued good-naturedly. “Ain’t I dressed in my best bib and tucker?” He brushed the dirt from his seedy frock coat and buttoned it carefully.