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HAS the mather with the latch!"

John Graham stood in the soft Southern moonlight fumbling over the gate of the old homestead from which the Civil War had driven his family penniless.

"Used to be a latch anyhow, before his illustrious Dishonour, the Judge, and his African Government, turned us out!" he continued to mutter.

"Wonder if he's locked it? Didn't need bolts for gates in our time—but he does—the old Scalawag!"

Each word of the last sentence was slowly hissed. Again he felt over the gate, tried both sides without success, stepped back and surveyed it critically.

"By Geeminy, the gate's grown up!—used to be here—see the gravel walk on the other side."