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.
"Got 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.
"You've been drinking," pleaded the girl.
"Yet I'm not drunk!" he declared triumphantly.
"Then you're giving a good imitation," she said with an audible smile.
