The trail of the serpent is through it all.
Honest, earnest men have wrought for generations striving to disentangle
the shameful coil that certain years of fraud and infamy have wound.
Look at the files and see the countless endorsements of those in
authority:
"Transfer doubtful--locked up."
"Certificate a forgery--locked up."
"Signature a forgery."
"Patent refused--duplicate patented elsewhere."
"Field notes forged."
"Certificates stolen from office"--and soon ad infinitum.
The record books, spread upon long tables, in the big room upstairs,
are open to the examination of all. Open them, and you will find the
dark and greasy finger prints of half a century's handling. The quick
hand of the land grabber has fluttered the leaves a million times; the
damp clutch of the perturbed tiller of the soil has left traces of his
calling on the ragged leaves.
Interest centres in the file room.
This is a large room, built as a vault, fireproof, and entered by but a
single door.
There is "No Admission" on the portal; and the precious files are handed
out by a clerk in charge only on presentation of an order signed by the
Commissioner or chief clerk.
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