To Kill a Mockingbird pdfdrive com

part in such a thing.
“I heard ‘em!” was the cry that awoke the Misses Barber’s neighbors at dawn
next  morning.  “Heard  ’em  drive  a  truck  up  to  the  door!  Stomped  around  like
horses. They’re in New Orleans by now!”
Miss  Tutti  was  sure  those  traveling  fur  sellers  who  came  through  town  two
days ago had purloined their furniture. “Da-rk they were,” she said. “Syrians.”
Mr.  Heck  Tate  was  summoned.  He  surveyed  the  area  and  said  he  thought  it
was  a  local  job.  Miss  Frutti  said  she’d  know  a  Maycomb  voice  anywhere,  and
there were no Maycomb voices in that parlor last night—rolling their r’s all over
her  premises,  they  were.  Nothing  less  than  the  bloodhounds  must  be  used  to
locate  their  furniture,  Miss  Tutti  insisted,  so  Mr.  Tate  was  obliged  to  go  ten
miles out the road, round up the county hounds, and put them on the trail.
Mr.  Tate  started  them  off  at  the  Misses  Barber’s  front  steps,  but  all  they  did
was run around to the back of the house and howl at the cellar door. When Mr.
Tate  set  them  in  motion  three  times,  he  finally  guessed  the  truth.  By  noontime
that  day,  there  was  not  a  barefooted  child  to  be  seen  in  Maycomb  and  nobody

---

took off his shoes until the hounds were returned.
So  the  Maycomb  ladies  said  things  would  be  different  this  year.  The  high-
school auditorium would be open, there would be a pageant for the grown-ups;
apple-bobbing,  taffy-pulling,  pinning  the  tail  on  the  donkey  for  the  children.
There would also be a prize of twenty-five cents for the best Halloween costume,
created by the wearer.
Jem and I both groaned. Not that we’d ever done anything, it was the principle
of the thing. Jem considered himself too old for Halloween anyway; he said he
wouldn’t  be  caught  anywhere  near  the  high  school  at  something  like  that.  Oh
well, I thought, Atticus would take me.
I  soon  learned,  however,  that  my  services  would  be  required  on  stage  that
evening.  Mrs.  Grace  Merriweather  had  composed  an  original  pageant  entitled
Maycomb County: Ad Astra Per Aspera, and I was to be a ham. She thought it
would  be  adorable  if  some  of  the  children  were  costumed  to  represent  the
county’s agricultural products: Cecil Jacobs would be dressed up to look like a
cow;  Agnes  Boone  would  make  a  lovely  butterbean,  another  child  would  be  a
peanut,  and  on  down  the  line  until  Mrs.  Merriweather’s  imagination  and  the
supply of children were exhausted.
Our only duties, as far as I could gather from our two rehearsals, were to enter
from  stage  left  as  Mrs.  Merriweather  (not  only  the  author,  but  the  narrator)
identified us. When she called out, “Pork,” that was my cue. Then the assembled
company would sing, “Maycomb County, Maycomb County, we will aye be true
to thee,” as the grand finale, and Mrs. Merriweather would mount the stage with
the state flag.
My costume was not much of a problem. Mrs. Crenshaw, the local seamstress,
had  as  much  imagination  as  Mrs.  Merriweather.  Mrs.  Crenshaw  took  some
chicken  wire  and  bent  it  into  the  shape  of  a  cured  ham.  This  she  covered  with
brown  cloth,  and  painted  it  to  resemble  the  original.  I  could  duck  under  and
someone would pull the contraption down over my head. It came almost to my
knees. Mrs. Crenshaw thoughtfully left two peepholes for me. She did a fine job.
Jem said I looked exactly like a ham with legs. There were several discomforts,
though:  it  was  hot,  it  was  a  close  fit;  if  my  nose  itched  I  couldn’t  scratch,  and
once inside I could not get out of it alone.
When Halloween came, I assumed that the whole family would be present to
watch me perform, but I was disappointed. Atticus said as tactfully as he could
that he just didn’t think he could stand a pageant tonight, he was all in. He had
been  in  Montgomery  for  a  week  and  had  come  home  late  that  afternoon.  He

---

thought Jem might escort me if I asked him.
Aunt Alexandra said she just had to get to bed early, she’d been decorating the
stage  all  afternoon  and  was  worn  out—she  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  her
sentence. She closed her mouth, then opened it to say something, but no words
came.
“‘s matter, Aunty?” I asked.
“Oh nothing, nothing,” she said, “somebody just walked over my grave.” She
put away from her whatever it was that gave her a pinprick of apprehension, and
suggested  that  I  give  the  family  a  preview  in  the  livingroom.  So  Jem  squeezed
me into my costume, stood at the livingroom door, called out “Po-ork,” exactly
as  Mrs.  Merriweather  would  have  done,  and  I  marched  in.  Atticus  and  Aunt
Alexandra were delighted.
I repeated my part for Calpurnia in the kitchen and she said I was wonderful. I
wanted to go across the street to show Miss Maudie, but Jem said she’d probably
be at the pageant anyway.
After that, it didn’t matter whether they went or not. Jem said he would take
me. Thus began our longest journey together.

---

28
T
he weather was unusually warm for the last day of October. We didn’t even
need jackets. The wind was growing stronger, and Jem said it might be raining
before  we  got  home.  There  was  no  moon.  The  street  light  on  the  corner  cast
sharp  shadows  on  the  Radley  house.  I  heard  Jem  laugh  softly.  “Bet  nobody
bothers  them  tonight,”  he  said.  Jem  was  carrying  my  ham  costume,  rather
awkwardly, as it was hard to hold. I thought it gallant of him to do so.
“It is a scary place though, ain’t it?” I said. “Boo doesn’t mean anybody any
harm, but I’m right glad you’re along.”
“You know Atticus wouldn’t let you go to the schoolhouse by yourself,” Jem
said.
“Don’t see why, it’s just around the corner and across the yard.”
“That yard’s a mighty long place for little girls to cross at night,” Jem teased.
“Ain’t you scared of haints?”
We laughed. Haints, Hot Steams, incantations, secret signs, had vanished with
our  years  as  mist  with  sunrise.  “What  was  that  old  thing,”  Jem  said,  “Angel
bright, life-in-death; get off the road, don’t suck my breath.”
“Cut it out, now,” I said. We were in front of the Radley Place.
Jem said, “Boo must not be at home. Listen.”
High above us in the darkness a solitary mocker poured out his repertoire in
blissful unawareness of whose tree he sat in, plunging from the shrill kee, kee of
the sunflower bird to the irascible qua-ack of a bluejay, to the sad lament of Poor
Will, Poor Will, Poor Will.
We turned the corner and I tripped on a root growing in the road. Jem tried to
help  me,  but  all  he  did  was  drop  my  costume  in  the  dust.  I  didn’t  fall,  though,
and soon we were on our way again.
We turned off the road and entered the schoolyard. It was pitch black.
“How do you know where we’re at, Jem?” I asked, when we had gone a few
steps.
“I can tell we’re under the big oak because we’re passin‘ through a cool spot.

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Careful now, and don’t fall again.”
We had slowed to a cautious gait, and were feeling our way forward so as not
to bump into the tree. The tree was a single and ancient oak; two children could
not reach around its trunk and touch hands. It was far away from teachers, their
spies, and curious neighbors: it was near the Radley lot, but the Radleys were not
curious. A small patch of earth beneath its branches was packed hard from many
fights and furtive crap games.
The lights in the high school auditorium were blazing in the distance, but they
blinded  us,  if  anything.  “Don’t  look  ahead,  Scout,”  Jem  said.  “Look  at  the
ground and you won’t fall.”
“You should have brought the flashlight, Jem.”
“Didn’t know it was this dark. Didn’t look like it’d be this dark earlier in the
evening. So cloudy, that’s why. It’ll hold off a while, though.”
Someone leaped at us.
“God almighty!” Jem yelled.
A circle of light burst in our faces, and Cecil Jacobs jumped in glee behind it.
“Ha-a-a, gotcha!” he shrieked. “Thought you’d be comin‘ along this way!”
“What are you doin‘ way out here by yourself, boy? Ain’t you scared of Boo
Radley?”
Cecil had ridden safely to the auditorium with his parents, hadn’t seen us, then
had  ventured  down  this  far  because  he  knew  good  and  well  we’d  be  coming
along. He thought Mr. Finch’d be with us, though.
“Shucks,  ain’t  much  but  around  the  corner,”  said  Jem.  “Who’s  scared  to  go
around the corner?” We had to admit that Cecil was pretty good, though. He had
given  us  a  fright,  and  he  could  tell  it  all  over  the  schoolhouse,  that  was  his
privilege.
“Say,” I said, “ain’t you a cow tonight? Where’s your costume?”
“It’s up behind the stage,” he said. “Mrs. Merriweather says the pageant ain’t
comin‘ on for a while. You can put yours back of the stage by mine, Scout, and
we can go with the rest of ’em.”
This was an excellent idea, Jem thought. He also thought it a good thing that
Cecil and I would be together. This way, Jem would be left to go with people his
own age.
When  we  reached  the  auditorium,  the  whole  town  was  there  except  Atticus
and  the  ladies  worn  out  from  decorating,  and  the  usual  outcasts  and  shut-ins.

---

Most of the county, it seemed, was there: the hall was teeming with slicked-up
country people. The high school building had a wide downstairs hallway; people
milled around booths that had been installed along each side.
“Oh Jem. I forgot my money,” I sighed, when I saw them.
“Atticus didn’t,” Jem said. “Here’s thirty cents, you can do six things. See you
later on.”
“Okay,”  I  said,  quite  content  with  thirty  cents  and  Cecil.  I  went  with  Cecil
down to the front of the auditorium, through a door on one side, and backstage. I
got rid of my ham costume and departed in a hurry, for Mrs. Merriweather was
standing  at  a  lectern  in  front  of  the  first  row  of  seats  making  last-minute,
frenzied changes in the script.
“How much money you got?” I asked Cecil. Cecil had thirty cents, too, which
made us even. We squandered our first nickels on the House of Horrors, which
scared  us  not  at  all;  we  entered  the  black  seventh-grade  room  and  were  led
around  by  the  temporary  ghoul  in  residence  and  were  made  to  touch  several
objects alleged to be component parts of a human being. “Here’s his eyes,” we
were  told  when  we  touched  two  peeled  grapes  on  a  saucer.  “Here’s  his  heart,”
which felt like raw liver. “These are his innards,” and our hands were thrust into
a plate of cold spaghetti.
Cecil  and  I  visited  several  booths.  We  each  bought  a  sack  of  Mrs.  Judge
Taylor’s homemade divinity. I wanted to bob for apples, but Cecil said it wasn’t
sanitary.  His  mother  said  he  might  catch  something  from  everybody’s  heads
having  been  in  the  same  tub.  “Ain’t  anything  around  town  now  to  catch,”  I
protested.  But  Cecil  said  his  mother  said  it  was  unsanitary  to  eat  after  folks.  I
later asked Aunt Alexandra about this, and she said people who held such views
were usually climbers.
We were about to purchase a blob of taffy when Mrs. Merriweather’s runners
appeared and told us to go backstage, it was time to get ready. The auditorium
was filling with people; the Maycomb County High School band had assembled
in front below the stage; the stage footlights were on and the red velvet curtain
rippled and billowed from the scurrying going on behind it.
Backstage, Cecil and I found the narrow hallway teeming with people: adults
in homemade three-corner hats, Confederate caps, Spanish-American War hats,
and  World  War  helmets.  Children  dressed  as  various  agricultural  enterprises
crowded around the one small window.
“Somebody’s  mashed  my  costume,”  I  wailed  in  dismay.  Mrs.  Merriweather
galloped to me, reshaped the chicken wire, and thrust me inside.

---

“You all right in there, Scout?” asked Cecil. “You sound so far off, like you
was on the other side of a hill.”
“You don’t sound any nearer,” I said.
The  band  played  the  national  anthem,  and  we  heard  the  audience  rise.  Then
the  bass  drum  sounded.  Mrs.  Merriweather,  stationed  behind  her  lectern  beside
the  band,  said:  “Maycomb  County  Ad  Astra  Per  Aspera.”  The  bass  drum
boomed again. “That means,” said Mrs. Merriweather, translating for the rustic
elements,  “from  the  mud  to  the  stars.”  She  added,  unnecessarily,  it  seemed  to
me, “A pageant.”
“Reckon  they  wouldn’t  know  what  it  was  if  she  didn’t  tell  ‘em,”  whispered
Cecil, who was immediately shushed.
“The whole town knows it,” I breathed.
“But the country folks’ve come in,” Cecil said.
“Be quiet back there,” a man’s voice ordered, and we were silent.
The  bass  drum  went  boom  with  every  sentence  Mrs.  Merriweather  uttered.
She chanted mournfully about Maycomb County being older than the state, that
it was a part of the Mississippi and Alabama Territories, that the first white man
to  set  foot  in  the  virgin  forests  was  the  Probate  Judge’s  great-grandfather  five
times removed, who was never heard of again. Then came the fearless Colonel
Maycomb, for whom the county was named.
Andrew  Jackson  appointed  him  to  a  position  of  authority,  and  Colonel
Maycomb’s  misplaced  self-confidence  and  slender  sense  of  direction  brought
disaster to all who rode with him in the Creek Indian Wars. Colonel Maycomb
persevered  in  his  efforts  to  make  the  region  safe  for  democracy,  but  his  first
campaign  was  his  last.  His  orders,  relayed  to  him  by  a  friendly  Indian  runner,
were  to  move  south.  After  consulting  a  tree  to  ascertain  from  its  lichen  which
way was south, and taking no lip from the subordinates who ventured to correct
him,  Colonel  Maycomb  set  out  on  a  purposeful  journey  to  rout  the  enemy  and
entangled  his  troops  so  far  northwest  in  the  forest  primeval  that  they  were
eventually rescued by settlers moving inland.
Mrs.  Merriweather  gave  a  thirty-minute  description  of  Colonel  Maycomb’s
exploits.  I  discovered  that  if  I  bent  my  knees  I  could  tuck  them  under  my
costume and more or less sit. I sat down, listened to Mrs. Merriweather’s drone
and the bass drum’s boom and was soon fast asleep.
They  said  later  that  Mrs.  Merriweather  was  putting  her  all  into  the  grand
finale, that she had crooned, “Po-ork,” with a confidence born of pine trees and

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butterbeans  entering  on  cue.  She  waited  a  few  seconds,  then  called,  “Po-ork?”
When nothing materialized, she yelled, “Pork!”
I must have heard her in my sleep, or the band playing Dixie woke me, but it
was when Mrs. Merriweather triumphantly mounted the stage with the state flag
that I chose to make my entrance. Chose is incorrect: I thought I’d better catch
up with the rest of them.
They  told  me  later  that  Judge  Taylor  went  out  behind  the  auditorium  and
stood there slapping his knees so hard Mrs. Taylor brought him a glass of water
and one of his pills.
Mrs. Merriweather seemed to have a hit, everybody was cheering so, but she
caught  me  backstage  and  told  me  I  had  ruined  her  pageant.  She  made  me  feel
awful, but when Jem came to fetch me he was sympathetic. He said he couldn’t
see  my  costume  much  from  where  he  was  sitting.  How  he  could  tell  I  was
feeling  bad  under  my  costume  I  don’t  know,  but  he  said  I  did  all  right,  I  just
came in a little late, that was all. Jem was becoming almost as good as Atticus at
making  you  feel  right  when  things  went  wrong.  Almost—not  even  Jem  could
make  me  go  through  that  crowd,  and  he  consented  to  wait  backstage  with  me
until the audience left.
“You wanta take it off, Scout?” he asked.
“Naw, I’ll just keep it on,” I said. I could hide my mortification under it.
“You all want a ride home?” someone asked.
“No sir, thank you,” I heard Jem say. “It’s just a little walk.”
“Be careful of haints,” the voice said. “Better still, tell the haints to be careful
of Scout.”
“There aren’t many folks left now,” Jem told me. “Let’s go.”
We  went  through  the  auditorium  to  the  hallway,  then  down  the  steps.  It  was
still  black  dark.  The  remaining  cars  were  parked  on  the  other  side  of  the
building, and their headlights were little help. “If some of ‘em were goin’ in our
direction we could see better,” said Jem. “Here Scout, let me hold onto your—
hock. You might lose your balance.”
“I can see all right.”
“Yeah, but you might lose your balance.” I felt a slight pressure on my head,
and assumed that Jem had grabbed that end of the ham. “You got me?”
“Uh huh.”
We  began  crossing  the  black  schoolyard,  straining  to  see  our  feet.  “Jem,”  I

---

said, “I forgot my shoes, they’re back behind the stage.”
“Well let’s go get ‘em.” But as we turned around the auditorium lights went
off. “You can get ’em tomorrow,” he said.
“But tomorrow’s Sunday,” I protested, as Jem turned me homeward.
“You can get the Janitor to let you in . . . Scout?”
“Hm?”
“Nothing.”
Jem hadn’t started that in a long time. I wondered what he was thinking. He’d
tell me when he wanted to, probably when we got home. I felt his fingers press
the  top  of  my  costume,  too  hard,  it  seemed.  I  shook  my  head.  “Jem,  you  don’t
hafta—”
“Hush a minute, Scout,” he said, pinching me.
We walked along silently. “Minute’s up,” I said. “Whatcha thinkin‘ about?” I
turned to look at him, but his outline was barely visible.
“Thought I heard something,” he said. “Stop a minute.”
We stopped.
“Hear anything?” he asked.
“No.”
We had not gone five paces before he made me stop again.
“Jem, are you tryin‘ to scare me? You know I’m too old—”
“Be quiet,” he said, and I knew he was not joking.
The  night  was  still.  I  could  hear  his  breath  coming  easily  beside  me.
Occasionally there was a sudden breeze that hit my bare legs, but it was all that
remained  of  a  promised  windy  night.  This  was  the  stillness  before  a
thunderstorm. We listened.
“Heard an old dog just then,” I said.
“It’s not that,” Jem answered. “I hear it when we’re walkin‘ along, but when
we stop I don’t hear it.”
“You hear my costume rustlin‘. Aw, it’s just Halloween got you . . .”
I  said  it  more  to  convince  myself  than  Jem,  for  sure  enough,  as  we  began
walking, I heard what he was talking about. It was not my costume.
“It’s just  old  Cecil,”  said  Jem  presently. “He  won’t  get  us  again.  Let’s  don’t
let him think we’re hurrying.”

---

We  slowed  to  a  crawl.  I  asked  Jem  how  Cecil  could  follow  us  in  this  dark,
looked to me like he’d bump into us from behind.
“I can see you, Scout,” Jem said.
“How? I can’t see you.”
“Your fat streaks are showin‘. Mrs. Crenshaw painted ’em with some of that
shiny stuff so they’d show up under the footlights. I can see you pretty well, an‘
I expect Cecil can see you well enough to keep his distance.”
I  would  show  Cecil  that  we  knew  he  was  behind  us  and  we  were  ready  for
him. “Cecil Jacobs is a big wet he-en!” I yelled suddenly, turning around.
We  stopped.  There  was  no  acknowledgement  save  he-en  bouncing  off  the
distant schoolhouse wall.
“I’ll get him,” said Jem. “He-y!”
Hay-e-hay-e-hay-ey,  answered  the  schoolhouse  wall.  It  was  unlike  Cecil  to
hold  out  for  so  long;  once  he  pulled  a  joke  he’d  repeat  it  time  and  again.  We
should have been leapt at already. Jem signaled for me to stop again.
He said softly, “Scout, can you take that thing off?”
“I think so, but I ain’t got anything on under it much.”
“I’ve got your dress here.”
“I can’t get it on in the dark.”
“Okay,” he said, “never mind.”
“Jem, are you afraid?”
“No. Think we’re almost to the tree now. Few yards from that, an‘ we’ll be to
the road. We can see the street light then.” Jem was talking in an unhurried, flat
toneless voice. I wondered how long he would try to keep the Cecil myth going.
“You reckon we oughta sing, Jem?”
“No. Be real quiet again, Scout.”
We had not increased our pace. Jem knew as well as I that it was difficult to
walk fast without stumping a toe, tripping on stones, and other inconveniences,
and I was barefooted. Maybe it was the wind rustling the trees. But there wasn’t
any wind and there weren’t any trees except the big oak.
Our  company  shuffled  and  dragged  his  feet,  as  if  wearing  heavy  shoes.
Whoever it was wore thick cotton pants; what I thought were trees rustling was
the soft swish of cotton on cotton, wheek, wheek, with every step.
I  felt  the  sand  go  cold  under  my  feet  and  I  knew  we  were  near  the  big  oak.

---

Jem pressed my head. We stopped and listened.
Shuffle-foot had not stopped with us this time. His trousers swished softly and
steadily. Then they stopped. He was running, running toward us with no child’s
steps.
“Run, Scout! Run! Run!” Jem screamed.
I took one giant step and found myself reeling: my arms useless, in the dark, I
could not keep my balance.
“Jem, Jem, help me, Jem!”
Something crushed the chicken wire around me. Metal ripped on metal and I
fell  to  the  ground  and  rolled  as  far  as  I  could,  floundering  to  escape  my  wire
prison.  From  somewhere  near  by  came  scuffling,  kicking  sounds,  sounds  of
shoes  and  flesh  scraping  dirt  and  roots.  Someone  rolled  against  me  and  I  felt
Jem. He was up like lightning and pulling me with him but, though my head and
shoulders were free, I was so entangled we didn’t get very far.
We  were  nearly  to  the  road  when  I  felt  Jem’s  hand  leave  me,  felt  him  jerk
backwards to the ground. More scuffling, and there came a dull crunching sound
and Jem screamed.
I ran in the direction of Jem’s scream and sank into a flabby male stomach. Its
owner  said,  “Uff!”  and  tried  to  catch  my  arms,  but  they  were  tightly  pinioned.
His stomach was soft but his arms were like steel. He slowly squeezed the breath
out of me. I could not move. Suddenly he was jerked backwards and flung on the
ground, almost carrying me with him. I thought, Jem’s up.
One’s  mind  works  very  slowly  at  times.  Stunned,  I  stood  there  dumbly.  The
scuffling noises were dying; someone wheezed and the night was still again.
Still  but  for  a  man  breathing  heavily,  breathing  heavily  and  staggering.  I
thought  he  went  to  the  tree  and  leaned  against  it.  He  coughed  violently,  a
sobbing, bone-shaking cough.
“Jem?”
There was no answer but the man’s heavy breathing.
“Jem?”
Jem didn’t answer.
The  man  began  moving  around,  as  if  searching  for  something.  I  heard  him
groan and pull something heavy along the ground. It was slowly coming to me
that there were now four people under the tree.
“Atticus . . .?”

---

The man was walking heavily and unsteadily toward the road.
I  went  to  where  I  thought  he  had  been  and  felt  frantically  along  the  ground,
reaching out with my toes. Presently I touched someone.
“Jem?”
My  toes  touched  trousers,  a  belt  buckle,  buttons,  something  I  could  not
identify,  a  collar,  and  a  face.  A  prickly  stubble  on  the  face  told  me  it  was  not
Jem’s. I smelled stale whiskey.
I made my way along in what I thought was the direction of the road. I was
not  sure,  because  I  had  been  turned  around  so  many  times.  But  I  found  it  and
looked  down  to  the  street  light.  A  man  was  passing  under  it.  The  man  was
walking  with  the  staccato  steps  of  someone  carrying  a  load  too  heavy  for  him.
He was going around the corner. He was carrying Jem. Jem’s arm was dangling
crazily in front of him.
By  the  time  I  reached  the  corner  the  man  was  crossing  our  front  yard.  Light
from  our  front  door  framed  Atticus  for  an  instant;  he  ran  down  the  steps,  and
together, he and the man took Jem inside.
I was at the front door when they were going down the hall. Aunt Alexandra
was  running  to  meet  me.  “Call  Dr.  Reynolds!”  Atticus’s  voice  came  sharply
from Jem’s room. “Where’s Scout?”
“Here  she  is,”  Aunt  Alexandra  called,  pulling  me  along  with  her  to  the
telephone. She tugged at me anxiously. “I’m all right, Aunty,” I said, “you better
call.”
She pulled the receiver from the hook and said, “Eula May, get Dr. Reynolds,
quick!”
“Agnes, is your father home? Oh God, where is he? Please tell him to come
over here as soon as he comes in. Please, it’s urgent!”
There was no need for Aunt Alexandra to identify herself, people in Maycomb
knew each other’s voices.
Atticus  came  out  of  Jem’s  room.  The  moment  Aunt  Alexandra  broke  the
connection,  Atticus  took  the  receiver  from  her.  He  rattled  the  hook,  then  said,
“Eula May, get me the sheriff, please.”
“Heck?  Atticus  Finch.  Someone’s  been  after  my  children.  Jem’s  hurt.
Between here and the schoolhouse. I can’t leave my boy. Run out there for me,
please, and see if he’s still around. Doubt if you’ll find him now, but I’d like to
see him if you do. Got to go now. Thanks, Heck.”

---

“Atticus, is Jem dead?”
“No, Scout. Look after her, sister,” he called, as he went down the hall.
Aunt  Alexandra’s  fingers  trembled  as  she  unwound  the  crushed  fabric  and
wire  from  around  me.  “Are  you  all  right,  darling?”  she  asked  over  and  over  as
she worked me free.
It was a relief to be out. My arms were beginning to tingle, and they were red
with small hexagonal marks. I rubbed them, and they felt better.
“Aunty, is Jem dead?”
“No—no,  darling,  he’s  unconscious.  We  won’t  know  how  badly  he’s  hurt
until Dr. Reynolds gets here. Jean Louise, what happened?”
“I don’t know.”
She  left  it  at  that.  She  brought  me  something  to  put  on,  and  had  I  thought
about  it  then,  I  would  have  never  let  her  forget  it:  in  her  distraction,  Aunty
brought  me  my  overalls.  “Put  these  on,  darling,”  she  said,  handing  me  the
garments she most despised.
She  rushed  back  to  Jem’s  room,  then  came  to  me  in  the  hall.  She  patted  me
vaguely, and went back to Jem’s room.
A car stopped in front of the house. I knew Dr. Reynolds’s step almost as well
as my father’s. He had brought Jem and me into the world, had led us through
every  childhood  disease  known  to  man  including  the  time  Jem  fell  out  of  the
treehouse,  and  he  had  never  lost  our  friendship.  Dr.  Reynolds  said  if  we  had
been boil-prone things would have been different, but we doubted it.
He  came  in  the  door  and  said,  “Good  Lord.”  He  walked  toward  me,  said,
“You’re  still  standing,”  and  changed  his  course.  He  knew  every  room  in  the
house. He also knew that if I was in bad shape, so was Jem.
After ten forevers Dr. Reynolds returned. “Is Jem dead?” I asked.
“Far  from  it,”  he  said,  squatting  down  to  me.  “He’s  got  a  bump  on  the  head
just  like  yours,  and  a  broken  arm.  Scout,  look  that  way—no,  don’t  turn  your
head, roll your eyes. Now look over yonder. He’s got a bad break, so far as I can
tell  now  it’s  in  the  elbow.  Like  somebody  tried  to  wring  his  arm  off  .  .  .  Now
look at me.”
“Then he’s not dead?”
“No-o!”  Dr.  Reynolds  got  to  his  feet.  “We  can’t  do  much  tonight,”  he  said,
“except try to make him as comfortable as we can. We’ll have to X-ray his arm
—looks  like  he’ll  be  wearing  his  arm  ‘way  out  by  his  side  for  a  while.  Don’t

---

worry, though, he’ll be as good as new. Boys his age bounce.”
While  he  was  talking,  Dr.  Reynolds  had  been  looking  keenly  at  me,  lightly
fingering  the  bump  that  was  coming  on  my  forehead.  “You  don’t  feel  broke
anywhere, do you?”
Dr. Reynolds’s small joke made me smile. “Then you don’t think he’s dead,
then?”
He  put  on  his  hat.  “Now  I  may  be  wrong,  of  course,  but  I  think  he’s  very
alive.  Shows  all  the  symptoms  of  it.  Go  have  a  look  at  him,  and  when  I  come
back we’ll get together and decide.”
Dr. Reynolds’s step was young and brisk. Mr. Heck Tate’s was not. His heavy
boots  punished  the  porch  and  he  opened  the  door  awkwardly,  but  he  said  the
same  thing  Dr.  Reynolds  said  when  he  came  in.  “You  all  right,  Scout?”  he
added.
“Yes sir, I’m goin‘ in to see Jem. Atticus’n’them’s in there.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Mr. Tate.
Aunt  Alexandra  had  shaded  Jem’s  reading  light  with  a  towel,  and  his  room
was dim. Jem was lying on his back. There was an ugly mark along one side of
his face. His left arm lay out from his body; his elbow was bent slightly, but in
the wrong direction. Jem was frowning.
“Jem . . .?”
Atticus spoke. “He can’t hear you, Scout, he’s out like a light. He was coming
around, but Dr. Reynolds put him out again.”
“Yes sir.” I retreated. Jem’s room was large and square. Aunt Alexandra was
sitting  in  a  rocking-chair  by  the  fireplace.  The  man  who  brought  Jem  in  was
standing in a corner, leaning against the wall. He was some countryman I did not
know.  He  had  probably  been  at  the  pageant,  and  was  in  the  vicinity  when  it
happened. He must have heard our screams and come running.
Atticus was standing by Jem’s bed.
Mr. Heck Tate stood in the doorway. His hat was in his hand, and a flashlight
bulged from his pants pocket. He was in his working clothes.
“Come  in,  Heck,”  said  Atticus.  “Did  you  find  anything?  I  can’t  conceive  of
anyone low-down enough to do a thing like this, but I hope you found him.”
Mr. Tate sniffed. He glanced sharply at the man in the corner, nodded to him,
then looked around the room—at Jem, at Aunt Alexandra, then at Atticus.
“Sit down, Mr. Finch,” he said pleasantly.

---

Atticus  said,  “Let’s  all  sit  down.  Have  that  chair,  Heck.  I’ll  get  another  one
from the livingroom.”
Mr. Tate sat in Jem’s desk chair. He waited until Atticus returned and settled
himself.  I  wondered  why  Atticus  had  not  brought  a  chair  for  the  man  in  the
corner, but Atticus knew the ways of country people far better than I. Some of
his rural clients would park their long-eared steeds under the chinaberry trees in
the  back  yard,  and  Atticus  would  often  keep  appointments  on  the  back  steps.
This one was probably more comfortable where he was.
“Mr. Finch,” said Mr. Tate, “tell you what I found. I found a little girl’s dress
—it’s out there in my car. That your dress, Scout?”
“Yes sir, if it’s a pink one with smockin‘,” I said. Mr. Tate was behaving as if
he were on the witness stand. He liked to tell things his own way, untrammeled
by state or defense, and sometimes it took him a while.
“I found some funny-looking pieces of muddy-colored cloth—”
“That’s m’costume, Mr. Tate.”
Mr.  Tate  ran  his  hands  down  his  thighs.  He  rubbed  his  left  arm  and
investigated Jem’s mantelpiece, then he seemed to be interested in the fireplace.
His fingers sought his long nose.
“What is it, Heck?” said Atticus.
Mr.  Tate  found  his  neck  and  rubbed  it.  “Bob  Ewell’s  lyin‘  on  the  ground
under  that  tree  down  yonder  with  a  kitchen  knife  stuck  up  under  his  ribs.  He’s
dead, Mr. Finch.”

---

29
A
unt Alexandra got up and reached for the mantelpiece. Mr. Tate rose, but she
declined assistance. For once in his life, Atticus’s instinctive courtesy failed him:
he sat where he was.
Somehow, I could think of nothing but Mr. Bob Ewell saying he’d get Atticus
if it took him the rest of his life. Mr. Ewell almost got him, and it was the last
thing he did.
“Are you sure?” Atticus said bleakly.
“He’s dead all right,” said Mr. Tate. “He’s good and dead. He won’t hurt these
children again.”
“I  didn’t  mean  that.”  Atticus  seemed  to  be  talking  in  his  sleep.  His  age  was
beginning  to  show,  his  one  sign  of  inner  turmoil,  the  strong  line  of  his  jaw
melted a little, one became aware of telltale creases forming under his ears, one
noticed not his jet-black hair but the gray patches growing at his temples.
“Hadn’t we better go to the livingroom?” Aunt Alexandra said at last.
“If you don’t mind,” said Mr. Tate, “I’d rather us stay in here if it won’t hurt
Jem any. I want to have a look at his injuries while Scout . . . tells us about it.”
“Is it all right if I leave?” she asked. “I’m just one person too many in here.
I’ll be in my room if you want me, Atticus.” Aunt Alexandra went to the door,
but she stopped and turned. “Atticus, I had a feeling about this tonight—I—this
is my fault,” she began. “I should have—”
Mr. Tate held up his hand. “You go ahead, Miss Alexandra, I know it’s been a
shock to you. And don’t you fret yourself about anything—why, if we followed
our feelings all the time we’d be like cats chasin‘ their tails. Miss Scout, see if
you can tell us what happened, while it’s still fresh in your mind. You think you
can? Did you see him following you?”
I went to Atticus and felt his arms go around me. I buried my head in his lap.
“We started  home.  I  said Jem,  I’ve  forgot  m’shoes. Soon’s  we  started  back  for
‘em the lights went out. Jem said I could get ’em tomorrow . . .”
“Scout, raise up so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said. I crawled into his lap.
“Then  Jem  said  hush  a  minute.  I  thought  he  was  thinkin‘—he  always  wants

---

you to hush so he can think—then he said he heard somethin’. We thought it was
Cecil.”
“Cecil?”
“Cecil Jacobs. He scared us once tonight, an‘ we thought it was him again. He
had on a sheet. They gave a quarter for the best costume, I don’t know who won
it—”
“Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?”
“Just a little piece from the schoolhouse. I yelled somethin‘ at him—”
“You yelled, what?”
“Cecil  Jacobs  is  a  big  fat  hen,  I  think.  We  didn’t  hear  nothin‘—then  Jem
yelled hello or somethin’ loud enough to wake the dead—”
“Just a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them?”
Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra had hers going in
her bedroom. He remembered because she told him to turn his down a bit so she
could hear hers. Atticus smiled. “I always play a radio too loud.”
“I wonder if the neighbors heard anything . . .” said Mr. Tate.
“I  doubt  it,  Heck.  Most  of  them  listen  to  their  radios  or  go  to  bed  with  the
chickens. Maudie Atkinson may have been up, but I doubt it.”
“Go ahead, Scout,” Mr. Tate said.
“Well, after Jem yelled we walked on. Mr. Tate, I was shut up in my costume
but  I  could  hear  it  myself,  then.  Footsteps,  I  mean.  They  walked  when  we
walked  and  stopped  when  we  stopped.  Jem  said  he  could  see  me  because  Mrs.
Crenshaw put some kind of shiny paint on my costume. I was a ham.”
“How’s that?” asked Mr. Tate, startled.
Atticus  described  my  role  to  Mr.  Tate,  plus  the  construction  of  my  garment.
“You  should  have  seen  her  when  she  came  in,”  he  said,  “it  was  crushed  to  a
pulp.”
Mr. Tate rubbed his chin. “I wondered why he had those marks on him, His
sleeves  were  perforated  with  little  holes.  There  were  one  or  two  little  puncture
marks on his arms to match the holes. Let me see that thing if you will, sir.”
Atticus fetched the remains of my costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and bent it
around to get an idea of its former shape. “This thing probably saved her life,”
he said. “Look.”
He  pointed  with  a  long  forefinger.  A  shiny  clean  line  stood  out  on  the  dull

---

wire. “Bob Ewell meant business,” Mr. Tate muttered.
“He was out of his mind,” said Atticus.
“Don’t  like  to  contradict  you,  Mr.  Finch—wasn’t  crazy,  mean  as  hell.  Low-
down  skunk  with  enough  liquor  in  him  to  make  him  brave  enough  to  kill
children. He’d never have met you face to face.”
Atticus shook his head. “I can’t conceive of a man who’d—”
“Mr. Finch, there’s just some kind of men you have to shoot before you can
say  hidy  to  ‘em.  Even  then,  they  ain’t  worth  the  bullet  it  takes  to  shoot  ’em.
Ewell ‘as one of ’em.”
Atticus said, “I thought he got it all out of him the day he threatened me. Even
if he hadn’t, I thought he’d come after me.”
“He had guts enough to pester a poor colored woman, he had guts enough to
pester  Judge  Taylor  when  he  thought  the  house  was  empty,  so  do  you  think
he’da met you to your face in daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “We’d better get on.
Scout, you heard him behind you—”
“Yes sir. When we got under the tree—”
“How’d  you  know  you  were  under  the  tree,  you  couldn’t  see  thunder  out
there.”
“I was barefooted, and Jem says the ground’s always cooler under a tree.”
“We’ll have to make him a deputy, go ahead.”
“Then  all  of  a  sudden  somethin‘  grabbed  me  an’  mashed  my  costume  .  .  .
think I ducked on the ground . . . heard a tusslin‘ under the tree sort of . . . they
were bammin’ against the trunk, sounded like. Jem found me and started pullin‘
me toward the road. Some—Mr. Ewell yanked him down, I reckon. They tussled
some  more  and  then  there  was  this  funny  noise—Jem  hollered  .  .  .”  I  stopped.
That was Jem’s arm.
“Anyway, Jem hollered and I didn’t hear him any more an‘ the next thing—
Mr. Ewell was tryin’ to squeeze me to death, I reckon . . . then somebody yanked
Mr. Ewell down. Jem must have got up, I guess. That’s all I know . . .”
“And then?” Mr. Tate was looking at me sharply.
“Somebody  was  staggerin‘  around  and  pantin’  and—coughing  fit  to  die.  I
thought it was Jem at first, but it didn’t sound like him, so I went lookin‘ for Jem
on the ground. I thought Atticus had come to help us and had got wore out—”
“Who was it?”

---

“Why there he is, Mr. Tate, he can tell you his name.”
As I said it, I half pointed to the man in the corner, but brought my arm down
quickly lest Atticus reprimand me for pointing. It was impolite to point.
He  was  still  leaning  against  the  wall.  He  had  been  leaning  against  the  wall
when  I  came  into  the  room,  his  arms  folded  across  his  chest.  As  I  pointed  he
brought his arms down and pressed the palms of his hands against the wall. They
were white hands, sickly white hands that had never seen the sun, so white they
stood out garishly against the dull cream wall in the dim light of Jem’s room.
I looked from his hands to his sand-stained khaki pants; my eyes traveled up
his thin frame to his torn denim shirt. His face was as white as his hands, but for
a shadow on his jutting chin. His cheeks were thin to hollowness; his mouth was
wide;  there  were  shallow,  almost  delicate  indentations  at  his  temples,  and  his
gray eyes were so colorless I thought he was blind. His hair was dead and thin,
almost feathery on top of his head.
When I pointed to him his palms slipped slightly, leaving greasy sweat streaks
on the wall, and he hooked his thumbs in his belt. A strange small spasm shook
him, as if he heard fingernails scrape slate, but as I gazed at him in wonder the
tension slowly drained from his face. His lips parted into a timid smile, and our
neighbor’s image blurred with my sudden tears.
“Hey, Boo,” I said.

---

30
“M
r. Arthur, honey,” said Atticus, gently correcting me. “Jean Louise, this is
Mr. Arthur Radley. I believe he already knows you.”
If Atticus could blandly introduce me to Boo Radley at a time like this, well—
that was Atticus.
Boo saw me run instinctively to the bed where Jem was sleeping, for the same
shy smile crept across his face. Hot with embarrassment, I tried to cover up by
covering Jem up.
“Ah-ah, don’t touch him,” Atticus said.
Mr.  Heck  Tate  sat  looking  intently  at  Boo  through  his  horn-rimmed  glasses.
He was about to speak when Dr. Reynolds came down the hall.
“Everybody  out,”  he  said,  as  he  came  in  the  door.  “Evenin‘,  Arthur,  didn’t
notice you the first time I was here.”
Dr. Reynolds’s voice was as breezy as his step, as though he had said it every
evening of his life, an announcement that astounded me even more than being in
the  same  room  with  Boo  Radley.  Of  course  .  .  .  even  Boo  Radley  got  sick
sometimes, I thought. But on the other hand I wasn’t sure.
Dr.  Reynolds  was  carrying  a  big  package  wrapped  in  newspaper.  He  put  it
down  on  Jem’s  desk  and  took  off  his  coat.  “You’re  quite  satisfied  he’s  alive,
now? Tell you how I knew. When I tried to examine him he kicked me. Had to
put him out good and proper to touch him. So scat,” he said to me.
“Er—” said Atticus, glancing at Boo. “Heck, let’s go out on the front porch.
There are plenty of chairs out there, and it’s still warm enough.”
I  wondered  why  Atticus  was  inviting  us  to  the  front  porch  instead  of  the
livingroom, then I understood. The livingroom lights were awfully strong.
We  filed  out,  first  Mr.  Tate—Atticus  was  waiting  at  the  door  for  him  to  go
ahead of him. Then he changed his mind and followed Mr. Tate.
People  have  a  habit  of  doing  everyday  things  even  under  the  oddest
conditions.  I  was  no  exception:  “Come  along,  Mr.  Arthur,”  I  heard  myself
saying, “you don’t know the house real well. I’ll just take you to the porch, sir.”

---

He looked down at me and nodded.
I led him through the hall and past the livingroom.
“Won’t  you  have  a  seat,  Mr.  Arthur?  This  rocking-chair’s  nice  and
comfortable.”
My small fantasy about him was alive again: he would be sitting on the porch
. . . right pretty spell we’re having, isn’t it, Mr. Arthur?
Yes, a right pretty spell. Feeling slightly unreal, I led him to the chair farthest
from  Atticus  and  Mr.  Tate.  It  was  in  deep  shadow.  Boo  would  feel  more
comfortable in the dark.
Atticus was sitting in the swing, and Mr. Tate was in a chair next to him. The
light from the livingroom windows was strong on them. I sat beside Boo.
“Well, Heck,” Atticus was saying, “I guess the thing to do—good Lord, I’m
losing my memory . . .” Atticus pushed up his glasses and pressed his fingers to
his  eyes.  “Jem’s  not  quite  thirteen  .  .  .  no,  he’s  already  thirteen—I  can’t
remember. Anyway, it’ll come before county court—”
“What will, Mr. Finch?” Mr. Tate uncrossed his legs and leaned forward.
“Of course it was clear-cut self defense, but I’ll have to go to the office and
hunt up—”
“Mr. Finch, do you think Jem killed Bob Ewell? Do you think that?”
“You  heard  what  Scout  said,  there’s  no  doubt  about  it.  She  said  Jem  got  up
and yanked him off her—he probably got hold of Ewell’s knife somehow in the
dark . . . we’ll find out tomorrow.”
“Mis-ter Finch, hold on,” said Mr. Tate. “Jem never stabbed Bob Ewell.”
Atticus  was  silent  for  a  moment.  He  looked  at  Mr.  Tate  as  if  he  appreciated
what he said. But Atticus shook his head.
“Heck,  it’s  mighty  kind  of  you  and  I  know  you’re  doing  it  from  that  good
heart of yours, but don’t start anything like that.”
Mr. Tate got up and went to the edge of the porch. He spat into the shrubbery,
then  thrust  his  hands  into  his  hip  pockets  and  faced  Atticus.  “Like  what?”  he
said.
“I’m  sorry  if  I  spoke  sharply,  Heck,”  Atticus  said  simply,  “but  nobody’s
hushing this up. I don’t live that way.”
“Nobody’s gonna hush anything up, Mr. Finch.”
Mr. Tate’s voice was quiet, but his boots were planted so solidly on the porch

---

floorboards  it  seemed  that  they  grew  there.  A  curious  contest,  the  nature  of
which eluded me, was developing between my father and the sheriff.
It  was  Atticus’s  turn  to  get  up  and  go  to  the  edge  of  the  porch.  He  said,
“H’rm,” and spat dryly into the yard. He put his hands in his pockets and faced
Mr. Tate.
“Heck, you haven’t said it, but I know what you’re thinking. Thank you for it.
Jean Louise—” he turned to me. “You said Jem yanked Mr. Ewell off you?”
“Yes sir, that’s what I thought . . . I—”
“See there, Heck? Thank you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t want
my boy starting out with something like this over his head. Best way to clear the
air is to have it all out in the open. Let the county come and bring sandwiches. I
don’t  want  him  growing  up  with  a  whisper  about  him,  I  don’t  want  anybody
saying, ‘Jem Finch . . . his daddy paid a mint to get him out of that.’ Sooner we
get this over with the better.”
“Mr.  Finch,”  Mr.  Tate  said  stolidly,  “Bob  Ewell  fell  on  his  knife.  He  killed
himself.”
Atticus  walked  to  the  corner  of  the  porch.  He  looked  at  the  wisteria  vine.  In
his  own  way,  I  thought,  each  was  as  stubborn  as  the  other.  I  wondered  who
would  give  in  first.  Atticus’s  stubbornness  was  quiet  and  rarely  evident,  but  in
some  ways  he  was  as  set  as  the  Cunninghams.  Mr.  Tate’s  was  unschooled  and
blunt, but it was equal to my father’s.
“Heck,” Atticus’s back was turned. “If this thing’s hushed up it’ll be a simple
denial  to  Jem  of  the  way  I’ve  tried  to  raise  him.  Sometimes  I  think  I’m  a  total
failure as a parent, but I’m all they’ve got. Before Jem looks at anyone else he
looks  at  me,  and  I’ve  tried  to  live  so  I  can  look  squarely  back  at  him  .  .  .  if  I
connived  at  something  like  this,  frankly  I  couldn’t  meet  his  eye,  and  the  day  I
can’t do that I’ll know I’ve lost him. I don’t want to lose him and Scout, because
they’re all I’ve got.”
“Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate was still planted to the floorboards. “Bob Ewell fell on
his knife. I can prove it.”
Atticus  wheeled  around.  His  hands  dug  into  his  pockets.  “Heck,  can’t  you
even try to see it my way? You’ve got children of your own, but I’m older than
you. When mine are grown I’ll be an old man if I’m still around, but right now
I’m—if they don’t trust me they won’t trust anybody. Jem and Scout know what
happened. If they hear of me saying downtown something different happened—
Heck, I won’t have them any more. I can’t live one way in town and another way

---

in my home.”
Mr.  Tate  rocked  on  his  heels  and  said  patiently,  “He’d  flung  Jem  down,  he
stumbled over a root under that tree and—look, I can show you.”
Mr. Tate reached in his side pocket and withdrew a long switchblade knife. As
he did so, Dr. Reynolds came to the door. “The son—deceased’s under that tree,
doctor, just inside the schoolyard. Got a flashlight? Better have this one.”
“I can ease around and turn my car lights on,” said Dr. Reynolds, but he took
Mr.  Tate’s  flashlight.  “Jem’s  all  right.  He  won’t  wake  up  tonight,  I  hope,  so
don’t worry. That the knife that killed him, Heck?”
“No sir, still in him. Looked like a kitchen knife from the handle. Ken oughta
be there with the hearse by now, doctor, ‘night.”
Mr. Tate flicked open the knife. “It was like this,” he said. He held the knife
and pretended to stumble; as he leaned forward his left arm went down in front
of him. “See there? Stabbed himself through that soft stuff between his ribs. His
whole weight drove it in.”
Mr.  Tate  closed  the  knife  and  jammed  it  back  in  his  pocket.  “Scout  is  eight
years old,” he said. “She was too scared to know exactly what went on.”
“You’d be surprised,” Atticus said grimly.
“I’m not sayin‘ she made it up, I’m sayin’ she was too scared to know exactly
what  happened.  It  was  mighty  dark  out  there,  black  as  ink.  ‘d  take  somebody
mighty used to the dark to make a competent witness . . .”
“I won’t have it,” Atticus said softly.