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To Kill a Mockingbird ( PDFDrive )

“God damn it, I’m not thinking of Jem!”
Mr.  Tate’s  boot  hit  the  floorboards  so  hard  the  lights  in  Miss  Maudie’s
bedroom  went  on.  Miss  Stephanie  Crawford’s  lights  went  on.  Atticus  and  Mr.
Tate looked across the street, then at each other. They waited.
When Mr. Tate spoke again his voice was barely audible. “Mr. Finch, I hate to
fight  you  when  you’re  like  this.  You’ve  been  under  a  strain  tonight  no  man
should ever have to go through. Why you ain’t in the bed from it I don’t know,
but I do know that for once you haven’t been able to put two and two together,
and we’ve got to settle this tonight because tomorrow’ll be too late. Bob Ewell’s
got a kitchen knife in his craw.”
Mr. Tate added that Atticus wasn’t going to stand there and maintain that any
boy Jem’s size with a busted arm had fight enough left in him to tackle and kill a
grown man in the pitch dark.


“Heck,”  said  Atticus  abruptly,  “that  was  a  switchblade  you  were  waving.
Where’d you get it?”
“Took it off a drunk man,” Mr. Tate answered coolly.
I was trying to remember. Mr. Ewell was on me . . . then he went down . . .
Jem must have gotten up. At least I thought . . .
“Heck?”
“I said I took it off a drunk man downtown tonight. Ewell probably found that
kitchen knife in the dump somewhere. Honed it down and bided his time . . . just
bided his time.”
Atticus  made  his  way  to  the  swing  and  sat  down.  His  hands  dangled  limply
between  his  knees.  He  was  looking  at  the  floor.  He  had  moved  with  the  same
slowness that night in front of the jail, when I thought it took him forever to fold
his newspaper and toss it in his chair.
Mr. Tate clumped softly around the porch. “It ain’t your decision, Mr. Finch,
it’s all mine. It’s my decision and my responsibility. For once, if you don’t see it
my way, there’s not much you can do about it. If you wanta try, I’ll call you a
liar  to  your  face.  Your  boy  never  stabbed  Bob  Ewell,”  he  said  slowly,  “didn’t
come near a mile of it and now you know it. All he wanted to do was get him
and his sister safely home.”
Mr. Tate stopped pacing. He stopped in front of Atticus, and his back was to
us. “I’m not a very good man, sir, but I am sheriff of Maycomb County. Lived in
this  town  all  my  life  an‘  I’m  goin’  on  forty-three  years  old.  Know  everything
that’s  happened  here  since  before  I  was  born.  There’s  a  black  boy  dead  for  no
reason,  and  the  man  responsible  for  it’s  dead.  Let  the  dead  bury  the  dead  this
time, Mr. Finch. Let the dead bury the dead.”
Mr. Tate went to the swing and picked up his hat. It was lying beside Atticus.
Mr. Tate pushed back his hair and put his hat on.
“I  never  heard  tell  that  it’s  against  the  law  for  a  citizen  to  do  his  utmost  to
prevent a crime from being committed, which is exactly what he did, but maybe
you’ll  say  it’s  my  duty  to  tell  the  town  all  about  it  and  not  hush  it  up.  Know
what’d  happen  then?  All  the  ladies  in  Maycomb  includin‘  my  wife’d  be
knocking  on  his  door  bringing  angel  food  cakes.  To  my  way  of  thinkin’,  Mr.
Finch,  taking  the  one  man  who’s  done  you  and  this  town  a  great  service  an‘
draggin’ him with his shy ways into the limelight—to me, that’s a sin. It’s a sin
and  I’m  not  about  to  have  it  on  my  head.  If  it  was  any  other  man,  it’d  be
different. But not this man, Mr. Finch.”


Mr.  Tate  was  trying  to  dig  a  hole  in  the  floor  with  the  toe  of  his  boot.  He
pulled his nose, then he massaged his left arm. “I may not be much, Mr. Finch,
but I’m still sheriff of Maycomb County and Bob Ewell fell on his knife. Good
night, sir.”
Mr. Tate stamped off the porch and strode across the front yard. His car door
slammed and he drove away.
Atticus  sat  looking  at  the  floor  for  a  long  time.  Finally  he  raised  his  head.
“Scout,” he said, “Mr. Ewell fell on his knife. Can you possibly understand?”
Atticus looked like he needed cheering up. I ran to him and hugged him and
kissed him with all my might. “Yes sir, I understand,” I reassured him. “Mr. Tate
was right.”
Atticus disengaged himself and looked at me. “What do you mean?”
“Well, it’d be sort of like shootin‘ a mockingbird, wouldn’t it?”
Atticus  put  his  face  in  my  hair  and  rubbed  it.  When  he  got  up  and  walked
across  the  porch  into  the  shadows,  his  youthful  step  had  returned.  Before  he
went  inside  the  house,  he  stopped  in  front  of  Boo  Radley.  “Thank  you  for  my
children, Arthur,” he said.


31
W
hen  Boo  Radley  shuffled  to  his  feet,  light  from  the  livingroom  windows
glistened on his forehead. Every move he made was uncertain, as if he were not
sure his hands and feet could make proper contact with the things he touched. He
coughed his dreadful raling cough, and was so shaken he had to sit down again.
His  hand  searched  for  his  hip  pocket,  and  he  pulled  out  a  handkerchief.  He
coughed into it, then he wiped his forehead.
Having  been  so  accustomed  to  his  absence,  I  found  it  incredible  that  he  had
been sitting beside me all this time, present. He had not made a sound.
Once  more,  he  got  to  his  feet.  He  turned  to  me  and  nodded  toward  the  front
door.
“You’d like to say good night to Jem, wouldn’t you, Mr. Arthur? Come right
in.”
I led him down the hall. Aunt Alexandra was sitting by Jem’s bed. “Come in,
Arthur,”  she  said.  “He’s  still  asleep.  Dr.  Reynolds  gave  him  a  heavy  sedative.
Jean Louise, is your father in the livingroom?”
“Yes ma’am, I think so.”
“I’ll  just  go  speak  to  him  a  minute.  Dr.  Reynolds  left  some  .  .  .”  her  voice
trailed away.
Boo  had  drifted  to  a  corner  of  the  room,  where  he  stood  with  his  chin  up,
peering  from  a  distance  at  Jem.  I  took  him  by  the  hand,  a  hand  surprisingly
warm for its whiteness. I tugged him a little, and he allowed me to lead him to
Jem’s bed.
Dr.  Reynolds  had  made  a  tent-like  arrangement  over  Jem’s  arm,  to  keep  the
cover off, I guess, and Boo leaned forward and looked over it. An expression of
timid  curiosity  was  on  his  face,  as  though  he  had  never  seen  a  boy  before.  His
mouth  was  slightly  open,  and  he  looked  at  Jem  from  head  to  foot.  Boo’s  hand
came up, but he let it drop to his side.
“You  can  pet  him,  Mr.  Arthur,  he’s  asleep.  You  couldn’t  if  he  was  awake,
though, he wouldn’t let you . . .” I found myself explaining. “Go ahead.”
Boo’s hand hovered over Jem’s head.


“Go on, sir, he’s asleep.”
His hand came down lightly on Jem’s hair.
I was beginning to learn his body English. His hand tightened on mine and he
indicated that he wanted to leave.
I  led  him  to  the  front  porch,  where  his  uneasy  steps  halted.  He  was  still
holding my hand and he gave no sign of letting me go.
“Will you take me home?”
He almost whispered it, in the voice of a child afraid of the dark.
I put my foot on the top step and stopped. I would lead him through our house,
but I would never lead him home.
“Mr. Arthur, bend your arm down here, like that. That’s right, sir.”
I slipped my hand into the crook of his arm.
He had to stoop a little to accommodate me, but if Miss Stephanie Crawford
was watching from her upstairs window, she would see Arthur Radley escorting
me down the sidewalk, as any gentleman would do.
We  came  to  the  street  light  on  the  corner,  and  I  wondered  how  many  times
Dill had stood there hugging the fat pole, watching, waiting, hoping. I wondered
how many times Jem and I had made this journey, but I entered the Radley front
gate for the second time in my life. Boo and I walked up the steps to the porch.
His  fingers  found  the  front  doorknob.  He  gently  released  my  hand,  opened  the
door, went inside, and shut the door behind him. I never saw him again.
Neighbors bring food with death and flowers with sickness and little things in
between. Boo was our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken watch and
chain,  a  pair  of  good-luck  pennies,  and  our  lives.  But  neighbors  give  in  return.
We  never  put  back  into  the  tree  what  we  took  out  of  it:  we  had  given  him
nothing, and it made me sad.
I turned to go home. Street lights winked down the street all the way to town. I
had  never  seen  our  neighborhood  from  this  angle.  There  were  Miss  Maudie’s,
Miss  Stephanie’s—there  was  our  house,  I  could  see  the  porch  swing—Miss
Rachel’s house was beyond us, plainly visible. I could even see Mrs. Dubose’s.
I  looked  behind  me.  To  the  left  of  the  brown  door  was  a  long  shuttered
window.  I  walked  to  it,  stood  in  front  of  it,  and  turned  around.  In  daylight,  I
thought, you could see to the postoffice corner.
Daylight  .  .  .  in  my  mind,  the  night  faded.  It  was  daytime  and  the
neighborhood  was  busy.  Miss  Stephanie  Crawford  crossed  the  street  to  tell  the


latest  to  Miss  Rachel.  Miss  Maudie  bent  over  her  azaleas.  It  was  summertime,
and two children scampered down the sidewalk toward a man approaching in the
distance. The man waved, and the children raced each other to him.
It  was  still  summertime,  and  the  children  came  closer.  A  boy  trudged  down
the  sidewalk  dragging  a  fishingpole  behind  him.  A  man  stood  waiting  with  his
hands  on  his  hips.  Summertime,  and  his  children  played  in  the  front  yard  with
their friend, enacting a strange little drama of their own invention.
It was fall, and his children fought on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Dubose’s.
The  boy  helped  his  sister  to  her  feet,  and  they  made  their  way  home.  Fall,  and
his children trotted to and fro around the corner, the day’s woes and triumphs on
their faces. They stopped at an oak tree, delighted, puzzled, apprehensive.
Winter,  and  his  children  shivered  at  the  front  gate,  silhouetted  against  a
blazing house. Winter, and a man walked into the street, dropped his glasses, and
shot a dog.
Summer, and he watched his children’s heart break. Autumn again, and Boo’s
children needed him.
Atticus  was  right.  One  time  he  said  you  never  really  know  a  man  until  you
stand in his shoes and walk around in them. Just standing on the Radley porch
was enough.
The street lights were fuzzy from the fine rain that was falling. As I made my
way home, I felt very old, but when I looked at the tip of my nose I could see
fine misty beads, but looking cross-eyed made me dizzy so I quit. As I made my
way  home,  I  thought  what  a  thing  to  tell  Jem  tomorrow.  He’d  be  so  mad  he
missed it he wouldn’t speak to me for days. As I made my way home, I thought
Jem and I would get grown but there wasn’t much else left for us to learn, except
possibly algebra.
I  ran  up  the  steps  and  into  the  house.  Aunt  Alexandra  had  gone  to  bed,  and
Atticus’s  room  was  dark.  I  would  see  if  Jem  might  be  reviving.  Atticus  was  in
Jem’s room, sitting by his bed. He was reading a book.
“Is Jem awake yet?”
“Sleeping peacefully. He won’t be awake until morning.”
“Oh. Are you sittin‘ up with him?”
“Just for an hour or so. Go to bed, Scout. You’ve had a long day.”
“Well, I think I’ll stay with you for a while.”
“Suit  yourself,”  said  Atticus.  It  must  have  been  after  midnight,  and  I  was


puzzled  by  his  amiable  acquiescence.  He  was  shrewder  than  I,  however:  the
moment I sat down I began to feel sleepy.
“Whatcha readin‘?” I asked.
Atticus turned the book over. “Something of Jem’s. Called The Gray Ghost.”
I was suddenly awake. “Why’d you get that one?”
“Honey, I don’t know. Just picked it up. One of the few things I haven’t read,”
he said pointedly.
“Read it out loud, please, Atticus. It’s real scary.”
“No,” he said. “You’ve had enough scaring for a while. This is too—”
“Atticus, I wasn’t scared.”
He  raised  his  eyebrows,  and  I  protested:  “Leastways  not  till  I  started  telling
Mr. Tate about it. Jem wasn’t scared. Asked him and he said he wasn’t. Besides,
nothin’s real scary except in books.”
Atticus  opened  his  mouth  to  say  something,  but  shut  it  again.  He  took  his
thumb  from  the  middle  of  the  book  and  turned  back  to  the  first  page.  I  moved
over and leaned my head against his knee. “H’rm,” he said. “The Gray Ghost, by
Seckatary Hawkins. Chapter One . . .”
I  willed  myself  to  stay  awake,  but  the  rain  was  so  soft  and  the  room  was  so
warm and his voice was so deep and his knee was so snug that I slept.
Seconds later, it seemed, his shoe was gently nudging my ribs. He lifted me to
my feet and walked me to my room. “Heard every word you said,” I muttered. “.
. . wasn’t sleep at all, ‘s about a ship an’ Three-Fingered Fred ‘n’ Stoner’s Boy . .
.”
He  unhooked  my  overalls,  leaned  me  against  him,  and  pulled  them  off.  He
held me up with one hand and reached for my pajamas with the other.
“Yeah, an‘ they all thought it was Stoner’s Boy messin’ up their clubhouse an‘
throwin’ ink all over it an‘ . . .”
He guided me to the bed and sat me down. He lifted my legs and put me under
the cover.
“An‘ they chased him ’n‘ never could catch him ’cause they didn’t know what
he looked like, an‘ Atticus, when they finally saw him, why he hadn’t done any
of those things . . . Atticus, he was real nice . . .”
His hands were under my chin, pulling up the cover, tucking it around me.
“Most people are, Scout, when you finally see them.”


He turned out the light and went into Jem’s room. He would be there all night,
and he would be there when Jem waked up in the morning.

Document Outline

  • Foreward
  • PART ONE
    • 1
    • 2
    • 3
    • 4
    • 5
    • 6
    • 7
    • 8
    • 9
    • 10
    • 11
  • PART TWO
    • 12
    • 13
    • 14
    • 15
    • 16
    • 17
    • 18
    • 19
    • 20
    • 21
    • 22
    • 23
    • 24
    • 25
    • 26
    • 27
    • 28
    • 29
    • 30
    • 31

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