“Why don’t they hurry, why don’t they hurry…” muttered Jem.
We saw why. The old fire truck, killed by the cold, was being pushed from town by a crowd of men.
When the men attached its hose to a hydrant, the hose burst and water shot up, tinkling down on the pavement.
“Oh-h Lord, Jem…” Jem put his arm around me. “Hush, Scout,” he said. “It ain’t time to worry yet. I’ll let you know when.”
The men of Maycomb, in all degrees of dress and undress, took furniture from Miss Maudie’s house to a yard across the street.
I saw Atticus carrying Miss Maudie’s heavy oak rocking chair, and thought it sensible of him to save what she valued most.
Sometimes we heard shouts. Then Mr. Avery’s face appeared in an upstairs window.
He pushed a mattress out the window into the street and threw down furniture until men shouted, “Come down from there, Dick!”
“The stairs are going! Get outta there, Mr. Avery!” Mr. Avery began climbing through the window.
“Scout, he’s stuck…” breathed Jem. “Oh God…” Mr. Avery was wedged tightly.
I buried my head under Jem’s arm and didn’t look again until Jem cried, “He’s got loose, Scout! He’s all right!”
I looked up to see Mr. Avery cross the upstairs porch.
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