sometimes carrying a brown paper bag that the neighborhood assumed contained the family groceries.
I never knew how old Mr. Radley made his living— Jem said he “bought cotton,” a polite term for doing nothing—
but Mr. Radley and his wife had lived there with their two sons as long as anybody could remember.
The shutters and doors of the Radley house were closed on Sundays, another thing alien to Maycomb’s ways:
closed doors meant illness and cold weather only.
Of all days Sunday was the day for formal afternoon visiting: ladies wore corsets, men wore coats, children wore shoes.
But to climb the Radley front steps and call, “He-y,” of a Sunday afternoon was something their neighbors never did.
The Radley house had no screen doors. I once asked Atticus if it ever had any; Atticus said yes, but before I was born.
According to neighborhood legend, when the younger Radley boy was in his teens
he became acquainted with some of the Cunninghams from Old Sarum, an enormous and confusing tribe domiciled in the northern part of the county,
and they formed the nearest thing to a gang ever seen in Maycomb.
They did little, but enough to be discussed by the town and publicly warned from three pulpits: they hung around the barbershop;
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