Francis climbed the mimosa tree, came down, put his hands in his pockets and strolled around the yard.
“Hah!” he said. I asked him who he thought he was, Uncle Jack?
Francis said he reckoned I got told, for me to just sit there and leave him alone. “I ain’t botherin‘ you,” I said.
Francis looked at me carefully, concluded that I had been sufficiently subdued, and crooned softly, “Nigger-lover…”
This time, I split my knuckle to the bone on his front teeth. My left impaired, I sailed in with my right, but not for long.
Uncle Jack pinned my arms to my sides and said, “Stand still!”
Aunt Alexandra ministered to Francis, wiping his tears away with her handkerchief, rubbing his hair, patting his cheek.
Atticus, Jem, and Uncle Jimmy had come to the back porch when Francis started yelling. “Who started this?” said Uncle Jack.
Francis and I pointed at each other. “Grandma,” he bawled, “she called me a whore-lady and jumped on me!”
“Is that true, Scout?” said Uncle Jack. “I reckon so.” When Uncle Jack looked down at me, his features were like Aunt Alexandra’s.
“You know I told you you’d get in trouble if you used words like that? I told you, didn’t I?”
“Yes sir, but—” “Well, you’re in trouble now. Stay there.” I was debating whether to stand there or run, and tarried in indecision a moment too long:
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