He was as tall as Atticus, but thinner. He was long-nosed, wore boots with shiny metal eye-holes,
boot pants and a lumber jacket. His belt had a row of bullets sticking in it. He carried a heavy rifle.
When he and Atticus reached the porch, Jem opened the door. “Stay inside, son,” said Atticus.
“Where is he, Cal?” “He oughta be here by now,” said Calpurnia, pointing down the street.
“Not runnin‘, is he?” asked Mr. Tate. “Naw sir, he’s in the twitchin‘ stage, Mr. Heck.”
“Should we go after him, Heck?” asked Atticus. “We better wait, Mr. Finch.
They usually go in a straight line, but you never can tell.
He might follow the curve—hope he does or he’ll go straight in the Radley back yard. Let’s wait a minute.”
“Don’t think he’ll get in the Radley yard,” said Atticus. “Fence’ll stop him. He’ll probably follow the road…”
I thought mad dogs foamed at the mouth, galloped, leaped and lunged at throats, and I thought they did it in August.
Had Tim Johnson behaved thus, I would have been less frightened.
Nothing is more deadly than a deserted, waiting street.
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