We saw Zeebo drive up. He took a pitchfork from the back of the garbage truck and gingerly lifted Tim Johnson.
He pitched the dog onto the truck, then poured something from a gallon jug on and around the spot where Tim fell.
“Don’t yawl come over here for a while,” he called. When we went home I told Jem we’d really have something to talk about at school on Monday.
Jem turned on me. “Don’t say anything about it, Scout,” he said. “What? I certainly am. Ain’t everybody’s daddy the deadest shot in Maycomb County.”
Jem said, “I reckon if he’d wanted us to know it, he’da told us. If he was proud of it, he’da told us.”
“Maybe it just slipped his mind,” I said. “Naw, Scout, it’s something you wouldn’t understand.
Atticus is real old, but I wouldn’t care if he couldn’t do anything—I wouldn’t care if he couldn’t do a blessed thing.”
Jem picked up a rock and threw it jubilantly at the carhouse.
Running after it, he called back: “Atticus is a gentleman, just like me!”
Chapter 11
When we were small, Jem and I confined our activities to the southern neighborhood,
but when I was well into the second grade at school and tormenting Boo Radley became passe,
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