the major premise of which was that half the Finches were in the asylum anyway, but if our mother were living we would not have come to such a state.
I wasn’t sure what Jem resented most, but I took umbrage at Mrs. Dubose’s assessment of the family’s mental hygiene.
I had become almost accustomed to hearing insults aimed at Atticus. But this was the first one coming from an adult.
Except for her remarks about Atticus, Mrs. Dubose’s attack was only routine.
There was a hint of summer in the air—in the shadows it was cool, but the sun was warm, which meant good times coming: no school and Dill.
Jem bought his steam engine and we went by Elmore’s for my baton.
Jem took no pleasure in his acquisition; he jammed it in his pocket and walked silently beside me toward home.
On the way home I nearly hit Mr. Link Deas, who said, “Look out now, Scout!” when I missed a toss,
and when we approached Mrs. Dubose’s house my baton was grimy from having picked it up out of the dirt so many times.
She was not on the porch. In later years, I sometimes wondered exactly what made Jem do it,
what made him break the bonds of “You just be a gentleman, son,” and the phase of self-conscious rectitude he had recently entered.
Jem had probably stood as much guff about Atticus lawing for niggers as had I,
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