Boo was about six-and-a-half feet tall, judging from his tracks;
he dined on raw squirrels and any cats he could catch, that’s why his hands were bloodstained—
if you ate an animal raw, you could never wash the blood off.
There was a long jagged scar that ran across his face; what teeth he had were yellow and rotten;
his eyes popped, and he drooled most of the time.
“Let’s try to make him come out,” said Dill. “I’d like to see what he looks like.”
Jem said if Dill wanted to get himself killed, all he had to do was go up and knock on the front door.
Our first raid came to pass only because Dill bet Jem The Gray Ghost against two Tom Swifts
that Jem wouldn’t get any farther than the Radley gate.
In all his life, Jem had never declined a dare. Jem thought about it for three days.
I suppose he loved honor more than his head, for Dill wore him down easily:
“You’re scared,” Dill said, the first day. “Ain’t scared, just respectful,” Jem said.
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