She left the room and returned with a purple-covered book on which Meditations of Joshua S. St. Clair was stamped in gold.
“Your cousin wrote this,” said Aunt Alexandra. “He was a beautiful character.” Jem examined the small volume.
“Is this the Cousin Joshua who was locked up for so long?” Aunt Alexandra said, “How did you know that?”
“Why, Atticus said he went round the bend at the University. Said he tried to shoot the president.
Said Cousin Joshua said he wasn’t anything but a sewer-inspector and tried to shoot him with an old flintlock pistol,
only it just blew up in his hand. Atticus said it cost the family five hundred dollars to get him out of that one—”
Aunt Alexandra was standing stiff as a stork. “That’s all,” she said. “We’ll see about this.”
Before bedtime I was in Jem’s room trying to borrow a book, when Atticus knocked and entered.
He sat on the side of Jem’s bed, looked at us soberly, then he grinned. “Er—h’rm,” he said.
He was beginning to preface some things he said with a throaty noise, and I thought he must at last be getting old, but he looked the same.
“I don’t exactly know how to say this,” he began. “Well, just say it,” said Jem. “Have we done something?”
Our father was actually fidgeting. “I don’t exactly know how to say this,” he began.
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