I finally found my voice: “It’s okay, Dill. When he wants you to know somethin’, he tells you.” Dill looked at me.
“I mean it’s all right,” I said. “You know he wouldn’t bother you, you know you ain’t scared of Atticus.”
“I’m not scared…” Dill muttered. “Just hungry, I’ll bet.” Atticus’s voice had its usual pleasant dryness.
“Scout, we can do better than a pan of cold corn bread, can’t we? You fill this fellow up and when I get back we’ll see what we can see.”
“Mr. Finch, don’t tell Aunt Rachel, don’t make me go back, please sir! I’ll run off again—!” “Whoa, son,” said Atticus.
“Nobody’s about to make you go anywhere but to bed pretty soon. I’m just going over to tell Miss Rachel you’re here
and ask her if you could spend the night with us—you’d like that, wouldn’t you?
And for goodness’ sake put some of the county back where it belongs, the soil erosion’s bad enough as it is.”
Dill stared at my father’s retreating figure. “He’s tryin’ to be funny,” I said.
“He means take a bath. See there, I told you he wouldn’t bother you.”
Jem was standing in a corner of the room, looking like the traitor he was. “Dill, I had to tell him,” he said.
“You can’t run three hundred miles off without your mother knowin’.” We left him without a word.
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