Mr. Heck Tate was present, and I wondered if he had seen the light. He never went to church.
Even Mr. Underwood was there. Mr. Underwood had no use for any organization but The Maycomb Tribune,
of which he was the sole owner, editor, and printer.
His days were spent at his linotype, where he refreshed himself occasionally from an ever-present gallon jug of cherry wine.
He rarely gathered news; people brought it to him.
It was said that he made up every edition of The Maycomb Tribune out of his own head and wrote it down on the linotype.
This was believable. Something must have been up to haul Mr. Underwood out.
I caught Atticus coming in the door, and he said that they’d moved Tom Robinson to the Maycomb jail.
He also said, more to himself than to me, that if they’d kept him there in the first place there wouldn’t have been any fuss.
I watched him take his seat on the third row from the front, and I heard him rumble,
“Nearer my God to thee,” some notes behind the rest of us.
He never sat with Aunty, Jem and me. He liked to be by himself in church.
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