Jem peered in the bank door to make sure. He turned the knob. The door was locked.
Let’s go up the street. Maybe he’s visiting Mr. Underwood.
Mr. Underwood not only ran The Maycomb Tribune office, he lived in it. That is, above it.
He covered the courthouse and jailhouse news simply by looking out his upstairs window.
The office building was on the northwest corner of the square, and to reach it we had to pass the jail.
The Maycomb jail was the most venerable and hideous of the county’s buildings.
Atticus said it was like something Cousin Joshua St. Clair might have designed.
It was certainly someone’s dream. Starkly out of place in a town of square-faced stores and steep-roofed houses,
the Maycomb jail was a miniature Gothic joke one cell wide and two cells high,
complete with tiny battlements and flying buttresses.
Its fantasy was heightened by its red brick facade and the thick steel bars at its ecclesiastical windows.
It stood on no lonely hill, but was wedged between Tyndal’s Hardware Store and The Maycomb Tribune office.
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