He shifted his feet, clad in heavy work shoes. “Don’t you remember me, Mr. Cunningham?
I’m Jean Louise Finch. You brought us some hickory nuts one time, remember?”
I began to sense the futility one feels when unacknowledged by a chance acquaintance.
“I go to school with Walter,” I began again. “He’s your boy, ain’t he? Ain’t he, sir?”
Mr. Cunningham was moved to a faint nod. He did know me, after all.
“He’s in my grade,” I said, “and he does right well. He’s a good boy,” I added, “a real nice boy.
We brought him home for dinner one time. Maybe he told you about me; I beat him up one time, but he was real nice about it.
Tell him hey for me, won’t you?”
Atticus had said it was the polite thing to talk to people about what they were interested in, not about what you were interested in.
Mr. Cunningham displayed no interest in his son, so I tackled his entailment once more in a last-ditch effort to make him feel at home.
“Entailments are bad,” I was advising him, when I slowly awoke to the fact that I was addressing the entire aggregation.
The men were all looking at me; some had their mouths half-open.
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