“…in your own words, Mr. Tate,” Mr. Gilmer was saying.
“Well,” said Mr. Tate, touching his glasses and speaking to his knees, “I was called—”
“Could you say it to the jury, Mr. Tate? Thank you. Who called you?”
Mr. Tate said, “I was fetched by Bob—by Mr. Bob Ewell yonder, one night—”
“What night, sir?” Mr. Tate said, “It was the night of November twenty-first.
I was just leaving my office to go home when B—Mr. Ewell came in,
very excited he was, and said get out to his house quick, some nigger’d raped his girl.”
“Did you go?” “Certainly. Got in the car and went out as fast as I could.”
“And what did you find?” “Found her lying on the floor in the middle of the front room, one on the right as you go in.
She was pretty well beat up, but I heaved her to her feet and she washed her face in a bucket in the corner and said she was all right.
I asked her who hurt her and she said it was Tom Robinson—”
Judge Taylor, who had been concentrating on his fingernails, looked up as if he were expecting an objection, but Atticus was quiet.
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