“Mr. Finch, I tried. I tried to ‘thout bein’ ugly to her. I didn’t wanta be ugly, I didn’t wanta push her or nothin’.”
It occurred to me that in their own way, Tom Robinson’s manners were as good as Atticus’s.
Until my father explained it to me later, I did not understand the subtlety of Tom’s predicament:
he would not have dared strike a white woman under any circumstances and expect to live long,
so he took the first opportunity to run—a sure sign of guilt.
“Tom, go back once more to Mr. Ewell,” said Atticus. “Did he say anything to you?”
“Not anything, suh. He mighta said somethin’, but I weren’t there—” “That’ll do,” Atticus cut in sharply.
“What you did hear, who was he talking to?” “Mr. Finch, he were talkin’ and lookin’ at Miss Mayella.” “Then you ran?”
“I sho’ did, suh.” “Why did you run?” “I was scared, suh.”
“Why were you scared?” “Mr. Finch, if you was a nigger like me, you’d be scared, too.” Atticus sat down.
Mr. Gilmer was making his way to the witness stand, but before he got there Mr. Link Deas rose from the audience and announced:
“I just want the whole lot of you to know one thing right now. That boy’s worked for me eight years an’ I ain’t had a speck o’trouble outa him.”
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