“Ain’t you feeling good?” I asked, when we reached the bottom of the stairs. Dill tried to pull himself together as we ran down the south steps.
Mr. Link Deas was a lonely figure on the top step. “Anything happenin’, Scout?” he asked as we went by.
“No sir,” I answered over my shoulder. “Dill here, he’s sick.” “Come on out under the trees,” I said.
“Heat got you, I expect.” We chose the fattest live oak and we sat under it. “It was just him I couldn’t stand,” Dill said.
“Who, Tom?” “That old Mr. Gilmer doin’ him thataway, talking so hateful to him—”
“Dill, that’s his job. Why, if we didn’t have prosecutors—well, we couldn’t have defense attorneys, I reckon.”
Dill exhaled patiently. “I know all that, Scout. It was the way he said it made me sick, plain sick.”
“He’s supposed to act that way, Dill, he was cross—” “He didn’t act that way when—” “Dill, those were his own witnesses.”
“Well, Mr. Finch didn’t act that way to Mayella and old man Ewell when he cross- examined them.”
“The way that man called him ‘boy’ all the time an’ sneered at him, an’ looked around at the jury every time he answered—”
Well, Dill, after all he’s just a Negro.” “I don’t care one speck. It ain’t right, somehow it ain’t right to do ‘em that way.
Hasn’t anybody got any business talkin’ like that—it just makes me sick.” “That’s just Mr. Gilmer’s way, Dill, he does ‘em all that way.
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