“You’re bigger’n he is,” he said. “He’s as old as you, nearly,” I said.
“He made me start off on the wrong foot.” “Let him go, Scout. Why?”
“He didn’t have any lunch,” I said, and explained my involvement in Walter’s dietary affairs.
Walter had picked himself up and was standing quietly listening to Jem and me.
His fists were half cocked, as if expecting an onslaught from both of us.
I stomped at him to chase him away, but Jem put out his hand and stopped me. He examined Walter with an air of speculation.
“Your daddy Mr. Walter Cunningham from Old Sarum?” he asked, and Walter nodded.
Walter looked as if he had been raised on fish food: his eyes, as blue as Dill Harris’s, were red-rimmed and watery.
There was no color in his face except at the tip of his nose, which was moistly pink.
He fingered the straps of his overalls, nervously picking at the metal hooks.
Jem suddenly grinned at him. “Come on home to dinner with us, Walter,” he said. “We’d be glad to have you.”
Walter’s face brightened, then darkened. Jem said, “Our daddy’s a friend of your daddy’s.”
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