Why ladies hooked woolen rugs on boiling nights never became clear to me. “I heard it,” she said.
I remembered the distant disastrous occasion when I rushed to young Walter Cunningham’s defense.
Now I was glad I’d done it. “Soon’s school starts I’m gonna ask Walter home to dinner,” I planned,
having forgotten my private resolve to beat him up the next time I saw him.
“He can stay over sometimes after school, too. Atticus could drive him back to Old Sarum.”
“Maybe he could spend the night with us sometime, okay, Jem?”
“We’ll see about that,” Aunt Alexandra said, a declaration that with her was always a threat, never a promise.
Surprised, I turned to her. “Why not, Aunty? They’re good folks.”
She looked at me over her sewing glasses. “Jean Louise, there is no doubt in my mind that they’re good folks. But they’re not our kind of folks.”
Jem says, “She means they’re yappy, Scout.” “What’s a yap?” “Aw, tacky. They like fiddlin‘ and things like that.”
Well I do too—” “Don’t be silly, Jean Louise,said Aunt Alexandra.
The thing is, you can scrub Walter Cunningham till he shines, you can put him in shoes and a new suit, but he’ll never be like Jem.
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