at most one that he could always figure out, and not to worry my head a second about botherin‘ him.
Naw, it was Walter— that boy’s not trash, Jem. He ain’t like the Ewells.
Jem kicked off his shoes and swung his feet to the bed. He propped himself against a pillow and switched on the reading light.
You know something, Scout? I’ve got it all figured out, now. I’ve thought about it a lot lately and I’ve got it figured out.
There’s four kinds of folks in the world. There’s the ordinary kind like us and the neighbors,”
there’s the kind like the Cunninghams out in the woods, the kind like the Ewells down at the dump, and the Negroes.”
What about the Chinese, and the Cajuns down yonder in Baldwin County?” “I mean in Maycomb County.
The thing about it is, our kind of folks don’t like the Cunninghams, the Cunninghams don’t like the Ewells,
and the Ewells hate and despise the colored folks.
I told Jem if that was so, then why didn’t Tom’s jury, made up of folks like the Cunninghams, acquit Tom to spite the Ewells?
Jem waved my question away as being infantile. “You know,” he said, “I’ve seen Atticus pat his foot when there’s fiddlin‘ on the radio,”
“and he loves pot liquor better’n any man I ever saw—” “Then that makes us like the Cunninghams,” I said.
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