He went out for football, but was too slender and too young yet to do anything but carry the team water buckets.
This he did with enthusiasm; most afternoons he was seldom home before dark.
The Radley Place had ceased to terrify me, but it was no less gloomy, no less chilly under its great oaks, and no less uninviting.
Mr. Nathan Radley could still be seen on a clear day, walking to and from town;
we knew Boo was there, for the same old reason—nobody’d seen him carried out yet.
I sometimes felt a twinge of remorse, when passing by the old place, at ever having taken part in what must have been sheer torment to Arthur Radley—
what reasonable recluse wants children peeping through his shutters,
delivering greetings on the end of a fishing-pole, wandering in his collards at night?
And yet I remembered. Two Indian-head pennies, chewing gum, soap dolls, a rusty medal, a broken watch and chain.
Jem must have put them away somewhere. I stopped and looked at the tree one afternoon: the trunk was swelling around its cement patch.
The patch itself was turning yellow. We had almost seen him a couple of times, a good enough score for anybody.
But I still looked for him each time I went by. Maybe someday we would see him.
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