I imagined how it would be: when it happened, he’d just be sitting in the swing when I came along.
“Hidy do, Mr. Arthur,” I would say, as if I had said it every afternoon of my life.
“Evening, Jean Louise,” he would say, as if he had said it every afternoon of my life,
“right pretty spell we’re having, isn’t it?” “Yes sir, right pretty,” I would say, and go on.
It was only a fantasy. We would never see him. He probably did go out when the moon was down and gaze upon Miss Stephanie Crawford.
I’d have picked somebody else to look at, but that was his business. He would never gaze at us.
“You aren’t starting that again, are you?” said Atticus one night,
when I expressed a stray desire just to have one good look at Boo Radley before I died.
If you are, I’ll tell you right now: stop it. I’m too old to go chasing you off the Radley property.
Besides, it’s dangerous. You might get shot. You know Mr. Nathan shoots at every shadow he sees, even shadows that leave size-four bare footprints.
You were lucky not to be killed.” I hushed then and there.
At the same time I marveled at Atticus. This was the first he had let us know he knew a lot more about something than we thought he knew.
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