slipped into their livingroom (nobody but the Radleys locked up at night),
stealthily made away with every stick of furniture therein, and hid it in the cellar. I deny having taken part in such a thing.
“I heard ‘em!” was the cry that awoke the Misses Barber’s neighbors at dawn next morning.
“Heard ’em drive a truck up to the door! Stomped around like horses. They’re in New Orleans by now!”
Miss Tutti was sure those traveling fur sellers who came through town two days ago had purloined their furniture.
“Da-rk they were,” she said. “Syrians.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. He surveyed the area and said he thought it was a local job.
Miss Frutti said she’d know a Maycomb voice anywhere, and there were no Maycomb voices in that parlor last night—
rolling their r’s all over her premises, they were. Nothing less than the bloodhounds must be used to locate their furniture, Miss Tutti insisted,
so Mr. Tate was obliged to go ten miles out the road, round up the county hounds, and put them on the trail.
Mr. Tate started them off at the Misses Barber’s front steps, but all they did was run around to the back of the house and howl at the cellar door.
When Mr. Tate set them in motion three times, he finally guessed the truth.
By noontime that day, there was not a barefooted child to be seen in Maycomb and nobody took off his shoes until the hounds were returned.
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