His orders, relayed to him by a friendly Indian runner, were to move south.
After consulting a tree to ascertain from its lichen which way was south, and taking no lip from the subordinates who ventured to correct him,
Colonel Maycomb set out on a purposeful journey to rout the enemy and entangled his troops so far northwest in the forest primeval
that they were eventually rescued by settlers moving inland. Mrs. Merriweather gave a thirty-minute description of Colonel Maycomb’s exploits.
I discovered that if I bent my knees I could tuck them under my costume and more or less sit.
I sat down, listened to Mrs. Merriweather’s drone and the bass drum’s boom and was soon fast asleep.
They said later that Mrs. Merriweather was putting her all into the grand finale,
that she had crooned, “Po-ork,” with a confidence born of pine trees and butterbeans entering on cue.
She waited a few seconds, then called, “Po-ork?” When nothing materialized, she yelled, “Pork!”
I must have heard her in my sleep, or the band playing Dixie woke me,
but it was when Mrs. Merriweather triumphantly mounted the stage with the state flag that I chose to make my entrance.
Chose is incorrect: I thought I’d better catch up with the rest of them. They told me later that Judge Taylor went out behind the auditorium,
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