The boy stood up. He was the filthiest human I had ever seen.
His neck was dark gray, the backs of his hands were rusty, and his fingernails were black deep into the quick.
He peered at Miss Caroline from a fist-sized clean space on his face.
No one had noticed him, probably, because Miss Caroline and I had entertained the class most of the morning.
“And Burris,” said Miss Caroline, “please bathe yourself before you come back tomorrow.”
The boy laughed rudely. “You ain’t sendin’ me home, missus. I was on the verge of leavin’—I done done my time for this year.”
Miss Caroline looked puzzled. “What do you mean by that?” The boy did not answer. He gave a short contemptuous snort.
One of the elderly members of the class answered her: “He’s one of the Ewells, ma’am,”
and I wondered if this explanation would be as unsuccessful as my attempt. But Miss Caroline seemed willing to listen.
“Whole school’s full of ‘em. They come first day every year and then leave.”
“The truant lady gets ’em here ‘cause she threatens ’em with the sheriff, but she’s give up tryin’ to hold ’em.”
“She reckons she’s carried out the law just gettin’ their names on the roll and runnin’ ‘em here the first day.”
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