“I’ll go with you,” said Mr. Tate. Aunt Alexandra had shaded Jem’s reading light with a towel, and his room was dim.
Jem was lying on his back. There was an ugly mark along one side of his face.
His left arm lay out from his body; his elbow was bent slightly, but in the wrong direction. Jem was frowning.
“Jem…?” Atticus spoke. “He can’t hear you, Scout, he’s out like a light.
He was coming around, but Dr. Reynolds put him out again.” “Yes sir.” I retreated.
Jem’s room was large and square. Aunt Alexandra was sitting in a rocking-chair by the fireplace.
The man who brought Jem in was standing in a corner, leaning against the wall. He was some countryman I did not know.
He had probably been at the pageant, and was in the vicinity when it happened. He must have heard our screams and come running.
Atticus was standing by Jem’s bed. Mr. Heck Tate stood in the doorway.
His hat was in his hand, and a flashlight bulged from his pants pocket. He was in his working clothes.
“Come in, Heck,” said Atticus. “Did you find anything?
I can’t conceive of anyone low-down enough to do a thing like this, but I hope you found him.”
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