Mr. Tate sniffed. He glanced sharply at the man in the corner, nodded to him,
then looked around the room—at Jem, at Aunt Alexandra, then at Atticus.
“Sit down, Mr. Finch,” he said pleasantly. Atticus said, “Let’s all sit down. Have that chair, Heck.
I’ll get another one from the livingroom.” Mr. Tate sat in Jem’s desk chair.
He waited until Atticus returned and settled himself.
I wondered why Atticus had not brought a chair for the man in the corner, but Atticus knew the ways of country people far better than I.
Some of his rural clients would park their long-eared steeds under the chinaberry trees in the back yard,
and Atticus would often keep appointments on the back steps.
This one was probably more comfortable where he was. “Mr. Finch,” said Mr. Tate, “tell you what I found.
I found a little girl’s dress—it’s out there in my car. That your dress, Scout?”
“Yes sir, if it’s a pink one with smockin’,” I said.
Mr. Tate was behaving as if he were on the witness stand.
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