“I wonder if the neighbors heard anything…” said Mr. Tate.
“I doubt it, Heck. Most of them listen to their radios or go to bed with the chickens. Maudie Atkinson may have been up, but I doubt it.”
“Go ahead, Scout,” Mr. Tate said. “Well, after Jem yelled we walked on.
Mr. Tate, I was shut up in my costume but I could hear it myself, then. Footsteps, I mean. They walked when we walked and stopped when we stopped.
Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some kind of shiny paint on my costume. I was a ham.”
“How’s that?” asked Mr. Tate, startled. Atticus described my role to Mr. Tate, plus the construction of my garment.
You should have seen her when she came in,” he said, “it was crushed to a pulp.”
Mr. Tate rubbed his chin. “I wondered why he had those marks on him, His sleeves were perforated with little holes.
There were one or two little puncture marks on his arms to match the holes. Let me see that thing if you will, sir.”
Atticus fetched the remains of my costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and bent it around to get an idea of its former shape.
“This thing probably saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He pointed with a long forefinger. A shiny clean line stood out on the dull wire.
“Bob Ewell meant business,” Mr. Tate muttered. “He was out of his mind,” said Atticus.
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