Mr. Finch, I hate to fight you when you’re like this. You’ve been under a strain tonight no man should ever have to go through.
Why you ain’t in the bed from it I don’t know, but I do know that for once you haven’t been able to put two and two together,
and we’ve got to settle this tonight because tomorrow’ll be too late. Bob Ewell’s got a kitchen knife in his craw.”
Mr. Tate added that Atticus wasn’t going to stand there and maintain that any boy Jem’s size with a busted arm
had fight enough left in him to tackle and kill a grown man in the pitch dark.
“Heck,” said Atticus abruptly, “that was a switchblade you were waving. Where’d you get it?”
“Took it off a drunk man,” Mr. Tate answered coolly.
I was trying to remember. Mr. Ewell was on me… then he went down… Jem must have gotten up. At least I thought…
“Heck?” “I said I took it off a drunk man downtown tonight. Ewell probably found that kitchen knife in the dump somewhere.
Honed it down and bided his time… just bided his time.”
Atticus made his way to the swing and sat down. His hands dangled limply between his knees. He was looking at the floor.
He had moved with the same slowness that night in front of the jail, when I thought it took him forever to fold his newspaper and toss it in his chair.
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색