Mr. Tate clumped softly around the porch. “It ain’t your decision, Mr. Finch, it’s all mine. It’s my decision and my responsibility.
For once, if you don’t see it my way, there’s not much you can do about it. If you wanta try, I’ll call you a liar to your face.
Your boy never stabbed Bob Ewell,” he said slowly, “didn’t come near a mile of it and now you know it.
All he wanted to do was get him and his sister safely home.”
Mr. Tate stopped pacing. He stopped in front of Atticus, and his back was to us.
“I’m not a very good man, sir, but I am sheriff of Maycomb County. Lived in this town all my life an’ I’m goin’ on forty-three years old.
Know everything that’s happened here since before I was born.
There’s a black boy dead for no reason, and the man responsible for it’s dead.
Let the dead bury the dead this time, Mr. Finch. Let the dead bury the dead.”
Mr. Tate went to the swing and picked up his hat. It was lying beside Atticus.
Mr. Tate pushed back his hair and put his hat on.
I never heard tell that it’s against the law for a citizen to do his utmost to prevent a crime from being committed,
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