which is exactly what he did, but maybe you’ll say it’s my duty to tell the town all about it and not hush it up.
Know what’d happen then? All the ladies in Maycomb includin’ my wife’d be knocking on his door bringing angel food cakes.
To my way of thinkin’, Mr. Finch, taking the one man who’s done you and this town a great service
an’ draggin’ him with his shy ways into the limelight—to me, that’s a sin.
It’s a sin and I’m not about to have it on my head. If it was any other man, it’d be different. But not this man, Mr. Finch.”
Mr. Tate was trying to dig a hole in the floor with the toe of his boot. He pulled his nose, then he massaged his left arm.
I may not be much, Mr. Finch, but I’m still sheriff of Maycomb County and Bob Ewell fell on his knife. Good night, sir.”
Mr. Tate stamped off the porch and strode across the front yard. His car door slammed and he drove away.
Atticus sat looking at the floor for a long time. Finally he raised his head.
“Scout,” he said, “Mr. Ewell fell on his knife. Can you possibly understand?”
Atticus looked like he needed cheering up. I ran to him and hugged him and kissed him with all my might.
“Yes sir, I understand,” I reassured him. “Mr. Tate was right.”
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