Jem looked around, reached up, and gingerly pocketed a tiny shiny package.
We ran home, and on the front porch we looked at a small box patchworked with bits of tinfoil collected from chewing-gum wrappers.
It was the kind of box wedding rings came in, purple velvet with a minute catch.
Jem flicked open the tiny catch. Inside were two scrubbed and polished pennies, one on top of the other. Jem examined them.
“Indian-heads,” he said. “Nineteen-six and Scout, one of em’s nineteen-hundred. These are real old.”
“Nineteen-hundred,” I echoed. “Say—” “Hush a minute, I’m thinkin‘.” “Jem, you reckon that’s somebody’s hidin‘ place?”
“Naw, don’t anybody much but us pass by there, unless it’s some grown person’s—” “Grown folks don’t have hidin‘ places.”
“You reckon we ought to keep ’em, Jem?” “I don’t know what we could do, Scout. Who’d we give ‘em back to?”
I know for a fact don’t anybody go by there—Cecil goes by the back street an’ all the way around by town to get home.
Cecil Jacobs, who lived at the far end of our street next door to the post office,
walked a total of one mile per school day to avoid the Radley Place and old Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose.
Mrs. Dubose lived two doors up the street from us; neighborhood opinion was unanimous that Mrs. Dubose was the meanest old woman who ever lived.
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색