As the summer progressed, so did our game. We polished and perfected it, added dialogue and plot
until we had manufactured a small play upon which we rang changes every day.
Dill was a villain’s villain: he could get into any character part assigned him,
and appear tall if height was part of the devilry required.
He was as good as his worst performance; his worst performance was Gothic.
I reluctantly played assorted ladies who entered the script.
I never thought it as much fun as Tarzan, and I played that summer with more than vague anxiety
despite Jem’s assurances that Boo Radley was dead and nothing would get me,
with him and Calpurnia there in the daytime and Atticus home at night.
Jem was a born hero. It was a melancholy little drama, woven from bits and scraps of gossip and neighborhood legend:
Mrs. Radley had been beautiful until she married Mr. Radley and lost all her money.
She also lost most of her teeth, her hair, and her right forefinger (Dill’s contribution.
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