“I’m Charles Baker Harris,” he said. “I can read.”
“So what?” I said. “I just thought you’d like to know I can read. You got anything needs readin‘ I can do it…”
“How old are you,” asked Jem, “four-and-a-half?” “Goin‘ on seven.”
“Shoot no wonder, then,” said Jem, jerking his thumb at me.
“Scout yonder’s been readin‘ ever since she was born, and she ain’t even started to school yet. You look right puny for goin’ on seven.”
“I’m little but I’m old,” he said. Jem brushed his hair back to get a better look.
“Why don’t you come over, Charles Baker Harris?” he said. “Lord, what a name.”
“‘s not any funnier’n yours. Aunt Rachel says your name’s Jeremy Atticus Finch.”
Jem scowled. “I’m big enough to fit mine,” he said.
Your name’s longer’n you are. Bet it’s a foot longer.
“Folks call me Dill,” said Dill, struggling under the fence.
“Do better if you go over it instead of under it,” I said. “Where’d you come from?”
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