“We’re gonna miss you, boy,” I said. “Reckon we better watch for Mr. Avery?”
Mr. Avery boarded across the street from Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose’s house.
Besides making change in the collection plate every Sunday, Mr. Avery sat on the porch every night until nine o’clock and sneezed.
One evening we were privileged to witness a performance by him which seemed to have been his positively last,
for he never did it again so long as we watched. Jem and I were leaving Miss Rachel’s front steps one night when Dill stopped us:
“Golly, looka yonder.” He pointed across the street.
At first we saw nothing but a kudzu-covered front porch, but a closer inspection revealed an arc of water descending from the leaves
and splashing in the yellow circle of the street light, some ten feet from source to earth, it seemed to us.
Jem said Mr. Avery misfigured, Dill said he must drink a gallon a day, and the ensuing contest to determine relative distances and respective prowess
only made me feel left out again, as I was untalented in this area.
Dill stretched, yawned, and said altogether too casually. “I know what, let’s go for a walk.”
He sounded fishy to me. Nobody in Maycomb just went for a walk. “Where to, Dill?” Dill jerked his head in a southerly direction. Jem said, “Okay.”
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