We spat ourselves dry, and Jem opened the gate slowly, lifting it aside and resting it on the fence.
We were in the back yard. The back of the Radley house was less inviting than the front: a ramshackle porch ran the width of the house;
there were two doors and two dark windows between the doors. Instead of a column, a rough two-by-four supported one end of the roof.
An old Franklin stove sat in a corner of the porch; above it a hat-rack mirror caught the moon and shone eerily.
“Ar-r,” said Jem softly, lifting his foot. “Smatter?” “Chickens,” he breathed.
That we would be obliged to dodge the unseen from all directions was confirmed when Dill ahead of us spelled G-o-d in a whisper.
We crept to the side of the house, around to the window with the hanging shutter.
The sill was several inches taller than Jem. “Give you a hand up,” he muttered to Dill.
“Wait, though.” Jem grabbed his left wrist and my right wrist, I grabbed my left wrist and Jem’s right wrist,
we crouched, and Dill sat on our saddle. We raised him and he caught the window sill.
“Hurry,” Jem whispered, “we can’t last much longer.”
Dill punched my shoulder, and we lowered him to the ground.
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