Dill was from Meridian, Mississippi, was spending the summer with his aunt, Miss Rachel, and would be spending every summer in Maycomb from now on.
His family was from Maycomb County originally, his mother worked for a photographer in Meridian,
had entered his picture in a Beautiful Child contest and won five dollars.
She gave the money to Dill, who went to the picture show twenty times on it.
“Don’t have any picture shows here, except Jesus ones in the courthouse sometimes,” said Jem. “Ever see anything good?”
Dill had seen Dracula, a revelation that moved Jem to eye him with the beginning of respect.
“Tell it to us,” he said. Dill was a curiosity. He wore blue linen shorts that buttoned to his shirt,
his hair was snow white and stuck to his head like duckfluff; he was a year my senior but I towered over him.
As he told us the old tale his blue eyes would lighten and darken; his laugh was sudden and happy;
he habitually pulled at a cowlick in the center of his forehead.
When Dill reduced Dracula to dust, and Jem said the show sounded better than the book,
I asked Dill where his father was: “You ain’t said anything about him.”
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