every scratch of feet on gravel was Boo Radley seeking revenge, every passing Negro laughing in the night was Boo Radley loose and after us;
insects splashing against the screen were Boo Radley’s insane fingers picking the wire to pieces;
the chinaberry trees were malignant, hovering, alive.
I lingered between sleep and wakefulness until I heard Jem murmur.
“Sleep, Little Three-Eyes?” “Are you crazy?” “Sh-h. Atticus’s light’s out.”
In the waning moonlight I saw Jem swing his feet to the floor. “I’m goin‘ after ’em,” he said.
I sat upright. “You can’t. I won’t let you.” He was struggling into his shirt. “I’ve got to.”
“You do an‘ I’ll wake up Atticus.” “You do and I’ll kill you.”
I pulled him down beside me on the cot. I tried to reason with him.
“Mr. Nathan’s gonna find ‘em in the morning, Jem. He knows you lost ’em.
When he shows ‘em to Atticus it’ll be pretty bad, that’s all there is to it. Go’n back to bed.”
“That’s what I know,” said Jem. “That’s why I’m goin‘ after ’em.”
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