Jem’s question was an appeal. I reassured him:Can’t anybody tell what you’re gonna do
lest they live in the house with you, and even I can’t tell sometimes.”
We were walking past our tree. In its knot-hole rested a ball of gray twine.
“Don’t take it, Jem,” I said. “This is somebody’s hidin’ place.”
I don’t think so, Scout.” “Yes it is. Somebody like Walter Cunningham comes down here every recess and hides his things—”
and we come along and take ’em away from him. Listen, let’s leave it and wait a couple of days.
If it ain’t gone then, we’ll take it, okay?” “Okay, you might be right,” said Jem.
It must be some little kid’s place—hides his things from the bigger folks. You know it’s only when school’s in that we’ve found things.
“Yeah,” I said, “but we never go by here in the summertime.” We went home.
Next morning the twine was where we had left it. When it was still there on the third day, Jem pocketed it.
From then on, we considered everything we found in the knot-hole our property.
The second grade was grim, but Jem assured me that the older I got the better school would be,
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