to-kill-a-mockingbird-by-harper-lee-pdf-free-download (1)
He looked down at me and nodded.I led him through the hall and past the livingroom.“Won’t you have a seat, Mr. Arthur? This rocking-chair’s nice andcomfortable.”My small fantasy about him was alive again: he would be sitting on the porch. . . right pretty spell we’re having, isn’t it, Mr. Arthur?Yes, a right pretty spell. Feeling slightly unreal, I led him to the chair farthestfrom Atticus and Mr. Tate. It was in deep shadow. Boo would feel morecomfortable in the dark.Atticus was sitting in the swing, and Mr. Tate was in a chair next to him. Thelight from the livingroom windows was strong on them. I sat beside Boo.“Well, Heck,” Atticus was saying, “I guess the thing to do—good Lord, I’mlosing my memory . . .” Atticus pushed up his glasses and pressed his fingers tohis eyes. “Jem’s not quite thirteen . . . no, he’s already thirteen—I can’tremember. Anyway, it’ll come before county court—”“What will, Mr. Finch?” Mr. Tate uncrossed his legs and leaned forward.“Of course it was clear-cut self defense, but I’ll have to go to the office andhunt up—”“Mr. Finch, do you think Jem killed Bob Ewell? Do you think that?”“You heard what Scout said, there’s no doubt about it. She said Jem got upand yanked him off her—he probably got hold of Ewell’s knife somehow in thedark . . . we’ll find out tomorrow.”“Mis-ter Finch, hold on,” said Mr. Tate. “Jem never stabbed Bob Ewell.”Atticus was silent for a moment. He looked at Mr. Tate as if he appreciatedwhat he said. But Atticus shook his head.“Heck, it’s mighty kind of you and I know you’re doing it from that goodheart of yours, but don’t start anything like that.”Mr. Tate got up and went to the edge of the porch. He spat into the shrubbery,then thrust his hands into his hip pockets and faced Atticus. “Like what?” hesaid.“I’m sorry if I spoke sharply, Heck,” Atticus said simply, “but nobody’shushing this up. I don’t live that way.”“Nobody’s gonna hush anything up, Mr. Finch.”Mr. Tate’s voice was quiet, but his boots were planted so solidly on the porch
floorboards it seemed that they grew there. A curious contest, the nature ofwhich eluded me, was developing between my father and the sheriff.It was Atticus’s turn to get up and go to the edge of the porch. He said,“H’rm,” and spat dryly into the yard. He put his hands in his pockets and facedMr. Tate.“Heck, you haven’t said it, but I know what you’re thinking. Thank you for it.Jean Louise—” he turned to me. “You said Jem yanked Mr. Ewell off you?”“Yes sir, that’s what I thought . . . I—”“See there, Heck? Thank you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t wantmy boy starting out with something like this over his head. Best way to clear theair is to have it all out in the open. Let the county come and bring sandwiches. Idon’t want him growing up with a whisper about him, I don’t want anybodysaying, ‘Jem Finch . . . his daddy paid a mint to get him out of that.’ Sooner weget this over with the better.”“Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate said stolidly, “Bob Ewell fell on his knife. He killedhimself.”Atticus walked to the corner of the porch. He looked at the wisteria vine. Inhis own way, I thought, each was as stubborn as the other. I wondered whowould give in first. Atticus’s stubbornness was quiet and rarely evident, but insome ways he was as set as the Cunninghams. Mr. Tate’s was unschooled andblunt, but it was equal to my father’s.“Heck,” Atticus’s back was turned. “If this thing’s hushed up it’ll be a simpledenial to Jem of the way I’ve tried to raise him. Sometimes I think I’m a totalfailure as a parent, but I’m all they’ve got. Before Jem looks at anyone else helooks at me, and I’ve tried to live so I can look squarely back at him . . . if Iconnived at something like this, frankly I couldn’t meet his eye, and the day Ican’t do that I’ll know I’ve lost him. I don’t want to lose him and Scout, becausethey’re all I’ve got.”“Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate was still planted to the floorboards. “Bob Ewell fell onhis knife. I can prove it.”Atticus wheeled around. His hands dug into his pockets. “Heck, can’t youeven try to see it my way? You’ve got children of your own, but I’m older thanyou. When mine are grown I’ll be an old man if I’m still around, but right nowI’m—if they don’t trust me they won’t trust anybody. Jem and Scout know whathappened. If they hear of me saying downtown something different happened—Heck, I won’t have them any more. I can’t live one way in town and another way
- Page 213 and 214: “What has happened?”“Nothing
- Page 215 and 216: world that makes men lose their hea
- Page 217 and 218: change his mind. “If we’d had t
- Page 219 and 220: enough of a problem to your father
- Page 221 and 222: of folks. Folks.”Jem turned aroun
- Page 223 and 224: . . who’da thought it . . . anybo
- Page 225 and 226: “I said to him, ‘Mr. Everett,
- Page 227 and 228: and the river. Aunt Alexandra had g
- Page 229 and 230: two good arms he’d have made it,
- Page 231 and 232: 25“Don’t do that, Scout. Set hi
- Page 233 and 234: foot hit the ground. “Like you’
- Page 235 and 236: 26School started, and so did our da
- Page 237 and 238: more deeply that the town children
- Page 239 and 240: know the answer.“But it’s okay
- Page 241 and 242: 27Things did settle down, after a f
- Page 243 and 244: assessment of these events. “That
- Page 245 and 246: took off his shoes until the hounds
- Page 247 and 248: 28The weather was unusually warm fo
- Page 249 and 250: Most of the county, it seemed, was
- Page 251 and 252: butterbeans entering on cue. She wa
- Page 253 and 254: We slowed to a crawl. I asked Jem h
- Page 255 and 256: The man was walking heavily and uns
- Page 257 and 258: worry, though, he’ll be as good a
- Page 259 and 260: 29Aunt Alexandra got up and reached
- Page 261 and 262: wire. “Bob Ewell meant business,
- Page 263: 30“Mr. Arthur, honey,” said Att
- Page 267 and 268: “Heck,” said Atticus abruptly,
- Page 269 and 270: 31When Boo Radley shuffled to his f
- Page 271 and 272: latest to Miss Rachel. Miss Maudie
- Page 273: He turned out the light and went in
He looked down at me and nodded.
I led him through the hall and past the livingroom.
“Won’t you have a seat, Mr. Arthur? This rocking-chair’s nice and
comfortable.”
My small fantasy about him was alive again: he would be sitting on the porch
. . . right pretty spell we’re having, isn’t it, Mr. Arthur?
Yes, a right pretty spell. Feeling slightly unreal, I led him to the chair farthest
from Atticus and Mr. Tate. It was in deep shadow. Boo would feel more
comfortable in the dark.
Atticus was sitting in the swing, and Mr. Tate was in a chair next to him. The
light from the livingroom windows was strong on them. I sat beside Boo.
“Well, Heck,” Atticus was saying, “I guess the thing to do—good Lord, I’m
losing my memory . . .” Atticus pushed up his glasses and pressed his fingers to
his eyes. “Jem’s not quite thirteen . . . no, he’s already thirteen—I can’t
remember. Anyway, it’ll come before county court—”
“What will, Mr. Finch?” Mr. Tate uncrossed his legs and leaned forward.
“Of course it was clear-cut self defense, but I’ll have to go to the office and
hunt up—”
“Mr. Finch, do you think Jem killed Bob Ewell? Do you think that?”
“You heard what Scout said, there’s no doubt about it. She said Jem got up
and yanked him off her—he probably got hold of Ewell’s knife somehow in the
dark . . . we’ll find out tomorrow.”
“Mis-ter Finch, hold on,” said Mr. Tate. “Jem never stabbed Bob Ewell.”
Atticus was silent for a moment. He looked at Mr. Tate as if he appreciated
what he said. But Atticus shook his head.
“Heck, it’s mighty kind of you and I know you’re doing it from that good
heart of yours, but don’t start anything like that.”
Mr. Tate got up and went to the edge of the porch. He spat into the shrubbery,
then thrust his hands into his hip pockets and faced Atticus. “Like what?” he
said.
“I’m sorry if I spoke sharply, Heck,” Atticus said simply, “but nobody’s
hushing this up. I don’t live that way.”
“Nobody’s gonna hush anything up, Mr. Finch.”
Mr. Tate’s voice was quiet, but his boots were planted so solidly on the porch
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