To Kill a Mockingbird

sighed.
    “Ah—Mr. Finch?”
    In the glare from the streetlight, I could see Dill hatching one: his eyes widened, his fat cherub face grew rounder.
    “What is it, Dill?” asked Atticus.
    “Ah—I won ‘em from him,” he said vaguely.
    “Won them? How?”
    Dill’s hand sought the back of his head. He brought it forward and across his forehead. “We were playin‘ strip poker up yonder by the fishpool,” he said.
    Jem and I relaxed. The neighbors seemed satisfied: they all stiffened. But what was strip poker?
    We had no chance to find out: Miss Rachel went off like the town fire siren: “Do-o-o Jee-sus, Dill Harris! Gamblin‘ by my fishpool? I’ll strip-poker you, sir!”
    Atticus saved Dill from immediate dismemberment. “Just a minute, Miss Rachel,” he said. “I’ve never heard of ‘em doing that before. Were you all playing cards?”
    Jem fielded Dill’s fly with his eyes shut: “No sir, just with matches.”
    I admired my brother. Matches were dangerous, but cards were fatal.
    “Jem, Scout,” said Atticus, “I don’t want to hear of poker in any form again. Go by Dill’s and get your pants, Jem. Settle it yourselves.”
    “Don’t worry, Dill,” said Jem, as we trotted up the sidewalk, “she ain’t gonna get you. He’ll talk her out of it. That was fast thinkin‘, son. Listen… you hear?”
    We stopped, and heard Atticus’s voice:“…not serious… they all go through it, Miss Rachel…”
    Dill was comforted, but Jem and I weren’t. There was the problem of Jem showing up some pants in the morning.
    “‘d give you some of mine,” said Dill, as we came to Miss Rachel’s steps. Jem said he couldn’t get in them, but thanks anyway. We said good-bye, and Dill went inside the house. He evidently remembered he was engaged to me, for he ran back out and kissed me swiftly in front of Jem. “Yawl write, hear?” he bawled after us.

    Had Jem’s pants been safely on him, we would not have slept much anyway. Every night-sound I heard from my cot on the back porch was magnified three-fold; 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.”
    I began to feel sick. Going back to that place by himself—I remembered Miss Stephanie: Mr. Nathan had the other barrel waiting for the next sound he heard, be it nigger, dog… Jem knew that better than I.
    I was desperate: “Look, it ain’t worth it, Jem. A lickin‘ hurts but it doesn’t last. You’ll get your head shot off, Jem. Please…”
    He blew out his breath patiently. “I—it’s like this, Scout,” he muttered. “Atticus ain’t ever whipped me since I can remember. I wanta keep it that way.”
    This was a thought. It seemed that Atticus threatened us every other day. “You mean he’s never caught you at anything.”
    “Maybe so, but—I just wanta keep it that way, Scout. We shouldn’a done that tonight, Scout.”
    It was then, I suppose, that Jem and I first began to part company. Sometimes I did not understand him, but my periods of bewilderment were short-lived. This was beyond me. “Please,” I pleaded, “can’tcha just think about it for a minute—by yourself on that place—”
    “Shut up!”
    “It’s not like he’d never speak to you again or somethin‘… I’m gonna wake him up, Jem, I swear I am—”
    Jem grabbed my pajama collar and wrenched it tight. “Then I’m goin‘ with you—” I choked.
    “No you ain’t, you’ll just make noise.”
    It was no use. I unlatched