To kill a mockingbird by Harper Lee (CHAPTER 9)

Chapter 9

“You can just take that back, boy!”
This order, given by me to Cecil Jacobs, was the beginning of a rather thin time for Jem and me. My fists were clenched and I was ready to let fly. Atticus had
promised me he would wear me out if he ever heard of me fighting any more; I
was far too old and too big for such childish things, and the sooner I learned to
hold in, the better off everybody would be. I soon forgot.
Cecil Jacobs made me forget. He had announced in the schoolyard the day before
that Scout Finch’s daddy defended niggers. I denied it, but told Jem.
“What’d he mean sayin‘ that?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Jem said. “Ask Atticus, he’ll tell you.”
“Do you defend niggers, Atticus?” I asked him that evening.
“Of course I do. Don’t say nigger, Scout. That’s common.”
“‘s what everybody at school says.”
“From now on it’ll be everybody less one—”
“Well if you don’t want me to grow up talkin‘ that way, why do you send me to
school?”
My father looked at me mildly, amusement in his eyes. Despite our compromise,
my campaign to avoid school had continued in one form or another since my first
day’s dose of it: the beginning of last September had brought on sinking spells,
dizziness, and mild gastric complaints. I went so far as to pay a nickel for the
privilege of rubbing my head against the head of Miss Rachel’s cook’s son, who
was afflicted with a tremendous ringworm. It didn’t take.
But I was worrying another bone. “Do all lawyers defend n-Negroes, Atticus?”
“Of course they do, Scout.”
“Then why did Cecil say you defended niggers? He made it sound like you were
runnin‘ a still.”
Atticus sighed. “I’m simply defending a Negro—his name’s Tom Robinson. He
lives in that little settlement beyond the town dump. He’s a member of
Calpurnia’s church, and Cal knows his family well. She says they’re clean-living
folks. Scout, you aren’t old enough to understand some things yet, but there’s
been some high talk around town to the effect that I shouldn’t do much about
defending this man. It’s a peculiar case—it won’t come to trial until summer
session. John Taylor was kind enough to give us a postponement…”“If you shouldn’t be defendin‘ him, then why are you doin’ it?”
“For a number of reasons,” said Atticus. “The main one is, if I didn’t I couldn’t
hold up my head in town, I couldn’t represent this county in the legislature, I
couldn’t even tell you or Jem not to do something again.”
“You mean if you didn’t defend that man, Jem and me wouldn’t have to mind you
any more?”
“That’s about right.”
“Why?”
“Because I could never ask you to mind me again. Scout, simply by the nature of
the work, every lawyer gets at least one case in his lifetime that affects him
personally. This one’s mine, I guess. You might hear some ugly talk about it at
school, but do one thing for me if you will: you just hold your head high and keep
those fists down. No matter what anybody says to you, don’t you let ‘em get your
goat. Try fighting with your head for a change… it’s a good one, even if it does
resist learning.”
“Atticus, are we going to win it?”
“No, honey.”
“Then why—”
“Simply because we were licked a hundred years before we started is no reason
for us not to try to win,” Atticus said.
“You sound like Cousin Ike Finch,” I said. Cousin Ike Finch was Maycomb
County’s sole surviving Confederate veteran. He wore a General Hood type beard
of which he was inordinately vain. At least once a year Atticus, Jem and I called
on him, and I would have to kiss him. It was horrible. Jem and I would listen
respectfully to Atticus and Cousin Ike rehash the war. “Tell you, Atticus,” Cousin
Ike would say, “the Missouri Compromise was what licked us, but if I had to go
through it agin I’d walk every step of the way there an‘ every step back jist like I
did before an’ furthermore we’d whip ‘em this time… now in 1864, when
Stonewall Jackson came around by—I beg your pardon, young folks. Ol’ Blue
Light was in heaven then, God rest his saintly brow…”
“Come here, Scout,” said Atticus. I crawled into his lap and tucked my head under his chin. He put his arms around me and rocked me gently. “It’s different
this time,” he said. “This time we aren’t fighting the Yankees, we’re fighting our
friends. But remember this, no matter how bitter things get, they’re still our
friends and this is still our home.”
With this in mind, I faced Cecil Jacobs in the schoolyard next day: “You gonna
take that back, boy?”
“You gotta make me first!” he yelled. “My folks said your daddy was a disgrace
an‘ that nigger oughta hang from the water-tank!”
I drew a bead on him, remembered what Atticus had said, then dropped my fists
and walked away, “Scout’s a cow—ward!” ringing in my ears. It was the first
time I ever walked away from a fight.
Somehow, if I fought Cecil I would let Atticus down. Atticus so rarely asked Jem
and me to do something for him, I could take being called a coward for him. I felt
extremely noble for having remembered, and remained noble for three weeks.
Then Christmas came and disaster struck.
Jem and I viewed Christmas with mixed feelings. The good side was the tree and
Uncle Jack Finch. Every Christmas Eve day we met Uncle Jack at Maycomb
Junction, and he would spend a week with us.
A flip of the coin revealed the uncompromising lineaments of Aunt Alexandra
and Francis.
I suppose I should include Uncle Jimmy, Aunt Alexandra’s husband, but as he
never spoke a word to me in my life except to say, “Get off the fence,” once, I
never saw any reason to take notice of him. Neither did Aunt Alexandra. Long
ago, in a burst of friendliness, Aunty and Uncle Jimmy produced a son named
Henry, who left home as soon as was humanly possible, married, and produced
Francis. Henry and his wife deposited Francis at his grandparents’ every
Christmas, then pursued their own pleasures.
No amount of sighing could induce Atticus to let us spend Christmas day at home.
We went to Finch’s Landing every Christmas in my memory. The fact that Aunty
was a good cook was some compensation for being forced to spend a religious

holiday with Francis Hancock. He was a year older than I, and I avoided him on
principle: he enjoyed everything I disapproved of, and disliked my ingenuous
diversions.
Aunt Alexandra was Atticus’s sister, but when Jem told me about changelings and
siblings, I decided that she had been swapped at birth, that my grandparents had
perhaps received a Crawford instead of a Finch. Had I ever harbored the mystical
notions about mountains that seem to obsess lawyers and judges, Aunt Alexandra
would have been analogous to Mount Everest: throughout my early life, she was
cold and there.
When Uncle Jack jumped down from the train Christmas Eve day, we had to wait
for the porter to hand him two long packages. Jem and I always thought it funny
when Uncle Jack pecked Atticus on the cheek; they were the only two men we
ever saw kiss each other. Uncle Jack shook hands with Jem and swung me high,
but not high enough: Uncle Jack was a head shorter than Atticus; the baby of the
family, he was younger than Aunt Alexandra. He and Aunty looked alike, but
Uncle Jack made better use of his face: we were never wary of his sharp nose and
chin.
He was one of the few men of science who never terrified me, probably because
he never behaved like a doctor. Whenever he performed a minor service for Jem
and me, as removing a splinter from a foot, he would tell us exactly what he was
going to do, give us an estimation of how much it would hurt, and explain the use
of any tongs he employed. One Christmas I lurked in corners nursing a twisted
splinter in my foot, permitting no one to come near me. When Uncle Jack caught
me, he kept me laughing about a preacher who hated going to church so much
that every day he stood at his gate in his dressing-gown, smoking a hookah and
delivering five-minute sermons to any passers-by who desired spiritual comfort. I
interrupted to make Uncle Jack let me know when he would pull it out, but he
held up a bloody splinter in a pair of tweezers and said he yanked it while I was
laughing, that was what was known as relativity.
“What’s in those packages?” I asked him, pointing to the long thin parcels the
porter had given him.
“None of your business,” he said.Jem said, “How’s Rose Aylmer?”
Rose Aylmer was Uncle Jack’s cat. She was a beautiful yellow female Uncle Jack
said was one of the few women he could stand permanently. He reached into his
coat pocket and brought out some snapshots. We admired them.
“She’s gettin‘ fat,” I said.
“I should think so. She eats all the leftover fingers and ears from the hospital.”
“Aw, that’s a damn story,” I said.
“I beg your pardon?”
Atticus said, “Don’t pay any attention to her, Jack. She’s trying you out. Cal says
she’s been cussing fluently for a week, now.” Uncle Jack raised his eyebrows and
said nothing. I was proceeding on the dim theory, aside from the innate
attractiveness of such words, that if Atticus discovered I had picked them up at
school he wouldn’t make me go.
But at supper that evening when I asked him to pass the damn ham, please, Uncle
Jack pointed at me. “See me afterwards, young lady,” he said.
When supper was over, Uncle Jack went to the livingroom and sat down. He
slapped his thighs for me to come sit on his lap. I liked to smell him: he was like a
bottle of alcohol and something pleasantly sweet. He pushed back my bangs and
looked at me. “You’re more like Atticus than your mother,” he said. “You’re also
growing out of your pants a little.”
“I reckon they fit all right.”
“You like words like damn and hell now, don’t you?”
I said I reckoned so.
“Well I don’t,” said Uncle Jack, “not unless there’s extreme provocation
connected with ‘em. I’ll be here a week, and I don’t want to hear any words like
that while I’m here. Scout, you’ll get in trouble if you go around saying things
like that. You want to grow up to be a lady, don’t you?”
I said not particularly.
“Of course you do. Now let’s get to the tree.”
We decorated the tree until bedtime, and that night I dreamed of the two long packages for Jem and me. Next morning Jem and I dived for them: they were
from Atticus, who had written Uncle Jack to get them for us, and they were what
we had asked for.
“Don’t point them in the house,” said Atticus, when Jem aimed at a picture on the
wall.
“You’ll have to teach ‘em to shoot,” said Uncle Jack.
“That’s your job,” said Atticus. “I merely bowed to the inevitable.”
It took Atticus’s courtroom voice to drag us away from the tree. He declined to let
us take our air rifles to the Landing (I had already begun to think of shooting
Francis) and said if we made one false move he’d take them away from us for
good.
Finch’s Landing consisted of three hundred and sixty-six steps down a high bluff
and ending in a jetty. Farther down stream, beyond the bluff, were traces of an old
cotton landing, where Finch Negroes had loaded bales and produce, unloaded
blocks of ice, flour and sugar, farm equipment, and feminine apparel. A two-rut
road ran from the riverside and vanished among dark trees. At the end of the road
was a two-storied white house with porches circling it upstairs and downstairs. In
his old age, our ancestor Simon Finch had built it to please his nagging wife; but
with the porches all resemblance to ordinary houses of its era ended. The internal
arrangements of the Finch house were indicative of Simon’s guilelessness and the
absolute trust with which he regarded his offspring.
There were six bedrooms upstairs, four for the eight female children, one for
Welcome Finch, the sole son, and one for visiting relatives. Simple enough; but
the daughters’ rooms could be reached only by one staircase, Welcome’s room
and the guestroom only by another. The Daughters’ Staircase was in the groundfloor bedroom of their parents, so Simon always knew the hours of his daughters’
nocturnal comings and goings.
There was a kitchen separate from the rest of the house, tacked onto it by a
wooden catwalk; in the back yard was a rusty bell on a pole, used to summon
field hands or as a distress signal; a widow’s walk was on the roof, but no widows
walked there—from it, Simon oversaw his overseer, watched the river-boats, and
gazed into the lives of surrounding landholders

There went with the house the usual legend about the Yankees: one Finch female,
recently engaged, donned her complete trousseau to save it from raiders in the
neighborhood; she became stuck in the door to the Daughters’ Staircase but was
doused with water and finally pushed through. When we arrived at the Landing,
Aunt Alexandra kissed Uncle Jack, Francis kissed Uncle Jack, Uncle Jimmy
shook hands silently with Uncle Jack, Jem and I gave our presents to Francis, who
gave us a present. Jem felt his age and gravitated to the adults, leaving me to
entertain our cousin. Francis was eight and slicked back his hair.
“What’d you get for Christmas?” I asked politely.
“Just what I asked for,” he said. Francis had requested a pair of knee-pants, a red
leather booksack, five shirts and an untied bow tie.
“That’s nice,” I lied. “Jem and me got air rifles, and Jem got a chemistry set—”
“A toy one, I reckon.”
“No, a real one. He’s gonna make me some invisible ink, and I’m gonna write to
Dill in it.”
Francis asked what was the use of that.
“Well, can’t you just see his face when he gets a letter from me with nothing in it?
It’ll drive him nuts.”
Talking to Francis gave me the sensation of settling slowly to the bottom of the
ocean. He was the most boring child I ever met. As he lived in Mobile, he could
not inform on me to school authorities, but he managed to tell everything he knew
to Aunt Alexandra, who in turn unburdened herself to Atticus, who either forgot it
or gave me hell, whichever struck his fancy. But the only time I ever heard
Atticus speak sharply to anyone was when I once heard him say, “Sister, I do the
best I can with them!” It had something to do with my going around in overalls.
Aunt Alexandra was fanatical on the subject of my attire. I could not possibly
hope to be a lady if I wore breeches; when I said I could do nothing in a dress, she
said I wasn’t supposed to be doing things that required pants. Aunt Alexandra’s
vision of my deportment involved playing with small stoves, tea sets, and wearing
the Add-A-Pearl necklace she gave me when I was born; furthermore, I should be
a ray of sunshine in my father’s lonely life. I suggested that one could be a ray of sunshine in pants just as well, but Aunty said that one had to behave like a
sunbeam, that I was born good but had grown progressively worse every year.
She hurt my feelings and set my teeth permanently on edge, but when I asked
Atticus about it, he said there were already enough sunbeams in the family and to
go on about my business, he didn’t mind me much the way I was.
At Christmas dinner, I sat at the little table in the diningroom; Jem and Francis sat
with the adults at the dining table. Aunty had continued to isolate me long after
Jem and Francis graduated to the big table. I often wondered what she thought I’d
do, get up and throw something? I sometimes thought of asking her if she would
let me sit at the big table with the rest of them just once, I would prove to her how
civilized I could be; after all, I ate at home every day with no major mishaps.
When I begged Atticus to use his influence, he said he had none—we were
guests, and we sat where she told us to sit. He also said Aunt Alexandra didn’t
understand girls much, she’d never had one.
But her cooking made up for everything: three kinds of meat, summer vegetables
from her pantry shelves; peach pickles, two kinds of cake and ambrosia
constituted a modest Christmas dinner. Afterwards, the adults made for the
livingroom and sat around in a dazed condition. Jem lay on the floor, and I went
to the back yard. “Put on your coat,” said Atticus dreamily, so I didn’t hear him.
Francis sat beside me on the back steps. “That was the best yet,” I said.
“Grandma’s a wonderful cook,” said Francis. “She’s gonna teach me how.”
“Boys don’t cook.” I giggled at the thought of Jem in an apron.
“Grandma says all men should learn to cook, that men oughta be careful with
their wives and wait on ‘em when they don’t feel good,” said my cousin.
“I don’t want Dill waitin‘ on me,” I said. “I’d rather wait on him.”
“Dill?”
“Yeah. Don’t say anything about it yet, but we’re gonna get married as soon as
we’re big enough. He asked me last summer.”
Francis hooted.
“What’s the matter with him?” I asked. “Ain’t anything the matter with him.”
“You mean that little runt Grandma says stays with Miss Rachel every summer?”“That’s exactly who I mean.”
“I know all about him,” said Francis.
“What about him?”
“Grandma says he hasn’t got a home—”
“Has too, he lives in Meridian.”
“—he just gets passed around from relative to relative, and Miss Rachel keeps
him every summer.”
“Francis, that’s not so!”
Francis grinned at me. “You’re mighty dumb sometimes, Jean Louise. Guess you
don’t know any better, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“If Uncle Atticus lets you run around with stray dogs, that’s his own business,
like Grandma says, so it ain’t your fault. I guess it ain’t your fault if Uncle Atticus
is a nigger-lover besides, but I’m here to tell you it certainly does mortify the rest
of the family—”
“Francis, what the hell do you mean?”
“Just what I said. Grandma says it’s bad enough he lets you all run wild, but now
he’s turned out a nigger-lover we’ll never be able to walk the streets of Maycomb
agin. He’s ruinin‘ the family, that’s what he’s doin’.”
Francis rose and sprinted down the catwalk to the old kitchen. At a safe distance
he called, “He’s nothin‘ but a nigger-lover!”
“He is not!” I roared. “I don’t know what you’re talkin‘ about, but you better cut
it out this red hot minute!”
I leaped off the steps and ran down the catwalk. It was easy to collar Francis. I
said take it back quick.
Francis jerked loose and sped into the old kitchen. “Nigger-lover!” he yelled.
When stalking one’s prey, it is best to take one’s time. Say nothing, and as sure as
eggs he will become curious and emerge. Francis appeared at the kitchen door.
“You still mad, Jean Louise?” he asked tentatively.
“Nothing to speak of,” I said.

Francis came out on the catwalk.
“You gonna take it back, Fra—ancis?” But I was too quick on the draw. Francis
shot back into the kitchen, so I retired to the steps. I could wait patiently. I had sat
there perhaps five minutes when I heard Aunt Alexandra speak: “Where’s
Francis?”
“He’s out yonder in the kitchen.”
“He knows he’s not supposed to play in there.”
Francis came to the door and yelled, “Grandma, she’s got me in here and she
won’t let me out!”
“What is all this, Jean Louise?”
I looked up at Aunt Alexandra. “I haven’t got him in there, Aunty, I ain’t holdin‘
him.”
“Yes she is,” shouted Francis, “she won’t let me out!”
“Have you all been fussing?”
“Jean Louise got mad at me, Grandma,” called Francis.
“Francis, come out of there! Jean Louise, if I hear another word out of you I’ll tell
your father. Did I hear you say hell a while ago?”
“Nome.”
“I thought I did. I’d better not hear it again.”
Aunt Alexandra was a back-porch listener. The moment she was out of sight
Francis came out head up and grinning. “Don’t you fool with me,” he said.
He jumped into the yard and kept his distance, kicking tufts of grass, turning
around occasionally to smile at me. Jem appeared on the porch, looked at us, and
went away. Francis climbed the mimosa tree, came down, put his hands in his
pockets and strolled around the yard. “Hah!” he said. I asked him who he thought
he was, Uncle Jack? Francis said he reckoned I got told, for me to just sit there
and leave him alone.
“I ain’t botherin‘ you,” I said.
Francis looked at me carefully, concluded that I had been sufficiently subdued,
and crooned softly, “Nigger-lover…”This time, I split my knuckle to the bone on his front teeth. My left impaired, I
sailed in with my right, but not for long. Uncle Jack pinned my arms to my sides
and said, “Stand still!”
Aunt Alexandra ministered to Francis, wiping his tears away with her
handkerchief, rubbing his hair, patting his cheek. Atticus, Jem, and Uncle Jimmy
had come to the back porch when Francis started yelling.
“Who started this?” said Uncle Jack.
Francis and I pointed at each other. “Grandma,” he bawled, “she called me a
whore-lady and jumped on me!”
“Is that true, Scout?” said Uncle Jack.
“I reckon so.”
When Uncle Jack looked down at me, his features were like Aunt Alexandra’s.
“You know I told you you’d get in trouble if you used words like that? I told you,
didn’t I?”
“Yes sir, but—”
“Well, you’re in trouble now. Stay there.”
I was debating whether to stand there or run, and tarried in indecision a moment
too long: I turned to flee but Uncle Jack was quicker. I found myself suddenly
looking at a tiny ant struggling with a bread crumb in the grass.
“I’ll never speak to you again as long as I live! I hate you an‘ despise you an’
hope you die tomorrow!” A statement that seemed to encourage Uncle Jack, more
than anything. I ran to Atticus for comfort, but he said I had it coming and it was
high time we went home. I climbed into the back seat of the car without saying
good-bye to anyone, and at home I ran to my room and slammed the door. Jem
tried to say something nice, but I wouldn’t let him.
When I surveyed the damage there were only seven or eight red marks, and I was
reflecting upon relativity when someone knocked on the door. I asked who it was;
Uncle Jack answered.
“Go away!”
Uncle Jack said if I talked like that he’d lick me again, so I was quiet. When he

entered the room I retreated to a corner and turned my back on him. “Scout,” he
said, “do you still hate me?”
“Go on, please sir.”
“Why, I didn’t think you’d hold it against me,” he said. “I’m disappointed in you
—you had that coming and you know it.”
“Didn’t either.”
“Honey, you can’t go around calling people—”
“You ain’t fair,” I said, “you ain’t fair.”
Uncle Jack’s eyebrows went up. “Not fair? How not?”
“You’re real nice, Uncle Jack, an‘ I reckon I love you even after what you did, but
you don’t understand children much.”
Uncle Jack put his hands on his hips and looked down at me. “And why do I not
understand children, Miss Jean Louise? Such conduct as yours required little
understanding. It was obstreperous, disorderly and abusive—”
“You gonna give me a chance to tell you? I don’t mean to sass you, I’m just tryin‘
to tell you.”
Uncle Jack sat down on the bed. His eyebrows came together, and he peered up at
me from under them. “Proceed,” he said.
I took a deep breath. “Well, in the first place you never stopped to gimme a
chance to tell you my side of it—you just lit right into me. When Jem an‘ I fuss
Atticus doesn’t ever just listen to Jem’s side of it, he hears mine too, an’ in the
second place you told me never to use words like that except in ex-extreme
provocation, and Francis provocated me enough to knock his block off—”
Uncle Jack scratched his head. “What was your side of it, Scout?”
“Francis called Atticus somethin‘, an’ I wasn’t about to take it off him.”
“What did Francis call him?”
“A nigger-lover. I ain’t very sure what it means, but the way Francis said it—tell
you one thing right now, Uncle Jack, I’ll be—I swear before God if I’ll sit there
and let him say somethin‘ about Atticus.”
“He called Atticus that?”“Yes sir, he did, an‘ a lot more. Said Atticus’d be the ruination of the family an’
he let Jem an me run wild…”
From the look on Uncle Jack’s face, I thought I was in for it again. When he said,
“We’ll see about this,” I knew Francis was in for it. “I’ve a good mind to go out
there tonight.”
“Please sir, just let it go. Please.”
“I’ve no intention of letting it go,” he said. “Alexandra should know about this.
The idea of—wait’ll I get my hands on that boy…”
“Uncle Jack, please promise me somethin‘, please sir. Promise you won’t tell
Atticus about this. He—he asked me one time not to let anything I heard about
him make me mad, an’ I’d ruther him think we were fightin‘ about somethin’ else
instead. Please promise…”
“But I don’t like Francis getting away with something like that—”
“He didn’t. You reckon you could tie up my hand? It’s still bleedin‘ some.”
“Of course I will, baby. I know of no hand I would be more delighted to tie up.
Will you come this way?”
Uncle Jack gallantly bowed me to the bathroom. While he cleaned and bandaged
my knuckles, he entertained me with a tale about a funny nearsighted old
gentleman who had a cat named Hodge, and who counted all the cracks in the
sidewalk when he went to town. “There now,” he said. “You’ll have a very
unladylike scar on your wedding-ring finger.”
“Thank you sir. Uncle Jack?”
“Ma’am?”
“What’s a whore-lady?”
Uncle Jack plunged into another long tale about an old Prime Minister who sat in
the House of Commons and blew feathers in the air and tried to keep them there
when all about him men were losing their heads. I guess he was trying to answer
my question, but he made no sense whatsoever.
Later, when I was supposed to be in bed, I went down the hall for a drink of water
and heard Atticus and Uncle Jack in the livingroom:“I shall never marry, Atticus.”
“Why?”
“I might have children.”
Atticus said, “You’ve a lot to learn, Jack.”
“I know. Your daughter gave me my first lessons this afternoon. She said I didn’t
understand children much and told me why. She was quite right. Atticus, she told
me how I should have treated her—oh dear, I’m so sorry I romped on her.”
Atticus chuckled. “She earned it, so don’t feel too remorseful.”
I waited, on tenterhooks, for Uncle Jack to tell Atticus my side of it. But he
didn’t. He simply murmured, “Her use of bathroom invective leaves nothing to
the imagination. But she doesn’t know the meaning of half she says—she asked
me what a whore-lady was…”
“Did you tell her?”
“No, I told her about Lord Melbourne.”
“Jack! When a child asks you something, answer him, for goodness’ sake. But
don’t make a production of it. Children are children, but they can spot an evasion
quicker than adults, and evasion simply muddles ‘em. No,” my father mused,
“you had the right answer this afternoon, but the wrong reasons. Bad language is
a stage all children go through, and it dies with time when they learn they’re not
attracting attention with it. Hotheadedness isn’t. Scout’s got to learn to keep her
head and learn soon, with what’s in store for her these next few months. She’s
coming along, though. Jem’s getting older and she follows his example a good bit
now. All she needs is assistance sometimes.”
“Atticus, you’ve never laid a hand on her.”
“I admit that. So far I’ve been able to get by with threats. Jack, she minds me as
well as she can. Doesn’t come up to scratch half the time, but she tries.”
“That’s not the answer,” said Uncle Jack.
“No, the answer is she knows I know she tries. That’s what makes the difference.
What bothers me is that she and Jem will have to absorb some ugly things pretty
soon. I’m not worried about Jem keeping his head, but Scout’d just as soon jump
on someone as look at him if her pride’s at stake…”

waited for Uncle Jack to break his promise. He still didn’t.
“Atticus, how bad is this going to be? You haven’t had too much chance to
discuss it.”
“It couldn’t be worse, Jack. The only thing we’ve got is a black man’s word
against the Ewells‘. The evidence boils down to you-did—I-didn’t. The jury
couldn’t possibly be expected to take Tom Robinson’s word against the Ewells’—
are you acquainted with the Ewells?”
Uncle Jack said yes, he remembered them. He described them to Atticus, but
Atticus said, “You’re a generation off. The present ones are the same, though.”
“What are you going to do, then?”
“Before I’m through, I intend to jar the jury a bit—I think we’ll have a reasonable
chance on appeal, though. I really can’t tell at this stage, Jack. You know, I’d
hoped to get through life without a case of this kind, but John Taylor pointed at
me and said, ‘You’re It.’”
“Let this cup pass from you, eh?”
“Right. But do you think I could face my children otherwise? You know what’s
going to happen as well as I do, Jack, and I hope and pray I can get Jem and Scout
through it without bitterness, and most of all, without catching Maycomb’s usual
disease. Why reasonable people go stark raving mad when anything involving a
Negro comes up, is something I don’t pretend to understand… I just hope that
Jem and Scout come to me for their answers instead of listening to the town. I
hope they trust me enough… Jean Louise?”
My scalp jumped. I stuck my head around the corner. “Sir?”
“Go to bed.”
I scurried to my room and went to bed. Uncle Jack was a prince of a fellow not to
let me down. But I never figured out how Atticus knew I was listening, and it was
not until many years later that I realized he wanted me to hear every word he said.