Part One Chapter 10
To Kill a Mockingbird
Atticus was feeble: he was nearly fifty. When Jem and I asked him why he was so old, he said he got started late, which we felt reflected upon his abilities and manliness. He was much older than the parents of our school contemporaries, and there was nothing Jem or I could say about him when our classmates said, "My¯ father-" Jem was football crazy. Atticus was never too tired to play keep-away, but when Jem wanted to tackle him Atticus would say, "I'm too old for that, son."
Our father didn't do anything. He worked in an office, not in a drugstore. Atticus did not drive a dump-truck for the county, he was not the sheriff, he did not farm, work in a garage, or do anything that could possibly arouse the admiration of anyone.
Besides that, he wore glasses. He was nearly blind in his left eye, and said left eyes were the tribal curse of the Finches. Whenever he wanted to see something well, he turned his head and looked from his right eye.
He did not do the things our schoolmates' fathers did: he never went hunting, he did not play poker or fish or drink or smoke. He sat in the livingroom and read.
With these attributes, however, he would not remain as inconspicuous as we wished him to: that year, the school buzzed with talk about him defending Tom Robinson, none of which was complimentary. After my bout with Cecil Jacobs when I committed myself to a policy of cowardice, word got around that Scout Finch wouldn't fight any more, her daddy wouldn't let her. This was not entirely correct: I wouldn't fight publicly for Atticus, but the family was private ground. I would fight anyone from a third cousin upwards tooth and nail. Francis Hanc*ck, for example, knew that.
When he gave us our air-rifles Atticus wouldn't teach us to shoot.
Uncle Jack instructed us in the rudiments thereof; he said Atticus
wasn't interested in guns. Atticus said to Jem one day, "I'd rather
you shot at tin cans in the back yard, but I know you'll go after
birds. Shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit 'em, but
remember it's a sin to kill a mockingbird."
That was the only time I ever heard Atticus say it was a sin to do
something, and I asked Miss Maudie about it.
"Your father's right," she said. "Mockingbirds don't do one thing
but make music for us to enjoy. They don't eat up people's gardens,
don't nest in corncribs, they don't do one thing but sing their hearts
out for us. That's why it's a sin to kill a mockingbird."
"Miss Maudie, this is an old neighborhood, ain't it?"
"Been here longer than the town."
"Nome, I mean the folks on our street are all old. Jem and me's
the only children around here. Mrs. Dubose is close on to a hundred
and Miss Rachel's old and so are you and Atticus."
"I don't call fifty very old," said Miss Maudie tartly. "Not being
wheeled around yet, am I? Neither's your father. But I must say
Providence was kind enough to burn down that old mausoleum of mine,
I'm too old to keep it up- maybe you're right, Jean Louise, this is
a settled neighborhood. You've never been around young folks much,
have you?"
"Yessum, at school."
"I mean young grown-ups. You're lucky, you know. You and Jem have
the benefit of your father's age. If your father was thirty you'd find
life quite different."
"I sure would. Atticus can't do anything...."
"You'd be surprised," said Miss Maudie. "There's life in him yet."
"What can he do?"
"Well, he can make somebody's will so airtight can't anybody
meddle with it."
"Shoot..."
"Well, did you know he's the best checker-player in this town?
Why, down at the Landing when we were coming up, Atticus Finch could
beat everybody on both sides of the river."
"Good Lord, Miss Maudie, Jem and me beat him all the time."
"It's about time you found out it's because he lets you. Did you
know he can play a Jew's Harp?"
This modest accomplishment served to make me even more ashamed of
him.
"Well..."¯ she said.
"Well, what, Miss Maudie?"
"Well nothing. Nothing- it seems with all that you'd be proud of
him. Can't everybody play a Jew's Harp. Now keep out of the way of the
carpenters. You'd better go home, I'll be in my azaleas and can't
watch you. Plank might hit you."
I went to the back yard and found Jem plugging away at a tin can,
which seemed stupid with all the bluejays around. I returned to the
front yard and busied myself for two hours erecting a complicated
breastworks at the side of the porch, consisting of a tire, an
orange crate, the laundry hamper, the porch chairs, and a small U.S.
flag Jem gave me from a popcorn box.
When Atticus came home to dinner he found me crouched down aiming
across the street. "What are you shooting at?"
"Miss Maudie's rear end."
Atticus turned and saw my generous target bending over her bushes.
He pushed his hat to the back of his head and crossed the street.
Maudie, he called, "I thought I'd better warn you. You're in
considerable peril."
Miss Maudie straightened up and looked toward me. She said,
Atticus, you are a devil from hell.
When Atticus returned he told me to break camp. "Don't you ever
let me catch you pointing that gun at anybody again," he said.
I wished my father was a devil from hell. I sounded out Calpurnia on
the subject. "Mr. Finch? Why, he can do lots of things."
"Like what?" I asked.
Calpurnia scratched her head. "Well, I don't rightly know," she
said.
Jem underlined it when he asked Atticus if he was going out for
the Methodists and Atticus said he'd break his neck if he did, he
was just too old for that sort of thing. The Methodists were trying to
pay off their church mortgage, and had challenged the Baptists to a
game of touch football. Everybody in town's father was playing, it
seemed, except Atticus. Jem said he didn't even want to go, but he was
unable to resist football in any form, and he stood gloomily on the
sidelines with Atticus and me watching Cecil Jacobs's father make
touchdowns for the Baptists.
One Saturday Jem and I decided to go exploring with our air-rifles
to see if we could find a rabbit or a squirrel. We had gone about five
hundred yards beyond the Radley Place when I noticed Jem squinting
at something down the street. He had turned his head to one side and
was looking out of the corners of his eyes.
"Whatcha looking at?"
"That old dog down yonder," he said.
"That's old Tim Johnson, ain't it?"
"Yeah."
Tim Johnson was the property of Mr. Harry Johnson who drove the
Mobile bus and lived on the southern edge of town. Tim was a
liver-colored bird dog, the pet of Maycomb.
"What's he doing?"
"I don't know, Scout. We better go home."
"Aw Jem, it's February."
"I don't care, I'm gonna tell Cal."
We raced home and ran to the kitchen.
"Cal," said Jem, "can you come down the sidewalk a minute?"
"What for, Jem? I can't come down the sidewalk every time you want
me."
"There's somethin' wrong with an old dog down yonder."
Calpurnia sighed. "I can't wrap up any dog's foot now. There's
some gauze in the bathroom, go get it and do it yourself."
Jem shook his head. "He's sick, Cal. Something's wrong with him."
"What's he doin', trying to catch his tail?"
"No, he's doin' like this."
Jem gulped like a goldfish, hunched his shoulders and twitched his
torso. "He's goin' like that, only not like he means to."
"Are you telling me a story, Jem Finch?" Calpurnia's voice hardened.
"No Cal, I swear I'm not."
"Was he runnin'?"
"No, he's just moseyin' along, so slow you can't hardly tell it.
He's comin' this way."
Calpurnia rinsed her hands and followed Jem into the yard. "I
don't see any dog," she said.
She followed us beyond the Radley Place and looked where Jem
pointed. Tim Johnson was not much more than a speck in the distance,
but he was closer to us. He walked erratically, as if his right legs
were shorter than his left legs. He reminded me of a car stuck in a
sandbed.
"He's gone lopsided," said Jem.
Calpurnia stared, then grabbed us by the shoulders and ran us
home. She shut the wood door behind us, went to the telephone and
shouted, "Gimme Mr. Finch's office!"
"Mr. Finch!" she shouted. "This is Cal. I swear to God there's a mad
dog down the street a piece- he's comin' this way, yes sir, he's-
Mr. Finch, I declare he is- old Tim Johnson, yes sir... yessir...
yes-"
She hung up and shook her head when we tried to ask her what Atticus
had said. She rattled the telephone hook and said, "Miss Eula May- now
ma'am, I'm through talkin' to Mr. Finch, please don't connect me no
more- listen, Miss Eula May, can you call Miss Rachel and Miss
Stephanie Crawford and whoever's got a phone on this street and tell
'em a mad dog's comin'? Please ma'am!"
Calpurnia listened. "I know it's February, Miss Eula May, but I know
a mad dog when I see one. Please ma'am hurry!"
Calpurnia asked Jem, "Radleys got a phone?"
Jem looked in the book and said no. "They won't come out anyway,
Cal."
"I don't care, I'm gonna tell 'em."
She ran to the front porch, Jem and I at her heels. "You stay in
that house!" she yelled.
Calpurnia's message had been received by the neighborhood. Every
wood door within our range of vision was closed tight. We saw no trace
of Tim Johnson. We watched Calpurnia running toward the Radley
Place, holding her skirt and apron above her knees. She went up to the
front steps and banged on the door. She got no answer, and she
shouted, "Mr. Nathan, Mr. Arthur, mad dog's comin'! Mad dog's comin'!"
"She's supposed to go around in back," I said.
Jem shook his head. "Don't make any difference now," he said.
Calpurnia pounded on the door in vain. No one acknowledged her
warning; no one seemed to have heard it.
As Calpurnia sprinted to the back porch a black Ford swung into
the driveway. Atticus and Mr. Heck Tate got out.
Mr. Heck Tate was the sheriff of Maycomb County. He was as tall as
Atticus, but thinner. He was long-nosed, wore boots with shiny metal
eye-holes, boot pants and a lumber jacket. His belt had a row of
bullets sticking in it. He carried a heavy rifle. When he and
Atticus reached the porch, Jem opened the door.
"Stay inside, son," said Atticus. "Where is he, Cal?"
"He oughta be here by now," said Calpurnia, pointing down the
street.
"Not runnin', is he?" asked Mr. Tate.
"Naw sir, he's in the twitchin' stage, Mr. Heck."
"Should we go after him, Heck?" asked Atticus.
"We better wait, Mr. Finch. They usually go in a straight line,
but you never can tell. He might follow the curve- hope he does or
he'll go straight in the Radley back yard. Let's wait a minute."
"Don't think he'll get in the Radley yard," said Atticus.
Fence'll stop him. He'll probably follow the road....
I thought mad dogs foamed at the mouth, galloped, leaped and
lunged at throats, and I thought they did it in August. Had Tim
Johnson behaved thus, I would have been less frightened.
Nothing is more deadly than a deserted, waiting street. The trees
were still, the mockingbirds were silent, the carpenters at Miss
Maudie's house had vanished. I heard Mr. Tate sniff, then blow his
nose. I saw him shift his gun to the crook of his arm. I saw Miss
Stephanie Crawford's face framed in the glass window of her front
door. Miss Maudie appeared and stood beside her. Atticus put his
foot on the rung of a chair and rubbed his hand slowly down the side
of his thigh.
"There he is," he said softly.
Tim Johnson came into sight, walking dazedly in the inner rim of the
curve parallel to the Radley house.
"Look at him," whispered Jem. "Mr. Heck said they walked in a
straight line. He can't even stay in the road."
"He looks more sick than anything," I said.
"Let anything get in front of him and he'll come straight at it."
Mr. Tate put his hand to his forehead and leaned forward. "He's
got it all right, Mr. Finch."
Tim Johnson was advancing at a snail's pace, but he was not
playing or sniffing at foliage: he seemed dedicated to one course
and motivated by an invisible force that was inching him toward us. We
could see him shiver like a horse shedding flies; his jaw opened and
shut; he was alist, but he was being pulled gradually toward us.
"He's lookin' for a place to die," said Jem.
Mr. Tate turned around. "He's far from dead, Jem, he hasn't got
started yet."
Tim Johnson reached the side street that ran in front of the
Radley Place, and what remained of his poor mind made him pause and
seem to consider which road he would take. He made a few hesitant
steps and stopped in front of the Radley gate; then he tried to turn
around, but was having difficulty.
Atticus said, "He's within range, Heck. You better get him before he
goes down the side street- Lord knows who's around the corner. Go
inside, Cal."
Calpurnia opened the screen door, latched it behind her, then
unlatched it and held onto the hook. She tried to block Jem and me
with her body, but we looked out from beneath her arms.
"Take him, Mr. Finch." Mr. Tate handed the rifle to Atticus; Jem and
I nearly fainted.
"Don't waste time, Heck," said Atticus. "Go on."
"Mr. Finch, this is a one-shot job."
Atticus shook his head vehemently: "Don't just stand there, Heck! He
won't wait all day for you-"
"For God's sake, Mr. Finch, look where he is! Miss and you'll go
straight into the Radley house! I can't shoot that well and you know
it!"
"I haven't shot a gun in thirty years-"
Mr. Tate almost threw the rifle at Atticus. "I'd feel mighty
comfortable if you did now," he said.
In a fog, Jem and I watched our father take the gun and walk out
into the middle of the street. He walked quickly, but I thought he
moved like an underwater swimmer: time had slowed to a nauseating
crawl.
When Atticus raised his glasses Calpurnia murmured, "Sweet Jesus
help him," and put her hands to her cheeks.
Atticus pushed his glasses to his forehead; they slipped down, and
he dropped them in the street. In the silence, I heard them crack.
Atticus rubbed his eyes and chin; we saw him blink hard.
In front of the Radley gate, Tim Johnson had made up what was left
of his mind. He had finally turned himself around, to pursue his
original course up our street. He made two steps forward, then stopped
and raised his head. We saw his body go rigid.
With movements so swift they seemed simultaneous, Atticus's hand
yanked a ball-tipped lever as he brought the gun to his shoulder.
The rifle cracked. Tim Johnson leaped, flopped over and crumpled
on the sidewalk in a brown-and-white heap. He didn't know what hit
him.
Mr. Tate jumped off the porch and ran to the Radley Place. He
stopped in front of the dog, squatted, turned around and tapped his
finger on his forehead above his left eye. "You were a little to the
right, Mr. Finch," he called.
"Always was," answered Atticus. "If I had my 'druthers I'd take a
shotgun."
He stooped and picked up his glasses, ground the broken lenses to
powder under his heel, and went to Mr. Tate and stood looking down
at Tim Johnson.
Doors opened one by one, and the neighborhood slowly came alive.
Miss Maudie walked down the steps with Miss Stephanie Crawford.
Jem was paralyzed. I pinched him to get him moving, but when Atticus
saw us coming he called, "Stay where you are."
When Mr. Tate and Atticus returned to the yard, Mr. Tate was
smiling. "I'll have Zeebo collect him," he said. "You haven't forgot
much, Mr. Finch. They say it never leaves you."
Atticus was silent.
"Atticus?" said Jem.
"Yes?"
"Nothin'."
"I saw that, One-Shot Finch!"
Atticus wheeled around and faced Miss Maudie. They looked at one
another without saying anything, and Atticus got into the sheriff's
car. "Come here," he said to Jem. "Don't you go near that dog, you
understand? Don't go near him, he's just as dangerous dead as alive."
"Yes sir," said Jem. "Atticus-"
"What, son?"
"Nothing."
"What's the matter with you, boy, can't you talk?" said Mr. Tate,
grinning at Jem. "Didn't you know your daddy's-"
"Hush, Heck," said Atticus, "let's go back to town."
When they drove away, Jem and I went to Miss Stephanie's front
steps. We sat waiting for Zeebo to arrive in the garbage truck.
Jem sat in numb confusion, and Miss Stephanie said, "Uh, uh, uh,
who'da thought of a mad dog in February? Maybe he wadn't mad, maybe he
was just crazy. I'd hate to see Harry Johnson's face when he gets in
from the Mobile run and finds Atticus Finch's shot his dog. Bet he was
just full of fleas from somewhere-"
Miss Maudie said Miss Stephanie'd be singing a different tune if Tim
Johnson was still coming up the street, that they'd find out soon
enough, they'd send his head to Montgomery.
Jem became vaguely articulate: "'d you see him, Scout? 'd you see
him just standin' there?... 'n' all of a sudden he just relaxed all
over, an' it looked like that gun was a part of him... an' he did it
so quick, like... I hafta aim for ten minutes 'fore I can hit
somethin'...."
Miss Maudie grinned wickedly. "Well now, Miss Jean Louise," she
said, "still think your father can't do anything? Still ashamed of
him?"
"Nome," I said meekly.
"Forgot to tell you the other day that besides playing the Jew's
Harp, Atticus Finch was the deadest shot in Maycomb County in his
time."
"Dead shot..." echoed Jem.
"That's what I said, Jem Finch. Guess you'll change your¯ tune now.
The very idea, didn't you know his nickname was Ol' One-Shot when he
was a boy? Why, down at the Landing when he was coming up, if he
shot fifteen times and hit fourteen doves he'd complain about
wasting ammunition."
"He never said anything about that," Jem muttered.
"Never said anything about it, did he?"
"No ma'am."
"Wonder why he never goes huntin' now," I said.
"Maybe I can tell you," said Miss Maudie. "If your father's
anything, he's civilized in his heart. Marksmanship's a gift of God, a
talent- oh, you have to practice to make it perfect, but shootin's
different from playing the piano or the like. I think maybe he put his
gun down when he realized that God had given him an unfair advantage
over most living things. I guess he decided he wouldn't shoot till
he had to, and he had to today."
"Looks like he'd be proud of it," I said.
"People in their right minds never take pride in their talents,"
said Miss Maudie.
We saw Zeebo drive up. He took a pitchfork from the back of the
garbage truck and gingerly lifted Tim Johnson. He pitched the dog onto
the truck, then poured something from a gallon jug on and around the
spot where Tim fell. "Don't yawl come over here for a while," he
called.
When we went home I told Jem we'd really have something to talk
about at school on Monday. Jem turned on me.
"Don't say anything about it, Scout," he said.
"What? I certainly am. Ain't everybody's daddy the deadest shot in
Maycomb County."
Jem said, "I reckon if he'd wanted us to know it, he'da told us.
If he was proud of it, he'da told us."
"Maybe it just slipped his mind," I said.
"Naw, Scout, it's something you wouldn't understand. Atticus is real
old, but I wouldn't care if he couldn't do anything- I wouldn't care
if he couldn't do a blessed thing."
Jem picked up a rock and threw it jubilantly at the carhouse.
Running after it, he called back: "Atticus is a gentleman, just like
me!"