"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!"
11
When we were small, Jem and I confined our activities to the
southern neighborhood, but when I was well into the second grade at
school and tormenting Boo Radley became passe, the business section of
Maycomb drew us frequently up the street past the real property of
Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose. It was impossible to go to town without
passing her house unless we wished to walk a mile out of the way.
Previous minor encounters with her left me with no desire for more,
but Jem said I had to grow up some time.
Mrs. Dubose lived alone except for a Negro girl in constant
attendance, two doors up the street from us in a house with steep
front steps and a dog-trot hall. She was very old; she spent most of
each day in bed and the rest of it in a wheelchair. It was rumored
that she kept a CSA pistol concealed among her numerous shawls and
wraps.
Jem and I hated her. If she was on the porch when we passed, we
would be raked by her wrathful gaze, subjected to ruthless
interrogation regarding our behavior, and given a melancholy
prediction on what we would amount to when we grew up, which was
always nothing. We had long ago given up the idea of walking past
her house on the opposite side of the street; that only made her raise
her voice and let the whole neighborhood in on it.
We could do nothing to please her. If I said as sunnily as I
could, "Hey, Mrs. Dubose," I would receive for an answer, "Don't you
say hey to me, you ugly girl! You say good afternoon, Mrs. Dubose!"
She was vicious. Once she heard Jem refer to our father as "Atticus"
and her reaction was apoplectic. Besides being the sassiest, most
disrespectful mutts who ever passed her way, we were told that it
was quite a pity our father had not remarried after our mother's
death. A lovelier lady than our mother never lived, she said, and it
was heartbreaking the way Atticus Finch let her children run wild. I
did not remember our mother, but Jem did- he would tell me about her
sometimes- and he went livid when Mrs. Dubose shot us this message.
Jem, having survived Boo Radley, a mad dog and other terrors, had
concluded that it was cowardly to stop at Miss Rachel's front steps
and wait, and had decreed that we must run as far as the post office
corner each evening to meet Atticus coming from work. Countless
evenings Atticus would find Jem furious at something Mrs. Dubose had
said when we went by.
"Easy does it, son," Atticus would say. "She's an old lady and she's
ill. You just hold your head high and be a gentleman. Whatever she
says to you, it's your job not to let her make you mad."
Jem would say she must not be very sick, she hollered so. When the
three of us came to her house, Atticus would sweep off his hat, wave
gallantly to her and say, "Good evening, Mrs. Dubose! You look like
a picture this evening."
I never heard Atticus say like a picture of what. He would tell
her the courthouse news, and would say he hoped with all his heart
she'd have a good day tomorrow. He would return his hat to his head,
swing me to his shoulders in her very presence, and we would go home
in the twilight. It was times like these when I thought my father, who
hated guns and had never been to any wars, was the bravest man who
ever lived.
The day after Jem's twelfth birthday his money was burning up his
pockets, so we headed for town in the early afternoon. Jem thought
