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           OneChristmasIlurkedincornersnursingatwistedsplinterinmyfoot,permittingnoonetocomenearme.WhenUncleJackcaughtme,hekeptmelaughingaboutapreacherwhohatedgoingtochurchsomuchthateverydayhestoodathisgateinhisdressing-gown,smokingahookahanddeliveringfive-minutesermonstoanypassers-bywhodesiredspiritualcomfort.IinterruptedtomakeUncleJackletmeknowwhenhewouldpullitout,butheheldupabloodysplinterinapairoftweezersandsaidheyankeditwhileIwaslaughing,thatwaswhatwasknownasrelativity.

           "What’sinthosepackages?"Iaskedhim,pointingtothelongthinparcelstheporterhadgivenhim.

           "Noneofyourbusiness,"hesaid.

           Jemsaid,"How’sRoseAylmer?"

           RoseAylmerwasUncleJack’scat.ShewasabeautifulyellowfemaleUncleJacksaidwasoneofthefewwomenhecouldstandpermanently.Hereachedintohiscoatpocketandbroughtoutsomesnapshots.Weadmiredthem.

           "She’sgettin’fat,"Isaid.

           "Ishouldthinkso.Sheeatsalltheleftoverfingersandearsfromthehospital."

           "Aw,that’sadamnstory,"Isaid.

           "Ibegyourpardon?"

           Atticussaid,"Don’tpayanyattentiontoher,Jack.She’stryingyouout.Calsaysshe’sbeencussingfluentlyforaweek,now."