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           Jemsaidhedidn’tevenwanttogo,buthewasunabletoresistfootballinanyform,andhestoodgloomilyonthesidelineswithAtticusandmewatchingCecilJacobs’sfathermaketouchdownsfortheBaptists.

           OneSaturdayJemandIdecidedtogoexploringwithourair-riflestoseeifwecouldfindarabbitorasquirrel.WehadgoneaboutfivehundredyardsbeyondtheRadleyPlacewhenInoticedJemsquintingatsomethingdownthestreet.Hehadturnedhisheadtoonesideandwaslookingoutofthecornersofhiseyes.

           "Whatchalookingat?"

           "Thatolddogdownyonder,"hesaid.

           "That’soldTimJohnson,ain’tit?"

           "Yeah."

           TimJohnsonwasthepropertyofMr.HarryJohnsonwhodrovetheMobilebusandlivedonthesouthernedgeoftown.Timwasaliver-coloredbirddog,thepetofMaycomb.

           "What’shedoing?"

           "Idon’tknow,Scout.Webettergohome."

           "AwJem,it’sFebruary."

           "Idon’tcare,I’mgonnatellCal."

           Weracedhomeandrantothekitchen.

           "Cal,"saidJem,"canyoucomedownthesidewalkaminute?"