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           ShealmostsaidAtticuswasdisgracin’thefamily.Scout...I’mscared."

           "Scared’awhat?"

           "ScaredaboutAtticus.Somebodymighthurthim."Jempreferredtoremainmysterious;allhewouldsaytomyquestionswasgoonandleavehimalone.

           NextdaywasSunday.IntheintervalbetweenSundaySchoolandChurchwhenthecongregationstretcheditslegs,IsawAtticusstandingintheyardwithanotherknotofmen.Mr.HeckTatewaspresent,andIwonderedifhehadseenthelight.Heneverwenttochurch.EvenMr.Underwoodwasthere.Mr.UnderwoodhadnouseforanyorganizationbutTheMaycombTribune,ofwhichhewasthesoleowner,editor,andprinter.Hisdayswerespentathislinotype,whereherefreshedhimselfoccasionallyfromanever-presentgallonjugofcherrywine.Herarelygatherednews;peoplebroughtittohim.ItwassaidthathemadeupeveryeditionofTheMaycombTribuneoutofhisownheadandwroteitdownonthelinotype.Thiswasbelievable.SomethingmusthavebeenuptohaulMr.Underwoodout.

           IcaughtAtticuscominginthedoor,andhesaidthatthey’dmovedTomRobinsontotheMaycombjail.Healsosaid,moretohimselfthantome,thatifthey’dkepthimthereinthefirstplacetherewouldn’thavebeenanyfuss.Iwatchedhimtakehisseatonthethirdrowfromthefront,andIheardhimrumble,"NearermyGodtothee,"somenotesbehindtherestofus.HeneversatwithAunty,Jemandme.Helikedtobebyhimselfinchurch.