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           Anoldcampaigner,hedidnotspeakuntilwewereonthesidewalk."What’sup?"

           "Jem’sgotthelook-arounds,"anafflictionCalpurniasaidallboyscaughtathisage.

           "I’vejustgotthisfeeling,"Jemsaid,"justthisfeeling."

           WewentbyMrs.Dubose’shouse,standingemptyandshuttered,hercamelliasgrownupinweedsandjohnsongrass.Therewereeightmorehousestothepostofficecorner.

           Thesouthsideofthesquarewasdeserted.Giantmonkey-puzzlebushesbristledoneachcorner,andbetweenthemanironhitchingrailglistenedunderthestreetlights.Alightshoneinthecountytoilet,otherwisethatsideofthecourthousewasdark.Alargersquareofstoressurroundedthecourthousesquare;dimlightsburnedfromdeepwithinthem.

           Atticus’sofficewasinthecourthousewhenhebeganhislawpractice,butafterseveralyearsofithemovedtoquieterquartersintheMaycombBankbuilding.Whenweroundedthecornerofthesquare,wesawthecarparkedinfrontofthebank."He’sinthere,"saidJem.

           Buthewasn’t.Hisofficewasreachedbyalonghallway.Lookingdownthehall,weshouldhaveseenAtticusFinch,Attorney-at-Lawinsmallsoberlettersagainstthelightfrombehindhisdoor.Itwasdark.

           Jempeeredinthebankdoortomakesure.Heturnedtheknob.Thedoorwaslocked."Let’sgoupthestreet.Maybehe’svisitin’Mr.Underwood."

           Mr.UnderwoodnotonlyranTheMaycombTribuneoffice,helivedinit.Thatis,aboveit.