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           Hewassittinginoneofhisofficechairs,andhewasreading,obliviousofthenightbugsdancingoverhishead.

           Imadetorun,butJemcaughtme."Don’tgotohim,"hesaid,"hemightnotlikeit.He’sallright,let’sgohome.Ijustwantedtoseewherehewas."

           WeweretakingashortcutacrossthesquarewhenfourdustycarscameinfromtheMeridianhighway,movingslowlyinaline.Theywentaroundthesquare,passedthebankbuilding,andstoppedinfrontofthejail.

           Nobodygotout.WesawAtticuslookupfromhisnewspaper.Heclosedit,foldeditdeliberately,droppeditinhislap,andpushedhishattothebackofhishead.Heseemedtobeexpectingthem.

           "Comeon,"whisperedJem.Westreakedacrossthesquare,acrossthestreet,untilwewereintheshelteroftheJitneyJungledoor.Jempeekedupthesidewalk."Wecangetcloser,"hesaid.WerantoTyndal’sHardwaredoor—nearenough,atthesametimediscreet.

           Inonesandtwos,mengotoutofthecars.Shadowsbecamesubstanceaslightsrevealedsolidshapesmovingtowardthejaildoor.Atticusremainedwherehewas.Themenhidhimfromview.

           "Heinthere,Mr.Finch?"amansaid.

           "Heis,"weheardAtticusanswer,"andhe’sasleep.Don’twakehimup."

           Inobediencetomyfather,therefollowedwhatIlaterrealizedwasasickeninglycomicaspectofanunfunnysituation:thementalkedinnear-whispers.

           "Youknowwhatwewant,"anothermansaid."Getasidefromthedoor,Mr.Finch."