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           "Scout,thisistoooldforyou,ain’tit?"

           "Itmostcertainlyisnot,Iknoweverywordyou’resaying."PerhapsIwastooconvincing,becauseJemhushedandneverdiscussedthesubjectagain.

           "Whattimeisit,Reverend?"heasked.

           "Gettin’ontowardeight."

           IlookeddownandsawAtticusstrollingaroundwithhishandsinhispockets:hemadeatourofthewindows,thenwalkedbytherailingovertothejurybox.Helookedinit,inspectedJudgeTayloronhisthrone,thenwentbacktowherehestarted.Icaughthiseyeandwavedtohim.Heacknowledgedmysalutewithanod,andresumedhistour.

           Mr.GilmerwasstandingatthewindowstalkingtoMr.Underwood.Bert,thecourtreporter,waschain-smoking:hesatbackwithhisfeetonthetable.

           Buttheofficersofthecourt,theonespresent—Atticus,Mr.Gilmer,JudgeTaylorsoundasleep,andBert,weretheonlyoneswhosebehaviorseemednormal.Ihadneverseenapackedcourtroomsostill.Sometimesababywouldcryoutfretfully,andachildwouldscurryout,butthegrownpeoplesatasiftheywereinchurch.Inthebalcony,theNegroessatandstoodarounduswithbiblicalpatience.

           Theoldcourthouseclocksuffereditspreliminarystrainandstruckthehour,eightdeafeningbongsthatshookourbones.

           WhenitbongedeleventimesIwaspastfeeling:tiredfromfightingsleep,IallowedmyselfashortnapagainstReverendSykes’scomfortablearmandshoulder.