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           Ijerkedawakeandmadeanhonestefforttoremainso,bylookingdownandconcentratingontheheadsbelow:thereweresixteenbaldones,fourteenmenthatcouldpassforredheads,fortyheadsvaryingbetweenbrownandblack,and—IrememberedsomethingJemhadonceexplainedtomewhenhewentthroughabriefperiodofpsychicalresearch:hesaidifenoughpeople—astadiumfull,maybe—weretoconcentrateononething,suchassettingatreeafireinthewoods,thatthetreewouldigniteofitsownaccord.ItoyedwiththeideaofaskingeveryonebelowtoconcentrateonsettingTomRobinsonfree,butthoughtiftheywereastiredasI,itwouldn’twork.

           Dillwassoundasleep,hisheadonJem’sshoulder,andJemwasquiet.

           "Ain’titalongtime?"Iaskedhim.

           "Sureis,Scout,"hesaidhappily.

           "Well,fromthewayyouputit,it’djusttakefiveminutes."

           Jemraisedhiseyebrows."Therearethingsyoudon’tunderstand,"hesaid,andIwastoowearytoargue.

           ButImusthavebeenreasonablyawake,orIwouldnothavereceivedtheimpressionthatwascreepingintome.ItwasnotunlikeoneIhadlastwinter,andIshivered,thoughthenightwashot.ThefeelinggrewuntiltheatmosphereinthecourtroomwasexactlythesameasacoldFebruarymorning,whenthemockingbirdswerestill,andthecarpentershadstoppedhammeringonMissMaudie’snewhouse,andeverywooddoorintheneighborhoodwasshutastightasthedoorsoftheRadleyPlace.Adeserted,waiting,emptystreet,andthecourtroomwaspackedwithpeople.