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           Thatyourdress,Scout?"

           "Yessir,ifit’sapinkonewithsmockin’,"Isaid.Mr.Tatewasbehavingasifhewereonthewitnessstand.Helikedtotellthingshisownway,untrammeledbystateordefense,andsometimesittookhimawhile.

           "Ifoundsomefunny-lookingpiecesofmuddy-coloredcloth—"

           "That’sm’costume,Mr.Tate."

           Mr.Tateranhishandsdownhisthighs.HerubbedhisleftarmandinvestigatedJem’smantelpiece,thenheseemedtobeinterestedinthefireplace.Hisfingerssoughthislongnose.

           "Whatisit,Heck?"saidAtticus.

           Mr.Tatefoundhisneckandrubbedit."BobEwell’slyin’onthegroundunderthattreedownyonderwithakitchenknifestuckupunderhisribs.He’sdead,Mr.Finch."