He swung his legs over the railing and was sliding down a pillar when he slipped.
He fell, yelled, and hit Miss Maudie’s shrubbery. Suddenly I noticed that the men were backing away from Miss Maudie’s house,
moving down the street toward us. They were no longer carrying furniture.
The fire was well into the second floor and had eaten its way to the roof: window frames were black against a vivid orange center.
“Jem, it looks like a pumpkin—” “Scout, look!” Smoke was rolling off our house and Miss Rachel’s house like fog off a riverbank,
and men were pulling hoses toward them. Behind us, the fire truck from Abbottsville screamed around the curve
and stopped in front of our house. “That book…” I said. “What?” said Jem.
That Tom Swift book, it ain’t mine, it’s Dill’s…” “Don’t worry, Scout, it ain’t time to worry yet,said Jem.
He pointed. “Looka yonder.” In a group of neighbors, Atticus was standing with his hands in his overcoat pockets.
He might have been watching a football game. Miss Maudie was beside him.
“See there, he’s not worried yet,” said Jem. “Why ain’t he on top of one of the houses?”
“He’s too old, he’d break his neck.” “You think we oughta make him get our stuff out?”
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