“There’s somethin‘ wrong with an old dog down yonder.” Calpurnia sighed.
“I can’t wrap up any dog’s foot now. There’s some gauze in the bathroom, go get it and do it yourself.”
Jem shook his head. “He’s sick, Cal. Something’s wrong with him.”
“What’s he doin‘, trying to catch his tail?” “No, he’s doin‘ like this.”
Jem gulped like a goldfish, hunched his shoulders and twitched his torso.
He’s goin‘ like that, only not like he means to.“Are you telling me a story, Jem Finch?”
Calpurnia’s voice hardened. “No Cal, I swear I’m not.”
“Was he runnin‘?”No, he’s just moseyin‘ along, so slow you can’t hardly tell it. He’s comin’ this way.”
Calpurnia rinsed her hands and followed Jem into the yard. “I don’t see any dog,” she said.
She followed us beyond the Radley Place and looked where Jem pointed.
Tim Johnson was not much more than a speck in the distance, but he was closer to us.
He walked erratically, as if his right legs were shorter than his left legs.
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