A small boy clutching a Negro woman’s hand walked toward us.
He looked all Negro to me: he was rich chocolate with flaring nostrils and beautiful teeth.
Sometimes he would skip happily, and the Negro woman tugged his hand to make him stop.
Jem waited until they passed us. “That’s one of the little ones,” he said.
“How can you tell?” asked Dill. “He looked black to me.”
“You can’t sometimes, not unless you know who they are. But he’s half Raymond, all right.”
“But how can you tell?” I asked. “I told you, Scout, you just hafta know who they are.”
“Well how do you know we ain’t Negroes?” “Uncle Jack Finch says we really don’t know.
He says as far as he can trace back the Finches we ain’t,
but for all he knows we mighta come straight out of Ethiopia durin‘ the Old Testament.”
Well if we came out durin‘ the Old Testament it’s too long ago to matter.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Jem, “but around here once you have a drop of Negro blood, that makes you all black. Hey, look—”
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