“Reckon this is long enough to reach from the sidewalk?”
“Anybody who’s brave enough to go up and touch the house hadn’t oughta use a fishin’ pole,” I said.
“Why don’t you just knock the front door down?” “This—is—different,” said Jem, “how many times do I have to tell you that?”
Dill took a piece of paper from his pocket and gave it to Jem. The three of us walked cautiously toward the old house.
Dill remained at the light-pole on the front corner of the lot, and Jem and I edged down the sidewalk parallel to the side of the house.
I walked beyond Jem and stood where I could see around the curve. “All clear,” I said. “Not a soul in sight.”
Jem looked up the sidewalk to Dill, who nodded. Jem attached the note to the end of the fishing pole,
let the pole out across the yard and pushed it toward the window he had selected.
The pole lacked several inches of being long enough, and Jem leaned over as far as he could.
I watched him making jabbing motions for so long, I abandoned my post and went to him.
“Can’t get it off the pole,” he muttered, “or if I got it off I can’t make it stay. G’on back down the street, Scout.”
I returned and gazed around the curve at the empty road.
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