I admired my brother. Matches were dangerous, but cards were fatal.
“Jem, Scout,” said Atticus, “I don’t want to hear of poker in any form again. Go by Dill’s and get your pants, Jem. Settle it yourselves.”
“Don’t worry, Dill,” said Jem, as we trotted up the sidewalk, “she ain’t gonna get you.
He’ll talk her out of it. That was fast thinkin‘, son. Listen… you hear?”
We stopped, and heard Atticus’s voice:“…not serious… they all go through it, Miss Rachel…”
Dill was comforted, but Jem and I weren’t. There was the problem of Jem showing up some pants in the morning.
“‘d give you some of mine,” said Dill, as we came to Miss Rachel’s steps.
Jem said he couldn’t get in them, but thanks anyway.
We said good-bye, and Dill went inside the house. He evidently remembered he was engaged to me,
for he ran back out and kissed me swiftly in front of Jem. “Yawl write, hear?” he bawled after us.
Had Jem’s pants been safely on him, we would not have slept much anyway.
Every night-sound I heard from my cot on the back porch was magnified three-fold;
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