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"
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
—
"
Some
invisible
signal
had
made
the
lunchers
on
the
square
rise
and
scatter
bits
of
newspaper
,
cellophane
,
and
wrapping
paper
.
Children
came
to
mothers
,
babies
were
cradled
on
as
men
in
sweat
-
stained
hats
collected
their
families
and
herded
them
through
the
courthouse
doors
.
In
the
far
corner
of
the
square
the
Negroes
and
Mr
.
Dolphus
Raymond
stood
up
and
dusted
their
breeches
.
There
were
few
women
and
children
among
them
,
which
seemed
to
dispel
the
holiday
mood
.
They
waited
patiently
at
the
doors
behind
the
white
families
.
"
Let
’
s
go
in
,
"
said
Dill
.
"
Naw
,
we
better
wait
till
they
get
in
,
Atticus
might
not
like
it
if
he
sees
us
,
"
said
Jem
.
The
Maycomb
County
courthouse
was
faintly
reminiscent
of
Arlington
in
one
respect
:
the
concrete
pillars
supporting
its
south
roof
were
too
heavy
for
their
light
burden
.
The
pillars
were
all
that
remained
standing
when
the
original
courthouse
burned
in
1856
.
Another
courthouse
was
built
around
them
.
It
is
better
to
say
,
built
in
spite
of
them
.
But
for
the
south
porch
,
the
Maycomb
County
courthouse
was
early
Victorian
,
presenting
an
unoffensive
vista
when
seen
from
the
north
.
From
the
other
side
,
however
,
Greek
revival
columns
clashed
with
a
big
nineteenth
-
century
clock
tower
housing
a
rusty
unreliable
instrument
,
a
view
indicating
a
people
determined
to
preserve
every
physical
scrap
of
the
past
.
To
reach
the
courtroom
,
on
the
second
floor
,
one
passed
sundry
sunless
county
cubbyholes
:
the
tax
essor
,
the
tax
collector
,
the
county
clerk
,
the
county
solicitor
,
the
circuit
clerk
,
the
judge
of
probate
lived
in
cool
dim
hutches
that
smelled
of
decaying
record
books
mingled
with
old
damp
cement
and
stale
urine
.
It
was
necessary
to
turn
on
the
lights
in
the
daytime
;
there
was
always
a
film
of
dust
on
the
rough
floorboards
.
The
inhabitants
of
these
offices
were
creatures
of
their
environment
:
little
gray
-
faced
men
,
they
seemed
untouched
by
wind
or
sun
.
