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Chapter 1

      When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow.

  When it healed, and Jem’s fears of never being able to play football were assuaged, hewas seldom self-conscious about his injury. His left arm was somewhat shorter than hisright; when he stood or walked, the back of his hand was at right angles to his body, histhumb parallel to his thigh. He couldn’t have cared less, so long as he could pass andpunt.

  When enough years had gone by to enable us to look back on them, we sometimesdiscussed the events leading to his accident. I maintain that the Ewells started it all, butJem, who was four years my senior, said it started long before that. He said it began thesummer Dill came to us, when Dill first gave us the idea of making Boo Radley comeout.

  I said if he wanted to take a broad view of the thing, it really began with AndrewJackson. If General Jackson hadn’t run the Creeks up the creek, Simon Finch wouldnever have paddled up the Alabama, and where would we be if he hadn’t? We were fartoo old to settle an argument with a fist-fight, so we consulted Atticus. Our father said wewere both right.

  Being Southerners, it was a source of shame to some members of the family that wehad no recorded ancestors on either side of the Battle of Hastings. All we had wasSimon Finch, a fur-trapping apothecary from Cornwall whose piety was exceeded onlyby his stinginess. In England, Simon was irritated by the persecution of those who calledthemselves Methodists at the hands of their more liberal brethren, and as Simon calledhimself a Methodist, he worked his way across the Atlantic to Philadelphia, thence toJamaica, thence to Mobile, and up the Saint Stephens. Mindful of John Wesley’sstrictures on the use of many words in buying and selling, Simon made a pile practicingmedicine, but in this pursuit he was unhappy lest he be tempted into doing what heknew was not for the glory of God, as the putting on of gold and costly apparel. SoSimon, having forgotten his teacher’s dictum on the possession of human chattels,bought three slaves and with their aid established a homestead on the banks of theAlabama River some forty miles above Saint Stephens. He returned to Saint Stephensonly once, to find a wife, and with her established a line that ran high to daughters.

  Simon lived to an impressive age and died rich.

  It was customary for the men in the family to remain on Simon’s homestead, Finch’sLanding, and make their living from cotton. The place was self-sufficient: modest incomparison with the empires around it, the Landing nevertheless produced everythingrequired to sustain life except ice, wheat flour, and articles of clothing, supplied by river-boats from Mobile.

  Simon would have regarded with impotent fury the disturbance between the North andthe South, as it left his descendants stripped of everything but their land, yet the traditionof living on the land remained unbroken until well into the twentieth century, when myfather, Atticus Finch, went to Montgomery to read law, and his younger brother went toBoston to study medicine. Their sister Alexandra was the Finch who remained at theLanding: she married a taciturn man who spent most of his time lying in a hammock bythe river wondering if his trot-lines were full.

  When my father was admitted to the bar, he returned to Maycomb and began hispractice. Maycomb, some twenty miles east of Finch’s Landing, was the county seat ofMaycomb County. Atticus’s office in the courthouse contained little more than a hat rack,a spittoon, a checkerboard and an unsullied Code of Alabama. His first two clients werethe last two persons hanged in the Maycomb County jail. Atticus had urged them toaccept the state’s generosity in allowing them to plead Guilty to second-degree murderand escape with their lives, but they were Haverfords, in Maycomb County a namesynonymous with jackass. The Haverfords had dispatched Maycomb’s leadingblacksmith in a misunderstanding arising from the alleged wrongful detention of a mare,were imprudent enough to do it in the presence of three witnesses, and insisted that the-son-of-a-bitch-had-it-coming-to-him was a good enough defense for anybody. Theypersisted in pleading Not Guilty to first-degree murder, so there was nothing muchAtticus could do for his clients except be present at their departure, an occasion thatwas probably the beginning of my father’s profound distaste for the practice of criminallaw.

  During his first five years in Maycomb, Atticus practiced economy more than anything;for several years thereafter he invested his earnings in his brother’s education. JohnHale Finch was ten years younger than my father, and chose to study medicine at atime when cotton was not worth growing; but after getting Uncle Jack started, Atticusderived a reasonable income from the law. He liked Maycomb, he was MaycombCounty born and bred; he knew his people, they knew him, and because of SimonFinch’s industry, Atticus was related by blood or marriage to nearly every family in thetown.

  Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it. In rainyweather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on the sidewalks, the courthousesagged in the square. Somehow, it was hotter then: a black dog suffered on a summer’sday; bony mules hitched to Hoover carts flicked flies in the sweltering shade of the liveoaks on the square. Men’s stiff collars wilted by nine in the morning. Ladies bathedbefore noon, after their three-o’clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft teacakes withfrostings of sweat and sweet talcum.

  People moved slowly then. They ambled across the square, shuffled in and out of thestores around it, took their time about everything. A day was twenty-four hours long butseemed longer. There was no hurry, for there was nowhere to go, nothing to buy and nomoney to buy it with, nothing to see outside the boundaries of Maycomb County. But itwas a time of vague optimism for some of the people: Maycomb County had recentlybeen told that it had nothing to fear but fear itself.

  We lived on the main residential street in town—Atticus, Jem and I, plus Calpurnia ourcook. Jem and I found our father satisfactory: he played with us, read to us, and treatedus with courteous detachment.

  Calpurnia was something else again. She was all angles and bones; she wasnearsighted; she squinted; her hand was wide as a bed slat and twice as hard. She wasalways ordering me out of the kitchen, asking me why I couldn’t behave as well as Jemwhen she knew he was older, and calling me home when I wasn’t ready to come. Ourbattles were epic and one-sided. Calpurnia always won, mainly because Atticus alwaystook her side. She had been with us ever since Jem was born, and I had felt hertyrannical presence as long as I could remember.

  Our mother died when I was two, so I never felt her absence. She was a Graham fromMontgomery; Atticus met her when he was first elected to the state legislature. He wasmiddle-aged then, she was fifteen years his junior. Jem was the product of their firstyear of marriage; four years later I was born, and two years later our mother died from asudden heart attack. They said it ran in her family. I did not miss her, but I think Jem did.

  He remembered her clearly, and sometimes in the middle of a game he would sigh atlength, then go off and play by himself behind the car-house. When he was like that, Iknew better than to bother him.

  When I was almost six and Jem was nearly ten, our summertime boundaries (withincalling distance of Calpurnia) were Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose’s house two doors tothe north of us, and the Radley Place three doors to the south. We were never temptedto break them. The Radley Place was inhabited by an unknown entity the meredescription of whom was enough to make us behave for days on end; Mrs. Dubose wasplain hell.

  That was the summer Dill came to us.

  Early one morning as we were beginning our day’s play in the back yard, Jem and Iheard something next door in Miss Rachel Haverford’s collard patch. We went to thewire fence to see if there was a puppy—Miss Rachel’s rat terrier was expecting—instead we found someone sitting looking at us. Sitting down, he wasn’t much higherthan the collards. We stared at him until he spoke:

  “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself,” said Jem pleasantly.

  “I’m Charles Baker Harris,” he said. “I can read.”

  “So what?” I said.

  “I just thought you’d like to know I can read. You got anything needs readin‘ I can doit…”

  “How old are you,” asked Jem, “four-and-a-half?”

  “Goin‘ on seven.”

  “Shoot no wonder, then,” said Jem, jerking his thumb at me. “Scout yonder’s beenreadin‘ ever since she was born, and she ain’t even started to school yet. You look rightpuny for goin’ on seven.”

  “I’m little but I’m old,” he said.

  Jem brushed his hair back to get a better look. “Why don’t you come over, CharlesBaker Harris?” he said. “Lord, what a name.”

  “‘s not any funnier’n yours. Aunt Rachel says your name’s Jeremy Atticus Finch.”

  Jem scowled. “I’m big enough to fit mine,” he said. “Your name’s longer’n you are. Betit’s a foot longer.”

  “Folks call me Dill,” said Dill, struggling under the fence.

  “Do better if you go over it instead of under it,” I said. “Where’d you come from?”

  Dill was from Meridian, Mississippi, was spending the summer with his aunt, MissRachel, and would be spending every summer in Maycomb from now on. His family wasfrom Maycomb County originally, his mother worked for a photographer in Meridian, hadentered his picture in a Beautiful Child contest and won five dollars. She gave themoney to Dill, who went to the picture show twenty times on it.

  “Don’t have any picture shows here, except Jesus ones in the courthouse sometimes,”

  said Jem. “Ever see anything good?”

  Dill had seen Dracula, a revelation that moved Jem to eye him with the beginning ofrespect. “Tell it to us,” he said.

  Dill was a curiosity. He wore blue linen shorts that buttoned to his shirt, his hair wassnow white and stuck to his head like duckfluff; he was a year my senior but I toweredover him. As he told us the old tale his blue eyes would lighten and darken; his laughwas sudden and happy; he habitually pulled at a cowlick in the center of his forehead.

  When Dill reduced Dracula to dust, and Jem said the show sounded better than thebook, I asked Dill where his father was: “You ain’t said anything about him.”

  “I haven’t got one.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No…”

  “Then if he’s not dead you’ve got one, haven’t you?”

  Dill blushed and Jem told me to hush, a sure sign that Dill had been studied and foundacceptable. Thereafter the summer passed in routine contentment. Routine contentmentwas: improving our treehouse that rested between giant twin chinaberry trees in theback yard, fussing, running through our list of dramas based on the works of OliverOptic, Victor Appleton, and Edgar Rice Burroughs. In this matter we were lucky to haveDill. He played the character parts formerly thrust upon me—the ape in Tarzan, Mr.

  Crabtree in The Rover Boys, Mr. Damon in Tom Swift. Thus we came to know Dill as apocket Merlin, whose head teemed with eccentric plans, strange longings, and quaintfancies.

  But by the end of August our repertoire was vapid from countless reproductions, and itwas then that Dill gave us the idea of making Boo Radley come out.

  The Radley Place fascinated Dill. In spite of our warnings and explanations it drew himas the moon draws water, but drew him no nearer than the light-pole on the corner, asafe distance from the Radley gate. There he would stand, his arm around the fat pole,staring and wondering.

  The Radley Place jutted into a sharp curve beyond our house. Walking south, onefaced its porch; the sidewalk turned and ran beside the lot. The house was low, wasonce white with a deep front porch and green shutters, but had long ago darkened to thecolor of the slate-gray yard around it. Rain-rotted shingles drooped over the eaves of theveranda; oak trees kept the sun away. The remains of a picket drunkenly guarded thefront yard—a “swept” yard that was never swept—where johnson grass and rabbit-tobacco grew in abundance.

  Inside the house lived a malevolent phantom. People said he existed, but Jem and Ihad never seen him. People said he went out at night when the moon was down, andpeeped in windows. When people’s azaleas froze in a cold snap, it was because he hadbreathed on them. Any stealthy small crimes committed in Maycomb were his work.

  Once the town was terrorized by a series of morbid nocturnal events: people’s chickensand household pets were found mutilated; although the culprit was Crazy Addie, whoeventually drowned himself in Barker’s Eddy, people still looked at the Radley Place,unwilling to discard their initial suspicions. A Negro would not pass the Radley Place atnight, he would cut across to the sidewalk opposite and whistle as he walked. TheMaycomb school grounds adjoined the back of the Radley lot; from the Radleychickenyard tall pecan trees shook their fruit into the schoolyard, but the nuts layuntouched by the children: Radley pecans would kill you. A baseball hit into the Radleyyard was a lost ball and no questions asked.

  The misery of that house began many years before Jem and I were born. TheRadleys, welcome anywhere in town, kept to themselves, a predilection unforgivable inMaycomb. They did not go to church, Maycomb’s principal recreation, but worshiped athome; Mrs. Radley seldom if ever crossed the street for a mid-morning coffee break withher neighbors, and certainly never joined a missionary circle. Mr. Radley walked to townat eleven-thirty every morning and came back promptly at twelve, sometimes carrying abrown paper bag that the neighborhood assumed contained the family groceries. I neverknew how old Mr. Radley made his living—Jem said he “bought cotton,” a polite term fordoing nothing—but Mr. Radley and his wife had lived there with their two sons as longas anybody could remember.

  The shutters and doors of the Radley house were closed on Sundays, another thingalien to Maycomb’s ways: closed doors meant illness and cold weather only. Of all daysSunday was the day for formal afternoon visiting: ladies wore corsets, men wore coats,children wore shoes. But to climb the Radley front steps and call, “He-y,” of a Sundayafternoon was something their neighbors never did. The Radley house had no screendoors. I once asked Atticus if it ever had any; Atticus said yes, but before I was born.

  According to neighborhood legend, when the younger Radley boy was in his teens hebecame acquainted with some of the Cunninghams from Old Sarum, an enormous andconfusing tribe domiciled in the northern part of the county, and they formed the nearestthing to a gang ever seen in Maycomb. They did little, but enough to be discussed bythe town and publicly warned from three pulpits: they hung around the barbershop; theyrode the bus to Abbottsville on Sundays and went to the picture show; they attendeddances at the county’s riverside gambling hell, the Dew-Drop Inn & Fishing Camp; theyexperimented with stumphole whiskey. Nobody in Maycomb had nerve enough to tellMr. Radley that his boy was in with the wrong crowd.

  One night, in an excessive spurt of high spirits, the boys backed around the square ina borrowed flivver, resisted arrest by Maycomb’s ancient beadle, Mr. Conner, andlocked him in the courthouse outhouse. The town decided something had to be done;Mr. Conner said he knew who each and every one of them was, and he was bound anddetermined they wouldn’t get away with it, so the boys came before the probate judgeon charges of disorderly conduct, disturbing the peace, assault and battery, and usingabusive and profane language in the presence and hearing of a female. The judgeasked Mr. Conner why he included the last charge; Mr. Conner said they cussed so loudhe was sure every lady in Maycomb heard them. The judge decided to send the boys tothe state industrial school, where boys were sometimes sent for no other reason than toprovide them with food and decent shelter: it was no prison and it was no disgrace. Mr.

  Radley thought it was. If the judge released Arthur, Mr. Radley would see to it thatArthur gave no further trouble. Knowing that Mr. Radley’s word was his bond, the judgewas glad to do so.

  The other boys attended the industrial school and received the best secondaryeducation to be had in the state; one of them eventually worked his way throughengineering school at Auburn. The doors of the Radley house were closed on weekdaysas well as Sundays, and Mr. Radley’s boy was not seen again for fifteen years.

  But there came a day, barely within Jem’s memory, when Boo Radley was heard fromand was seen by several people, but not by Jem. He said Atticus never talked muchabout the Radleys: when Jem would question him Atticus’s only answer was for him tomind his own business and let the Radleys mind theirs, they had a right to; but when ithappened Jem said Atticus shook his head and said, “Mm, mm, mm.”

  So Jem received most of his information from Miss Stephanie Crawford, aneighborhood scold, who said she knew the whole thing. According to Miss Stephanie,Boo was sitting in the livingroom cutting some items from The Maycomb Tribune topaste in his scrapbook. His father entered the room. As Mr. Radley passed by, Boodrove the scissors into his parent’s leg, pulled them out, wiped them on his pants, andresumed his activities.

  Mrs. Radley ran screaming into the street that Arthur was killing them all, but when thesheriff arrived he found Boo still sitting in the livingroom, cutting up the Tribune. He wasthirty-three years old then.

  Miss Stephanie said old Mr. Radley said no Radley was going to any asylum, when itwas suggested that a season in Tuscaloosa might be helpful to Boo. Boo wasn’t crazy,he was high-strung at times. It was all right to shut him up, Mr. Radley conceded, butinsisted that Boo not be charged with anything: he was not a criminal. The sheriff hadn’tthe heart to put him in jail alongside Negroes, so Boo was locked in the courthousebasement.

  Boo’s transition from the basement to back home was nebulous in Jem’s memory.

  Miss Stephanie Crawford said some of the town council told Mr. Radley that if he didn’ttake Boo back, Boo would die of mold from the damp. Besides, Boo could not liveforever on the bounty of the county.

  Nobody knew what form of intimidation Mr. Radley employed to keep Boo out of sight,but Jem figured that Mr. Radley kept him chained to the bed most of the time. Atticussaid no, it wasn’t that sort of thing, that there were other ways of making people intoghosts.

  My memory came alive to see Mrs. Radley occasionally open the front door, walk tothe edge of the porch, and pour water on her cannas. But every day Jem and I wouldsee Mr. Radley walking to and from town. He was a thin leathery man with colorlesseyes, so colorless they did not reflect light. His cheekbones were sharp and his mouthwas wide, with a thin upper lip and a full lower lip. Miss Stephanie Crawford said he wasso upright he took the word of God as his only law, and we believed her, because Mr.

  Radley’s posture was ramrod straight.

  He never spoke to us. When he passed we would look at the ground and say, “Goodmorning, sir,” and he would cough in reply. Mr. Radley’s elder son lived in Pensacola; hecame home at Christmas, and he was one of the few persons we ever saw enter orleave the place. From the day Mr. Radley took Arthur home, people said the house died.

  But there came a day when Atticus told us he’d wear us out if we made any noise inthe yard and commissioned Calpurnia to serve in his absence if she heard a sound outof us. Mr. Radley was dying.

  He took his time about it. Wooden sawhorses blocked the road at each end of theRadley lot, straw was put down on the sidewalk, traffic was diverted to the back street.

  Dr. Reynolds parked his car in front of our house and walked to the Radley’s every timehe called. Jem and I crept around the yard for days. At last the sawhorses were takenaway, and we stood watching from the front porch when Mr. Radley made his finaljourney past our house.

  “There goes the meanest man ever God blew breath into,” murmured Calpurnia, andshe spat meditatively into the yard. We looked at her in surprise, for Calpurnia rarelycommented on the ways of white people.

  The neighborhood thought when Mr. Radley went under Boo would come out, but ithad another think coming: Boo’s elder brother returned from Pensacola and took Mr.

  Radley’s place. The only difference between him and his father was their ages. Jemsaid Mr. Nathan Radley “bought cotton,” too. Mr. Nathan would speak to us, however,when we said good morning, and sometimes we saw him coming from town with amagazine in his hand.

  The more we told Dill about the Radleys, the more he wanted to know, the longer hewould stand hugging the light-pole on the corner, the more he would wonder.

  “Wonder what he does in there,” he would murmur. “Looks like he’d just stick his headout the door.”

  Jem said, “He goes out, all right, when it’s pitch dark. Miss Stephanie Crawford saidshe woke up in the middle of the night one time and saw him looking straight throughthe window at her… said his head was like a skull lookin‘ at her. Ain’t you ever waked upat night and heard him, Dill? He walks like this-” Jem slid his feet through the gravel.

  “Why do you think Miss Rachel locks up so tight at night? I’ve seen his tracks in ourback yard many a mornin’, and one night I heard him scratching on the back screen, buthe was gone time Atticus got there.”

  “Wonder what he looks like?” said Dill.

  Jem gave a reasonable description of Boo: Boo was about six-and-a-half feet tall,judging from his tracks; he dined on raw squirrels and any cats he could catch, that’swhy his hands were bloodstained—if you ate an animal raw, you could never wash theblood off. There was a long jagged scar that ran across his face; what teeth he had wereyellow and rotten; his eyes popped, and he drooled most of the time.

  “Let’s try to make him come out,” said Dill. “I’d like to see what he looks like.”

  Jem said if Dill wanted to get himself killed, all he had to do was go up and knock onthe front door.

  Our first raid came to pass only because Dill bet Jem The Gray Ghost against twoTom Swifts that Jem wouldn’t get any farther than the Radley gate. In all his life, Jemhad never declined a dare.

  Jem thought about it for three days. I suppose he loved honor more than his head, forDill wore him down easily: “You’re scared,” Dill said, the first day. “Ain’t scared, justrespectful,” Jem said. The next day Dill said, “You’re too scared even to put your big toein the front yard.” Jem said he reckoned he wasn’t, he’d passed the Radley Place everyschool day of his life.

  “Always runnin‘,” I said.

  But Dill got him the third day, when he told Jem that folks in Meridian certainly weren’tas afraid as the folks in Maycomb, that he’d never seen such scary folks as the ones inMaycomb.

  This was enough to make Jem march to the corner, where he stopped and leanedagainst the light-pole, watching the gate hanging crazily on its homemade hinge.

  “I hope you’ve got it through your head that he’ll kill us each and every one, DillHarris,” said Jem, when we joined him. “Don’t blame me when he gouges your eyes out.

  You started it, remember.”

  “You’re still scared,” murmured Dill patiently.

  Jem wanted Dill to know once and for all that he wasn’t scared of anything: “It’s justthat I can’t think of a way to make him come out without him gettin‘ us.” Besides, Jemhad his little sister to think of.

  When he said that, I knew he was afraid. Jem had his little sister to think of the time Idared him to jump off the top of the house: “If I got killed, what’d become of you?” heasked. Then he jumped, landed unhurt, and his sense of responsibility left him untilconfronted by the Radley Place.

  “You gonna run out on a dare?” asked Dill. “If you are, then-”

  “Dill, you have to think about these things,” Jem said. “Lemme think a minute… it’ssort of like making a turtle come out…”

  “How’s that?” asked Dill.

  “Strike a match under him.”

  I told Jem if he set fire to the Radley house I was going to tell Atticus on him.

  Dill said striking a match under a turtle was hateful.

  “Ain’t hateful, just persuades him—‘s not like you’d chunk him in the fire,” Jemgrowled.

  “How do you know a match don’t hurt him?”

  “Turtles can’t feel, stupid,” said Jem.

  “Were you ever a turtle, huh?”

  “My stars, Dill! Now lemme think… reckon we can rock him…”

  Jem stood in thought so long that Dill made a mild concession: “I won’t say you ranout on a dare an‘ I’ll swap you The Gray Ghost if you just go up and touch the house.”

  Jem brightened. “Touch the house, that all?”

  Dill nodded.

  “Sure that’s all, now? I don’t want you hollerin‘ something different the minute I getback.”

  “Yeah, that’s all,” said Dill. “He’ll probably come out after you when he sees you in theyard, then Scout’n‘ me’ll jump on him and hold him down till we can tell him we ain’tgonna hurt him.”

  We left the corner, crossed the side street that ran in front of the Radley house, andstopped at the gate.

  “Well go on,” said Dill, “Scout and me’s right behind you.”

  “I’m going,” said Jem, “don’t hurry me.”

  He walked to the corner of the lot, then back again, studying the simple terrain as ifdeciding how best to effect an entry, frowning and scratching his head.

  Then I sneered at him.

  Jem threw open the gate and sped to the side of the house, slapped it with his palmand ran back past us, not waiting to see if his foray was successful. Dill and I followedon his heels. Safely on our porch, panting and out of breath, we looked back.

  The old house was the same, droopy and sick, but as we stared down the street wethought we saw an inside shutter move. Flick. A tiny, almost invisible movement, andthe house was still.

我哥哥杰姆快满十三岁的时侯,肘关节被扭断过。后来伤好了,他也不再担心今后玩不了橄榄球了,就不大为自己的伤感到不自然了。他的左臂比右臂稍短,站立或行走时,左手的手背与身体成直角,大拇指和大腿平行。这些,他一点儿也不在乎,只要能传球,能踢球就行了。
长大到可以回顾往事时,我们有时谈起那次事故的起因。我始终认为事情是从尤厄尔家开始的,但是杰姆(他比我大四岁)说起因还远在以前。他说,迪尔来到我们这里的那个夏天,事情就开始了}在那个夏天,他第一次怂恿我们设法把布,拉德利从他家里引出来。
我说,如果他要看得远些,就真得从安德鲁?杰克逊算起。假如杰克逊将军没有把克里克人沿克里克河赶走的话,西蒙-芬奇就不会划着小船沿着亚拉巴马河到这儿来。他没来的话,我们现在会在哪儿呢?当时,我们早已大到不该再用拳头来解决争吵了。于是,我们去问爸爸阿迪克斯。爸爸说我们俩各有各的道理。
作为南方人,哈斯汀斯战役的任何一方都没有我们的祖先参加,这总使家族中有一些人感到不光彩。我们只有西蒙?芬奇这样一个祖先——一个来自康沃耳的爱捕捉毛皮兽的药剂师。他的虔诚仅次于他的吝啬。在当时的英国,自称卫理公会教徒的人,常常遭到那些更自由的教友的迫害,对此,西蒙十分恼怒。因为他自认为是卫理公会的教徒,他沿途做工,横渡大西洋来到费城。然后又迁徙到牙买加,再到莫比尔,最后沿着圣?斯蒂芬斯河北上。他牢记约翰?韦斯利的训诫,做生意时,时刻注意什么话该说,什么话不该说,靠行医发了大财。尽管有钱,但他并不快活,担心会被诱惑去做有损于上帝荣誉的事,比如穿戴价钱昂贵的衣饰。后来,他忘记了他老师所说的不应该占有奴隶的格言,买了三个奴隶,依靠他们在圣?斯蒂芬斯以东约四十英里的亚拉巴马河岸上建立了家业。他只回过圣?斯蒂芬斯一次,在那里娶了妻子,生了一大串女儿。西蒙死时年纪很大,留下了一大笔遗产。
家里的男人惯常留在西蒙建立的家园——芬奇庄园上,靠植棉为生。这个地方能自给自足。尽管比不上周围的其它庄园,芬奇庄园还是能生产维持生活的各种必需品,只有冰制食品、面粉、衣料等要用船从莫比尔运来。
要是西蒙投死的话,尽管无可奈何,也一定会无比愤怒地看待南方和北方之问的那场动乱,因为他的后代在动乱中失去了除土地以外的所有财产。不过,在这块土地上生活的传统一直延续到二十世纪。这时,我父亲——阿迪克斯?芬奇——离家去蒙哥马利攻读法律,他弟弟去波士顿学医。他们的妹妹亚历山德拉是留在庄园上的芬奇家唯一的后裔。她嫁给了一个沉默寡言的男子,这人大部分时间都躺在河边的吊床上,猜想着安置在河里的钓钩是否全部钩上了鱼。
我父亲取得律师资格后,回到梅科姆镇,当起律师来。梅科姆镇坐落在芬奇庄园以东二十英里左右的地方,是梅科姆县的县政府所在地。阿迪克斯的事务所设在法院里。里面陈设简单,只有一只衣帽架,一个痰盂,一个棋盘和一部爱护得很好的亚拉巴马法典。他的头两个当事人是在梅科姆县监狱处死的最后两个人。阿迪克斯曾劝他们承认犯了误杀罪,好接受州立法院的宽大处理,保住性命。但他们是哈弗福特家族的人,在梅科姆县,这个家族是笨驴的同义词。这两个人误以为梅科姆县最有名的铁匠非法扣留了他们的一匹母马,就把他杀了。他们莽撞得竟敢当着三个人的面行凶,还坚持他们自己没有任何罪,说铁匠是他妈的自作自受。他们认为这就是最好的答辩。他们矢口否认犯了谋杀罪。所以,阿迪克斯无能为力,只能眼睁睁地望着他们被处死。也许就是从这件事开始,我父亲对实施刑法产生了强烈的反感。
在梅科姆镇度过的头五年中,我父亲极端俭朴。在以后的好几年里,他用攒下的钱资助他的弟弟上学。约翰?黑尔?芬奇比我父亲小十岁。在种植棉花不合算的时候,他开始学医。等杰克叔叔能够自立以后,阿迪克斯当律师,收入还可以。他热爱梅科姆镇。他生在梅科姆,长在梅科姆,了解当地人,当地人也了解他,并且,由于西蒙?芬奇的产业,阿迪克斯几乎与小镇上的每家都有血缘或姻亲关系。
梅科姆是个古老的市镇。我别刚了解它时,它已经破败不堪了。一到雨天,街道就成了红色的泥塘。人行道上,野草丛生。法院歪歪斜斜地立在广场上。不知为什么,那时天气热一些。夏天,黑毛狗是要活受罪的。广场上有几棵常青橡树,在闷热的树荫里,拴在一种叫胡佛大车上的瘦骨嶙峋的骡子不停地摆动尾巴,驱赶着叮在身上的苍蝇。男人们笔挺的衣领到上午九点就蔫巴了。女人们在中午以前得洗个澡,三点钟午睡后又得洗一个,可是到太阳落山时,又变得象是带有汗迹和爽身粉混合而成的糖霜的糕点了。
那时,人们行动缓慢。悠悠荡荡地走过广场,拖着步子在附近的商店进进出出,干什么都慢条斯理的。每天本来是二十四小时,但那时的二十四小时好象长一些。人们用不着匆匆忙忙,因为没地方可去,没东西可买,也没钱买东西。在梅科姆县界以外,也没什么好看的。但对有些人来说,那仿佛是个乐观时期:有人在那不久以前告诉梅科姆县的人,害怕的本身是最可怕的,除此之外,没什么是可怕的。
我们住的那条街是镇上的主要居民区。我们家共有四日人:阿迪克斯,杰姆,我,加上我们的厨子卡尔珀尼亚。我和杰姆都很喜欢父亲。他和我们一起玩耍,读书给我们听。对待我们既随和又公正。
卡尔珀尼亚却有些不一样。她千千瘦瘦的,既近视又斜视。手象块床板一样宽,但比床板还硬上一倍。她总把我赶出厨房,同我为什么不象杰姆那样听话,虽然她明明知道杰姆比我大。我不想回家时,她偏偏要叫我回去。我们之间的冲突大得惊人,而且老是一方取胜。卡尔珀尼亚总占上风,主要是因为阿迪克斯老站在她一边。从杰姆出世起,卡尔珀尼亚就和我们在一起。在我的记忆里,总能感到她的专横。
我两岁时母亲就去世了,所以,我从没感到失去了母亲。母亲来自蒙哥马利的格雷厄姆家族,阿迪克斯第一次被选入州的立法机构时碰上了她。当时,阿迪克斯已到了中年,母亲比他小十五岁。杰姆是他们结婚后第一年生下的。四年后生了我。又过了两年,母亲心脏病发作,突然去世。人家说这个病是她家遗传下来的。我并不想念她,但我知道杰姆非常想念她,对她记忆犹新。有时,玩着玩着,他突然长叹起来,然后走开,躲着我,呆在车库后一个人玩。碰上这种情况,我从不去打扰他。
我快到六岁、杰姆快到十岁时,我们夏天玩耍的最大区域(我们不敢走远,卡尔珀尼亚可能随时叫我们)是从我家北面第二家亨利?拉斐特?杜博新太太的房子到南面第三家拉德利家的房子。我们从没想过要超出这个范围。拉德利家住着个无人知晓的人物。只要把他描述一番,我们就会吓得一连好几天老老实实。而杜博斯太太却简直令人望而生畏。
就在那年夏天,迪尔来到我们这里度暑假。
一天清晨,我和杰姆正在后院准备开始一天的玩耍,突然听到邻居雷切尔?哈弗福特小姐家的甘蓝地里有什么响动。我们走到铁丝栅栏旁,想看看是不是有条小狗崽——雷切尔小姐的狗当时要生崽了。出乎意料之外,我们看到的却是个小孩,坐在那儿望着我们。他坐着不比身旁的甘蓝高多少。我们一个劲儿地盯着他,直到他开口说话t
。你们好。”
“你好。”杰姆和颜悦色地回答道。
“我叫查尔斯?贝克?哈里斯,”他说,“我认识字了。”
“那有什么了不起?”我说。
“我原以为你们想知道我认不认得字。你们有什么要读的我可以读给你们听……”
“你多大了?”杰姆问,“四岁半吗?”
“快七岁了。”
“嘿,这么大了,当然能识字啊。”杰姆将大拇指朝我一扬说,“那边的斯各特一生下来就识字,现在还没上学呢。你都快七岁了,看上去这么小。”
“我个子小,可年纪大。”他说。
杰姆把头发向后拂了拂,好看得更清楚些。“千吗不过来,查尔斯?贝克?哈里斯?”他说,“天啊,多么怪的名字啊!”
“和你的名字一样,没有什么好奇怪的。雷切尔姑妈说,你叫杰里米?阿迪克斯?芬奇。”
杰姆皱起眉头。“我这么大了,当然可以取这样的名字。”他说,“你的名字比你这个人的身体还要长,我断定要长一英尺。”
“大家都叫我迫尔。”迪尔说着,身子使劲在栅栏下朝这边钻。
“从上边过来好些,别从底下钻。”我说,“你是哪里人?”
迪尔是密西西比州梅里迪安县人,正在这里和他姑妈雷切尔小姐一道过夏天。从现在起,每年夏天都将在这里度过。他家原来也在梅科姆县。他妈妈在梅里迪安给一个摄影师干活,曾经拿迪尔的照片参加过一次儿童比美竞赛,得了五美元的奖金。她把钱给了迪尔,迪尔用这笔钱看了二十场电影。
“我们这儿没有电影,除了有时侯在法院里放些关于耶稣的片子,”杰姆说,“看过什么好电影吗?”
迪尔看过《德拉卡拉》。听他这么一说,杰姆开始以敬佩的目光端详着他。“给我们讲讲这个电影。”
迪尔是个很有趣的孩予。他身穿蓝色的亚麻布短裤。短裤扣在他的衬衣上。雪一样白的头发象鸭绒一样竖在他头上。他比我大一岁,但我比他高得多。他给我们讲这个古老的故事时,两只蓝眼睛忽明忽暗。他笑得突然,叉笑得畅快,时时抹着额头中央伸出来的一绺不听话的头发。
迪尔讲完《德拉卡拉》后,杰姆说听起来电影比小说有趣一些。我问迪尔他爸爸在哪儿:
“你还没提到过你爸爸呢。”
“我没有爸爸。”
“死了吗?’
“不……’
“既然没死,你就当然有个爸爸呀,是不是?”
迪尔脸红了。杰姆要我住嘴。这是个信号,暗示经过审查,可以跟迪尔交朋友了。从那以后,整个夏天我们都过得十分愉快。十分愉快的含义是:不断改进建在后院两裸巨大的苦楝树之间的树上小屋;追跑嬉闹;把我们节目单上根据奥利弗?奥普蒂克、维克托?阿普尔顿和埃德加?赖斯?巴勒斯的作品改编的戏从头到尾地演一遍。在演戏方面,有了迪尔我们真幸运。他扮演了原来硬要我扮演的角色,《人猿泰山》中的猿人,《罗弗家的男孩》中的酸苹果树先生,《托姆?斯威夫特》中的达门先生。这样,我们渐渐发现迪尔年龄虽小,但可以算个象默林那样的预言家和魔术家了。他脑子里装满了古怪的计划、离奇的渴望和荒诞的幻想。
但是,到了八月底,我们的全部节目反反复复演了无数次,已经枯燥无味了。就是在这个时候,迪尔给我们出了个主意:设法把布?拉德利从他家引出来。
拉德利家的房子强烈地吸引着迪尔。我们一再警告、解释部无济于事。这所房子吸引着他就象月亮吸引着海水一样。不过,最多只把他吸引到拐角处的电杆下。这里离拉德利家还有相当一段距离。他常常站在那儿,紧紧搂着那根粗大的电杆,出神地凝望,内心充满了好奇。
我家旁边是个急拐弯,拉德利家的房子就插在这个拐弯里。朝南走,你正好面对他家的走廊1人行道沿着他家的地界转了个弯。房子不高,很久以前,墙壁是白颜色,有纵深的前廊和绿色的百叶窗。不过,现在墙壁的颜色早已黯淡成和院子里的石板地一样的蓝灰色了。由于长期的风吹雨打,屋顶板在前廊的屋檐上耷拉着,几棵橡树遮住了阳光。一根木桩的残余部分没精打采地守卫着前院——一个从没有人打扫过的“干净的”院子。院子里杂草丛生。
房子里住着个阴险恶毒的幽灵似的人物。人们说他活着,可我和杰姆从没见过他。人们还说月亮西沉后,他就会出来,在别人的窗子外向室内窥视。如果一次寒潮后杜鹃花冻死了,那一定是沾染了他呼出的毒气。梅科姆镇上的任何小偷小摸事件都被人认为是他千的。有一向这个镇上夜间接二连三地出事,搅得全镇鸡犬不宁:人们喂养韵家禽和其他爱畜常常被人弄得缺肢断腿。尽管后来发现罪犯是神经失常的艾第——这个人最后跳进巴克?埃迪河湾中淹死了,可是人们的眼睛还是老瞅着拉德利白勺房子,不愿放弃最初的怀疑。在黑夜,连黑人都不愿从拉德利家的房前经过,他们常常绕到对面的人行道上,一边走一边吹口哨壮鹏。梅科姆学校的球场与拉德利家的地界毗邻。拉德利家有个养鸡的院子,院子里高大的核桃埘上的核桃常常掉进学校校园里,但这些核桃总在那儿,没有哪个孩子会去碰一碰:拉德利家的核桃会要你的命。棒球掉进他家的院子就等于丢失了,没有谁敢去问。
这所房子的不幸在我和杰姆出世以前就开始了。其实,那时在整个镇上,拉德利家的人不管到哪儿都会受欢迎。但他们从不与外界接触,这在梅科姆镇的人看来是一种不可原谅的怪癖。镇上的主要消遣活动是上教堂做礼拜,可是他们不去,只在家里做礼拜。拉德利太太难得在上午十时左右横过马路到对面的邻居家里和大家一道喝喝咖啡,休息休息,当然也从不参加任何宗教团体。拉德利先生每天上午十一点三十分步行到镇上去,十二点又很快回来。有时拿回一个棕色的纸袋,邻居们揣测里边一定装着这家人吃的和用的东西。我从不知道老拉德刺先生靠什么谋生——杰姆说他“买棉花”,这是无所事事的委婉语。可是,就人们的记忆所及,拉德利先生和他的妻子带着两个儿子一直住在那儿。
另一件与梅科姆镇的习惯格格不入的事情是,拉德利家的门和百叶窗在星期日总是关着的。在这个镇上,一般人只在家里有病人或者寒冷的冬天才把门窗关上。每周的七天里,这里的人总是在星期日下午进行正式的相互拜访:妇女穿上紧身胸衣,男人穿上外农,孩子们穿上鞋子。但是要在星期日下午爬上拉德利家的台阶叫一声“你好”,这却是左右邻居们从没做过的。他家没有纱门。有一次貔问阿迪克斯他们以前是不是有过纱门,阿迪克斯说有过,不过是在我出生以前。
根据街坊中流传的说法,拉德利的小儿子十多岁的时候曾跟由萨勒姆来的一些坎宁安家族的人混在一起。这些人属于住在这个县的北部一个令人迷惑不解的很大的氏族。他们结成一伙,组成了一个梅科姆镇还是第一次见过的帮会一类的团体。虽然没干什么坏事,但是他们的所作所为引起了全镇的议论,他们在大庭广众之中受到三个布道坛的公开誉告。他们在理发店周围闲逛,星期日开着车子去阿波兹维尔看电影,他们去本县河边上的赌窟——“露珠小店和钓鱼营地”参加跳舞’他们还喝自制的威士忌烈酒。镇上没有人有足够的勇气告诉拉德利先生他的儿子结交了一些狐群狗党。
一天晚上,这伙人一时心血来潮,开着一辆借来的小汽车在广场上倒来倒去。梅科姆镇的老法院差役康纳先生企图逮捕他们,但他们拒捕,后来把康纳先生锁在法院的厕所里。镇上的人认为不惩办一下这帮人不行了。康纳先生说,他认识他们中的每一个人,他决心承担责任,决不让他们逍遥法外。因此这些青年人被带到法官面前,罪名是破坏秩序,扰乱治安,聚众斗殴,在女人面前或女人能听到的地方使用下流的语言。法官问康纳先生为什么控告里包括最后一条罪状,康纳先生回答说,他们叫骂的声音那么大,他敢肯定,镇上的每个女人都听到了。法官决定把他们送往州立工艺劳作学校’有时候;青年人被送列那儿纯粹是为了供给他们饭菜和舒适的住房:那儿根本不是监狱,呆在那儿一点也不丢脸。但是拉德利先生的看法完全相反。如果法官释放亚瑟的话,拉德利先生愿意保证亚瑟不再惹麻烦。法官知道拉德利先生会恪守诺言,便很高兴地把亚瑟放了。
其他青年人到了工艺劳作学校后,接受了州内第一流的中等教育。其中一个最后在奥伯恩半工半读完成了工程学校纳学业。从这以后,每周其他几天也和星期日一样,拉德利家总是门户紧闭。拉德利的小儿子有十五年没有露面。
但是有一天(这一天在杰姆的记忆中已经淡薄),好几个人听到了布?拉德利的声音,并且还看见了他。但杰姆没赶上。他说,阿迪克斯从来不大谈拉德利家里的事:每当杰姆问他时,阿迪克斯的唯一答复就是要他别管别人的事,拉德利家的事留给他们自己去管,他们有这个权利。但这件事发生的时候,杰姆说阿迪克斯摇着头,嘴里说;“嗯,嗯,嗯。”
杰姆的大部分消息都是从斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德小姐那儿得来的。她是邻近的一个泼辣的女人。她说,这事的前前后后她都知道。据她说,有一天布?拉德利正坐在客厅里,从《梅科姆论坛报*上剪下一些消息,准备贴到剪贴本上,他父亲进来了。他父亲在他身边走过时,他用剪刀捅进他父亲的大腿,然后拔出来,在自己裤腿上擦了擦,叉继续去千他自己的事。
拉德利太太尖叫着冲到街上,说亚瑟要把全家人都杀掉。但是司法官赶来时,发现布正坐在那儿剪他的论坛报。那时他三十三岁。
斯蒂芬尼说,当时有人建议,把布送到塔斯卡卢萨精神病院去过几个月可能会有好处。可是,老拉德利说,他们家的人是不会去精神病院的,因为布并没有疯,只是有时容易激动罢了。他承认把布关起来是可以的,但又坚持布不应该受到指控:他不是罪犯。县司法官不忍把他和黑人关在同一个监狱里,于是把布关在县法院的地下室。
布是怎样从地下室放出来,又怎样回到家里,杰姆已记不清楚了。斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德小姐说,镇上的官员告诉拉德利先生说,如果不把布带回去,布会在发霉的潮湿中死掉。再说,县里也不能老是白白地养着他。.
谁也不知道拉德利先生使用了什么恫吓手段使得布不再露面。杰姆猜想拉僖利先生大部分时间都用链条把他拴在床上。阿迪克斯否定了这种猜想,认为不是那么回事,说还有其他办法能使人变成幽灵。
我清晰地记得拉德利太太偶尔打开前门,走到前廊边上,用水浇她的美人蕉。但是每天我和杰姆都能看到拉德利先生进城又回来。他很瘦,脸上皮肤很粗,双目无神,甚至不反射什么光线。他的颧骨很高,嘴很大,上嘴唇薄,下嘴唇厚。斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德小姐说他诚实正直,只有上帝的话才是他唯一的法则。我们相信这位小姐的话,因为拉德利先生的姿势总是笔直笔直的。
他从不跟我们说话。每当他从身边走过时,我们总是低着头,看着地面说:“早上好,先生。”而他总是咳嗽一声作为回答。拉德利先生的大儿子住在彭萨科拉,每年圣诞节回家一趟。他是人们看到的出入这所房子的屈指可数的几个人之一。从拉德利先生把亚瑟带回家那天起,人们就说连这所房子都死掉了。
有一天,阿迪克斯对我们说,要是我们在院子里喧闹,他就要打我们的屁股,并且授权卡尔珀尼亚,他不在时,只要听列我们吵闹,就代替他行使权力。原来是拉德利先生快要死了。
他并没有很快死去。锯木架在拉德利家的两端堵塞了道路,人行道上铺了麦秆,来往的车辆全都改道走后街。雷纳兹先生每次来看病人时都把车子停在我家门前,然后步行到拉德利家去。有好几天,我和杰姆只能蹑手蹑脚地在院子里走动。最后,锯木架搬走了。当拉德利先生从我家门前最后一次经过时,我们都站在前廊上观看。
“瞧,上帝创造的这个最卑鄙的人离开了人世。”卡尔珀尼亚喃喃自语道,并且若有所思地朝地下吐了一口唾沫。我们吃惊地看看她,因为卡尔珀尼亚很少谈论白人。
左邻右舍的人都以为拉德利先生入土后,布就会出来了。但他们猜错了:布的哥哥从彭萨科拉回来了,取代了拉德利先生。他跟他父亲的唯一差别是年龄。杰姆说内森?拉德利也“买棉花”。不过,我们向他道早安时,他会圆我们的话。有时。我们见他从镇上回来,手里拿本杂志。
袍德利家的事,我们告诉迪尔的越多,他就越想知道,抱着拐角处的电杆站得也就越久,想得也就越多。
“真不知道他在那儿干什么,’他常常自言自语地说,“好象就要把脑袋伸出来似的。”
杰姆说:“他会出来的,真的,在漆黑漆黑的时候。斯蒂芬尼?克劳福德小姐说,一次她半夜醒来,看见布在窗外直愣愣地望着她……布的脑袋象个骷髅。迪尔,难道你晚上就没醒过,没听到过他的声音吗?他这样走路……”杰姆在石子地上拖着脚走。“你知道雷切尔小姐为什么晚上把门锁得那么严实吗?好几个早上,我看到后院有他的脚印。有天晚上,我听见他抓搔我家后面的纱门,可是等阿迪克斯赶到时,他已经走了。”,
“不知他是个什么样儿?”迪尔问。
杰姆把布作了一番听来颇有道理的描绘:从他的脚印看,布大概有六英尺半高;他抓松鼠吃、抓猫吃,这就是他手上有血迹的原因——要是你生吃小动物,就永远也洗不掉手上的血迹。他脸上有条锯齿形的长长的伤疤;牙齿是黄色的,并且被虫蛀坏了;两眼向外鼓,还老流口水。
“想办法把他逗出来,”迪尔说,“我想看看他是个什么样儿。”
杰姆说如果迪尔想找死的话,只须走上去敲敲那扇前门。
我们第一次进攻的原因不过是因为迪尔说杰姆不敢超过拉德利家的大门,并且拿一本《灰色的幽灵))对两本《托姆?斯威夫特》与杰姆打赌。杰姆长这么大,打赌时从没示过弱。
杰姆思索了整整三天。我猜想,他爱荣誉胜过爱自己的脑袋,因为迪尔轻而易举地把他说服了。“你害怕了。”迪尔头一天说。“不是害怕,只是尊重他,”杰姆回答说。第二天,迪尔说,“你太胆小了,连用大脚趾挨一下他家前院的地面都不敢。”杰姆说他不这样看,自上学以来,哪天上学放学不经过拉德利家。
“每次都是跑过去的。”我说。
第三天,迪尔终于降服了他。他告诉杰姆说,梅里迪安的人绝不象梅科姆镇上的人这样没有勇气,还说他从没见过象梅科姆镇上这样胆小如鼠的人。
这几句话就足够了。杰姆昂首挺胸地走到拐弯处,站在那儿,倚在电杆上,盯着歪歪斜斜地吊在自制的合叶上的大门。
“我希望你仔细考虑过了,他会把我们三个人都杀掉的,迪尔?哈里斯。”我们走上去时,杰姆说,“要是他用大拇指把你的眼睛抠出来,可别怪我。记住,这是你挑起来的。”
“你还害怕哪。”迪尔耐着性子嘀咕道。
杰姆想一劳永逸地让迪尔知道,他对什么都无所畏惧,他说:“问题是我老想不出个办法既能把他引出来,又不让他抓住我们。”另外,他说他还有个小妹妹要考虑呢。
他这么一说,我知道他害怕了。邓次我赌他从屋顶上跳下去,他也说要考虑小妹妹。“要是我死了,你怎么办昵?”他问。后来,他跳了,平安无事,他的责任心也就不翼而飞了。可现在,面对拉德利家,他的责任心又来了。
“你想打了赌又开溜吗?”迪尔问,“如果你真想开溜……”
“迪尔,你得想到这些事。让我想一会儿……这有点儿象逗乌龟把头伸出来一样……”
“怎么逗?”迪尔问。
“在他身子下划一根火柴。”
我警告杰姆说,如果他放火烧拉德利家的房子,我要告诉阿迪克斯。
迪尔说在乌龟身子下划火柴太可恶了。
“并不可恶,只是逗引它——并不是把它扔进火里。”杰姆咆哮起来。
“你怎么知道火柴不会伤着它?”
“乌龟感觉不到,真傻!”杰姆说。
“你当过乌龟吗?”
“天啊,迪尔!现在让我想一想……我想我们能吓他一下……”
杰姆站着想了那么久,迪尔最后作了小小的让步:“我不说你想开溜了,如果你走上去,摸一下那栋房子,我就给你那本《灰色的幽灵》。”
杰姆顿时眉开眼笑:“摸一下房子,就这些?”
迪尔点点头。
“一言为定啊I我可不愿意回来后又听你提别的要求。”
“一言为定,就这么多。”迪尔说,“要是他看见你在院子里,也许会追出来,那么我和斯各特就跳到他身上,把他按倒,然后告诉他我们不打算伤害他。”
我们离开拐角,穿过拉德利家房前的街道,停在大门边。
“喂,再往前走,”迪尔说,“我和斯各特就在你身后。”
“我就走,别催我。”杰姆说。
他走到拉德利家地界的角上,然后又退回来,观察着眼前的简单地形,又是皱眉头,又是搔脑袋,似乎在想怎样进去最好。
我讥笑起他来了。
杰姆猛地推开大门,飞快地跑到房子侧面,用手掌摸了一下墙,又掉头跑回来,从我们身边冲过去,也没等一下看看他的袭击是否奏效。迪尔和我紧紧跟上,平安无事地回到我家的前廊,三个人都上气不接下气地大口喘着。这时,我们才回头看了一眼。
那栋房子依然如故,还是那样垂头丧气,没精打采。可是,朝街上看去时,我们相信我们看到了一扇百叶窗动了一下,微檄地动了一下,动得几乎看不出来,整座房子就寂静无声了。



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