We were walking past our tree. In its knot-hole rested a ball of gray twine. “Don’t take it, Jem,” I said. “This is somebody’s hidin’ place.” “I don’t think so, Scout.” “Yes it is. Somebody like Walter Cunningham comes down here every recess and hides his things—and we come along and take ’em away from him. Listen, let’s leave it and wait a couple of days. If it ain’t gone then, we’ll take it, okay?” “Okay, you might be right,” said Jem. “It must be some little kid’s place—hides his things from the bigger folks. You know it’s only when school’s in that we’ve found things.” “Yeah,” I said, “but
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