Atticus spoke. “Where’re your pants, son?” “Pants, sir?” “Pants.” It was no use. In his shorts before God and everybody. I sighed. “Ah—Mr. Finch?” In the glare from the streetlight, I could see Dill hatching one: his eyes widened, his fat cherub face grew rounder. “What is it, Dill?” asked Atticus. “Ah—I won ’em from him,” he said vaguely. “Won them? How?” Dill’s hand sought the back of his head. He brought it forward and across his forehead. “We were playin’ strip poker up yonder by the fishpool,” he said. Jem and I relaxed. The neighbors seemed satisfied: they all stiffened. But what was
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