"There's somethin' wrong with an old dog down yonder."
"Mr. Finch!" she shouted. "This is Cal. I swear to God there's a mad dog down the street a piece- he's comin' this way, yes sir, he's-Mr. Finch, I declare he is- old Tim Johnson, yes sir...yessir...yes-"
Mr. Tate put his hand to his forehead and leaned forward. "He's got it all right, Mr. Finch."
"Take him, Mr. Finch." Mr. Tate handed the rifle to Atticus
The rifle cracked. Tim Johnson leaped, flopped over and crumpled on the sidewalk in a brown-and-white heap. He didn't know what hit him.