Yeah, I realize I haven't been putting up stories lately, so here's a little something I wrote for school that I decided to post here, just to show anyone who might be reading my stories that I'm not dead. This takes place during the jail scene, when the Cunninghams gang up on Atticus. It's shown from Mr. Underwood's point of view. Enjoy, and R&R if you feel like it.

Mr. Underwood took a swig of his cherry wine as he sat at his desk in his flat above the Maycomb Tribune. It had been a slow day, just like every other day in Maycomb. He'd probably have to make up a few stories to fill in the whole Tribune. It was nighttime, so he had to get to work and have it finished by morning.

Underwood cracked his hands and had a glance at the clock on his wall. It was nearly nine. He would have to work all through the night. Scratching his head, he looked at his typewriter. The Tribune sat there half-finished and begging for more words to be entered. Underwood sat for five minutes thinking of something to type, but could think of nothing. He got up from his uncomfortable mahogany chair, bringing his bottle of drink with him. Standing at the window, he took another hearty swig of the boisterous cherry wine he so enjoyed. He gazed outside at the impenetrable darkness of the Maycomb night, trying to eye something of interest he could use in the paper. He glanced around the block once; then, remembering the events of the previous day, he looked toward the jailhouse. Just as he expected, Atticus Finch was sitting there under the light of a lamp, a veritable beacon for the shady block around him.

The reason for Atticus's presence was a client he was protecting in court. There was a rowdy group of drunken farmers down in Old Sarum who had threatened to come to town and express their disdain for the client. Obviously, they didn't intend to stop by and have a friendly chat.

Underwood had been there when a few of the townsmen including Atticus had discussed this threat. They had found only one reason for it: the client in question, Tom Robinson, was a black man.

Underwood wasn't particularly fond of black men himself, but these whole shenanigans had him on Atticus's side for another reason: the witness of the crime. Robert E. Lee Ewell was the rottenest mound of bile ever to be spewed onto the Earth. Any man's word beat his by far in Mr. Underwood's book, regardless of race.

But there was more to it than that, even. Underwood was by no means a good or moral man; he had no pity for this Tom Robinson. But he was a believer that a man should never be wrongly accused, no matter who he is. Underwood's deepest, darkest secret was his being a hopeless romantic. He believed that everything should go according to truth, especially in a life or death situation.

As Underwood looked down at Atticus reading under the lamplight, he heard the ominous putter putter of an automobile piercing the nighttime silence like a Patton saber. His eyes found the source of the noise: not one, but four cars were coming down the road toward the jailhouse. His heart leapt: the Cunninghams had stayed true to their word.

Sheriff Tate must be out lookin' for 'em right now, thought Underwood as he stood their in horror. The cars pulled up in front of Atticus, who was now on his feet. Underwood saw a few men get out of each car. The lamplight barely showed their features, but Underwood knew that these were undoubtedly the Cunninghams from Old Sarum. He heard barely audible conversing between the mob of men and Atticus Finch. It looked like Atticus could hold his own for a while, but Underwood wasn't taking chances. Setting down his jug of cherry wine, he located his shotgun case. As fast as his physically unfit body could move, he ran to the other side of the room and acquired his handy double-barreled shotgun. He tried to listen in on the conversation going on outside as he hurriedly hefted his box of shot out of a brown wooden chest. He loaded the shotgun and sped back over to the window. As quietly as he could, he set the shotgun on the windowsill and aimed it at the mob. All he had to do now was wait.

As his breathing calmed down, Underwood began to hear some of the conversation. "…so deep in the woods they won't get out till mornin'."

"Indeed? Why so?"

"Called 'em off on a snipe hunt…"

Knew it, said Underwood, keeping the shotgun steady.

"Well then," said Atticus, his voice unwavering, "that changes things, doesn't it?"

"It do."

"Do you really think so?"

Underwood felt a bead of sweat run down his face. He wiped it away, returning his attention to the scene below just in time to see its latest development.

"H-ey, Atticus!"

Underwood's eyes widened. Atticus's children and their little friend had just leapt into the circle of crazed farmers. Underwood's worry accelerated up a notch; he was decent enough to know that children shouldn't be harmed during this debacle. Perhaps he was in over his head. His gaze left the scene for a moment, but he didn't move the shotgun. His eyes met with the telephone. Maybe Tate could still be reached in time. Maybe he could take care of this instead…

"Hey, Mr. Cunningham. How's your entailment gettin' along?" Underwood could barely believe his ears. Scout, the youngest of the three children on the scene, had just begun a conversation with one of the rabble-rousers. She began conversing about things Underwood didn't understand, including entailments and the man's little boy Walter.. If not for the danger the little girl was in, this would have had Mr. Underwood laughing breathless.

Eventually, Scout looked to her father, who was stiff with fear and embarrassment. She looked rather embarrassed too as she tried to explain why she was doing as she was doing. This was when the turning point of the conflict occurred: Mr. Cunningham, the man she had been talking to, took Scout by the shoulders nonviolently and said, "I'll tell him you said hey, little lady." And with that, he called off his angry brethren.

When Underwood got over his utter shock at the turnout of the situation, he let out a sigh of relief. Atticus and his children were safe. He looked back down to see Atticus say something to the inside of the jailhouse: "Get some sleep, Tom. They won't bother you anymore."

Underwood felt it necessary to reveal his presence in this affair. He shouted down to Atticus: "You're damn tootin' they won't. Had you covered all the time, Atticus."

Atticus walked toward the Tribune building and looked up at Mr. Underwood. "Braxton? Is that you?"

Cringing at the use of his real name, Underwood lowered the shotgun and stood it on his side next to him. "O' course it is, who else'd it be?"

Atticus had a slight grin on his face. "You really needn't have been there, Braxton. They wouldn't have done anything."

"Doubt that, Mr. Finch," said Underwood, pretending to examine his shotgun casually. "They'd have torn you limb from limb if that daughter of yours hadn't come in just in time."

Atticus nodded. "Maybe, though I do wish she hadn't shown up."

Underwood looked back to Atticus, one of his eyebrows raised to the top of his head in an almost comical fashion. "Why's that, Atticus?"

Atticus sighed. "Things such as this are things I'd rather keep my children away from. You'd understand if you had some of your own, Braxton."

Underwood laughed out loud. That wouldn't ever happen and they both knew it.

Atticus smirked at Underwood's dry cynicism. He continued his thought: "I guess they've got to find out the dark side of man eventually, though. I can't protect them forever."

"That you can't, Mr. Finch," agreed Underwood, though he knew not the true meaning of Atticus's words.

Atticus paused for a moment. Then he said, "Thank you for your support, Braxton. Even though you're supporting me merely on idealistic principle, it's much obliged."

This took Underwood by surprise. "Uh, ain't nothin', Mr. Finch. I'm just doin' as I oughta. It's my duty, that it is."

Atticus nodded. "I just hope you'll see it in you someday to help a black man out of the goodness of your heart, not just because you know he's innocent."

This statement left Underwood speechless. Was Atticus Finch preaching to him? After a while, Underwood said, "Maybe I will, Atticus, but for now I don't see no reason to."

Atticus sighed. "I see. Well then, good night, Mr. Underwood. Thank you again." And with that, Atticus retrieved his lamp and chair and set off towards home with his children.

Underwood stood looking out that window for some time after that. Soon, he realized he still hadn't finished the Tribune. He put his shotgun away and sat back down. He considered writing about the event that had just transpired, but decided against it; it should probably be kept quiet, as nothing happened to anyone. He let a few thoughts for articles roll around in his head, and decided on an opinion article on morality and equality to fill up most of the space. He chuckled at this thought. Maybe Finch's preaching is getting to me after all, he thought, stretching and beginning his work.