What arrested him was a sound from the alley--a sound of drumming upon tin. The eyes of Penrod became significant of rushing thoughts; his expression cleared and brightened. He ran to the alley doors and flung them open.
"Oh, Verman!" he shouted.
Marching up and down before the cottage across the alley, Verman plainly considered himself to be an army. Hanging from his shoulders by a string was an old tin wash-basin, whereon he beat cheerily with two dry bones, once the chief support of a chicken.
Thus he assuaged his ennui.
"Verman, come on in here," Penrod called. "I got sumpthing for you to do you'll like awful well."
Verman halted, ceased to drum, and stared. His gaze was not fixed particularly upon Penrod's nose, however, and neither now nor later did he make any remark or gesture referring to this casual eccentricity. He expected things like that upon Penrod or Sam Williams. And as for Penrod himself, he had already forgotten that his nose was painted.
"Come on, Verman!"
Verman continued to stare, not moving. He had received such invitations before, and they had not always resulted to his advantage. Within that stable things had happened to him the like of which he was anxious to avoid in the future.
"Oh, come ahead, Verman!" Penrod urged, and, divining logic in the reluctance confronting him, he added, "This ain't goin' to be anything like last time, Verman. I got sumpthing just SPLENDUD for you to do!"
Verman's expression hardened; he shook his head decisively.
"Mo," he said.
"Oh, COME on, Verman?" Penrod pleaded. "It isn't anything goin' to HURT you, is it? I tell you it's sumpthing you'd give a good deal to GET to do, if you knew what it is."