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.