(Such were the
thoughts of Penrod and Sam.) But she might not have opened the
closet door. And whether she had or not, Verman must still be
there, alive or dead, for if he had escaped he would have gone
home, and their ears would not be ringing with the sinister and
melancholy cry that now came from the distance, "Oo-o-oh,
Ver-er-ma-an!"
Verman, in his seclusion, did not hear that appeal from his
brother; there were too many walls between them. But he was
becoming impatient for release, though, all in all, he had not
found the confinement intolerable or even very irksome. His
character was philosophic, his imagination calm; no bugaboos came
to trouble him. When the boys closed the door upon him, he made
himself comfortable upon the floor and, for a time, thoughtfully
chewed a patent-leather slipper that had come under his hand. He
found the patent leather not unpleasant to his palate, though he
swallowed only a portion of what he detached, not being hungry at
that time. The soul-fabric of Verman was of a fortunate weave; he
was not a seeker and questioner. When it happened to him that he
was at rest in a shady corner, he did not even think about a
place in the sun.
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