That he
might possibly obtain release by making a noise was too daring a
thought and not even conceived, much less entertained, by the
little and humble Verman. For, with the bewildering gap of his
slumber between him and previous events, he did not place the
responsibility for his being in White-Folks' House upon the white
folks who had put him there. His state of mind was that of the
stable-puppy who knows he MUST not be found in the parlour. Not
thrice in his life had Verman been within the doors of
White-Folks' House, and, above all things, he felt that it was in
some undefined way vital to him to get out of White-Folks' House
unobserved and unknown. It was in his very blood to be sure of
that.
Further than this point, the processes of Verman's mind become
mysterious to the observer. It appears, however, that he had a
definite (though somewhat primitive) conception of the usefulness
of disguise; and he must have begun his preparations before he
heard footsteps in the room outside his closed door.
These footsteps were Margaret's. Just as Mr. Schofield's coffee
was brought, and just after Penrod had been baffled in another
attempt to leave the table, Margaret rose and patted her father
impertinently upon the head.
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