Meanwhile, Penrod appeared to reach a doubtful solution of his
problem. His expression was still somewhat clouded as he brought
from the storeroom of the stable a small fragment of a broken
mirror, two paint brushes and two old cans, one containing black
paint and the other white. He regarded himself earnestly in the
mirror; then, with some reluctance, he dipped a brush into one of
the cans, and slowly painted his nose a midnight black. He was on
the point of spreading this decoration to cover the lower part of
his face, when he paused, brush halfway between can and chin.
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.
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