“Got a what?”

“Goituh.  Swellin’ on her neck—­grea’ big swellin’.  She heppin’ mammy move in now.  You look in de front-room winduh wheres she sweepin’; you kin see it on her.”

Penrod looked in the window and was rewarded by a fine view of Queenie’s goitre.  He had never before seen one, and only the lure of further conversation on the part of Verman brought him from the window.

“Verman say tell you ‘bout pappy,” explained Herman.  “Mammy an’ Queenie move in town an’ go git de house all fix up befo’ pappy git out.”

“Out of where?”

“Jail.  Pappy cut a man, an’ de police done kep’ him in jail evuh sense Chris’mus-time; but dey goin’ tuhn him loose ag’in nex’ week.”

“What’d he cut the other man with?”

“Wif a pitchfawk.”

Penrod began to feel that a lifetime spent with this fascinating family were all too short.  The brothers, glowing with amiability, were as enraptured as he.  For the first time in their lives they moved in the rich glamour of sensationalism.  Herman was prodigal of gesture with his right hand; and Verman, chuckling with delight, talked fluently, though somewhat consciously.  They cheerfully agreed to keep the raccoon—­already beginning to be mentioned as “our ’coon” by Penrod—­in Mr. Schofield’s empty stable, and, when the animal had been chained to the wall near the box of rats and supplied with a pan of fair water, they assented to their new friend’s suggestion (inspired by a fine sense of the artistic harmonies) that the heretofore nameless pet be christened Sherman, in honour of their deceased relative.

At this juncture was heard from the front yard the sound of that yodelling which is the peculiar accomplishment of those whose voices have not “changed.”  Penrod yodelled a response; and Mr. Samuel Williams appeared, a large bundle under his arm.

“Yay, Penrod!” was his greeting, casual enough from without; but, having entered, he stopped short and emitted a prodigious whistle.  “Ya-A-ay!” he then shouted.  “Look at the ’coon!”

“I guess you better say, ’Look at the ‘coon!’” Penrod returned proudly.  “They’s a good deal more’n him to look at, too.  Talk some, Verman.”  Verman complied.

Sam was warmly interested.  “What’d you say his name was?” he asked.

“Verman.”

“How d’you spell it?”

“V-e-r-m-a-n,” replied Penrod, having previously received this information from Herman.

“Oh!” said Sam.

“Point to sumpthing, Herman,” Penrod commanded, and Sam’s excitement, when Herman pointed was sufficient to the occasion.

Penrod, the discoverer, continued his exploitation of the manifold wonders of the Sherman, Herman, and Verman collection.  With the air of a proprietor he escorted Sam into the alley for a good look at Queenie (who seemed not to care for her increasing celebrity) and proceeded to a dramatic climax—­the recital of the episode of the pitchfork and its consequences.