“Verman. Was three us boys in ow fam'ly. Ol'est one name Sherman. 'N'en come me; I'm Herman. 'N'en come him; he Verman. Sherman dead. Verman, he de littles' one.”
“You goin' to live here?”
“Umhuh. Done move in f'm way outen on a fahm.”
He pointed to the north with his right hand, and Penrod's eyes opened wide as they followed the gesture. Herman had no forefinger on that hand.
“Look there!” exclaimed Penrod. “You haven't got any finger!”
“I mum map,” said Verman, with egregious pride.
“HE done 'at,” interpreted Herman, chuckling. “Yessuh; done chop 'er spang off, long 'go. He's a playin' wif a ax an' I lay my finguh on de do'-sill an' I say, 'Verman, chop 'er off!' So Verman he chop 'er right spang off up to de roots! Yessuh.”
“What FOR?”
“Jes' fo' nothin'.”
“He hoe me hoo,” remarked Verman.