There were bumps on his head, bumps on his body and bumps on his arms and legs and hands.

Even his fingers had bumps on the ends of them.

For dress he wore an old gray suit of fantastic design, which fitted him very badly because of the bumps it covered but could not conceal.
But the Bumpy Man's eyes were kind and twinkling in expression and as soon as he saw his visitors he bowed low and said in a rather bumpy voice: "Happy day! Come in and shut the door, for it grows cool when the sun goes down.

Winter is now upon us." "Why, it isn't cold a bit, outside," said Trot, "so it can't be winter yet." "You will change your mind about that in a little while," declared the Bumpy Man.

"My bumps always tell me the state of the weather, and they feel just now as if a snowstorm was coming this way.