Forefinger

I burned my forefinger on fire tongs.

The policeman beckoned to me with his forefinger.

He picked up a butterfly between his thumb and forefinger.

She tapped the box with her forefinger.

Tom held the coin between his thumb and forefinger.

I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar, while Holmes, leaning forward, with his long, thin forefinger checking off the points upon the palm of his left hand, gave me a sketch of the events which had led to our journey.

And he put it to us in this way—marking the points with a lean forefinger—as we sat and lazily admired his earnestness over this new paradox (as we thought it) and his fecundity.

Tom stroked his chin thoughtfully. Then, as though struck by a flash of inspiration, he raised his forefinger, sprang from his chair and, speaking with great earnestness, launched himself about the room in meaningful strides before the assembled. "Gentlemen! We are far too complicated in our thinking. We ought to consider the situation from the humble perspective of a squirrel."

On the wall hung a picture of Mary, forefinger threateningly raised, looking as though she were reading the observer the riot act. "I'm in charge here!" was the inscription added beneath.

On the wall hung a picture of Mary, forefinger threateningly raised, looking as though she were in the middle of reading the viewer the riot act. Beneath read the caption: "I'm in charge here!"