with fear—a fear that cut into my vitals, haunting my dreams. I hated my master; I dreaded the toad.
To my master though, the toad was all things dear. A mere glance at the creature would send the bloom into his cheeks. Hours at a stretch he gazed at the toad, as enwrapped, as impassioned, as any swain who looks into the eyes of his ladylove. For the toad was his life. Thrice the old fellow was drawn unto death. In his dying prayers he called for the toad, which, when brought, behold! like a miracle of old his life-force returned.
Throughout the day the toad was his bodyguard; it proved an elixir whose presence toned his being. When it strayed from his vision, the man was thrown into a torment; he shook, he trembled, he gasped like a dying fish. And only the toad’s speedy return would ease him into security. Hours at a time, the fellow communed with the toad, his voice sunk in reverence, and his eyes blazing with affection. He patted its knobby head, caressed its horny back, rocked it in a mad orgy of love. Whilst the toad, in grotesque apery of a cat, circled about, wiping its scum on his clothes.
The master took an unholy delight in the toad's care. He rigged up a trap to catch flies, and fed them one at a time to the toad, smacking his lips in vicarious joy as the creature gorged. Each day the toad was given a bath. And its doting owner flooded the foul body with perfume. Delicate scales told the daily story of the toad's health, while a doctor, skilled in the treatment of toads, awaited the master's summons.
Bismark—so the fellow named his pet—was allowed the full freedom of the house. On cool, damp days he plodded about the room, tagging at his master’s heels, or squatting beside his arm-chair. When the weather was warm and sticky, he retired to a dark corner of the kitchen and clambered into a basin of water—his swimming pool. When it rained, he perched on the window sill, listening with drowsy bliss to the patter of the raindrops.
If Bismark was the privileged character in the house, he was indeed the lord of all below. A tiled runway, built for the toad, led to the cellar. Here was constant dampness, clamminess, mustiness. The ground was coated with black ooze. Girding this area were crumbling bricks with blotches of yellow moss. Time and the elements had here wrought a sickly little valley. For there was now a chiseled slope to a corner, toward which trickled a network of muddy streams. And, hidden beneath the overhanging walls, in a tiny nook of darkness, was a cavelike break in the ground.
Into this hollow the miniature rivers fell. That hidden hollow, indiscernible in the full light of day to the acutest eyes, was the only outer manifestation of the ground’s unsoundness. Winter after winter, great floods of water swept into the basement. Each time the underground cavity licked up the deluge. Thus was the cellar happily drained at all seasons. Another purpose the cavern served—it was the private home of the toad. Here Bismark passed the nights in peace. His voice was seldom heard, and even then it was filled with lazy content. So through the years the toad dwelt in the cellar.
Despite the calm that reigned over the house, I felt a deep, underlying distrust. Each day I became more nervous and suspicious. The close companionship of toad and master made me a stranger. I became convinced that they were plotting against me.
One night, as I was brooding over these affairs, my mind darkly abstracted, I stepped squarely upon the toad. The creature shrieked a blood-curdling cry, and I stumbled backward, leaning against the wall, while a nameless terror possessed me. The master uprose on the instant, and with one leap he was upon me. His heavy cane beat me down, drumming upon my bones.
Then I regained my senses. With one movement I wrenched the cane from his grasp. Then I clubbed him to death.
THE murder accomplished, I endeavored to find a safe means of disposing of the body. I at once considered the cave in the cellar. It seemed providentially designed for my purpose. Not a particle of earth was brushed loose as I slid the short, thin body through the little cave. Presently, a dull thud—the corpse had fallen into the pit below.
I located some clay at no great distance from the house, and very speedily repaired the breach in the wall. So expertly did I work, that even the closest inspection defied discovery. It was spring, the rains were over, and the summer days would cake the new wall into lasting hardness. I felt secure.
I now hunted the creature that had caused my trouble, determined to kill it at sight. Even as I beheld the toad, I marvelled at my change of feeling. I felt something akin to pity as I noted its mangled form. Then, as I continued to gaze, my old dread of the toad swept over me. I quitted the spot and shunned the toad henceforth.
After a decent interval, I reported my master’s disappearance to the police. They responded at once, and as I had foreseen, made an exhaustive and rigid inspection of the cellar. Many times my heart sank as their sharp bitted axes struck within inches of the false wall. But I silently chuckled in turn. For my hiding-place stood the test and the wearied men at last gave up the search.
Then their attention was drawn to the toad. Bismark had been an interested spectator at this investigation. He wore a mournful expression, while a wild fever burned in his eyes. He camped in the fateful corner, clambered against the false wall, even brushed crumbs of dirt from the new clay. And by persistent cluckings, by most untoadly contortions of his body, by every means of communication save actual speech, he was trying, it seemed, to tell an awful secret.
The investigators were amused at the toad’s antics; they gathered in the corner and watched him with heavy interest. They pulled the toad away from the false wall, and laughed as he invariably returned. Finally Bismark desisted, and, with a beaten air, faced about and looked fixedly at the investigators.
"Do you know," remarked one, "I think that toad is trying to tell us something!"
"Perhaps," responded another, "he is trying to tell us where the lost man is."
I nearly swooned. A confession of guilt rose to my lips, and I turned to beg mercy. Then I laughed outright. The investigators were joking about the toad and poking fun at the men who had made the remarks. Presently the investigators departed.
YEARS winged by, and my secret remained undiscovered. I became happy and carefree. The murder seemed a distant dream; at times I even persuaded myself that those black memories were but the offspring of my disordered fancy. The investigators returned, and returned again, all to no purpose. Confident of my safety, I greeted them with genuine welcome; I recounted at length the singular friendship of the man and the toad; I informed them frankly that I had always hated my master.
From a worldly standpoint, I had reason to be happy. My master had no heirs and he left the estate to me. I, as the executor, was charged to care faithfully for the toad. That was the only provision of the will. I congratulated myself on the crime that had elevated me from servant to master—from servant to master! Joyfully I repeated the phrase
