Yet the thing at which he was looking would hardly seem to be the key to an enigma. It was only a hole, very inconspicuous in the dirty wall, at the junction of the lowest step with the door-casing. And the thing which he had found up-stairs in the corner was merely another hole.
Resuming his downward way, he trod across the main room, leaned his gun against the wall, set his lamp on the stove, filled his pipe, sat down on his chair, puffed smoke, and chuckled.
“Yes, sir, Mister Rat, you’re caught with the goods at last,” he informed the lank old rodent on the floor. “You’re the noisy half of the ha’nt. You’re old and stiff, and your feet used to bump down like a ghost’s heels. You lived around here somewhere—out in the shed, maybe, or up under the attic floor—and you used to come out of that hole in the corner and ramble around, looking for anything to eat. Poor old Bumpety-Bump, I’ll bet you’re so ancient that you’ve lost all your teeth; you certainly look nearly starved. Anyhow, you’d find nothing up there, so you’d bump yourself down-stairs. Probably you smelt my cheese; I had some when I first came here, and Uncle Eb brought me up a huge slab of it later on.
“But when you hit the bottom you were stuck. That door was always shut. So you’d have to give it up. And with that other hole right handy, why go back up-stairs? You’d just ooze into that hole and let it go at that. So would any other sensible man.
“And that first night, when I came at you with a cannon, you heard me before I could open the door. So you just dived into the handy hole, and when I yanked the door almost off its hinges you were tee-totally gone. And while I was standing there growing goose-flesh you were probably sitting up in the wall and thumbing your old nose at me.”
He laughed again in quiet self-derision.
“It must have been tough, though, to come down here every night, just drooling for that cheese, and find yourself always blocked. All the same, that’s all that saved your life. This other gent here, Mister Side-Winder, must have been rat-hunting every night; that’s why I’ve never heard rats around here; he got ’em all. And to-night when I left that door open and you came out—well, you know as much about that as I do.
“Mister Spit, our little guest of the evening, must have followed my noble example and gone to sleep in there. Or maybe he had a hard time pulling the door open; it does stick when it’s almost shut. Anyhow, by the time he catapulted himself into the plot of this piece you were on your way down Mister Rattler’s gullet—which was just as well for friend Spit, maybe. He could maul Mister Side-Winder then without a come-back. Glad of it, too. Spit’s manners have been neglected, but he’s a regular fellow, and I’m glad he didn’t have to go out by the same route as Jake and Nat.”
He puffed again, and his smile died. When he spoke again his voice was cold.
“And you, Yard-of-Poison—how did you get here? You’ve been here since spring. Maybe you came out too early, got caught in a cold snap, found Jake’s door open, came in to get warm. Maybe. Anyway, you’ve been here since then. You found a hole in the under side of the mattress and crawled in among the husks for warmth and concealment. At night you got the warmth of Jake’s body, too. And you paid for your lodging as a snake would. Some night when Jake got up in the dark for something you struck his foot. And while he died alone in the black woods behind here you crawled back into your hole, well satisfied with yourself.