The Empty Sack

by Basil King

"No; just going up the road."

"Well, call again," she said, politely, as he took his parcels and went out.

Having eaten his two sandwiches, he felt better, in the sense of being stronger and more able to face the thing that had to be done. He was not quite out on the marshes, the long, flat road cutting straight across them to the nearest little town. The lights were rarer, but still there were lights, their saffron growing more and more luminous as the colors of the sunset paled out. An occasional motor passed him, but never a man on foot.

He could have turned in anywhere, and perhaps for that reason he put off doing so. It would be easier, he argued, to shoot himself after dark. It was not dark as yet—only the long August gloaming. Moreover, the tramping was a relief, soothing his nerves and working off some of his horror. He wished he could go on with it, on and on, into the unknown, where he would be beyond recognition. But that was just where the trouble was. For the fugitive from justice recognition always lay in wait. He had often heard his father say that in the banking business you could get away with a thing for years and years, and yet recognition would spring on you when least expected. As for himself, recognition could meet him in any little town in New Jersey. They would have his picture in the paper by to-morrow—and, besides, what was the use?

The dark was undeniably falling when he noticed on the right a lonely shack with nothing but the marsh all round it. Coming nearly abreast of it, he detected a rough path toward it through the grass. He had no need of a path, no need of a shack, but, the path and the shack being there, they offered something to make for. Since he was obliged to turn aside, he might as well do it now.

So aside he turned. The path was hardly a path, and had apparently not been used that year. Wading through the dank grasses which caught him about the feet, he could hear small living things hopping away from his tread, or a marsh bird rise with a frightened whir of wings. Water gushed into his shoes, but that, he declared, wouldn't matter, as he would so soon be out of the reach of catching cold.

The building proved to be all that fire had left of a shanty knocked together long ago, probably for laborers working on the road. The walls were standing, and it was not quite roofless. There was no door, and the window was no more than a hole, but as he ventured within he found the flooring sound. At least, it bore his weight, and, what was more amazing still, he tripped over a rough bench which the fire had spared and the former occupants had not thought worth the carting away.

It was the very thing. Shooting oneself was something to be performed with ritual. You lay down, stretched yourself out, and did it with a hint of decency.

Teddy groped his way. First he drew the pistol from his hip pocket, laying it carefully on the floor and within reach of his hand. Next he sat down for a minute, but, fearing he would begin to think, lifted his feet to the bench, lowered his back, and straightened himself to his full, flat length. Putting down his hand, he found he could touch the pistol easily, and therefore let it lie. He let it lie only because he had not yet decided where to fire—at his heart or into his temple.

Outside the hut there was a hoarse, sleepy croak, then another, and another, and another. The dangers of light being past, the frogs were waking to their evening chant. Teddy had always loved this dreamy, monotonous lullaby, reminiscent of spring twilights and approaching holidays. He was glad now that it would be the last sound to greet his ears on earth. Since he had to go, it would croon to him softly, cradle him gently, letting the night of the soul come down on him consolingly. He was not frightened; he was only tired—oddly tired, considering where he was. It would be easier to fall asleep than do anything else, listening to the co-ax, co-ax, co-ax, with which the darkness round was filled.