III

When there is an obligation Krug will forever miss that obligation. A great pity, for there is always an obligation (one which he is fated to miss). He is granted little time to rage over or lament the missed obligation before he, with great alarm, will recall another obligation to which he is obligated.

We will find him scurrying along the edges of sidewalks holding with one hand a tattered hat and with the other a shabby valise. He was at the moment engaged as such, and was scurrying most frantically.

He tripped on a loose stone in the pavement and dropped his hat. Bother, a hat is soiled still more. But what a surprise! What an alarming treasure it was that Krug had found, nestling like a quiet white bird in a crevice between the rough stones of his obligations. A bit of time, it was. The countenance of Krug expressed incredulity.

He did not know what to do; he did not know what to do at all, confronted by this idle, loafing time, slouching like a criminal.

He did not know what to do.

He wandered to the outskirts of a forest bordered by a river. The forest looked damp, he could not see it with great clarity--refracted, so it was. Oh yes, he did see a footbridge that might be crossed to enter the forest. The footbridge sloped downwards, as if breaking or sinking. What a brazen maneuver to cross that bridge, indeed. But crossed it, yes. Oh! Like a bather, he sidled along a path that ran into the woods. He did so guiltily, for he felt nude. From the path he could see a field, green and blue, it all was very still; fog hung above it. Krug could see the rays of light, solid and definite, frozen in the swishing blue haze above the swaying green grass. He wandered still further and paused by a tree. Great sections of the trunk were exposed, how unnatural. Green and blue. Aquamarine, that is. It was, that trunk. Mud or clay, rich and malleable, it looked. What to mold, what to shape, out of that trunk? A small village, an aquarium for the birds, many little people, a woman? Is a mermaid is a good thing to encounter? No, they suck you beneath the foam into the deep that is thick with cold and you will drown. Krug pressed, with inquisitive foot, the trunk to see, for it was a time of spare time and ridiculous fantasy. The trunk was hard, not to be molded. A pity. He stood beneath the tree for a moment and looked at the trunk, how wet it looked. He looked up, higher up, above the surface of the water, the tree looked dry, white, cracked, brittle, sick; coral dies when it says above the water, it does. Disgusting! How sordid up there! Scattered around the tree were the curled up, shrunken corpses of leaves—yellow or beige, they were. As shrimp, many dead shrimp—the absurd husks of dead shrimp! What!

He thought he looked at them for a long time, but it wasn’t. It is never a long time when Krug thinks it has been. Krug waved his tentacles, a marvelous squid. He did not move then. He waved his fins; he was a burst swimmer, that's right. When there is less drag than thrust, Krug can swim. Bravo, Krug!

So he swam along his path. Then he saw the bridge and some ducks swimming below the bridge, down below the bridge, in the water. How upsetting! Those ducks do not cohere! Krug spat at one and then felt ashamed. He made a bashful face and held his hat in his hands, penitent (the valise, it would seem, has been lost). Devil take the ducks, Krug’s face expressed righteous indignation. Of course, he knew now that he would drown before very long.