×åëîâåê-íåâèäèìêà / The Invisible Man + àóäèîïðèëîæåíèå Óýëëñ Ãåðáåðò
“Indeed!” said the mariner.
“The fact is,” began Mr. Marvel in a confidential tone. Suddenly his expression changed marvellously. “Oh!” he said. His face was eloquent of physical suffering.
“Wow!” he said.
“What’s up?” said the mariner.
“Toothache,” said Mr. Marvel, and put his hand to his cheek. He took his books. “I must go, I think,” he said.
“But you were going to tell me about this Invisible Man!” protested the mariner.
“Hoax,” said a Voice.
“It’s a hoax,” said Mr. Marvel.
“But it’s in the paper,” said the mariner.
“Hoax, I tell you,” said Marvel. “I know the chap that told this lie. There is no Invisible Man whatsoever.”
“But how about this paper? Do you mean to say-?”
“The paper lies,” said Marvel, stoutly.
The mariner stared, paper in hand.
“Wait a bit,” said the mariner, rising and speaking slowly, “Do you mean to say-?”
“I do,” said Mr. Marvel.
“Then why did you listen to me? Why didn’t you stop me? Eh?”
Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks. The mariner was suddenly very red indeed; he clenched his hands.
“I have been talking here for ten minutes,” he said; “and you, you little pig, couldn’t have the elementary manners-”
“Come up,” said a Voice, and Mr. Marvel was suddenly stood up in a curious spasmodic manner.
“You’d better get away,” said the mariner.
Mr. Marvel went away, but the mariner still stood for some time. Then he turned himself towards Port Stowe.
And there was another extraordinary thing he heard, that had happened quite close to him. That was a vision of a “fist full of money” travelling along by the wall. Another mariner had seen this wonderful sight that morning. He had tried to catch the money and had been knocked down. The story of the flying money was true. And all about that neighbourhood, money had been floating quietly along by walls and shady places. And then the money had ended its mysterious flight in the pocket of the gentleman in the obsolete silk hat, sitting outside the little inn on the outskirts of Port Stowe.
It was ten days after-and the mariner collated these facts and began to understand how near he had been to the wonderful Invisible Man.
Chapter XV
The Man Who Was Running
In the evening Dr. Kemp was sitting in his study in the belvedere on the hill overlooking Burdock. It was a pleasant little room, with three windows-north, west, and south-and bookshelves covered with books and scientific publications, and a broad writing-table, and, under the north window, a microscope, minute instruments, and scattered bottles of reagents. Dr. Kemp’s lamp was lit, albeit the sky was still bright. Dr. Kemp was a tall and slender young man, with flaxen hair and a moustache almost white. His work would earn him, he hoped, the fellowship of the Royal Society, so highly did he think of it.
His eye caught the sunset blazing at the back of the hill. For a minute perhaps he sat, pen in mouth, admiring the rich golden colour above the crest, and then his attention was attracted by the little figure of a man, running towards him. He was a short little man, and he wore a high hat, and he was running very fast.
“Another of those fools,” said Dr. Kemp. “Like that ass who ran into me this morning round a corner, with the ‘‘The Invisible Man is coming, sir!’ One might think we were in the thirteenth century.”
He got up, went to the window, and stared at the dark little figure.
“He is in a hurry,” said Dr. Kemp, “but he doesn’t seem to succeed. Asses!”
Dr. Kemp walked back to his writing-table.
But those who saw the fugitive nearer, and perceived the terror on his face, did not share in the doctor’s contempt. As the man ran he chinked like a well-filled purse. He looked neither to the right nor the left, but his eyes stared straight downhill to where the lamps were being lit, and the people were crowded in the street. A foam lay on his lips, and his breath came hoarse and noisy.
And then presently, far up the hill, a dog playing in the road yelped and ran under a gate. Then something-a wind-a pad, pad, pad, – a sound like a panting breathing, rushed by.
People screamed. They were shouting in the street before Marvel was halfway there. They were slamming the doors behind them, with the news. In a moment, fear had seized the town.
“The Invisible Man is coming! The Invisible Man!”
Chapter XVI
In the “Jolly Cricketers”
The “Jolly Cricketers” is just at the bottom of the hill, where the tram-lines begin. The barman talked of horses with an anaemic cabman, while a black-beared man in gray ate biscuit and cheese, drank beer, and conversed with a policeman off duty.
“What’s the shouting about?” said the anaemic cabman.
Somebody ran by outside.
“Fire, perhaps,” said the barman.
Footsteps approached, running heavily, the door was pushed open violently, and Marvel, weeping and dishevelled, rushed in, made a convulsive turn, and attempted to shut the door.
“Coming!” he bawled, his voice shrieking with terror. “He’s coming. The Inisible Man! After me! Help! Help! Help!”
“Shut the doors,” said the policeman. “Who’s coming? What’s the matter?”
He went to the door, and it slammed.
“Let me go inside,” said Marvel, staggering and weeping, but still clutching the books. “Let me go inside. Lock me in-somewhere. I tell you he’s after me. I escaped. He said he’d kill me and he will.”
“You’re safe,” said the man with the black beard. “The door’s shut. What’s it all about?”
“Let me go inside,” said Marvel, and shrieked aloud as a blow suddenly made the fastened door shiver. There was a hurried rapping and a shouting outside.
“Hello,” cried the policeman, “who’s there?”
Mr. Marvel cried, “He’ll kill me-he’s got a knife or something. Help me!”
“Come in here,” said the barman.
And he held up the flap of the bar.
“Don’t open the door,” Mr. Marvel screamed. “Please don’t open the door! Where shall I hide?”
“This, this Invisible Man, then?” asked the man with the black beard. “I guess it’s about time to see him.”
The window of the inn was suddenly smashed in, and there was a screaming and running to and fro in the street. The policeman had been trying to see who was at the door.
“It’s him,” he said.
The barman stood in front of the bar-parlour door which was now locked on Mr. Marvel, stared at the smashed window, and came round to the two other men.
Everything was suddenly quiet.
“I wish I had my truncheon,” said the policeman, going to the door. “When we open the door, he will come in. We can’t stop him.”
“Don’t hasten to open that door,” said the anaemic cabman, anxiously.
“Draw the bolts,” said the man with the black beard, “and if he comes-”
He showed a revolver in his hand.
“That won’t do,” said the policeman; “that’s murder.”
“I know what country I’m in,” said the man with the beard. “I’m going to let off at his legs. Draw the bolts.”
“Not at my neck,” said the barman.
“Very well,” said the man with the black beard, and drew the bolts himself. Barman, cabman, and policeman looked at each other.
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