Invaders, Rowlf's Journey "A Journey to the Center of the Earth Story" Sometimes it's hard to know the real monster, even when you're one.

Usually I take a journey through the eyes of my heroes, but sometimes its just as interesting to look through the eyes of a so-called monster, who just also happens to be traveling with the heroes. And maybe is a hero itself.

Now posted and ready to read at my author site: Rowlf's Journey...a tale of heroes inside our hollow earth.

Sherlock Holmes: The Mystery of the Headless Monk, Old Time Radio Audio Story

Sherlock Holmes, The Case of the Pennysylvannia gun TV episode

Sherlock Holmes Exhibit in London Museum Video

The Invisible Man By H.G. Wells Chapter 10 Mr. Marvel's Visit to Iping

The Invisible Man

By H.G. Wells

Chapter 10

Mr. Marvel's Visit to Iping

After the first gusty panic had spent itself Iping became

argumentative. Scepticism suddenly reared its head--rather nervous

scepticism, not at all assured of its back, but scepticism

nevertheless. It is so much easier not to believe in an invisible

man; and those who had actually seen him dissolve into air, or felt

the strength of his arm, could be counted on the fingers of two

hands. And of these witnesses Mr. Wadgers was presently missing,

having retired impregnably behind the bolts and bars of his own

house, and Jaffers was lying stunned in the parlour of the "Coach

and Horses." Great and strange ideas transcending experience often

have less effect upon men and women than smaller, more tangible

considerations. Iping was gay with bunting, and everybody was in

gala dress. Whit Monday had been looked forward to for a month or

more. By the afternoon even those who believed in the Unseen were

beginning to resume their little amusements in a tentative fashion,

on the supposition that he had quite gone away, and with the

sceptics he was already a jest. But people, sceptics and believers

alike, were remarkably sociable all that day.

Haysman's meadow was gay with a tent, in which Mrs. Bunting and

other ladies were preparing tea, while, without, the Sunday-school

children ran races and played games under the noisy guidance of the

curate and the Misses Cuss and Sackbut. No doubt there was a slight

uneasiness in the air, but people for the most part had the sense

to conceal whatever imaginative qualms they experienced. On the

village green an inclined strong [rope?], down which, clinging

the while to a pulley-swung handle, one could be hurled violently against

a sack at the other end, came in for considerable favour among the

adolescents, as also did the swings and the cocoanut shies. There

was also promenading, and the steam organ attached to a small

roundabout filled the air with a pungent flavour of oil and with

equally pungent music. Members of the club, who had attended

church in the morning, were splendid in badges of pink and green,

and some of the gayer-minded had also adorned their bowler hats

with brilliant-coloured favours of ribbon. Old Fletcher, whose

conceptions of holiday-making were severe, was visible through the

jasmine about his window or through the open door (whichever way

you chose to look), poised delicately on a plank supported on two

chairs, and whitewashing the ceiling of his front room.

About four o'clock a stranger entered the village from the direction

of the downs. He was a short, stout person in an extraordinarily

shabby top hat, and he appeared to be very much out of breath. His

cheeks were alternately limp and tightly puffed. His mottled face

was apprehensive, and he moved with a sort of reluctant alacrity. He

turned the corner of the church, and directed his way to the "Coach

and Horses." Among others old Fletcher remembers seeing him, and

indeed the old gentleman was so struck by his peculiar agitation

that he inadvertently allowed a quantity of whitewash to run down

the brush into the sleeve of his coat while regarding him.

This stranger, to the perceptions of the proprietor of the cocoanut

shy, appeared to be talking to himself, and Mr. Huxter remarked the

same thing. He stopped at the foot of the "Coach and Horses" steps,

and, according to Mr. Huxter, appeared to undergo a severe internal

struggle before he could induce himself to enter the house. Finally

he marched up the steps, and was seen by Mr. Huxter to turn to the

left and open the door of the parlour. Mr. Huxter heard voices from

within the room and from the bar apprising the man of his error.

"That room's private!" said Hall, and the stranger shut the door

clumsily and went into the bar.

In the course of a few minutes he reappeared, wiping his lips with

the back of his hand with an air of quiet satisfaction that somehow

impressed Mr. Huxter as assumed. He stood looking about him for

some moments, and then Mr. Huxter saw him walk in an oddly furtive

manner towards the gates of the yard, upon which the parlour window

opened. The stranger, after some hesitation, leant against one of

the gate-posts, produced a short clay pipe, and prepared to fill

it. His fingers trembled while doing so. He lit it clumsily, and

folding his arms began to smoke in a languid attitude, an attitude

which his occasional glances up the yard altogether belied.

All this Mr. Huxter saw over the canisters of the tobacco window,

and the singularity of the man's behaviour prompted him to maintain

his observation.

Presently the stranger stood up abruptly and put his pipe in his

pocket. Then he vanished into the yard. Forthwith Mr. Huxter,

conceiving he was witness of some petty larceny, leapt round his

counter and ran out into the road to intercept the thief. As he did

so, Mr. Marvel reappeared, his hat askew, a big bundle in a blue

table-cloth in one hand, and three books tied together--as it proved

afterwards with the Vicar's braces--in the other. Directly he saw

Huxter he gave a sort of gasp, and turning sharply to the left,

began to run. "Stop, thief!" cried Huxter, and set off after him.

Mr. Huxter's sensations were vivid but brief. He saw the man just

before him and spurting briskly for the church corner and the hill

road. He saw the village flags and festivities beyond, and a face or

so turned towards him. He bawled, "Stop!" again. He had hardly gone

ten strides before his shin was caught in some mysterious fashion,

and he was no longer running, but flying with inconceivable rapidity

through the air. He saw the ground suddenly close to his face. The

world seemed to splash into a million whirling specks of light, and

subsequent proceedings interested him no more.

Fighting Nazi Monsters to return for find his lost love! "Storming the Future" A Rocketman Story by John Pirillo.

Harry has one small problem. He's not from this time. Or the next. Or the next. During the end of World War Two the Allies were on a desperate mission to stop Hitler from launching a fatal attack of nuclear ballistic missiles upon the Allied World.

Harry joined a top secret program determined to stop the Nazis.

Rocketman!

The only problem was...it failed.

Caught in a time warp that hurls Harry into multiple possible realities, Harry finds himself fighting to get back to his own time and space, but so far every reality includes him as Rocketman battling an endless war against the Nazis.

Will he ever get home again?

Read the short story now at my author site and my sister blog, ImagineNation.

Enjoy!

John

Gallery. An assortment of images that show the real Baker Street area of London where Sherlock Holmes resided and worked.

An assortment of images that show the real Baker Street area of London. Thought it would be interesting to see it all fit in with the stories, if at all.

Enjoy.

John

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes...full movie, starring Basil Rathbone and Nigel Green.

The Case of the Cunningham Heritage...a TV show starring Sherlock Holmes

National Geographic: Time Travel the Truth

A couple videos coming to help develop the idea of time travel and what Jules and Wells got themselves into in order to cross time and space.

Conjectures.

Truth.

Who knows.

But fun to think about.

John

They awoke at death's door on a strange planet that was once their own. Crash "A Jules and Wells Story" By John Pirillo

Crash
"A Jules and Wells Story"
By John Pirillo

A great writer, H.G. Wells, once wrote that in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is King. But that is only half the story. Here is a tale of love and friendship caught at the gates of hell itself with two authors whose adventures in real life far exceeded their tales of wonder and fantasy on the written page. Jules Verne and H.G. Wells!


Wells lifted himself on his elbow, his face strained with great pain. Jules lay to the left of him, flung from his chair by the violence of their crash. Wells didn't actually see that. At that particular moment, he couldn't see a thing. Not a blasted thing, bloody hell and all! He thought to himself, ready to snap off a turtle's head, so angry he was at the co-ordinates he had fed Jules to put into the Strings navigator.

The forces hadn't been kind to either him or his best friend, he suspected. By the smell...acrid and bitter...he realized that the Master of the World was at best a wounded animal.

"Jules."

A moan.

"What happened?"

Another moan. This time louder and with more pain in the sound of it.

"My legs are crushed."

"Oh Jules. I'm so sorry." Wells croaked, his voice cracking as his emotions surfaced. They were both probably about to die.

"Mon Frere?"

"It is I."

"I can't lift the weight from my legs. I am flat on my belly and it is behind me."

"I..."

He felt Jules, rather than saw him strain to see Wells. "You're hurt!"

"My eyes."

Jules moaned again, but not because of his own pain. "Oh, dear friend, what a fine pair we are."

"The finest."

"I cannot walk. You cannot see."

"Think, Jules, what happened?"

"The String Space rejected our drive and flung us from it."

"That is impossible."

"Qui, but..."

Wells hurt in every inch of his body, but nothing appeared to be broken. He sat up, inch by inch, by drawing himself upwards with the strength of his hands upon the command console, which was obviously broken in many places. It was a miracle that either of them had survived the crash, let alone with such small physical loss.

He laughed.

"I am glad you find this amusing."

Wells grinned, and then felt blood spattering his lips. He wiped it away. "Not at you, or us, but this whole bloody thing. Here we are in the middle of...bloody hell, I don't know, maybe God does, but here we are. Two cocky young rogues who have had more than their share of close calls and managed to squeeze by."

"Not this time, Mon Frere. Not this time."

Wells heard the agony in Jules voice. "Keep speaking. I will see..." He laughed.

"You're laughing again."

"I see nothing."

Jules was silent. He mourned for his friend, but he could do nothing. He strained to break free from the weight on his legs, but could not turn or move. "Then do the best you can."

"Do I not always?"

Again, Jules was silent. Wells dragged himself across the debris between them carefully. Without eyes he had no idea what might be in his path and didn't need to skewer him on some bit of compromising metal by accident. His knee struck something hard. "Jules?"

"That would be my head."

Wells laughed again.

"I am growing tired of this laughter."

"And I." He laughed some more.

Jules laughed as well.

"We are such a sorry pair of fools." Jules finally was able to gasp out between laughs.

"Yes, we are." And Wells burst into a new line of laughter.

Finally, they both settled down, exhausted by their physical pains and the fear of the unknown. Wells used his right hand to probe along Jules body, and finally stopped when he felt something hard and unyielding. "It is the arms panel."

"But it has my legs." Jules remarked.

That sparked another burst of laughter from the two friends. When that subsided, Wells managed to maneuver himself closer to Jules and position himself so he could wrap both arms about the panel. "If I remember correctly, we had bolts holding it in place. It weighs about five hundred pounds."

"Yes. And we both nearly got broken by lifting it."

"Yes. And my wife thanks you for the design."

"As does mine, it gave her relief for almost a month."

They both burst into laughter again.

Finally, Wells stopped. "Do not move, I am going to try lifting it, then shoving it to the right."

"Oh trust me, Wells, move I shall not."

Wells almost laughed again, but when Jules let out another involuntary gasp of pain, the laughter fled from his lips. He strained with all his might, but the panel would not move.

"Well, that is good and proper." Wells finally croaked, gasping for breath.

"Yes. You can't see. I can't walk."

"I have not given up." Wells stubbornly replied.

He slid past Jules. "Can you see the closet door? Is it open or shut?"

"I cannot turn my head that far."

"No problem. I shall see to it myself."

They broke into laughter again, and then subsided as Wells slid to the position of the closet. He felt along the floor for its base, felt its edges, then slowly got to his feet, even though every muscle in his body screamed with pain.

Something made a loud whooshing sound in the back of the Master of the World.

"Wells, I suspect we have another problem brewing."

"As always, you are right, my friend." Wells responded, even as his hand sought the latch of the closet and sprung it. Another miracle. The compartment was whole. He felt the rod within it. He had stored it there from their last trip. It was some kind of artifact they had found on an abandoned version of Earth. Neither could figure out its function, though it generated an enormous amount of chronic energy.

"Have it." Wells grunted, as he allowed himself to slide down to the floor again.

He began to sniff the air. "Smoke."

"Mon Frere, where there is smoke..."

"...There is fire. I know. I know. I'm hurrying as fast as I can."

Well managed to get over to Jules again. He felt around and found a slightly rounded slab of metal that was near the panel fallen on Jules' legs. He slid the rod between the slab and the panel. "I don't know if this is positioned properly. You must let me know if anything is going wrong."

"Trust me; I will be the first to let you know."

They were both silent a long moment, then Wells slowly applied pressure to the rod, which was acting as a fulcrum to moving the panel. He heard grinding and screeching. Was the panel mixed with some other fallen object?

"Ow!" Jules cried out.

Wells started to lower the rod.

"Non, non, Mon Frere. The pain is a good one. Keep on. I can feel my legs loosening."

Wells grunted as he applied more pressure.

There was an explosion in the rear of the ship and the blast wave knocked him to the left. His rod flew from his hands to the right.

Jules cried out as if he had been crushed to death.

Wells recovered himself and scrambled to help Jules, but instead of finding Jules' body, he discovered only a mass of metal. "Jules!" He cried out.

He felt two hands clasp his shoulders and slowly raise him to his feet. "Mon frère." Jules whispered to his dear friend.

They gave each other a long hug, and then Jules turned Wells. "We must hurry while there is an exit from the vessel. As Jules walked, he stumbled on the rod. He started to kick it aside, then thought better of it and stooped to pick it up with his free hand, allowing Wells to lean against him as he did so. Finally, he was able to stand again.

"What is it?"

Jules eyed the rod. "Either our salvation or our destruction."

Another explosion. They were both slammed into a wall.

Jules hurriedly recovered and grabbed Wells to his feet. He used the rod to help push fallen and crushed debris from their path, and then reached the emergency exit. He kicked the control box at the base of it. It had three boxes like such. One at the top. One at the middle and one at the bottom in case someone was unable to reach the other two.

The door made a loud groaning sound and didn't want to open.

"Oh damn it to hell anyway!"

Wells kicked with all his might. His aim was true. The door made a loud protesting sound, and then swung open.

Jules practically flung them to the ground as the Master of the World gave one loud rumbling sound after another. "We must run!"

"I will trust your eyes."

"That is good, for I trust little else."

"Then lean on me, and guide us both."

Jules did so.

Wells bolstered his friend as they both ran from the debris of the broken ship. Its beautiful golden lines of radiant beauty were marred by debris from its crash and from the fires that now raged throughout it. They had gotten about twenty yards away, when a wave of explosions rippled the rough the vessel, sending debris showering them and the land about them.

Jules threw himself and Wells down and covered Wells with his body.

The explosions stopped.

Jules rolled off and gasped for air.

Wells did the same, not because he was relieved, but because Jules had crushed the air from his lungs.

"Safe." Wells said.

"But for how long?"

Jules surveyed the land they had crashed into. It was late. The sun barely peeked above the craggy mountains that ringed in their crash site. On the horizon was a thick forest. It seemed a livable place. And then he saw something move in the forest. It moved temporarily into the light. It was enormous. At least ninety feet in height. Jules could see very long teen in its mouth.

Wells stomach grumbled. "I can't believe I'm hungry at a time like this."

"You're not the only one." Jules whispered.

"Why are you whispering, blast it?" Wells almost hollered.

Jules clapped a hand over his friend's face. "Something is coming our way."

"Something very, very big."

Wells clasped the rod that lay between him and Jules. "Well, worst comes to worse, we can always use this as a club."

"I don't think that's going to work." Jules said as the huge beast stomped towards them, closing the distance with huge steps that covered yards of ground at a time.

"What's wrong?"

Jules let go of Wells. "From the kettle into the fire."

Wells stiffened. "Death yet again?"

"Yes, Mom Frere, it would appear that the Old Man enjoys playing with us."

Wells drew himself to his feet, leaning on the rod. He reached a hand out and Jules took it, and then rose to stand beside him.

"I think I could run now." Jules remarked in a forced casual voice.

"I think our time of running has come to an end."

Jules looked at his friend. "Perhaps so."

Jules grabbed the rod from his friend's grasp, causing him to fall to the ground.

"What kind of madness is this, Jules?"

"The only kind that has ever been our friend." Jules uttered back, his face resolute and fixed. He turned to face the beast, which now towered over the both of them.

"I shall not go out without a fight." Wells uttered, forcing himself to his feet.

Jules nodded. "Then as always."

"We live together. We..."

"Die together."

Jules raised the rod over his shoulder to strike the beast in the face as it opened its massive jaws, revealing row after row of jagged teeth. Its gigantic bloodshot eyes swirled with delight as it eyed its easy snack.

"For love." Jules hollered, and then swung the rod.

It struck the beast in its nose as it reached for them.

The creature gave the two of them a stunned look for a moment, and then it raised itself up on its hind feet and prepared to crush them with its front.

"Farewell, dear friend." Jules said calmly and with great clarity.

"Forever friends." Wells agreed, taking Jules free hand.

"Forever." Jules repeated.

Then as the beast's massive front feet dropped to crush them, the rod in Jules' hand lit up brighter than the sun for a moment. Both men were seared by its intensity. The beast cried out in fear, but continued to press downwards. When its feet had crushed into the bright light, it felt nothing but soil.

It lowered its great head to look at the spot it had crushed. Nothing was there, not even the stick that had struck it. The beast groaned angrily, then turned to retreat back to its forest, where maybe another meal could be found.

==========================================================

Jules stood in the cockpit of the Master of the World, the rod raised before his face. Wells lay at his feet next to the navigation controls.

"Mon Frere. I think dinner has been avoided."

"Where are we? This sounds like..."

"The Master of the World." Jules finished for him.

Jules hurried his friend to the small infirmary in the back and even though he was unsettled still by the abrupt transition to an intact vessel, devoid of any human life, he didn't forget his friend's injuries. He carefully cleaned his friend's face, then his eyes, using medicated solutions to cleanse the cuts and bruises. He had laid his friend down on the small cot there and sat beside him. He placed a strip of thick gauze over his friend's eyes.

Wells fell into a deep sleep, which Jules would not disturb. He only rose the once to check on their navigation headings, then satisfied with them, returned to keep watch on his friend. It must have been many hours later that Wells groaned and rubbed at the gauze over his eyes.

"What the blasted, bloody hell have you put over my vision? I can't see a thing! Bloody hell, Jules!"

Jules pressed a hand to the gauze to stop him from removing it. "It's for your own good, Mon Frere. Your eyes were hurt badly."

"Like bloody hell they were!" Wells said, and then swept Jules' hand and the gauze from his face. He looked at Jules, who gave him a startled look, then smiled. "I can see you are quite disturbed."

"You would be too if you had been through what I had with you." Jules countered.

They both broke into peals of laughter.

When they had landed the Master of the World, their wives were waiting for them. They rushed to them and held them close a long time, saying nothing. Both women were used to such conduct from their men and knew when they were ready; they would speak of what had happened, though they couldn't tell a thing by looking at the state of the Master of the World, which was perfect and untouched by flame or explosion.

That night both men gave their women more attention than usual, but neither wife complained. They loved their men, even though they often times were gone in their explorations. Love is a most bounteous and generous energy, and the love between these four was enough to satisfy them all.

But as both men went to sleep that night, comfortable and warm against their wives, the one thought they had in common was...What had triggered the rod to activate? What had caused the erasure of time itself?

Even though that thought weighed heavily upon both men for a time, they could not hold it for long, for weariness now claimed its own and they descended into the blissful ignorance of sleep and dreams well earned.

More fractal flames to get you into a good frame of mind. Soft curving lights. Colors that melt into the brain and leave it warm and fuzzy.

Check out the newest flames on my author site and ImagineNation, the sister blog.

Cool visualizing stimulating imagery!

John

The Invisible Man by H.G. Wells Chapter 9 Mr. Thomas Marvel, Part two

The Invisible Man

by H.G. Wells

Chapter 9

Mr. Thomas Marvel, Part two

It's fretting about them blarsted boots. I'm off my blessed blooming

chump. Or it's spirits."

"Neither one thing nor the other," said the Voice. "Listen!"

"Chump," said Mr. Marvel.

"One minute," said the Voice, penetratingly, tremulous with

self-control.

"Well?" said Mr. Thomas Marvel, with a strange feeling of having

been dug in the chest by a finger.

"You think I'm just imagination? Just imagination?"

"What else _can_ you be?" said Mr. Thomas Marvel, rubbing the back of

his neck.

"Very well," said the Voice, in a tone of relief. "Then I'm going

to throw flints at you till you think differently."

"But where _are_ yer?"

The Voice made no answer. Whizz came a flint, apparently out of

the air, and missed Mr. Marvel's shoulder by a hair's-breadth.

Mr. Marvel, turning, saw a flint jerk up into the air, trace a

complicated path, hang for a moment, and then fling at his feet

with almost invisible rapidity. He was too amazed to dodge. Whizz

it came, and ricochetted from a bare toe into the ditch. Mr. Thomas

Marvel jumped a foot and howled aloud. Then he started to run,

tripped over an unseen obstacle, and came head over heels into a

sitting position.

"_Now_," said the Voice, as a third stone curved upward and hung in

the air above the tramp. "Am I imagination?"

Mr. Marvel by way of reply struggled to his feet, and was

immediately rolled over again. He lay quiet for a moment. "If you

struggle any more," said the Voice, "I shall throw the flint at

your head."

"It's a fair do," said Mr. Thomas Marvel, sitting up, taking his

wounded toe in hand and fixing his eye on the third missile. "I

don't understand it. Stones flinging themselves. Stones talking.

Put yourself down. Rot away. I'm done."

The third flint fell.

"It's very simple," said the Voice. "I'm an invisible man."

"Tell us something I don't know," said Mr. Marvel, gasping with

pain. "Where you've hid--how you do it--I _don't_ know. I'm beat."

"That's all," said the Voice. "I'm invisible. That's what I want

you to understand."

"Anyone could see that. There is no need for you to be so confounded

impatient, mister. _Now_ then. Give us a notion. How are you hid?"

"I'm invisible. That's the great point. And what I want you to

understand is this--"

"But whereabouts?" interrupted Mr. Marvel.

"Here! Six yards in front of you."

"Oh, _come_! I ain't blind. You'll be telling me next you're just

thin air. I'm not one of your ignorant tramps--"

"Yes, I am--thin air. You're looking through me."

"What! Ain't there any stuff to you. _Vox et_--what is it?--jabber.

Is it that?"

"I am just a human being--solid, needing food and drink, needing

covering too--But I'm invisible. You see? Invisible. Simple idea.

Invisible."

"What, real like?"

"Yes, real."

"Let's have a hand of you," said Marvel, "if you _are_ real. It won't

be so darn out-of-the-way like, then--_Lord_!" he said, "how you made

me jump!--gripping me like that!"

He felt the hand that had closed round his wrist with his disengaged

fingers, and his fingers went timorously up the arm, patted a

muscular chest, and explored a bearded face. Marvel's face was

astonishment.

"I'm dashed!" he said. "If this don't beat cock-fighting! Most

remarkable!--And there I can see a rabbit clean through you, 'arf

a mile away! Not a bit of you visible--except--"

He scrutinised the apparently empty space keenly. "You 'aven't been

eatin' bread and cheese?" he asked, holding the invisible arm.

"You're quite right, and it's not quite assimilated into the system."

"Ah!" said Mr. Marvel. "Sort of ghostly, though."

"Of course, all this isn't half so wonderful as you think."

"It's quite wonderful enough for _my_ modest wants," said Mr. Thomas

Marvel. "Howjer manage it! How the dooce is it done?"

"It's too long a story. And besides--"

"I tell you, the whole business fairly beats me," said Mr. Marvel.

"What I want to say at present is this: I need help. I have come to

that--I came upon you suddenly. I was wandering, mad with rage,

naked, impotent. I could have murdered. And I saw you--"

"_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel.

"I came up behind you--hesitated--went on--"

Mr. Marvel's expression was eloquent.

"--then stopped. 'Here,' I said, 'is an outcast like myself. This is

the man for me.' So I turned back and came to you--you. And--"

"_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel. "But I'm all in a tizzy. May I ask--How

is it? And what you may be requiring in the way of help?--Invisible!"

"I want you to help me get clothes--and shelter--and then, with

other things. I've left them long enough. If you won't--well! But

you _will--must_."

"Look here," said Mr. Marvel. "I'm too flabbergasted. Don't knock

me about any more. And leave me go. I must get steady a bit. And

you've pretty near broken my toe. It's all so unreasonable. Empty

downs, empty sky. Nothing visible for miles except the bosom of

Nature. And then comes a voice. A voice out of heaven! And stones!

And a fist--Lord!"

"Pull yourself together," said the Voice, "for you have to do the

job I've chosen for you."

Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were round.

"I've chosen you," said the Voice. "You are the only man except

some of those fools down there, who knows there is such a thing as

an invisible man. You have to be my helper. Help me--and I will

do great things for you. An invisible man is a man of power." He

stopped for a moment to sneeze violently.

"But if you betray me," he said, "if you fail to do as I direct you--"

He paused and tapped Mr. Marvel's shoulder smartly. Mr. Marvel

gave a yelp of terror at the touch. "I don't want to betray you,"

said Mr. Marvel, edging away from the direction of the fingers.

"Don't you go a-thinking that, whatever you do. All I want to do is

to help you--just tell me what I got to do. (Lord!) Whatever you

want done, that I'm most willing to do."