The Invisible Man by H.G. Wells, Chapters 8 and 9, Part One...Being invisible does not mean happiness!

The Invisible Man

by H.G. Wells

Chapters 8 and 9

Part One

IN TRANSIT

The eighth chapter is exceedingly brief, and relates that Gibbons,

the amateur naturalist of the district, while lying out on the

spacious open downs without a soul within a couple of miles of him,

as he thought, and almost dozing, heard close to him the sound as

of a man coughing, sneezing, and then swearing savagely to himself;

and looking, beheld nothing. Yet the voice was indisputable. It

continued to swear with that breadth and variety that distinguishes

the swearing of a cultivated man. It grew to a climax, diminished

again, and died away in the distance, going as it seemed to him in

the direction of Adderdean. It lifted to a spasmodic sneeze and

ended. Gibbons had heard nothing of the morning's occurrences, but

the phenomenon was so striking and disturbing that his philosophical

tranquillity vanished; he got up hastily, and hurried down the

steepness of the hill towards the village, as fast as he could go.

CHAPTER IX

MR. THOMAS MARVEL

You must picture Mr. Thomas Marvel as a person of copious, flexible

visage, a nose of cylindrical protrusion, a liquorish, ample,

fluctuating mouth, and a beard of bristling eccentricity. His figure

inclined to embonpoint; his short limbs accentuated this inclination.

He wore a furry silk hat, and the frequent substitution of twine and

shoe-laces for buttons, apparent at critical points of his costume,

marked a man essentially bachelor.

Mr. Thomas Marvel was sitting with his feet in a ditch by the

roadside over the down towards Adderdean, about a mile and a half

out of Iping. His feet, save for socks of irregular open-work, were

bare, his big toes were broad, and pricked like the ears of a

watchful dog. In a leisurely manner--he did everything in a

leisurely manner--he was contemplating trying on a pair of boots.

They were the soundest boots he had come across for a long time, but

too large for him; whereas the ones he had were, in dry weather, a

very comfortable fit, but too thin-soled for damp. Mr. Thomas Marvel

hated roomy shoes, but then he hated damp. He had never properly

thought out which he hated most, and it was a pleasant day, and

there was nothing better to do. So he put the four shoes in a

graceful group on the turf and looked at them. And seeing them there

among the grass and springing agrimony, it suddenly occurred to him

that both pairs were exceedingly ugly to see. He was not at all

startled by a voice behind him.

"They're boots, anyhow," said the Voice.

"They are--charity boots," said Mr. Thomas Marvel, with his head

on one side regarding them distastefully; "and which is the ugliest

pair in the whole blessed universe, I'm darned if I know!"

"H'm," said the Voice.

"I've worn worse--in fact, I've worn none. But none so owdacious

ugly--if you'll allow the expression. I've been cadging boots--in

particular--for days. Because I was sick of _them_. They're sound

enough, of course. But a gentleman on tramp sees such a thundering

lot of his boots. And if you'll believe me, I've raised nothing in

the whole blessed country, try as I would, but _them_. Look at 'em!

And a good country for boots, too, in a general way. But it's just

my promiscuous luck. I've got my boots in this country ten years or

more. And then they treat you like this."

"It's a beast of a country," said the Voice. "And pigs for people."

"Ain't it?" said Mr. Thomas Marvel. "Lord! But them boots! It beats

it."

He turned his head over his shoulder to the right, to look at the

boots of his interlocutor with a view to comparisons, and lo! where

the boots of his interlocutor should have been were neither legs

nor boots. He was irradiated by the dawn of a great amazement.

"Where _are_ yer?" said Mr. Thomas Marvel over his shoulder and

coming on all fours. He saw a stretch of empty downs with the wind

swaying the remote green-pointed furze bushes.

"Am I drunk?" said Mr. Marvel. "Have I had visions? Was I talking

to myself? What the--"

"Don't be alarmed," said a Voice.

"None of your ventriloquising _me_," said Mr. Thomas Marvel, rising

sharply to his feet. "Where _are_ yer? Alarmed, indeed!"

"Don't be alarmed," repeated the Voice.

"_You'll_ be alarmed in a minute, you silly fool," said Mr. Thomas

Marvel. "Where _are_ yer? Lemme get my mark on yer...

"Are yer _buried_?" said Mr. Thomas Marvel, after an interval.

There was no answer. Mr. Thomas Marvel stood bootless and amazed,

his jacket nearly thrown off.

"Peewit," said a peewit, very remote.

"Peewit, indeed!" said Mr. Thomas Marvel. "This ain't no time for

foolery." The down was desolate, east and west, north and south;

the road with its shallow ditches and white bordering stakes, ran

smooth and empty north and south, and, save for that peewit, the

blue sky was empty too. "So help me," said Mr. Thomas Marvel,

shuffling his coat on to his shoulders again. "It's the drink!

I might ha' known."

"It's not the drink," said the Voice. "You keep your nerves

steady."

"Ow!" said Mr. Marvel, and his face grew white amidst its patches.

"It's the drink!" his lips repeated noiselessly. He remained staring

about him, rotating slowly backwards. "I could have _swore_ I heard

a voice," he whispered.

"Of course you did."

"It's there again," said Mr. Marvel, closing his eyes and clasping

his hand on his brow with a tragic gesture. He was suddenly taken

by the collar and shaken violently, and left more dazed than ever.

"Don't be a fool," said the Voice.

"I'm--off--my--blooming--chump," said Mr. Marvel. "It's no good.