The Invisible Man
By H.G. Wells
Chapter 16
In the "Jolly Cricketers"
The "Jolly Cricketers" is just at the bottom of the
hill, where the
tram-lines begin. The barman leant his fat red arms on the counter
and talked of horses with an anaemic cabman, while a black-bearded
man in grey snapped up biscuit and cheese, drank Burton, and
conversed in American with a policeman off duty.
"What's the shouting about!" said the anaemic cabman,
going off at a
tangent, trying to see up the hill over the dirty yellow blind in
the low window of the inn. Somebody ran by outside. "Fire,
perhaps,"
said the barman.
Footsteps approached, running heavily, the door was pushed open
violently, and Marvel, weeping and dishevelled, his hat gone, the
neck of his coat torn open, rushed in, made a convulsive turn, and
attempted to shut the door. It was held half open by a strap.
"Coming!" he bawled, his voice shrieking with terror.
"He's coming.
The 'Visible Man! After me! For Gawd's sake! 'Elp! 'Elp!
'Elp!"
"Shut the doors," said the policeman. "Who's
coming? What's the
row?" He went to the door, released the strap, and it
slammed. The
American closed the other door.
"Lemme go inside," said Marvel, staggering and weeping,
but still
clutching the books. "Lemme go inside. Lock me in--somewhere.
I
tell you he's after me. I give him the slip. 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?"
"Lemme go inside," said Marvel, and shrieked aloud as a
blow
suddenly made the fastened door shiver and was followed by a
hurried
rapping and a shouting outside. "Hullo," cried the
policeman, "who's
there?" Mr. Marvel began to make frantic dives at panels that
looked
like doors. "He'll kill me--he's got a knife or something.
For
Gawd's sake--!"
"Here you are," said the barman. "Come in
here." And he held up the
flap of the bar.
Mr. Marvel rushed behind the bar as the summons outside was
repeated. "Don't open the door," he screamed.
"_Please_ don't open
the door. _Where_ shall I hide?"
"This, this Invisible Man, then?" asked the man with the
black
beard, with one hand behind him. "I guess it's about time we
saw
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 standing on the settee staring out, craning to see who was at
the door. He got down with raised eyebrows. "It's that,"
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 irresolutely to the door. "Once we open,
in he
comes. There's no stopping him."
"Don't you be in too much hurry about 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 with that blinking thing going off behind me," said
the
barman, craning over the blind.
"Very well," said the man with the black beard, and
stooping down,
revolver ready, drew them himself. Barman, cabman, and policeman
faced about.
"Come in," said the bearded man in an undertone,
standing back and
facing the unbolted doors with his pistol behind him. No one came
in, the door remained closed. Five minutes afterwards when a
second
cabman pushed his head in cautiously, they were still waiting, and
an anxious face peered out of the bar-parlour and supplied
information. "Are all the doors of the house shut?"
asked Marvel.
"He's going round--prowling round. He's as artful as the
devil."
"Good Lord!" said the burly barman. "There's the
back! Just watch
them doors! I say--!" He looked about him helplessly. The
bar-parlour door slammed and they heard the key turn.
"There's
the yard door and the private door. The yard door--"
He rushed out of the bar.
In a minute he reappeared with a carving-knife in his hand.
"The
yard door was open!" he said, and his fat underlip dropped.
"He may
be in the house now!" said the first cabman.
"He's not in the kitchen," said the barman.
"There's two women
there, and I've stabbed every inch of it with this little beef
slicer. And they don't think he's come in. They haven't
noticed--"
"Have you fastened it?" asked the first cabman.
"I'm out of frocks," said the barman.
The man with the beard replaced his revolver. And even as he did
so
the flap of the bar was shut down and the bolt clicked, and then
with a tremendous thud the catch of the door snapped and the
bar-parlour door burst open. They heard Marvel squeal like a
caught
leveret, and forthwith they were clambering over the bar to his
rescue. The bearded man's revolver cracked and the looking-glass
at
the back of the parlour starred and came smashing and tinkling
down.
As the barman entered the room he saw Marvel, curiously crumpled
up
and struggling against the door that led to the yard and kitchen.
The door flew open while the barman hesitated, and Marvel was
dragged into the kitchen. There was a scream and a clatter of
pans.
Marvel, head down, and lugging back obstinately, was forced to the
kitchen door, and the bolts were drawn.
Then the policeman, who had been trying to pass the barman, rushed
in, followed by one of the cabmen, gripped the wrist of the
invisible hand that collared Marvel, was hit in the face and went
reeling back. The door opened, and Marvel made a frantic effort to
obtain a lodgment behind it. Then the cabman collared something.
"I got him," said the cabman. The barman's red hands
came clawing
at the unseen. "Here he is!" said the barman.
Mr. Marvel, released, suddenly dropped to the ground and made an
attempt to crawl behind the legs of the fighting men. The struggle
blundered round the edge of the door. The voice of the Invisible
Man was heard for the first time, yelling out sharply, as the
policeman trod on his foot. Then he cried out passionately and
his fists flew round like flails. The cabman suddenly whooped
and doubled up, kicked under the diaphragm. The door into the
bar-parlour from the kitchen slammed and covered Mr. Marvel's
retreat. The men in the kitchen found themselves clutching at and
struggling with empty air.
"Where's he gone?" cried the man with the beard.
"Out?"
"This way," said the policeman, stepping into the yard
and
stopping.
A piece of tile whizzed by his head and smashed among the crockery
on the kitchen table.
"I'll show him," shouted the man with the black beard,
and suddenly
a steel barrel shone over the policeman's shoulder, and five
bullets had followed one another into the twilight whence the
missile had come. As he fired, the man with the beard moved his
hand in a horizontal curve, so that his shots radiated out into
the
narrow yard like spokes from a wheel.
A silence followed. "Five cartridges," said the man with
the black
beard. "That's the best of all. Four aces and a joker. Get a
lantern, someone, and come and feel about for his body."
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