CHAPTER XVI.

von H. G. Wells

At the bottom of the hill, where the tram tracks began, stood the “Jolly Cricketers.” The barman leaned his hefty red arms on the counter, chatting about horses with a pale cab driver. Nearby, a man with a black beard and gray clothing munched on biscuits and cheese, sipping Burton beer while he spoke in American to a policeman who was off duty.

“What’s all the shouting about?” the pale cab driver asked, straining to see up the hill through the grimy yellow blind of the inn’s low window. Just then, someone dashed past outside. “Could be a fire,” the barman suggested.

Heavy footsteps approached, pounding down the path. The door swung open with a violent push, and in rushed Marvel, disheveled and sobbing, his hat gone and the neck of his coat torn. He made a frantic turn, trying to close the door, but it was held ajar by a strap.

“He’s coming!” he shouted, his voice laced with terror. “The Invisible Man! After me! For God’s sake! Help! Help! Help!”

“Shut the doors,” the policeman commanded. “Who’s coming? What’s going on?” He moved to the door, released the strap, and it slammed shut. The American man closed the other door.

“Let me in!” Marvel begged, staggering and crying, still clutching a stack of books. “Lock me in—somewhere. I swear he’s after me. I managed to escape. He said he’d kill me, and he will.”

“You’re safe here,” the man with the black beard reassured him. “The door’s shut. What’s happening?”

“Let me in!” Marvel cried, his voice rising in panic as a sudden blow made the door rattle, followed by urgent knocking and shouting from outside. “Who’s there?” the policeman called. Marvel began to frantically throw himself against panels that looked like doors. “He’ll kill me—he’s got a knife or something. For God’s sake—!”

“Come in here,” the barman said, lifting the bar flap.

Marvel darted behind the bar just as the summons outside was repeated. “Don’t open the door!” he screamed. “Please don’t open the door. Where can I hide?”

“So this Invisible Man, huh?” the man with the black beard asked, his hand hidden behind him. “I think it’s time we met him.”

Suddenly, the inn’s window shattered, and chaos erupted in the street. The policeman had been standing on a settee, trying to see who was at the door, but he jumped down, his eyebrows raised. “It’s him,” he said. The barman stood in front of the bar-parlor door, now locked with Marvel inside, staring at the broken window before turning to the other two men.

Everything fell silent. “I wish I had my truncheon,” the policeman muttered, hesitating at the door. “Once we open it, he’ll come right in. There’s no stopping him.”

“Don’t be too hasty about that door,” the pale cab driver said nervously.

“Draw the bolts,” the bearded man instructed, “and if he comes—” He revealed a revolver from behind him.

“That won’t do,” the policeman replied. “That’s murder.”

“I know what country I’m in,” the bearded man said firmly. “I’m going to shoot at his legs. Draw the bolts.”

“Not with that thing going off behind me,” the barman said, peering over the blind.

“Fine,” the bearded man said, and crouching down with his revolver ready, he drew the bolts himself. The barman, cab driver, and policeman turned to face the door.

“Come in,” the bearded man said quietly, stepping back and keeping his pistol hidden. No one entered; the door remained shut. Five minutes later, when a second cab driver cautiously poked his head in, they were still waiting, and an anxious face peeked out from the bar-parlor. “Are all the doors shut?” Marvel asked. “He’s prowling around—he’s as crafty as the devil.”

“Good Lord!” the burly barman exclaimed. “There’s the back! Just watch those doors! I say—!” He looked around helplessly. The bar-parlor door slammed, and they heard the key turn. “There’s the yard door and the private door. The yard door—”

He dashed out from behind the bar.

Moments later, he returned, wielding a carving knife. “The yard door was open!” he said, his fat underlip drooping. “He could be in the house right now!” the first cab driver warned.

“He’s not in the kitchen,” the barman replied. “There are two women in there, and I’ve checked every inch with this little slicer. They haven’t noticed anything—”

“Have you locked it?” the first cab driver asked.

“I’m out of frocks,” the barman admitted.

The man with the beard put his revolver away. Just then, the flap of the bar slammed shut, the bolt clicked, and with a loud crash, the catch of the door snapped. The bar-parlor door burst open. They heard Marvel squeal like a frightened rabbit, and immediately, they scrambled over the bar to rescue him. The bearded man’s revolver fired, and the mirror at the back of the parlor shattered, sending glass tinkling to the floor.

As the barman stepped into the room, he spotted Marvel, awkwardly crumpled and struggling against the door that led to the yard and kitchen. Just then, the door swung open, and Marvel was yanked into the kitchen. A scream pierced the air, followed by the clattering of pans. With his head down and resisting stubbornly, Marvel was pushed toward the kitchen door, where the bolts were drawn shut.

The policeman, who had been trying to get past the barman, rushed in next, followed closely by one of the cab drivers. He grabbed the wrist of the invisible hand that had a hold on Marvel but was met with a punch to the face that sent him staggering back. The door opened again, and Marvel made a desperate attempt to wedge himself behind it. The cab driver managed to grab hold of something. “I’ve got him!” he shouted. The barman’s red hands clawed at the unseen figure. “Here he is!” the barman called out.

Suddenly freed, Mr. Marvel dropped to the ground, trying to crawl behind the legs of the men who were fighting. The struggle spilled out around the edge of the door. For the first time, the voice of the Invisible Man could be heard, yelling sharply as the policeman stepped on his foot. He cried out in frustration, his fists swinging wildly. The cab driver suddenly howled in pain, doubling over after being kicked in the gut. The door from the kitchen to the bar-parlor slammed shut, covering Marvel’s escape. The men in the kitchen found themselves grappling with nothing but empty air.

“Where did he go?” shouted the man with the beard. “Out?”

“This way,” said the policeman, stepping into the yard and halting.

A piece of tile flew past his head, shattering among the dishes on the kitchen table.

“I’ll show him,” yelled the man with the black beard. In an instant, a steel barrel gleamed over the policeman’s shoulder, and five bullets fired in quick succession into the dimness from where the projectile had come. As he shot, the man with the beard swept his arm in a wide arc, sending his shots radiating out into the narrow yard like spokes on a wheel.

A heavy silence followed. “Five cartridges,” said the man with the black beard. “That’s the best of all. Four aces and a joker. Someone get a lantern and let’s search for his body.”