CHAPTER XXI. IN OXFORD STREET

von H. G. Wells

As I made my way down the stairs for the first time, I encountered an unexpected challenge—I couldn’t see my feet. I stumbled twice, feeling awkward as I fumbled with the bolt. But by keeping my gaze straight ahead, I managed to walk reasonably well on the flat surface.

My mood was one of exhilaration. I felt like a sighted person in a world of the blind, moving silently with soft shoes and quiet clothes. A wild urge to play pranks surged within me. I wanted to startle people, slap them on the back, toss their hats into the air, and revel in my unique advantage.

However, as soon as I stepped onto Great Portland Street, where my lodging was near a large draper's shop, I heard a loud crash and felt a sharp impact from behind. Turning around, I saw a man struggling to balance a basket of soda-water syphons, his expression a mix of surprise and confusion. Despite the pain from the collision, I couldn’t help but laugh at his bewilderment. “The devil’s in the basket!” I exclaimed, suddenly snatching it from his hands. He dropped it instantly, and I swung the heavy load into the air.

But then, a foolish cab driver, standing outside a pub, lunged for the basket. His outstretched fingers struck me painfully under the ear. I lost my grip, and the basket crashed down onto the cab driver. In an instant, chaos erupted around me—people poured out of shops, vehicles screeched to a halt, and I realized the mess I had created. Cursing my own stupidity, I pressed against a shop window, preparing to slip away from the confusion. I could feel the crowd closing in, and I knew I had to escape before someone recognized me.

I pushed past a butcher boy, who fortunately didn’t turn to see the empty space that had just brushed by him, and ducked behind a cab. I had no idea how the situation resolved itself. I hurried across the street, grateful it was clear, and without thinking much about where I was going, I plunged into the bustling crowd of Oxford Street.

I tried to blend into the throng, but it was too dense. Before long, I felt heels trampling on my feet. I stepped into the gutter, which was rough and painful, and then a slow-moving hansom cab jostled me painfully under the shoulder blade, reminding me of my existing bruises. I staggered out of the way, narrowly avoiding a pram with a sudden jerk, and found myself trailing behind the hansom.

A sudden idea struck me. I dashed around and hopped into the cab. So there I was, shivering, scared, and sniffling as the first signs of a cold crept in, while the bruises on my back began to throb. I was now driving slowly along Oxford Street, past Tottenham Court Road, and my mood had shifted dramatically from the exhilaration I had felt just moments before. This invisibility was a double-edged sword! All I could think about was how to get out of this mess.

We crawled past Mudie’s, where a tall woman with several yellow-labeled books flagged down my cab. I jumped out just in time to avoid her, narrowly missing a railway van in my hurried escape. I dashed up the road toward Bloomsbury Square, hoping to head north past the Museum and into a quieter area. The chill had settled deep into my bones, and the strangeness of my situation unnerved me so much that I whimpered as I ran.

At the north corner of the Square, a small white dog burst out of the Pharmaceutical Society’s offices and immediately came running toward me, nose to the ground.

I had never realized before how a dog’s nose functions for them like sight does for a human. They can sense a person’s presence just as we perceive the world around us. This little creature began barking and jumping, making it clear that it was aware of me. I crossed Great Russell Street, glancing back over my shoulder, and continued along Montague Street before I even realized what I was running toward.

I suddenly heard a loud burst of music, and as I looked down the street, I saw a crowd coming out of Russell Square, all wearing red shirts, with a Salvation Army banner leading the way. The throng was chanting in the street and mocking from the sidewalk, and I knew I couldn't push my way through. Not wanting to retreat further from home, I made a quick decision and dashed up the white steps of a house facing the museum railings. I stood there, waiting for the crowd to pass. Luckily, my dog also paused at the sound of the band, hesitated, and then turned back, running toward Bloomsbury Square.

The band marched on, belting out a hymn about “When shall we see His face?” with an irony that I couldn’t help but notice. It felt like an eternity before the tide of people flowed past me on the pavement. The drum thudded rhythmically, and for a moment, I didn’t notice two kids who had stopped at the railings beside me.

“Look at that,” one of them said.

“What?” the other replied.

“Those footprints—bare. Like what you make in mud.”

I glanced down and saw the boys staring at the muddy footprints I had left on the freshly painted steps. The crowd jostled them, but they were too captivated to move. “Thud, thud, thud, when, thud, shall we see, thud, his face, thud, thud.”

“There’s a barefoot man who went up those steps, or I don’t know anything,” one of them said. “And he hasn’t come back down. And his foot was bleeding.”

The bulk of the crowd had already passed. “Look at that, Ted,” the younger detective said, surprise sharpening his voice as he pointed directly at my feet. I looked down and saw the faint outline of my footprints in the mud. For a moment, I was frozen.

“That's strange,” the older one said. “Really strange! It looks just like the ghost of a foot, doesn’t it?” He hesitated, reaching out with his hand. A man stopped to see what he was pointing at, followed by a girl. In another second, he would have touched me. I quickly figured out what to do. I took a step, and the boy jumped back with a shout. In a swift motion, I swung myself into the portico of the next house. But the smaller boy was sharp enough to follow my movement, and before I was fully down the steps and back on the pavement, he had recovered from his surprise and was yelling that the feet had gone over the wall.

They rushed around and saw my new footprints appearing on the lower step and the pavement. “What’s going on?” someone asked. “Look! Feet! Running!”

Everyone on the street, except for my three pursuers, was rushing after the Salvation Army, and this distraction not only slowed me down but them as well. There was a swirl of confusion and curiosity. I managed to push past one young man, and in another moment, I was sprinting around Russell Square, with six or seven bewildered people trailing my footprints. There was no time to explain, or the whole crowd would have been after me.

I doubled around corners twice, crossed the road three times, and retraced my steps, but as my feet grew hot and dry, the damp impressions began to fade. Finally, I found a moment to catch my breath and rubbed my feet clean with my hands, managing to escape altogether. The last I saw of my pursuers was a small group of about a dozen people, staring in confusion at a slowly drying footprint left by a puddle in Tavistock Square, as isolated and mysterious to them as Crusoe’s solitary discovery.

Running had warmed me somewhat, and I continued on with renewed courage through the maze of less-traveled streets nearby. My back was stiff and sore, my throat ached from the cabman’s grip, and my neck was scratched from his nails. My feet throbbed painfully, and I was limping from a small cut on one foot. I spotted a blind man approaching and hurried away, limping, fearing his uncanny intuition. A couple of accidental collisions occurred, leaving people bewildered, with my unaccountable curses echoing in their ears.

Then, something soft and quiet brushed against my face, and a thin veil of snowflakes began to fall across the Square. I had caught a cold, and no matter what I did, I couldn’t suppress the occasional sneeze. Every dog that came into view, with its curious nose and inquisitive sniffing, sent a wave of terror through me.

Suddenly, a crowd of men and boys came rushing by, shouting as they ran. It was a fire. They sprinted toward my place, and when I looked down the street, I saw a thick plume of black smoke rising high above the rooftops and tangled telephone wires.

It was my home that was on fire—my clothes, my equipment, everything I owned, except for my checkbook and the three volumes of notes waiting for me on Great Portland Street. Everything was burning! I had truly burned my bridges—if anyone ever had! The whole place was engulfed in flames.

The Invisible Man paused, lost in thought. Kemp glanced nervously out the window. “Yes?” he prompted. “Go on.”