CHAPTER III. THE THOUSAND AND ONE BOTTLES

von H. G. Wells · 2026-03-31

On the twenty-ninth of February, just as the thaw began to set in, an unusual figure appeared in the village of Iping. The following day, his luggage arrived, sloshing through the mud—and it was quite the sight. Along with a couple of ordinary trunks that any sensible person might need, there was a box filled with hefty books, some of which were written in a handwriting that was utterly baffling. Additionally, there were more than a dozen crates and boxes, all packed with straw, which Hall, driven by casual curiosity, discovered contained glass bottles.

The stranger, bundled up in a hat, coat, gloves, and a heavy wrap, stepped out impatiently to greet Fearenside’s cart, while Hall exchanged a few words of gossip in preparation for unloading. As he approached, he didn’t notice Fearenside’s dog, which was sniffing curiously at Hall’s legs. “Get those boxes over here,” the stranger called out. “I’ve been waiting long enough.”

He strode down the steps toward the back of the cart, aiming to grab a smaller crate.

But as soon as Fearenside’s dog caught sight of him, it began to bristle and growl fiercely. When the stranger rushed down the steps, the dog hesitated for a moment before lunging at his hand. “Whoa!” Hall shouted, jumping back, as he was no friend of aggressive dogs, while Fearenside yelled, “Lie down!” and grabbed his whip.

In a flash, the dog’s teeth missed the stranger’s hand, and with a swift kick, it managed to leap and sink its teeth into the stranger’s leg, ripping his trousers. Fearenside’s whip then found its mark, and the dog, yelping in distress, darted under the wagon. The whole incident unfolded in a matter of seconds. No one spoke; everyone shouted. The stranger glanced at his torn glove and leg, seemed about to bend down to inspect the damage, then turned and rushed back up the steps into the inn. They could hear him storming across the passage and up the bare stairs to his room.

“You brute!” Fearenside exclaimed, climbing off the wagon with his whip still in hand, while the dog watched him from behind the wheel. “Come here,” he said, “you’d better.”

Hall stood there, stunned. “He got bit,” he said finally. “I should go check on him,” and he hurried after the stranger. He bumped into Mrs. Hall in the passage. “Carrier’s dog,” he said, “bit him.”

He went straight upstairs, and since the stranger’s door was slightly ajar, he pushed it open and stepped in without hesitation, driven by his naturally sympathetic nature.

The blinds were drawn, and the room was dim. He caught a glimpse of something bizarre—a handless arm waving at him, accompanied by a face that looked like three large, indistinct spots on a pale background, reminiscent of a pale pansy. Suddenly, he was struck hard in the chest, sent reeling back, and the door slammed shut in his face, locking him out. It all happened so quickly that he barely had time to process what he had seen. Just a blur of strange shapes, a blow, and a jarring impact. He stood there on the dark little landing, bewildered by the encounter.

A couple of minutes later, he rejoined the small crowd that had gathered outside the “Coach and Horses.” Fearenside was recounting the story for the second time, while Mrs. Hall insisted that her dog had no business biting guests. Huxter, the general dealer from across the street, was asking questions, and Sandy Wadgers from the forge was taking on a more serious tone, alongside a mix of women and children chiming in with their own thoughts: “Wouldn’t let it bite me, I know that,” “It’s not right to have such dogs,” “Why did he bite him in the first place?” and so on.

Mr. Hall, watching from the steps and listening, found it hard to believe he had witnessed anything so extraordinary upstairs. Besides, he didn’t have the words to express his feelings.

“He says he doesn’t want any help,” he replied to his wife’s inquiry. “We should just bring in his luggage.”

“He ought to have that treated right away,” Mr. Huxter suggested. “Especially if it’s swollen.”

“I’d shoot it, that’s what I’d do,” a woman in the group chimed in.

Suddenly, the dog started growling again.

“Get a move on,” an irritated voice called from the doorway. There stood the stranger, his collar turned up and the brim of his hat pulled low. “The sooner you get those things inside, the better.” An anonymous bystander noted that his trousers and gloves had been changed.

“Were you hurt, sir?” Fearenside asked, looking genuinely concerned. “I’m really sorry about the dog—”

“Not at all,” the stranger replied tersely. “Didn’t break the skin. Just hurry up with those boxes.”

Then, under his breath, he muttered a curse, according to Mr. Hall.

As soon as the first crate was carried into the parlor, the stranger eagerly threw himself onto it, ripping it open without a care for Mrs. Hall’s carpet as straw flew everywhere. He began pulling out bottles—short, stout ones filled with powders, slender ones with colorful and clear liquids, blue bottles marked “Poison,” round-bodied bottles with thin necks, large green and white glass bottles, some with glass stoppers and frosted labels, others with corks, bungs, and wooden caps, along with wine and salad-oil bottles. He arranged them in rows on the chiffonnier, the mantel, the table beneath the window, around the floor, and on the bookshelf—everywhere. The chemist’s shop in Bramblehurst couldn’t compete with the sight before him. Crate after crate was emptied, until all six were bare and the table was piled high with straw. The only other items that emerged were a few test tubes and a carefully packed balance.

Once the crates were unpacked, the stranger went straight to the window and got to work, completely ignoring the mess of straw, the extinguished fire, the box of books outside, and the trunks and other luggage that had been taken upstairs.

When Mrs. Hall brought in his dinner, he was so engrossed in his task—pouring tiny drops from the bottles into test tubes—that he didn’t notice her until she had cleared most of the straw and set the tray on the table, perhaps a bit forcefully given the state of the floor. He turned his head slightly but quickly looked away again. She noticed his glasses were off and sitting beside him on the table, and it struck her that his eye sockets looked unusually hollow. He put his spectacles back on and then turned to face her. Just as she was about to complain about the straw on the floor, he preempted her.

“I wish you wouldn’t come in without knocking,” he said, his voice tinged with an irritation that seemed to be a part of him.

“I did knock, but apparently—”

“Perhaps you did. But in my investigations—my very urgent and necessary investigations—the slightest disturbance, even the sound of a door opening—I must insist—”

“Of course, sir. You can lock the door if you prefer,” she replied, her tone steady.

“A very good idea,” he said, almost absentmindedly.

“This straw, sir, if I may be so bold—”

“Don’t. If the straw causes any trouble, just add it to the bill.” He mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse.

He was so peculiar, standing there with a bottle in one hand and a test tube in the other, that Mrs. Hall felt a flicker of alarm. But she was a determined woman. “In that case, I’d like to know what you consider—”

“A shilling—just put down a shilling. Surely that’s enough?”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Hall, picking up the tablecloth and starting to spread it over the table. “If you’re satisfied, of course—”

He turned away and sat down, his coat collar turned toward her.

All afternoon, he worked with the door locked, and as Mrs. Hall later recounted, mostly in silence. But then there was a loud crash, the sound of bottles clinking together as if the table had been struck, followed by the shattering of a bottle thrown down in anger, and then rapid pacing across the room. Concerned that something was wrong, she approached the door and listened, hesitating to knock.

“I can’t go on,” he was muttering. “I can’t go on. Three hundred thousand, four hundred thousand! The vast numbers! Cheated! It could take me my whole life! ... Patience! Patience indeed! ... Fool! Fool!”

She heard the sound of hobnails on the bricks in the bar, and reluctantly left the rest of his ranting. When she returned, the room was quiet again, save for the faint creaking of his chair and the occasional clink of a bottle. He had resumed his work.

When she brought in his tea, she noticed broken glass in the corner under the concave mirror and a golden stain that had been carelessly wiped away. She pointed it out.

“Put it down in the bill,” he snapped. “For God’s sake, don’t bother me. If there’s any damage, just add it to the bill,” and he continued jotting down notes in the exercise book in front of him.

“I’ll tell you something,” said Fearenside, leaning in with a conspiratorial tone. It was late afternoon, and they were in the small pub at Iping Hanger.

“Well?” Teddy Henfrey replied, intrigued.

“This guy you’re talking about, the one my dog bit—he’s black. At least, his legs are. I saw through the tear in his trousers and his glove. You’d expect to see some pink, wouldn’t you? But there was nothing—just blackness. I swear, he’s as black as my hat.”

“My goodness!” Henfrey exclaimed. “This whole thing is strange. But his nose is as pink as paint!”

"That's right," Fearenside said. "I know that. And let me tell you what I'm thinking. That horse is a piebald, Teddy. Black in some spots and white in others—like a patchwork. And he seems embarrassed about it. He’s a sort of half-breed, and the colors didn't blend properly; they just ended up in patches. I've heard of that happening before. It's pretty common with horses, as anyone can tell."