CHAPTER XIV. AT PORT STOWE

by H. G. Wells

The next morning at ten o'clock, Mr. Marvel sat on a bench outside a small inn on the outskirts of Port Stowe. He looked disheveled—unshaven, dirty, and weary, with travel stains on his clothes. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, and he occasionally puffed out his cheeks, a sign of his nervousness. Next to him lay a bundle of books, now tied with string, a remnant of the plans that had changed for the Invisible Man. Despite the lack of attention from passersby, Mr. Marvel's agitation was palpable, and he fidgeted with his pockets, his fingers fumbling anxiously.

After sitting there for nearly an hour, an older mariner emerged from the inn, carrying a newspaper, and took a seat beside him. “Nice day, isn’t it?” the mariner said.

Mr. Marvel glanced around, his eyes wide with something resembling fear. “Very,” he replied.

“Just the right weather for this time of year,” the mariner continued, not waiting for a response.

“Absolutely,” Mr. Marvel agreed.

The mariner pulled out a toothpick and focused on it for a few moments, his eyes wandering over Mr. Marvel’s dusty appearance and the books beside him. As he approached, he had heard a sound that resembled coins dropping into a pocket, which struck him as odd given Mr. Marvel's shabby look. His curiosity led him back to a topic that had recently captivated his imagination.

“Books?” he said suddenly, finishing with the toothpick.

Mr. Marvel jumped slightly and looked at the books. “Oh, yes,” he said. “They’re books.”

“There are some extraordinary things in books,” the mariner remarked.

“I believe you,” Mr. Marvel replied.

“And some extraordinary things outside of them,” the mariner added.

“True enough,” Mr. Marvel said, eyeing the mariner and then glancing around nervously.

“There are extraordinary things in newspapers, for example,” the mariner continued.

“Indeed,” Mr. Marvel agreed.

“In _this_ newspaper,” the mariner said, holding it up.

“Ah!” Mr. Marvel said, intrigued.

“There’s a story,” the mariner said, fixing Mr. Marvel with a steady gaze. “A story about an Invisible Man, for instance.”

Mr. Marvel’s expression twisted into a nervous grimace as he scratched his cheek, feeling heat rise to his ears. “What will they think of next?” he asked faintly. “Ostria, or America?”

“Neither,” the mariner replied. “_Here_.”

“Good Lord!” Mr. Marvel exclaimed, startled.

“When I say _here_,” the mariner clarified, much to Mr. Marvel’s relief, “I don’t mean this exact spot, but hereabouts.”

“An Invisible Man!” Mr. Marvel said, his curiosity piqued. “What’s he been up to?”

“Everything,” the mariner replied, his eyes locking onto Mr. Marvel's. “Every—blessed—thing.”

“I haven’t seen a paper in four days,” Marvel confessed.

“Iping’s where he started,” the mariner explained.

“Really?” Mr. Marvel said, surprised.

“He began there. And where he came from, nobody seems to know. Here it is: ‘Peculiar Story from Iping.’ The paper says the evidence is extraordinarily strong—extraordinary.”

“Good Lord!” Mr. Marvel exclaimed again.

“But it’s an extraordinary story. There’s a clergyman and a doctor who witnessed it—they saw him, or rather, didn’t see him. He was staying at the ‘Coach and Horses,’ and no one seemed to realize his condition until there was a commotion at the inn. That’s when they discovered his head was invisible. Attempts were made to capture him, but he managed to escape after a fierce struggle, injuring our capable constable, Mr. J. A. Jaffers, in the process. Quite the tale, isn’t it? Names and everything.”

“Good Lord!” Mr. Marvel said again, glancing around nervously as he tried to count the money in his pockets by touch, a strange idea forming in his mind. “It sounds incredible.”

“Doesn’t it? Extraordinary, I’d say. I’ve never heard of Invisible Men before, but these days, you hear about all sorts of extraordinary things—that—”

“Is that all he did?” Marvel asked, trying to maintain his composure.

“Isn’t that enough?” the mariner replied.

“Didn’t he go back, or anything?” Marvel pressed. “Just escaped, and that’s it?”

“All!” the mariner said. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Quite enough,” Marvel agreed.

“I’d say it was plenty,” the mariner insisted. “I’d say it was more than enough.”

“He didn’t have any accomplices—does it say anything about him having pals?” Mr. Marvel asked, his anxiety creeping in.

“Isn’t one enough for you?” the mariner replied. “No, thank Heaven, as one might say, he didn’t.”

He nodded slowly. “I can’t shake this feeling of unease about that guy running loose out there. Right now, he’s out in the open, and from what I’ve heard, it looks like he’s headed for Port Stowe. We’re right in the thick of it! This isn’t some American tall tale. Just imagine what he could do! What if he decided to come after you? If he wanted to rob someone—who could stop him? He could slip past a line of police as easily as you or I could dodge a blind man! Easier, actually! I’ve heard those blind folks have sharp hearing. And wherever there’s alcohol he fancies—”

“He definitely has a huge advantage,” Mr. Marvel replied. “And—well…”

“You’re spot on,” the mariner said. “He really does.”

Throughout this exchange, Mr. Marvel had been scanning the area, listening for any faint sounds, trying to catch even the slightest movement. He seemed on the verge of making a significant decision. He coughed discreetly into his hand.

He glanced around again, listened carefully, leaned closer to the mariner, and lowered his voice. “The truth is—I happen to know a thing or two about this Invisible Man. From private sources.”

“Oh!” the mariner said, intrigued. “You?”

“Yes,” Mr. Marvel confirmed. “Me.”

“Really?” the mariner replied. “May I ask—”

“You’ll be amazed,” Mr. Marvel whispered, his voice low. “It’s huge.”

“Really?” the mariner echoed.

“The truth is,” Mr. Marvel began eagerly, lowering his voice even more. But then his expression shifted dramatically. “Ow!” he exclaimed, rising stiffly from his seat. His face showed clear signs of discomfort. “Wow!” he added.

“What’s wrong?” the mariner asked, concerned.

“Toothache,” Mr. Marvel said, pressing his hand to his ear. He grabbed his books. “I think I should be going,” he said, edging away from the mariner in a peculiar manner.

“But you were just about to tell me about this Invisible Man!” the mariner protested. Mr. Marvel hesitated, as if debating with himself. “Hoax,” a voice inside him said. “It’s a hoax,” Mr. Marvel declared.

“But it’s in the paper,” the mariner insisted.

“Hoax all the same,” Marvel replied firmly. “I know the guy who started the rumor. There’s no Invisible Man at all—blimey.”

“But what about the paper? Are you saying—?”

“Not a word of it,” Marvel insisted stoutly.

The mariner stared at him, paper in hand. Mr. Marvel turned abruptly. “Wait a minute,” the mariner said, rising and speaking slowly. “Are you saying—?”

“I am,” Mr. Marvel affirmed.

“Then why did you let me ramble on about all this nonsense? Why let a man make a fool of himself like that?”

Mr. Marvel puffed out his cheeks. The mariner’s face turned a deep shade of red as he clenched his fists. “I’ve been talking for ten minutes,” he said. “And you, you little pot-bellied, leathery-faced son of an old boot, couldn’t even show basic manners—”

“Don’t you dare throw words around with me,” Mr. Marvel shot back.

“Throwing words! I’m tempted to—”

“Come on,” a voice urged, and suddenly Mr. Marvel was spun around and began marching off in an odd, jerky manner. “You’d better keep moving,” the mariner said.

“Who’s moving?” Mr. Marvel replied, retreating at an odd angle, his movements punctuated by sudden jerks forward. As he walked away, he began muttering to himself, filled with protests and complaints.

“Silly fool!” the mariner said, legs apart and arms crossed, watching the retreating figure. “I’ll show you, you silly ass—hoaxing me! It’s right here in the paper!”

Mr. Marvel mumbled something incoherent as he disappeared around a bend in the road, but the mariner stood tall in the middle of the path until a butcher’s cart came along and nudged him aside. He turned toward Port Stowe, muttering to himself, “Full of extraordinary fools. Just trying to make me look foolish—that was his game. It’s in the paper!”

And soon enough, he would hear another extraordinary story that had happened nearby. A vision of a “fistful of money” traveling without anyone to carry it, right by the wall at the corner of St. Michael’s Lane. A fellow mariner had witnessed this amazing sight that very morning. He had reached for the money and been knocked flat, and when he got back up, the money had vanished. Our mariner was in the mood to believe anything, he thought, but that was a bit too much. Still, he began to reconsider everything.

The tale of the flying money was true. All around the neighborhood, even from the prestigious London and Country Banking Company, and from the cash registers of shops and inns—doors wide open to the sunny weather—money had been quietly slipping away that day in handfuls and rolls. It floated along walls and in shady spots, quickly dodging the gaze of passersby. Though no one could trace it, it always seemed to end up in the pocket of that anxious gentleman in the old-fashioned silk hat, who sat outside the little inn on the outskirts of Port Stowe.

It was ten days later—by then, the Burdock story had become old news—that the sailor pieced together these events and began to realize just how close he had come to encountering the remarkable Invisible Man.