Chapter Chapter 9 · MR. THOMAS MARVEL

. MR. THOMAS MARVEL

You must picture Mr. Thomas Marvel as a person of copious, flexible

visage, a nose of cylindrical protrusion, a liquorish, ample,

fluctuating mouth, and a beard of bristling eccentricity. His figure

inclined to embonpoint; his short limbs accentuated this inclination.

He wore a furry silk hat, and the frequent substitution of twine and

shoe-laces for buttons, apparent at critical points of his costume,

marked a man essentially bachelor.

Mr. Thomas Marvel was sitting with his feet in a ditch by the roadside

over the down towards Adderdean, about a mile and a half out of Iping.

His feet, save for socks of irregular open-work, were bare, his big

toes were broad, and pricked like the ears of a watchful dog. In a

leisurely manner—he did everything in a leisurely manner—he was

contemplating trying on a pair of boots. They were the soundest boots

he had come across for a long time, but too large for him; whereas the

ones he had were, in dry weather, a very comfortable fit, but too

thin-soled for damp. Mr. Thomas Marvel hated roomy shoes, but then he

hated damp. He had never properly thought out which he hated most, and

it was a pleasant day, and there was nothing better to do. So he put

the four shoes in a graceful group on the turf and looked at them. And

seeing them there among the grass and springing agrimony, it suddenly

occurred to him that both pairs were exceedingly ugly to see. He was

not at all startled by a voice behind him.

“They’re boots, anyhow,” said the Voice.

“They are—charity boots,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, with his head on one

side regarding them distastefully; “and which is the ugliest pair in

the whole blessed universe, I’m darned if I know!”

“H’m,” said the Voice.

“I’ve worn worse—in fact, I’ve worn none. But none so owdacious ugly—if

you’ll allow the expression. I’ve been cadging boots—in particular—for

days. Because I was sick of _them_. They’re sound enough, of course.

But a gentleman on tramp sees such a thundering lot of his boots. And

if you’ll believe me, I’ve raised nothing in the whole blessed country,

try as I would, but _them_. Look at ’em! And a good country for boots,

too, in a general way. But it’s just my promiscuous luck. I’ve got my

boots in this country ten years or more. And then they treat you like

this.”

“It’s a beast of a country,” said the Voice. “And pigs for people.”

“Ain’t it?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel. “Lord! But them boots! It beats

it.”

He turned his head over his shoulder to the right, to look at the boots

of his interlocutor with a view to comparisons, and lo! where the boots

of his interlocutor should have been were neither legs nor boots. He

was irradiated by the dawn of a great amazement. “Where _are_ yer?”

said Mr. Thomas Marvel over his shoulder and coming on all fours. He

saw a stretch of empty downs with the wind swaying the remote

green-pointed furze bushes.

“Am I drunk?” said Mr. Marvel. “Have I had visions? Was I talking to

myself? What the—”

“Don’t be alarmed,” said a Voice.

“None of your ventriloquising _me_,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, rising

sharply to his feet. “Where _are_ yer? Alarmed, indeed!”

“Don’t be alarmed,” repeated the Voice.

“_You’ll_ be alarmed in a minute, you silly fool,” said Mr. Thomas

Marvel. “Where _are_ yer? Lemme get my mark on yer...

“Are yer _buried_?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, after an interval.

There was no answer. Mr. Thomas Marvel stood bootless and amazed, his

jacket nearly thrown off.

“Peewit,” said a peewit, very remote.

“Peewit, indeed!” said Mr. Thomas Marvel. “This ain’t no time for

foolery.” The down was desolate, east and west, north and south; the

road with its shallow ditches and white bordering stakes, ran smooth

and empty north and south, and, save for that peewit, the blue sky was

empty too. “So help me,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, shuffling his coat on

to his shoulders again. “It’s the drink! I might ha’ known.”

“It’s not the drink,” said the Voice. “You keep your nerves steady.”

“Ow!” said Mr. Marvel, and his face grew white amidst its patches.

“It’s the drink!” his lips repeated noiselessly. He remained staring

about him, rotating slowly backwards. “I could have _swore_ I heard a

voice,” he whispered.

“Of course you did.”

“It’s there again,” said Mr. Marvel, closing his eyes and clasping his

hand on his brow with a tragic gesture. He was suddenly taken by the

collar and shaken violently, and left more dazed than ever. “Don’t be a

fool,” said the Voice.

“I’m—off—my—blooming—chump,” said Mr. Marvel. “It’s no good. It’s

fretting about them blarsted boots. I’m off my blessed blooming chump.

Or it’s spirits.”

“Neither one thing nor the other,” said the Voice. “Listen!”

“Chump,” said Mr. Marvel.

“One minute,” said the Voice, penetratingly, tremulous with

self-control.

“Well?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, with a strange feeling of having been

dug in the chest by a finger.

“You think I’m just imagination? Just imagination?”

“What else _can_ you be?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, rubbing the back of

his neck.

“Very well,” said the Voice, in a tone of relief. “Then I’m going to

throw flints at you till you think differently.”

“But where _are_ yer?”

The Voice made no answer. Whizz came a flint, apparently out of the

air, and missed Mr. Marvel’s shoulder by a hair’s-breadth. Mr. Marvel,

turning, saw a flint jerk up into the air, trace a complicated path,

hang for a moment, and then fling at his feet with almost invisible

rapidity. He was too amazed to dodge. Whizz it came, and ricochetted

from a bare toe into the ditch. Mr. Thomas Marvel jumped a foot and

howled aloud. Then he started to run, tripped over an unseen obstacle,

and came head over heels into a sitting position.

“_Now_,” said the Voice, as a third stone curved upward and hung in the

air above the tramp. “Am I imagination?”

Mr. Marvel by way of reply struggled to his feet, and was immediately

rolled over again. He lay quiet for a moment. “If you struggle any

more,” said the Voice, “I shall throw the flint at your head.”

“It’s a fair do,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, sitting up, taking his

wounded toe in hand and fixing his eye on the third missile. “I don’t

understand it. Stones flinging themselves. Stones talking. Put yourself

down. Rot away. I’m done.”

The third flint fell.

“It’s very simple,” said the Voice. “I’m an invisible man.”

“Tell us something I don’t know,” said Mr. Marvel, gasping with pain.

“Where you’ve hid—how you do it—I _don’t_ know. I’m beat.”

“That’s all,” said the Voice. “I’m invisible. That’s what I want you to

understand.”

“Anyone could see that. There is no need for you to be so confounded

impatient, mister. _Now_ then. Give us a notion. How are you hid?”

“I’m invisible. That’s the great point. And what I want you to

understand is this—”

“But whereabouts?” interrupted Mr. Marvel.

“Here! Six yards in front of you.”

“Oh, _come_! I ain’t blind. You’ll be telling me next you’re just thin

air. I’m not one of your ignorant tramps—”

“Yes, I am—thin air. You’re looking through me.”

“What! Ain’t there any stuff to you. _Vox et_—what is it?—jabber. Is it

that?”

“I am just a human being—solid, needing food and drink, needing

covering too—But I’m invisible. You see? Invisible. Simple idea.

Invisible.”

“What, real like?”

“Yes, real.”

“Let’s have a hand of you,” said Marvel, “if you _are_ real. It won’t

be so darn out-of-the-way like, then—_Lord_!” he said, “how you made me

jump!—gripping me like that!”

He felt the hand that had closed round his wrist with his disengaged

fingers, and his fingers went timorously up the arm, patted a muscular

chest, and explored a bearded face. Marvel’s face was astonishment.

“I’m dashed!” he said. “If this don’t beat cock-fighting! Most

remarkable!—And there I can see a rabbit clean through you, ’arf a mile

away! Not a bit of you visible—except—”

He scrutinised the apparently empty space keenly. “You ’aven’t been

eatin’ bread and cheese?” he asked, holding the invisible arm.

“You’re quite right, and it’s not quite assimilated into the system.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Marvel. “Sort of ghostly, though.”

“Of course, all this isn’t half so wonderful as you think.”

“It’s quite wonderful enough for _my_ modest wants,” said Mr. Thomas

Marvel. “Howjer manage it! How the dooce is it done?”

“It’s too long a story. And besides—”

“I tell you, the whole business fairly beats me,” said Mr. Marvel.

“What I want to say at present is this: I need help. I have come to

that—I came upon you suddenly. I was wandering, mad with rage, naked,

impotent. I could have murdered. And I saw you—”

“_Lord_!” said Mr. Marvel.

“I came up behind you—hesitated—went on—”

Mr. Marvel’s expression was eloquent.

“—then stopped. ‘Here,’ I said, ‘is an outcast like myself. This is the

man for me.’ So I turned back and came to you—you. And—”

“_Lord_!” said Mr. Marvel. “But I’m all in a tizzy. May I ask—How is

it? And what you may be requiring in the way of help?—Invisible!”

“I want you to help me get clothes—and shelter—and then, with other

things. I’ve left them long enough. If you won’t—well! But you

_will—must_.”

“Look here,” said Mr. Marvel. “I’m too flabbergasted. Don’t knock me

about any more. And leave me go. I must get steady a bit. And you’ve

pretty near broken my toe. It’s all so unreasonable. Empty downs, empty

sky. Nothing visible for miles except the bosom of Nature. And then

comes a voice. A voice out of heaven! And stones! And a fist—Lord!”

“Pull yourself together,” said the Voice, “for you have to do the job

I’ve chosen for you.”

Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were round.

“I’ve chosen you,” said the Voice. “You are the only man except some of

those fools down there, who knows there is such a thing as an invisible

man. You have to be my helper. Help me—and I will do great things for

you. An invisible man is a man of power.” He stopped for a moment to

sneeze violently.

“But if you betray me,” he said, “if you fail to do as I direct you—”

He paused and tapped Mr. Marvel’s shoulder smartly. Mr. Marvel gave a

yelp of terror at the touch. “I don’t want to betray you,” said Mr.

Marvel, edging away from the direction of the fingers. “Don’t you go

a-thinking that, whatever you do. All I want to do is to help you—just

tell me what I got to do. (Lord!) Whatever you want done, that I’m most

willing to do.”