第 十六 章 · IN THE “JOLLY CRICKETERS”

. IN THE “JOLLY CRICKETERS”

The “Jolly Cricketers” is just at the bottom of the hill, where the

tram-lines begin. The barman leant his fat red arms on the counter and

talked of horses with an anaemic cabman, while a black-bearded man in

grey snapped up biscuit and cheese, drank Burton, and conversed in

American with a policeman off duty.

“What’s the shouting about!” said the anaemic cabman, going off at a

tangent, trying to see up the hill over the dirty yellow blind in the

low window of the inn. Somebody ran by outside. “Fire, perhaps,” said

the barman.

Footsteps approached, running heavily, the door was pushed open

violently, and Marvel, weeping and dishevelled, his hat gone, the neck

of his coat torn open, rushed in, made a convulsive turn, and attempted

to shut the door. It was held half open by a strap.

“Coming!” he bawled, his voice shrieking with terror. “He’s coming. The

’Visible Man! After me! For Gawd’s sake! ’Elp! ’Elp! ’Elp!”

“Shut the doors,” said the policeman. “Who’s coming? What’s the row?”

He went to the door, released the strap, and it slammed. The American

closed the other door.

“Lemme go inside,” said Marvel, staggering and weeping, but still

clutching the books. “Lemme go inside. Lock me in—somewhere. I tell you

he’s after me. I give him the slip. He said he’d kill me and he will.”

“_You’re_ safe,” said the man with the black beard. “The door’s shut.

What’s it all about?”

“Lemme go inside,” said Marvel, and shrieked aloud as a blow suddenly

made the fastened door shiver and was followed by a hurried rapping and

a shouting outside. “Hullo,” cried the policeman, “who’s there?” Mr.

Marvel began to make frantic dives at panels that looked like doors.

“He’ll kill me—he’s got a knife or something. For Gawd’s sake—!”

“Here you are,” said the barman. “Come in here.” And he held up the

flap of the bar.

Mr. Marvel rushed behind the bar as the summons outside was repeated.

“Don’t open the door,” he screamed. “_Please_ don’t open the door.

_Where_ shall I hide?”

“This, this Invisible Man, then?” asked the man with the black beard,

with one hand behind him. “I guess it’s about time we saw him.”

The window of the inn was suddenly smashed in, and there was a

screaming and running to and fro in the street. The policeman had been

standing on the settee staring out, craning to see who was at the door.

He got down with raised eyebrows. “It’s that,” he said. The barman

stood in front of the bar-parlour door which was now locked on Mr.

Marvel, stared at the smashed window, and came round to the two other

men.

Everything was suddenly quiet. “I wish I had my truncheon,” said the

policeman, going irresolutely to the door. “Once we open, in he comes.

There’s no stopping him.”

“Don’t you be in too much hurry about that door,” said the anaemic

cabman, anxiously.

“Draw the bolts,” said the man with the black beard, “and if he comes—”

He showed a revolver in his hand.

“That won’t do,” said the policeman; “that’s murder.”

“I know what country I’m in,” said the man with the beard. “I’m going

to let off at his legs. Draw the bolts.”

“Not with that blinking thing going off behind me,” said the barman,

craning over the blind.

“Very well,” said the man with the black beard, and stooping down,

revolver ready, drew them himself. Barman, cabman, and policeman faced

about.

“Come in,” said the bearded man in an undertone, standing back and

facing the unbolted doors with his pistol behind him. No one came in,

the door remained closed. Five minutes afterwards when a second cabman

pushed his head in cautiously, they were still waiting, and an anxious

face peered out of the bar-parlour and supplied information. “Are all

the doors of the house shut?” asked Marvel. “He’s going round—prowling

round. He’s as artful as the devil.”

“Good Lord!” said the burly barman. “There’s the back! Just watch them

doors! I say—!” He looked about him helplessly. The bar-parlour door

slammed and they heard the key turn. “There’s the yard door and the

private door. The yard door—”

He rushed out of the bar.

In a minute he reappeared with a carving-knife in his hand. “The yard

door was open!” he said, and his fat underlip dropped. “He may be in

the house now!” said the first cabman.

“He’s not in the kitchen,” said the barman. “There’s two women there,

and I’ve stabbed every inch of it with this little beef slicer. And

they don’t think he’s come in. They haven’t noticed—”

“Have you fastened it?” asked the first cabman.

“I’m out of frocks,” said the barman.

The man with the beard replaced his revolver. And even as he did so the

flap of the bar was shut down and the bolt clicked, and then with a

tremendous thud the catch of the door snapped and the bar-parlour door

burst open. They heard Marvel squeal like a caught leveret, and

forthwith they were clambering over the bar to his rescue. The bearded

man’s revolver cracked and the looking-glass at the back of the parlour

starred and came smashing and tinkling down.

As the barman entered the room he saw Marvel, curiously crumpled up and

struggling against the door that led to the yard and kitchen. The door

flew open while the barman hesitated, and Marvel was dragged into the

kitchen. There was a scream and a clatter of pans. Marvel, head down,

and lugging back obstinately, was forced to the kitchen door, and the

bolts were drawn.

Then the policeman, who had been trying to pass the barman, rushed in,

followed by one of the cabmen, gripped the wrist of the invisible hand

that collared Marvel, was hit in the face and went reeling back. The

door opened, and Marvel made a frantic effort to obtain a lodgment

behind it. Then the cabman collared something. “I got him,” said the

cabman. The barman’s red hands came clawing at the unseen. “Here he

is!” said the barman.

Mr. Marvel, released, suddenly dropped to the ground and made an

attempt to crawl behind the legs of the fighting men. The struggle

blundered round the edge of the door. The voice of the Invisible Man

was heard for the first time, yelling out sharply, as the policeman

trod on his foot. Then he cried out passionately and his fists flew

round like flails. The cabman suddenly whooped and doubled up, kicked

under the diaphragm. The door into the bar-parlour from the kitchen

slammed and covered Mr. Marvel’s retreat. The men in the kitchen found

themselves clutching at and struggling with empty air.

“Where’s he gone?” cried the man with the beard. “Out?”

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

A piece of tile whizzed by his head and smashed among the crockery on

the kitchen table.

“I’ll show him,” shouted the man with the black beard, and suddenly a

steel barrel shone over the policeman’s shoulder, and five bullets had

followed one another into the twilight whence the missile had come. As

he fired, the man with the beard moved his hand in a horizontal curve,

so that his shots radiated out into the narrow yard like spokes from a

wheel.

A silence followed. “Five cartridges,” said the man with the black

beard. “That’s the best of all. Four aces and a joker. Get a lantern,

someone, and come and feel about for his body.”