and it was a pleasant day, and there was nothing better to do. So he put the four shoes in a group on the turf and looked at them. And seeing them there among the grass, it suddenly occurred to him that both pairs were 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; “and I can’t decide which is the ugliest pair here.”
“Hm,” said the Voice.
“I’ve worn worse boots. But not so ugly. My old boots-I am sick of them. They’re good enough, of course. And if you’ll believe me, I’ve got nothing in the whole country, but these boots. Look at them! Ugly, right? What a country! What people!”
“It’s a terrible country,” said the Voice. “And people are like pigs.”
“That’s it!” said Mr. Thomas Marvel. “Lord! And their boots!”
He turned his head to the right, to look at the boots of his interlocutor, and lo! Where the boots of his interlocutor should have been were neither legs nor boots. He was in a great amazement.
“Where are you?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel over his shoulder. “Am I drunk? Have I had visions? Was I talking to myself? What the-”
“Don’t be alarmed,” said a Voice.
“None of your jokes,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, rising sharply to his feet. “Where are you?”
“Don’t be alarmed,” repeated the Voice.
“You’ll be alarmed in a minute, you silly fool,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel. “Where are you? Let me catch you.”
There was no answer. Mr. Thomas Marvel stood bootless and amazed.
“Peewit,” said a peewit, very remote.
“Peewit, indeed!” said Mr. Thomas Marvel. “This is no time for foolery.”
The field was desolate, east and west, north and south; the road ran smooth and empty north and south, and, save for that peewit, the blue sky was empty too.
“I know,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, shuffling his coat on to his shoulders again. “It’s the alcohol! I might have known.”
“It’s not the alcohol,” said the Voice. “Don’t worry.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Marvel, and his face grew white. “It’s the alcohol!” his lips repeated noiselessly. He remained staring about him, rotating slowly backwards. “I could have sworn I heard a voice,” he whispered.
“Of course you did.”
“It’s there again,” said Mr. Marvel, closing his eyes and clasping his hands 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 got crazy,” said Mr. Marvel. “It’s no good. It’s because of those damned boots. Or it’s spirits.”
“Neither one thing nor the other,” said the Voice. “Listen!”
“Crazy,” said Mr. Marvel.
“One minute,” said the Voice.
“Well?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel.
“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 little stones at you till you think differently.”
“But where are you?”
The Voice made no answer. Whizz came a little stone, apparently out of the air. Mr. Marvel was too amazed to dodge. Whizz came another little stone, and ricochetted from a bare toe into the ditch. Mr. Thomas Marvel jumped a foot and howled aloud.
“Now,” said the Voice, “am I imagination?”
Mr. Marvel lay quiet.
“If you struggle,” said the Voice, “I shall throw the stone at your head.”
“Oh-oh,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, taking his wounded toe in hand. “I don’t understand it. Stones are flinging themselves. Stones are talking. I’ll surrender.”
“It’s very simple,” said the Voice. “I’m an invisible man.”
“Tell me something more interesting,” said Mr. Marvel. “Where you’ve hid-how you do it-I don’t know.”
“That’s all,” said the Voice. “I’m invisible. That’s what I want you to understand.”
“Anyone can see that. There is no need for you to be so confounded impatient, mister. But tell me: where do you hid?”
“I’m invisible. That’s the great point. And what I want you to understand is this-”
“But where are you?” interrupted Mr. Marvel.
“Here! Six yards in front of you.”
“Oh, come on! I am not blind. You will tell me now that you are just air. I’m not ignorant.”
“Yes, I am air. You’re looking through me.”
“What! And you have nothing? Only your voice?”
“I am just a human being-solid, needing food and drink, needing covering too-But I’m invisible. Do you see? Invisible. Simple idea. Invisible.”
“What? Are you a real man?”
“Yes, real.”
“Let me touch your hand,” said Marvel, “if you are real. Lord!”
He felt the hand that had closed round his wrist with his disengaged fingers, and his fingers patted a muscular chest, and explored a bearded face. Marvel was very surprised.
“Great!” he said. “It’s even better than cock-fighting! Most remarkable! And there I can see a rabbit clean through you, a mile away! Not a bit of you visible-except-”
He scrutinised the apparently empty space keenly.
“Have you eaten bread and cheese?” he asked, holding the invisible arm.
“You’re quite right, and it’s not quite assimilated.”
“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 mind,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel. “How did you manage it? How the devil is it done?”
“It’s a long story. And besides-”
“I
