CHAPTER XVI.
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.”
See you tomorrow for CHAPTER XVII: DR. KEMP’S VISITOR
