The Man On Putney Hill

           IspentthatnightintheinnthatstandsatthetopofPutneyHill,sleepinginamadebedforthefirsttimesincemyflighttoLeatherhead. IwillnottelltheneedlesstroubleIhadbreakingintothathouseafterwardsIfoundthefrontdoorwasonthelatchnorhowIransackedeveryroomforfood,untiljustonthevergeofdespair,inwhatseemedtometobeaservant’sbedroom,Ifoundarat-gnawedcrustandtwotinsofpineapple. Theplacehadbeenalreadysearchedandemptied. InthebarIafterwardsfoundsomebiscuitsandsandwichesthathadbeenoverlooked. ThelatterIcouldnoteat,theyweretoorotten,buttheformernotonlystayedmyhunger,butfilledmypockets. Ilitnolamps,fearingsomeMartianmightcomebeatingthatpartofLondonforfoodinthenight. BeforeIwenttobedIhadanintervalofrestlessness,andprowledfromwindowtowindow,peeringoutforsomesignofthesemonsters. Isleptlittle. AsIlayinbedIfoundmyselfthinkingconsecutivelyathingIdonotremembertohavedonesincemylastargumentwiththecurate. Duringalltheinterveningtimemymentalconditionhadbeenahurryingsuccessionofvagueemotionalstatesorasortofstupidreceptivity. Butinthenightmybrain,reinforced,Isuppose,bythefoodIhadeaten,grewclearagain,andIthought. 

           Threethingsstruggledforpossessionofmymind: thekillingofthecurate,thewhereaboutsoftheMartians,andthepossiblefateofmywife. Theformergavemenosensationofhorrororremorsetorecall;Isawitsimplyasathingdone,amemoryinfinitelydisagreeablebutquitewithoutthequalityofremorse. IsawmyselfthenasIseemyselfnow,drivenstepbysteptowardsthathastyblow,thecreatureofasequenceofaccidentsleadinginevitablytothat. Ifeltnocondemnation;yetthememory,static,unprogressive,hauntedme. 

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