Війна світів
The Man On Putney Hill
Themorningwasbrightandfine,andtheeasternskyglowedpink,andwasfrettedwithlittlegoldenclouds. IntheroadthatrunsfromthetopofPutneyHilltoWimbledonwasanumberofpoorvestigesofthepanictorrentthatmusthavepouredLondonwardontheSundaynightafterthefightingbegan. Therewasalittletwo-wheeledcartinscribedwiththenameofThomasLobb,Greengrocer,NewMalden,withasmashedwheelandanabandonedtintrunk; therewasastrawhattrampledintothenowhardenedmud,andatthetopofWestHillalotofblood-stainedglassabouttheoverturnedwatertrough. Mymovementswerelanguid,myplansofthevaguest. IhadanideaofgoingtoLeatherhead,thoughIknewthatthereIhadthepoorestchanceoffindingmywife. Certainly,unlessdeathhadovertakenthemsuddenly,mycousinsandshewouldhavefledthence; butitseemedtomeImightfindorlearntherewhithertheSurreypeoplehadfled. IknewIwantedtofindmywife,thatmyheartachedforherandtheworldofmen,butIhadnoclearideahowthefindingmightbedone. Iwasalsosharplyawarenowofmyintenseloneliness. FromthecornerIwent,undercoverofathicketoftreesandbushes,totheedgeofWimbledonCommon,stretchingwideandfar.
Thatdarkexpansewaslitinpatchesbyyellowgorseandbroom; therewasnoredweedtobeseen,andasIprowled,hesitating,onthevergeoftheopen,thesunrose,floodingitallwithlightandvitality. Icameuponabusyswarmoflittlefrogsinaswampyplaceamongthetrees. Istoppedtolookatthem,drawingalessonfromtheirstoutresolvetolive. Andpresently,turningsuddenly,withanoddfeelingofbeingwatched,Ibeheldsomethingcrouchingamidaclumpofbushes. Istoodregardingthis.Imadeasteptowardsit,anditroseupandbecameamanarmedwithacutlass. Iapproachedhimslowly. Hestoodsilentandmotionless,regardingme.
