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The Man On Putney Hill
AsIdrewnearerIperceivedhewasdressedinclothesasdustyandfilthyasmyown;helooked,indeed,asthoughhehadbeendraggedthroughaculvert. Nearer,Idistinguishedthegreenslimeofditchesmixingwiththepaledrabofdriedclayandshiny,coalypatches. Hisblackhairfelloverhiseyes,andhisfacewasdarkanddirtyandsunken,sothatatfirstIdidnotrecognisehim. Therewasaredcutacrossthelowerpartofhisface.
"Stop!"hecried,whenIwaswithintenyardsofhim,andIstopped. Hisvoicewashoarse. "Wheredoyoucomefrom?"hesaid.
Ithought,surveyinghim.
"IcomefromMortlake,"Isaid. "IwasburiednearthepittheMartiansmadeabouttheircylinder. Ihaveworkedmywayoutandescaped."
"Thereisnofoodabouthere,"hesaid. "Thisismycountry. Allthishilldowntotheriver,andbacktoClapham,anduptotheedgeofthecommon. Thereisonlyfoodforone. Whichwayareyougoing?"
Iansweredslowly.
"Idon’tknow,"Isaid. "Ihavebeenburiedintheruinsofahousethirteenorfourteendays. Idon’tknowwhathashappened."
Helookedatmedoubtfully,thenstarted,andlookedwithachangedexpression.
"I’venowishtostopabouthere,"saidI. "IthinkIshallgotoLeatherhead,formywifewasthere."
Heshotoutapointingfinger.
