Time Machine and The Invisible Man (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) by H. G. Wells

county,” said the voice. “And pigs for people.”
    “Ain’t it?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel. “Lord! But them boots! It beats it.”
    He turned his head over his shoulder to the right, to look at the boots of his interlocutor ha with a view to comparisons, and lo! where the boots of his interlocutor should have been were neither legs nor boots. He turned his head over his shoulder to the left, and there also were neither legs nor boots. He was irradiated by the dawn of a great amazement. “Where are yer?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel over his shoulder and coming on all fours. He saw a stretch of empty downs with the wind swaying the remote green-pointed furze bushes.
    “Am I drunk?” said Mr. Marvel. “Have I had visions? Was I talking to myself? What the—”
    “Don’t be alarmed,” said a voice.
    “None of your ventriloquising me,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, rising sharply to his feet. “Where are yer? Alarmed, indeed!”
    “Don’t be alarmed,” repeated the voice.
    “You’ll be alarmed in a minute, you silly fool,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel “Where are yer? Lemme get my mark hb on yer—
    “Are you buried?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, after an interval.
    There was no answer. Mr. Thomas Marvel stood bootless and amazed, his jacket nearly thrown off.
    “Peewit,” said a peewit, hc very remote.
    “Peewit, indeed!” said Mr. Thomas Marvel. “This ain’t no time for foolery.” The down was desolate, east and west, north and south; the road, with its shallow ditches and white bordering stakes, ran smooth and empty north and south, and, save for that peewit, the blue sky was empty too. “So help me,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, shuffling his coat on to his shoulders again. “It’s the drink! I might ha’ known.”
    “It’s not the drink,” said the voice. “You keep your nerves steady.”
    “Ow!” said Mr. Marvel, and his face grew white amidst its patches. “It’s the drink,” his lips repeated noiselessly. He remained staring about him, rotating slowly backwards. “I could have swore I heard a voice,” he whispered.
    “Of course you did.”
    “It’s there again,” said Mr. Marvel, closing his eyes and clapping his hand on his brow 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‘m—off—my—blooming—chump,” hd said Mr. Marvel. “Its no good. It’s fretting about them blarsted boots. I’m off my blessed blooming chump. Or its spirits.”
    “Neither one thing nor the other,” said the voice. “Listen!”
    “Chump,” said Mr. Marvel.
    “One minute,” said the voice, penetratingly,—tremulous with self-control.
    “Well?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, with a strange feeling of having been dug in the chest by a finger.
    “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 flints he at you till you think differently.”
    “But where are yer?”
    The voice made no answer. Whizz came a flint, apparently out of the air, and missed Mr. Marvel’s shoulder by a hair’s breadth. Mr. Marvel, turning, saw a flint jerk up into the air, trace a complicated path, hang for a moment, and then fling at his feet with almost invisible rapidity. He was too amazed to dodge. Whizz it came, and ricochetted from a bare toe into the ditch. Mr. Thomas Marvel jumped a foot and howled aloud. Then he started to run, tripped over an unseen obstacle, and came head over heels into a sitting position.
    “Now,” said the voice, as a third stone curved upward and hung in the air above the tramp. “Am I imagination?”
    Mr. Marvel by way of reply struggled to his feet, and was immediately rolled over again. He lay quiet for a moment. “If you struggle any more,” said the voice, “I shall throw the flint at your