She was all the more inclined to snap at Hall because
the stranger was undoubtedly an unusually strange
sort of stranger, and she was by no means assured
about him in her own mind. In the middle of the
night she woke up dreaming of huge white heads like
turnips, that came trailing after her, at the end
of interminable necks, and with vast black eyes.
But being a sensible woman, she subdued her terrors
and turned over and went to sleep again.
THE THOUSAND AND ONE BOTTLES
So it was that on the twenty-ninth day of February,
at the beginning of the thaw, this singular person
fell out of infinity into Iping village. Next
day his luggage arrived through the slush—and
very remarkable luggage it was. There were a
couple of trunks indeed, such as a rational man might
need, but in addition there were a box of books—big,
fat books, of which some were just in an incomprehensible
handwriting—and a dozen or more crates,
boxes, and cases, containing objects packed in straw,
as it seemed to Hall, tugging with a casual curiosity
at the straw—glass bottles. The stranger,
muffled in hat, coat, gloves, and wrapper, came out
impatiently to meet Fearenside’s cart, while
Hall was having a word or so of gossip preparatory
to helping being them in. Out he came, not noticing
Fearenside’s dog, who was sniffing in a dilettante
spirit at Hall’s legs. “Come along
with those boxes,” he said. “I’ve
been waiting long enough.”
And he came down the steps towards the tail of the
cart as if to lay hands on the smaller crate.
No sooner had Fearenside’s dog caught sight
of him, however, than it began to bristle and growl
savagely, and when he rushed down the steps it gave
an undecided hop, and then sprang straight at his
hand. “Whup!” cried Hall, jumping
back, for he was no hero with dogs, and Fearenside
howled, “Lie down!” and snatched his whip.
They saw the dog’s teeth had slipped the hand,
heard a kick, saw the dog execute a flanking jump
and get home on the stranger’s leg, and heard
the rip of his trousering. Then the finer end
of Fearenside’s whip reached his property, and
the dog, yelping with dismay, retreated under the
wheels of the waggon. It was all the business
of a swift half-minute. No one spoke, everyone
shouted. The stranger glanced swiftly at his
torn glove and at his leg, made as if he would stoop
to the latter, then turned and rushed swiftly up the
steps into the inn. They heard him go headlong
across the passage and up the uncarpeted stairs to
his bedroom.
“You brute, you!” said Fearenside, climbing
off the waggon with his whip in his hand, while the
dog watched him through the wheel. “Come
here,” said Fearenside—“You’d
better.”
Hall had stood gaping. “He wuz bit,”
said Hall. “I’d better go and see
to en,” and he trotted after the stranger.
He met Mrs. Hall in the passage. “Carrier’s
darg,” he said “bit en.”
