The Invisible Man by H G Wells

manners were irritating. Three doors opened into the little room, one going upstairs and one down,
but they were all shut. I could not get out of the room while he was there; I could scarcely move
because of his alertness, and there was a draught down my back. Twice I strangled a sneeze just in
time.
"The spectacular quality of my sensations was curious and novel, but for all that I was heartily tired
and angry long before he had done his eating. But at last he made an end and putting his beggarly
crockery on the black tin tray upon which he had had his teapot, and gathering all the crumbs up on
the mustard stained cloth, he took the whole lot of things after him. His burden prevented his
shutting the door behind him—as he would have done; I never saw such a man for shutting doors—
and I followed him into a very dirty underground kitchen and scullery. I had the pleasure of seeing
him begin to wash up, and then, finding no good in keeping down there, and the brick floor being
cold on my feet, I returned upstairs and sat in his chair by the fire. It was burning low, and scarcely
thinking, I put on a little coal. The noise of this brought him up at once, and he stood aglare. He
peered about the room and was within an ace of touching me. Even after that examination, he
scarcely seemed satisfied. He stopped in the doorway and took a final inspection before he went
down.
"I waited in the little parlour for an age, and at last he came up and opened the upstairs door. I just
managed to get by him.
"On the staircase he stopped suddenly, so that I very nearly blundered into him. He stood looking
back right into my face and listening. 'I could have sworn,' he said. His long hairy hand pulled at his
lower lip. His eye went up and down the staircase. Then he grunted and went on up again.
"His hand was on the handle of a door, and then he stopped again with the same puzzled anger on
his face. He was becoming aware of the faint sounds of my movements about him. The man must
have had diabolically acute hearing. He suddenly flashed into rage. 'If there's anyone in this house
—' he cried with an oath, and left the threat unfinished. He put his hand in his pocket, failed to find
what he wanted, and rushing past me went blundering noisily and pugnaciously downstairs. But I
did not follow him. I sat on the head of the staircase until his return.
"Presently he came up again, still muttering. He opened the door of the room, and before I could
enter, slammed it in my face.
"I resolved to explore the house, and spent some time in doing so as noiselessly as possible. The
house was very old and tumble-down, damp so that the paper in the attics was peeling from the
walls, and rat infested. Some of the door handles were stiff and I was afraid to turn them. Several
rooms I did inspect were unfurnished, and others were littered with theatrical lumber, bought
second-hand, I judged, from its appearance. In one room next to his I found a lot of old clothes. I
began routing among these, and in my eagerness forgot again the evident sharpness of his ears. I
heard a stealthy footstep and, looking up just in time, saw him peering in at the tumbled heap and
holding an old-fashioned revolver in his hand. I stood perfectly still while he stared about openmouthed
and suspicious. 'It must have been her,' he said slowly. 'Damn her!'
"He shut the door quietly, and immediately I heard the key turn in the lock. Then his footsteps
retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked
from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided
to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from
an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me,
jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room.
"Presently he calmed a little. 'Rats,' he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little
scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started
going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys.
When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage—I could hardly control myself sufficiently to
watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado,