black hair fell over his eyes, and his face was dark and dirty and
sunken, so that at first I did not recognise him. There was a red cut
across the lower part of his face.
Stop! he cried, when I was within ten yards of him, and I stopped.
His voice was hoarse. Where do you come from? he said.
I thought, surveying him.
I come from Mortlake, I said. I was buried near the pit the Martians
made about their cylinder. I have worked my way out and escaped.
There is no food about here, he said. This is my country. All this
hill down to the river, and back to Clapham, and up to the edge of the
common. There is only food for one. Which way are you going?
I answered slowly.
I don t know, I said. I have been buried in the ruins of a house
thirteen or fourteen days. I don t know what has happened.
He looked at me doubtfully, then started, and looked with a changed
expression.
I ve no wish to stop about here, said I. I think I shall go to
Leatherhead, for my wife was there.
He shot out a pointing finger.
It is you, said he; the man from Woking. And you weren t killed at
Weybridge?
I recognised him at the same moment.
You are the artilleryman who came into my garden.
Good luck! he said. We are lucky ones! Fancy _you_! He put out a
hand, and I took it. I crawled up a drain, he said. But they didn t
kill everyone. And after they went away I got off towards Walton across
the fields. But It s not sixteen days altogether and your hair is
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