The Wonderful Visit - H. G. Wells (snow like ashes series TXT) 📗

attempts to extricate himself, breathing threatenings and slaughter. Slowly the Angel began to suspect, remotely enough, that these demonstrations were hostile. “Mur wun know yer when I done wi’ yer,” said the drunken man, coat almost over his head.

At last the garment lay on the ground, and through the frequent interstices of his reminiscences of a waistcoat, the drunken tinker displayed a fine hairy and muscular body to the Angel’s observant eyes. He squared up in masterly fashion.

“Take the paint off yer,” he remarked, advancing and receding, fists up and elbows out.

“Carm on,” floated down the road.

The Angel’s attention was concentrated on two huge hairy black fists, that swayed and advanced and retreated. “Come on d’yer say? I’ll show yer,” said the gentleman in rags, and then with extraordinary ferocity; “My crikey! I’ll show yer.”

Suddenly he lurched forward, and with a newborn instinct and raising a defensive arm as he did so, the Angel stepped aside to avoid him. The fist missed the Angelic shoulder by a hairsbreadth, and the tinker collapsed in a heap with his face against the parapet of the bridge. The Angel hesitated over the writhing dusty heap of blasphemy for a moment, and then turned towards the man’s companion up the road. “Lemmeget up,” said the man on the bridge: “Lemmeget up, you swine. I’ll show yer.”

A strange disgust, a quivering repulsion came upon the Angel. He walked slowly away from the drunkard towards the man with the grindstone.

“What does it all mean?” said the Angel. “I don’t understand it.”

“Dam fool!⁠ ⁠… say’s it’s ’is silver weddin’,” answered the man with the grindstone, evidently much annoyed; and then, in a tone of growing impatience, he called down the road once more; “Carm on!”

“Silver wedding!” said the Angel. “What is a silver wedding?”

“Jest is rot,” said the man on the barrow. “But ’e’s always avin’ some ’scuse like that. Fair sickenin it is. Lars week it wus ’is bloomin’ birthday, and then ’e ad’nt ardly got sober orf a comlimentary drunk to my noo barrer. (Carm on, you fool.)”

“But I don’t understand,” said the Angel. “Why does he sway about so? Why does he keep on trying to pick up his hat like that⁠—and missing it?”

“Why!” said the tinker. “Well this is a blasted innocent country! Why! Because ’e’s blind! Wot else? (Carm on⁠—Dam yer). Because ’e’s just as full as ’e can ’old. That’s why!”

The Angel noticing the tone of the second tinker’s voice, judged it wiser not to question him further. But he stood by the grindstone and continued to watch the mysterious evolutions on the bridge.

“Carm on! I shall ’ave to go and pick up that ’at I suppose.⁠ ⁠… ’E’s always at it. I ne’er ’ad such a blooming pard before. Always at it, ’e is.”

The man with the barrow meditated. “Taint as if ’e was a gentleman and ’adnt no livin’ to get. An’ ’e’s such a reckless fool when ’e gets a bit on. Goes offerin out everyone ’e meets. (There you go!) I’m blessed if ’e didn’t offer out a ’ole bloomin’ Salvation Army. No judgment in it. (Oh! Carm on! Carm on!). ’Ave to go and pick this bloomin’ ’at up now I s’pose. ’E don’t care, wot trouble ’e gives.”

The Angel watched the second tinker walk back, and, with affectionate blasphemy, assist the first to his hat and his coat. Then he turned, absolutely mystified, towards the village again.

XXVII The Angel Explores the Village (Continued)

After that incident the Angel walked along past the mill and round behind the church, to examine the tombstones.

“This seems to be the place where they put the broken pieces,” said the Angel⁠—reading the inscriptions. “Curious word⁠—relict! Resurgam! Then they are not done with quite. What a huge pile it requires to keep her down.⁠ ⁠… It is spirited of her.”

“Hawkins?” said the Angel softly,⁠ ⁠… “Hawkins? The name is strange to me.⁠ ⁠… He did not die then.⁠ ⁠… It is plain enough⁠—Joined the Angelic Hosts, May 17, 1863. He must have felt as much out of place as I do down here. But I wonder why they put that little pot thing on the top of this monument. Curious! There are several others about⁠—little stone pots with a rag of stiff stone drapery over them.”

Just then the boys came pouring out of the National School, and first one and then several stopped agape at the Angel’s crooked black figure among the white tombs. “Ent ’e gart a baak on en!” remarked one critic.

“ ’E’s got ’air like a girl!” said another.

The Angel turned towards them. He was struck by the queer little heads sticking up over the lichenous wall. He smiled faintly at their staring faces, and then turned to marvel at the iron railings that enclosed the Fitz-Jarvis tomb. “A queer air of uncertainty,” he said. “Slabs, piles of stone, these railings.⁠ ⁠… Are they afraid?⁠ ⁠… Do these Dead ever try and get up again? There’s an air of repression⁠—fortification⁠—”

“Get yer ’air cut, Get yer ’air cut,” sang three little boys together.

“Curious these Human Beings are!” said the Angel. “That man yesterday wanted to cut off my wings, now these little creatures want me to cut off my hair! And the man on the bridge offered to take the ‘paint’ off me. They will leave nothing of me soon.”

“Where did you get that ’at?” sang another little boy. “Where did you get them clo’es?”

“They ask questions that they evidently do not want answered,” said the Angel. “I can tell from the tone.” He looked thoughtfully at the little boys. “I don’t understand the methods of Human intercourse. These are probably friendly advances, a kind of ritual. But I don’t know the responses. I think I will go back to the little fat man in black, with the gold chain across his stomach, and ask him to explain. It is difficult.”

He turned towards the lych gate. “Oh!” said one of the little boys, in a shrill falsetto, and threw a beechnut husk.