But Jaffers lay quite still, face upward and knees bent, at the foot of the steps of the inn.

CHAPTER VIII

IN TRANSIT

The eighth chapter is exceedingly brief, and relates that Gibbons, the amateur naturalist of the district, while lying out on the spacious open downs without a soul within a couple of miles of him, as he thought, and almost dozing, heard close to him the sound as of a man coughing, sneezing, and then swearing savagely to himself; and looking, beheld nothing.  Yet the voice was indisputable.  It continued to swear with that breadth and variety that distinguishes the swearing of a cultivated man.  It grew to a climax, diminished again, and died away in the distance, going as it seemed to him in the direction of Adderdean.  It lifted to a spasmodic sneeze and ended.  Gibbons had heard nothing of the morning’s occurrences, but the phenomenon was so striking and disturbing that his philosophical tranquillity vanished; he got up hastily, and hurried down the steepness of the hill towards the village, as fast as he could go.

CHAPTER IX

MR. THOMAS MARVEL

You must picture Mr. Thomas Marvel as a person of copious, flexible visage, a nose of cylindrical protrusion, a liquorish, ample, fluctuating mouth, and a beard of bristling eccentricity.  His figure inclined to embonpoint; his short limbs accentuated this inclination.  He wore a furry silk hat, and the frequent substitution of twine and shoe-laces for buttons, apparent at critical points of his costume, marked a man essentially bachelor.

Mr. Thomas Marvel was sitting with his feet in a ditch by the roadside over the down towards Adderdean, about a mile and a half out of Iping.  His feet, save for socks of irregular open-work, were bare, his big toes were broad, and pricked like the ears of a watchful dog.  In a leisurely manner—­he did everything in a leisurely manner—­he was contemplating trying on a pair of boots.  They were the soundest boots he had come across for a long time, but too large for him; whereas the ones he had were, in dry weather, a very comfortable fit, but too thin-soled for damp.  Mr. Thomas Marvel hated roomy shoes, but then he hated damp.  He had never properly thought out which he hated most, and it was a pleasant day, and there was nothing better to do.  So he put the four shoes in a graceful group on the turf and looked at them.  And seeing them there among the grass and springing agrimony, it suddenly occurred to him that both pairs were exceedingly ugly to see.  He was not at all startled by a voice behind him.

“They’re boots, anyhow,” said the Voice.

“They are—­charity boots,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, with his head on one side regarding them distastefully; “and which is the ugliest pair in the whole blessed universe, I’m darned if I know!”