As he went down, the rush from the direction of the village green came round the corner.  The first to appear was the proprietor of the cocoanut shy, a burly man in a blue jersey.  He was astonished to see the lane empty save for three men sprawling absurdly on the ground.  And then something happened to his rear-most foot, and he went headlong and rolled sideways just in time to graze the feet of his brother and partner, following headlong.  The two were then kicked, knelt on, fallen over, and cursed by quite a number of over-hasty people.

Now when Hall and Henfrey and the labourers ran out of the house, Mrs. Hall, who had been disciplined by years of experience, remained in the bar next the till.  And suddenly the parlour door was opened, and Mr. Cuss appeared, and without glancing at her rushed at once down the steps toward the corner.  “Hold him!” he cried.  “Don’t let him drop that parcel.”

He knew nothing of the existence of Marvel.  For the Invisible Man had handed over the books and bundle in the yard.  The face of Mr. Cuss was angry and resolute, but his costume was defective, a sort of limp white kilt that could only have passed muster in Greece.  “Hold him!” he bawled.  “He’s got my trousers!  And every stitch of the Vicar’s clothes!”

“’Tend to him in a minute!” he cried to Henfrey as he passed the prostrate Huxter, and, coming round the corner to join the tumult, was promptly knocked off his feet into an indecorous sprawl.  Somebody in full flight trod heavily on his finger.  He yelled, struggled to regain his feet, was knocked against and thrown on all fours again, and became aware that he was involved not in a capture, but a rout.  Everyone was running back to the village.  He rose again and was hit severely behind the ear.  He staggered and set off back to the “Coach and Horses” forthwith, leaping over the deserted Huxter, who was now sitting up, on his way.

Behind him as he was halfway up the inn steps he heard a sudden yell of rage, rising sharply out of the confusion of cries, and a sounding smack in someone’s face.  He recognised the voice as that of the Invisible Man, and the note was that of a man suddenly infuriated by a painful blow.

In another moment Mr. Cuss was back in the parlour.  “He’s coming back, Bunting!” he said, rushing in.  “Save yourself!”

Mr. Bunting was standing in the window engaged in an attempt to clothe himself in the hearth-rug and a West Surrey Gazette.  “Who’s coming?” he said, so startled that his costume narrowly escaped disintegration.

“Invisible Man,” said Cuss, and rushed on to the window.  “We’d better clear out from here!  He’s fighting mad!  Mad!”

In another moment he was out in the yard.

“Good heavens!” said Mr. Bunting, hesitating between two horrible alternatives.  He heard a frightful struggle in the passage of the inn, and his decision was made.  He clambered out of the window, adjusted his costume hastily, and fled up the village as fast as his fat little legs would carry him.