think of the things he might do!  Where’d you be, if he took a drop over and above, and had a fancy to go for you?  Suppose he wants to rob—­who can prevent him?  He can trespass, he can burgle, he could walk through a cordon of policemen as easy as me or you could give the slip to a blind man!  Easier!  For these here blind chaps hear uncommon sharp, I’m told.  And wherever there was liquor he fancied—­”

“He’s got a tremenjous advantage, certainly,” said Mr. Marvel.  “And—­well...”

“You’re right,” said the mariner.  “He has.”

All this time Mr. Marvel had been glancing about him intently, listening for faint footfalls, trying to detect imperceptible movements.  He seemed on the point of some great resolution.  He coughed behind his hand.

He looked about him again, listened, bent towards the mariner, and lowered his voice:  “The fact of it is—­I happen—­to know just a thing or two about this Invisible Man.  From private sources.”

“Oh!” said the mariner, interested. “You?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Marvel.  “Me.”

“Indeed!” said the mariner.  “And may I ask—­”

“You’ll be astonished,” said Mr. Marvel behind his hand.  “It’s tremenjous.”

“Indeed!” said the mariner.

“The fact is,” began Mr. Marvel eagerly in a confidential undertone.  Suddenly his expression changed marvellously.  “Ow!” he said.  He rose stiffly in his seat.  His face was eloquent of physical suffering.  “Wow!” he said.

“What’s up?” said the mariner, concerned.

“Toothache,” said Mr. Marvel, and put his hand to his ear.  He caught hold of his books.  “I must be getting on, I think,” he said.  He edged in a curious way along the seat away from his interlocutor.  “But you was just a-going to tell me about this here Invisible Man!” protested the mariner.  Mr. Marvel seemed to consult with himself.  “Hoax,” said a Voice.  “It’s a hoax,” said Mr. Marvel.

“But it’s in the paper,” said the mariner.

“Hoax all the same,” said Marvel.  “I know the chap that started the lie.  There ain’t no Invisible Man whatsoever—­Blimey.”

“But how ’bout this paper?  D’you mean to say—?”

“Not a word of it,” said Marvel, stoutly.

The mariner stared, paper in hand.  Mr. Marvel jerkily faced about.  “Wait a bit,” said the mariner, rising and speaking slowly, “D’you mean to say—?”

“I do,” said Mr. Marvel.

“Then why did you let me go on and tell you all this blarsted stuff, then?  What d’yer mean by letting a man make a fool of himself like that for?  Eh?”

Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks.  The mariner was suddenly very red indeed; he clenched his hands.  “I been talking here this ten minutes,” he said; “and you, you little pot-bellied, leathery-faced son of an old boot, couldn’t have the elementary manners—­”

“Don’t you come bandying words with me,” said Mr. Marvel.