She was all the more inclined to snap at Hall because the stranger was undoubtedly an unusually strange sort of stranger, and she was by no means assured about him in her own mind.  In the middle of the night she woke up dreaming of huge white heads like turnips, that came trailing after her, at the end of interminable necks, and with vast black eyes.  But being a sensible woman, she subdued her terrors and turned over and went to sleep again.

CHAPTER III

THE THOUSAND AND ONE BOTTLES

So it was that on the twenty-ninth day of February, at the beginning of the thaw, this singular person fell out of infinity into Iping village.  Next day his luggage arrived through the slush—­and very remarkable luggage it was.  There were a couple of trunks indeed, such as a rational man might need, but in addition there were a box of books—­big, fat books, of which some were just in an incomprehensible handwriting—­and a dozen or more crates, boxes, and cases, containing objects packed in straw, as it seemed to Hall, tugging with a casual curiosity at the straw—­glass bottles.  The stranger, muffled in hat, coat, gloves, and wrapper, came out impatiently to meet Fearenside’s cart, while Hall was having a word or so of gossip preparatory to helping being them in.  Out he came, not noticing Fearenside’s dog, who was sniffing in a dilettante spirit at Hall’s legs.  “Come along with those boxes,” he said.  “I’ve been waiting long enough.”

And he came down the steps towards the tail of the cart as if to lay hands on the smaller crate.

No sooner had Fearenside’s dog caught sight of him, however, than it began to bristle and growl savagely, and when he rushed down the steps it gave an undecided hop, and then sprang straight at his hand.  “Whup!” cried Hall, jumping back, for he was no hero with dogs, and Fearenside howled, “Lie down!” and snatched his whip.

They saw the dog’s teeth had slipped the hand, heard a kick, saw the dog execute a flanking jump and get home on the stranger’s leg, and heard the rip of his trousering.  Then the finer end of Fearenside’s whip reached his property, and the dog, yelping with dismay, retreated under the wheels of the waggon.  It was all the business of a swift half-minute.  No one spoke, everyone shouted.  The stranger glanced swiftly at his torn glove and at his leg, made as if he would stoop to the latter, then turned and rushed swiftly up the steps into the inn.  They heard him go headlong across the passage and up the uncarpeted stairs to his bedroom.

“You brute, you!” said Fearenside, climbing off the waggon with his whip in his hand, while the dog watched him through the wheel.  “Come here,” said Fearenside—­“You’d better.”

Hall had stood gaping.  “He wuz bit,” said Hall.  “I’d better go and see to en,” and he trotted after the stranger.  He met Mrs. Hall in the passage.  “Carrier’s darg,” he said “bit en.”