“You are the artilleryman who came into my garden.”
“Good luck!” he said. “We are lucky ones! Fancy _you_!” He put out a
hand, and I took it. “I crawled up a drain,” he said. “But they didn’t
kill everyone. And after they went away I got off towards Walton across
the fields. But—— It’s not sixteen days altogether—and your hair is
grey.” He looked over his shoulder suddenly. “Only a rook,” he said.
“One gets to know that birds have shadows these days. This is a bit
open. Let us crawl under those bushes and talk.”
“Have you seen any Martians?” I said. “Since I crawled out——”
“They’ve gone away across London,” he said. “I guess they’ve got a
bigger camp there. Of a night, all over there, Hampstead way, the sky
is alive with their lights. It’s like a great city, and in the glare
you can just see them moving. By daylight you can’t. But nearer—I
haven’t seen them—” (he counted on his fingers) “five days. Then I saw
a couple across Hammersmith way carrying something big. And the night
before last”—he stopped and spoke impressively—“it was just a matter of
lights, but it was something up in the air. I believe they’ve built a
flying-machine, and are learning to fly.”