It is plain that the poor old paralysed fellow is lost to the Present.
He is back in the Past--or in one of his novelettes; and in front of
him, begging for mercy, as he slits their throats, or cracks open their
skulls, are, indeed, hundreds of real and living men. His acting is
superb. It is only made comical by the hanging legs, the fixture of the
body to the seat of the chair, and the furious spluttering of his
frenzied mouth.
When he has quite finished, thoroughly exhausted, he leans back in his
chair, sticks his pipe into his face, strikes a match with his shaking
hands, and covers his laughing face in a wreath of tobacco-smoke.
"Arst him," whispers Mr. Wells, "how many he killed? Go on; you arst
him."
* * * * *
So you lean across to Old Joe, who shoots forward to meet your lips
half-way with his left ear, and you calmly, and without dread or horror,
ask the gurgling and chuckling veteran how many men he has killed.
As soon as he has caught your question he bursts out laughing, flings
himself suddenly back, and exclaims, with a splutter: "How many ha' I
killed? How many? I couldn't say. Too many on 'em. Hundreds! Hundreds!
Hundreds of 'em!" Back goes the pipe, and, wreathed in proud smiles, his
shoulders twitching, his hands never still for a moment, he sits square
back in his chair and looks at you proudly, as much as to say:
"Ain't I a devil of a feller? Ain't I a monster? Ho, I've had a terrible
life.
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