CHAPTER EIGHT

DEAD LONDON

After I had parted from the artilleryman, I went down the hill, and

by the High Street across the bridge to Fulham. The red weed was

tumultuous at that time, and nearly choked the bridge roadway; but its

fronds were already whitened in patches by the spreading disease that

presently removed it so swiftly.

At the corner of the lane that runs to Putney Bridge station I

found a man lying. He was as black as a sweep with the black dust,

alive, but helplessly and speechlessly drunk. I could get nothing

from him but curses and furious lunges at my head. I think I should

have stayed by him but for the brutal expression of his face.

There was black dust along the roadway from the bridge onwards, and

it grew thicker in Fulham. The streets were horribly quiet. I got

food--sour, hard, and mouldy, but quite eatable--in a baker's shop

here. Some way towards Walham Green the streets became clear of

powder, and I passed a white terrace of houses on fire; the noise of

the burning was an absolute relief. Going on towards Brompton, the

streets were quiet again.

Here I came once more upon the black powder in the streets and upon

237

The War of the Worlds