pits was dotted with people, standing like myself in a half-fascinated

terror, staring at these creatures, or rather at the heaped gravel at

the edge of the pit in which they lay. And then, with a renewed

horror, I saw a round, black object bobbing up and down on the edge of

the pit. It was the head of the shopman who had fallen in, but

showing as a little black object against the hot western sun. Now he

got his shoulder and knee up, and again he seemed to slip back until

only his head was visible. Suddenly he vanished, and I could have

fancied a faint shriek had reached me. I had a momentary impulse to

go back and help him that my fears overruled.

Everything was then quite invisible, hidden by the deep pit and the

heap of sand that the fall of the cylinder had made. Anyone coming

along the road from Chobham or Woking would have been amazed at the

sight--a dwindling multitude of perhaps a hundred people or more

standing in a great irregular circle, in ditches, behind bushes,

behind gates and hedges, saying little to one another and that in

short, excited shouts, and staring, staring hard at a few heaps of

sand. The barrow of ginger beer stood, a queer derelict, black

against the burning sky, and in the sand pits was a row of deserted

vehicles with their horses feeding out of nosebags or pawing the

ground.

The War of the Worlds