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- Герберт Уеллс
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- Война миров
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- Стр. 47/99
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He
thought
of
all
those
silent
,
expectant
guns
,
of
the
suddenly
nomadic
countryside
;
he
tried
to
imagine
"
boilers
on
stilts
"
a
hundred
feet
high
.
There
were
one
or
two
cartloads
of
refugees
passing
along
Oxford
Street
,
and
several
in
the
Marylebone
Road
,
but
so
slowly
was
the
news
spreading
that
Regent
Street
and
Portland
Place
were
full
of
their
usual
Sunday-night
promenaders
,
albeit
they
talked
in
groups
,
and
along
the
edge
of
Regent
's
Park
there
were
as
many
silent
couples
"
walking
out
"
together
under
the
scattered
gas
lamps
as
ever
there
had
been
.
The
night
was
warm
and
still
,
and
a
little
oppressive
;
the
sound
of
guns
continued
intermittently
,
and
after
midnight
there
seemed
to
be
sheet
lightning
in
the
south
.
He
read
and
re-read
the
paper
,
fearing
the
worst
had
happened
to
me
.
He
was
restless
,
and
after
supper
prowled
out
again
aimlessly
.
He
returned
and
tried
in
vain
to
divert
his
attention
to
his
examination
notes
.
He
went
to
bed
a
little
after
midnight
,
and
was
awakened
from
lurid
dreams
in
the
small
hours
of
Monday
by
the
sound
of
door
knockers
,
feet
running
in
the
street
,
distant
drumming
,
and
a
clamour
of
bells
.
Red
reflections
danced
on
the
ceiling
.
For
a
moment
he
lay
astonished
,
wondering
whether
day
had
come
or
the
world
gone
mad
.
Then
he
jumped
out
of
bed
and
ran
to
the
window
.
His
room
was
an
attic
and
as
he
thrust
his
head
out
,
up
and
down
the
street
there
were
a
dozen
echoes
to
the
noise
of
his
window
sash
,
and
heads
in
every
kind
of
night
disarray
appeared
.
Enquiries
were
being
shouted
.
"
They
are
coming
!
"
bawled
a
policeman
,
hammering
at
the
door
;
"
the
Martians
are
coming
!
"
and
hurried
to
the
next
door
.
The
sound
of
drumming
and
trumpeting
came
from
the
Albany
Street
Barracks
,
and
every
church
within
earshot
was
hard
at
work
killing
sleep
with
a
vehement
disorderly
tocsin
.
There
was
a
noise
of
doors
opening
,
and
window
after
window
in
the
houses
opposite
flashed
from
darkness
into
yellow
illumination
.
Up
the
street
came
galloping
a
closed
carriage
,
bursting
abruptly
into
noise
at
the
corner
,
rising
to
a
clattering
climax
under
the
window
,
and
dying
away
slowly
in
the
distance
.
Close
on
the
rear
of
this
came
a
couple
of
cabs
,
the
forerunners
of
a
long
procession
of
flying
vehicles
,
going
for
the
most
part
to
Chalk
Farm
station
,
where
the
North-Western
special
trains
were
loading
up
,
instead
of
coming
down
the
gradient
into
Euston
.
For
a
long
time
my
brother
stared
out
of
the
window
in
blank
astonishment
,
watching
the
policemen
hammering
at
door
after
door
,
and
delivering
their
incomprehensible
message
.
Then
the
door
behind
him
opened
,
and
the
man
who
lodged
across
the
landing
came
in
,
dressed
only
in
shirt
,
trousers
,
and
slippers
,
his
braces
loose
about
his
waist
,
his
hair
disordered
from
his
pillow
.
"
What
the
devil
is
it
?
"
he
asked
.
"
A
fire
?
What
a
devil
of
a
row
!
"
They
both
craned
their
heads
out
of
the
window
,
straining
to
hear
what
the
policemen
were
shouting
.
People
were
coming
out
of
the
side
streets
,
and
standing
in
groups
at
the
corners
talking
.
"
What
the
devil
is
it
all
about
?
"
said
my
brother
's
fellow
lodger
.
