No one knew I was invisible! And now what am I to do?”
“What am I to do?” asked Marvel, sotto voce.
“It’s all about. It will be in the papers! Everybody will be looking for me; everyone on their guard—” The voice broke off into vivid curses and ceased.
The despair of Mr. Marvel’s face deepened, and his pace slackened.
“Go on!” said the voice.
Mr. Marvel’s face assumed a greyish tint between the ruddier patches.
“Don’t drop those books, stupid,” said the voice, sharply—overtaking him.
“The fact is,” said the voice, “I shall have to make use of you. … You’re a poor tool, but I must.”
“I’m a miserable tool,” said Marvel.
“You are,” said the voice.
“I’m the worst possible tool you could have,” said Marvel.
“I’m not strong,” he said after a discouraging silence.
“I’m not over strong,” he repeated.
“No?”
“And my heart’s weak. That little business—I pulled it through, of course—but bless you! I could have dropped.”
“Well?”
“I haven’t the nerve and strength for the sort of thing you want.”