he commoner domestic animals
before I admitted its humanity.

And where were Skinner's boots, for example? Perverted and strange as a
rat's appetite must be, is it conceivable that the same creatures that
could leave a lamb only half eaten, would finish up Skinner--hair,
bones, teeth, and boots?

I have closely questioned as many as I could of those who knew Skinner
at all intimately, and they one and all agree that they cannot imagine
_anything_ eating him. He was the sort of man, as a retired seafaring
person living in one of Mr. W.W. Jacobs' cottages at Dunton Green told
me, with a guarded significance of manner not uncommon in those parts,
who would "get washed up anyhow," and as regards _the_ devouring element
was "fit to put a fire out." He considered that Skinner would be as safe
on a raft as anywhere. The retired seafaring man added that he wished to
say nothing whatever against Skinner; facts were facts. And rather than
have his clothes made by Skinner, the retired seafaring man remarked he
would take his chance of being locked up. These observations certainly
do not present Skinner in the light of an appetising object.

To be perfectly frank with the reader, I do not believe he ever went
back to the Experimental Farm. I believe he hovered through long
hesitations about the fields of the Hickleybrow glebe, and finally,
when that squealing began, took the line of least resistance out of his
perplexities into the Incognito.

And in the Incognito, whether of this or of some other world unknown to
us, he obstinately and quite indisputably has remained to this day....

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

THE GIANT RATS.

I.

It was two nights after the disappearance of Mr. Skinner that the
Podbourne doctor was out late near Hankey, driving in his buggy. He had
been up all night assisting another undistinguished citizen into this
curious world of ours, and his task accomplished, he was driving
homeward in a drowsy mood enough. It was about two o'clock in the
morning, and the waning moon was rising. The summer night had gone cold,
and there was a low-lying whitish mist that made things indistinct. He
was quite alone--for his coachman was ill in bed--and there was nothing
to be seen on either hand but a drifting mystery of hedge running
athwart the yellow glare of his lamps, and nothing to hear but the
clitter-clatter of his horses and the gride and hedge echo of his
wheels. His horse was as trustworthy as himself, a