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       H. G. Wells

      THE WHEELS OF CHANCE

      Published by

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       [email protected]

      2017 OK Publishing

      ISBN 978-80-272-3503-2

      Table of Contents

       The Principal Character in the Story

       The Riding Forth of Mr. Hoopdriver

       The Shameful Episode of the Young Lady in Grey

       On the Road to Ripley

       How Mr. Hoopdriver was Haunted

       The Imaginings of Mr. Hoopdriver’s Heart

       Omissions

       The Dreams of Mr. Hoopdriver

       How Mr. Hoopdriver Went to Haslemere

       How Mr. Hoopdriver Reached Midhurst

       An Interlude

       Of the Artificial in Man, and of the Zeitgeist

       The Encounter at Midhurst

       The Pursuit

       At Bognor

       The Moonlight Ride

       The Surbiton Interlude

       The Awakening of Mr. Hoopdriver

       The Departure from Chichester

       The Unexpected Anecdote of the Lion

       The Rescue Expedition

       Mr. Hoopdriver, Knight Errant

       The Abasement of Mr. Hoopdriver

       In the New Forest

       At the Rufus Stone

       The Envoy

      THE PRINCIPAL CHARACTER IN THE STORY

       Table of Contents

      I.

      If you (presuming you are of the sex that does such things) — if you had gone into the Drapery Emporium — which is really only magnificent for shop — of Messrs. Antrobus and Co. — a perfectly fictitious “Co.,” by the bye — of Putney, on the 14th of August, 1895, had turned to the right-hand side, where the blocks of white linen and piles of blankets rise up to the rail from which the pink and blue prints depend, you might have been served by the central figure of this story that is now beginning. He would have come forward, bowing and swaying, he would have extended two hands with largish knuckles and enormous cuffs over the counter, and he would have asked you, protruding a pointed chin and without the slightest anticipation of pleasure in his manner, what he might have the pleasure of showing you. Under certain circumstances — as, for instance, hats, baby linen, gloves, silks, lace, or curtains — he would simply have bowed politely, and with a drooping expression, and making a kind of circular sweep, invited you to “step this way,” and so led you beyond his ken; but under other and happier conditions, — huckaback, blankets, dimity, cretonne, linen, calico, are cases in point, — he would have requested you to take a seat, emphasising the hospitality by leaning over the counter and gripping a chair back in a spasmodic manner, and so proceeded to obtain, unfold, and exhibit his goods for your consideration. Under which happier circumstances you might — if of an observing turn of mind and not too much of a housewife to be inhuman — have given the central figure of this story less cursory attention.

      Now if you had noticed anything about him, it would have been chiefly to notice how little he was noticeable. He wore the black morning coat, the black tie, and the speckled grey nether parts (descending into shadow and mystery below the counter) of his craft. He was of a pallid complexion, hair of a kind of dirty fairness, greyish eyes, and a skimpy, immature moustache under his peaked indeterminate nose. His features were all small, but none ill-shaped. A rosette of pins decorated the lappel of his coat. His remarks, you would observe, were entirely what people used to call cliche, formulae not organic to the occasion, but stereotyped ages ago and learnt years since by heart. “This, madam,” he would say, “is selling very well” “We are doing a very good article at four three a yard.” “We could show you some. thing better, of course.” “No trouble, madam, I assure you.” Such were the simple counters of his intercourse. So, I say, he would have presented himself to your superficial observation. He would have danced about behind the counter, have neatly refolded the goods he had shown you, have put on one side those you selected, extracted a little book with a carbon leaf and a tinfoil sheet from a fixture, made you out a little bill in that weak flourishing hand peculiar to drapers, and have bawled “Sayn!” Then a puffy little shopwalker would have come into view, looked at the bill for a second, very hard (showing you a parting down the middle of his head meanwhile), have scribbled a still more flourishing J. M. all over the document, have asked you if there was nothing more, have stood by you — supposing that you were paying cash — until the central figure of this story reappeared with the change. One glance more at him, and the puffy little shopwalker would have been bowing you out, with fountains of civilities at work all about you. And so the interview would have terminated.

      But real literature, as distinguished from anecdote, does not concern itself with superficial appearances alone. Literature is revelation. Modern literature is indecorous revelation. It is the duty of the earnest author to tell you what you would not have seen — even

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