"Stop!" he cried, when I was within ten yards of him, and I
stopped.  His voice was hoarse.  "Where do you come from?" he said.

I thought, surveying him.

"I come from Mortlake," I said.  "I was buried near the pit the
Martians made about their cylinder.  I have worked my way out and
escaped."

"There is no food about here," he said.  "This is my country.  All
this hill down to the river, and back to Clapham, and up to the edge
of the common.  There is only food for one.  Which way are you going?"

I answered slowly.