Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. CLVIII, January 7, 1920

Over the top of Part II. of The Outline of History I caught the smiling glance of the man in the opposite corner of the compartment.
Good stuff that, he said, indicating the History with a jerk of his head.
Quite, I agreed, maintaining my distance.
Immense, he continued. And it means the dawn of a new life for me. I'm Wells's hero. Every time I've appeared in his half-yearly masterpiece, ever since Tono Bungay . And look at the mess he's made of my life. Often I've had to start it under the cloud of mysterious parentage. Invariably I have been endowed with a Mind (capital M). Think of those uphill fights of mine against adverse conditions. And my unhappy marriages. He has led me into every variation of infidelity. When I did hit it off with my wife for once, he sent us to the Arctic regions as a punishment. In the depth of winter, too.
But, now he's taken up this History, I'm free. The dam has burst and strange things come floating down ...
He sprang to his feet in his excitement. He was wearing a loose-fitting suit and what his master might call a lower middle-class hat.
And now I'm going to do all the things I've always wanted to do. A happy marriage; well-ordered life in the suburbs; warm slippers in the fender, and all that that stands for; kinemas, perhaps, and bowls. An allotment ...
But, I objected, this History won't occupy him for ever. There should be only about sixteen more parts. He'll have you out again next autumn.
But Wells is getting the Suburban idea too. He was standing right over me, glaring horribly with excitement. The train had entered a tunnel and he was shouting bravely against the din. Look in Part I. He acknowledges the help he has received from Mrs. Wells. And her watchful criticism. That from him ! I tell you I am free—free!
He was shaking me by the shoulders now, his face close to mine. I shall have my allotment. Prize parsnips—giant marrows!
Don't be too sure, I yelled—the tunnel seemed endless. Remember poor old Sherlock . Doyle raised him from the dead. And you —my voice rising to a scream— he'll have you out—out—out!