“Where be?”
“Here!”
“Hello!” A pause. Then:
“Here be stick,” said a voice, suddenly near.
“Follow the string!” yelled Bunter. They heard two voices, apparently arguing. Then the string was twitched.
“Here! Here! Two of us! Make haste!”
More consultation.
“Hang on, canst a?”
“Yes, if you’re quick.”
“Fetchin’ hurdle. Two on ’ee, sayst a?”
“Yes.”
“Deep in?”
“One of us.”
“Aw reet. Jem’s comin’.”
A splattering noise marked the arrival of Jem with a hurdle. Then came an endless wait. Then another hurdle, the string twitching, and the blur of the lantern bobbing violently about. Then a third hurdle was flung down, and the light came suddenly out of the mist. A hand caught Bunter by the ankle.
“Where’s t’other?”
“Here—nearly up to his neck. Have you a rope?”
“Aye, sure. Jem! T’rope!”
The rope came snaking out of the fog. Bunter grasped it, and passed it round his master’s body.
“Now—coom tha back and heave.”
Bunter crawled cautiously backwards upon the hurdle. All three set hands upon the rope. It was like trying to heave the earth out of her course.
“ ’Fraid I’m rooted to Australia,” panted Peter apologetically. Bunter sweated and sobbed.
“It’s aw reet—he’s coomin’!”
With slow heavings the rope began to come towards them. Their muscles cracked.
Suddenly, with a great plop! the bog let go its hold. The three at the rope were hurled head over heels upon the hurdles. Something unrecognisable in slime lay flat, heaving helplessly. They dragged at him in a kind of frenzy, as though he might be snatched back from them again. The evil bog stench rose thickly round them. They crossed the first hurdle—the second—the third—and rose staggeringly to their feet on firm ground.
“What a beastly place,” said Lord Peter faintly. “ ’Pologise, stupid of me to have forgotten—what’sy name?”
“Well, tha’s loocky,” said one of their rescuers. “We thowt we heerd someun a-shouting. There be few folks as cooms oot o’ Peter’s Pot dead or alive, I reckon.”
“Well, it was nearly potted Peter that time,” said his lordship, and fainted.
To Lord Peter the memory of his entry that night into the farmhouse at Grider’s Hole always brought with it a sensation of nightmare. The coils of fog rolled in with them as the door opened, and through them the firelight leapt steamily. A hanging lamp made a blur. The Medusa-head of Mrs. Grimethorpe, terribly white against her black hair, peered over him. A hairy paw caught her by the shoulder and wrenched her aside.
“Shameless! A mon—ony mon—that’s a’ tha thinks on. Bide till tha’s wanted. What’s this?”
Voices—voices—ever so many fierce faces peering down all round.
“Peter’s Pot? An’ what were ’ee a-wanting on t’moor this time night? No good. Nobody but a fool or a thief ’ud coom oop ’ere i’ t’fog.”
One of the men, a farm laborer with wry shoulders and a thin, malicious face, suddenly burst into tuneless song:
“I been a-courtin’ Mary Jane
on Ilkla’ Moor bar t’at.”
“Howd toong!” yelled Grimethorpe, in a fury. “Doost want Ah should break ivery bwoan i’ thi body?” He turned on Bunter. “Tak thesen off, Ah tell tha. Tha’rt here for no good.”
“But, William—” began his wife. He snapped round at her like a dog, and she shrank back.
“Naay now, naay now,” said a man, whom Wimsey dimly recognized as the fellow who had befriended him on his previous visit, “tha mun’ taak them in for t’night, racken, or there’ll be trouble wi’ t’folk down yonder at t’Lodge, lat aloan what police ’ull saay. Ef t’fellow ’m coom to do harm, ’ee’s doon it already—to ’unself. Woan’t do no more tonight—look at ’un. Bring ’un to fire, mon,” he added to Bunter, and then, turning to the farmer again, “ ’Tes tha’ll be in Queer Street ef ’e wor to goo an’ die on us wi’ noomony or rhoomaticks.”
This reasoning seemed partly to convince Grimethorpe. He made way, grumbling, and the two chilled and exhausted men were brought near the fire. Somebody brought two large, steaming tumblers of spirits. Wimsey’s brain seemed to clear, then swim again drowsily, drunkenly.
Presently he became aware that he was being carried upstairs and put to bed. A big, old-fashioned room, with a fire on the hearth and a huge, grim four-poster. Bunter was helping him out of soaked clothes; rubbing him. Another man appeared from time to time to help him. From below came the bellowing sound of Grimethorpe’s voice, blasphemously uplifted. Then the harsh, brassy singing of the wry-shouldered man:
“Then woorms will coom an ate thee oop
On Ilkla’ Moor bar t’at …
Then doocks will coom an ate oop woorms
On Ilkla Moor …”
Lord Peter rolled into bed.
“Bunter—where—you all right? Never said thank you—dunno what I’m doing—anywhere to sleep—what?”
He drifted away into oblivion. The old song came up mockingly, and wound its horrible fancies into his dreams:
Then we shall coom an ate oop doocks
On Ilkla Moor bar t’at. …
An’ that is how—an’ that is how—is how. …
When Wimsey next opened his eyes a pale November sun was struggling in at the window. It seemed that the fog had fulfilled its mission and departed. For some time he lay, vaguely unaware of how he came to be where he was; then the outlines of recollection straightened themselves, the drifting outposts of dreams were called back, the burden of his preoccupation settled down as usual. He became aware of an extreme bodily lassitude, and of the dragging pain of wrenched shoulder muscles. Examining himself perfunctorily, he found a bruised and tender zone beneath the armpits and round his chest and back, where the rescuing rope had hauled at him. It was painful to move, so he lay back and closed his eyes once more.
Presently the door opened to admit Bunter, neatly clothed and bearing a tray from which rose a most excellent odor of ham and eggs.
“Hullo, Bunter!”
“Good morning, my lord! I trust your lordship has rested.”
“Feel as fit as a fiddle, thanks—come to think of it, why fiddle?—except for a general feeling of havin’ been violently massaged by some fellow with cast-iron fingers and knobbly joints. How about you?”
“The arms are a trifle fatigued, thank you, my lord; otherwise, I am happy to say, I
