He felt the ground carefully, selected a tussocky bit which seemed reasonably firm, and drove his stick well into it.
"Oy! Hi! Help!" said Lord Peter, shouting lustily.
Mr. Bunter tied one end of the string to the walking-stick, belted his Burberry tightly about him, and, laying himself cautiously down upon his belly, advanced, clue in hand, like a very Gothic Theseus of a late and degenerate school.
The bog heaved horribly as he crawled over it, and slimy water squelched up into his face. He felt with his hands for tussocks of grass, and got support from them when he could.
"Call out again, my lord!"
"Here!" The voice was fainter and came from the right. Bunter had lost his line a little, hunting for tussocks. "I daren't come faster," he explained. He felt as though he had been crawling for years.
"Get out while there's time," said Peter. "I'm up to my waist. Lord! this is rather a beastly way to peg out."
"You won't peg out," grunted Bunter. His voice was suddenly quite close. "Your hands now."
For a few agonizing minutes two pairs of hands groped over the invisible slime. Then:
"Keep yours still," said Bunter. He made a slow, circling movement. It was hard work keeping his face out of the mud. His hands slithered over the slobbery surface—and suddenly closed on an arm.