"Thank God!" said Bunter. "Hang on here, my lord."
He felt forward. The arms were perilously close to the sucking mud. The hands crawled clingingly up his arms and rested on his shoulders. He grasped Wimsey beneath the armpits and heaved. The exertion drove his own knees deep into the bog. He straightened himself hurriedly. Without using his knees he could get no purchase, but to use them meant certain death. They could only hang on desperately till help came—or till the strain became too great. He could not even shout, it was almost more than he could do to keep his mouth free of water. The dragging strain on his shoulders was intolerable; the mere effort to breathe meant an agonizing crick in the neck.
"You must go on shouting, my lord."
Wimsey shouted. His voice was breaking and fading.
"Bunter, old thing," said Lord Peter, "I'm simply beastly sorry to have let you in for this."
"Don't mention it, my lord," said Bunter, with his mouth in the slime. A thought struck him.
"What became of your stick, my lord?"
"I dropped it. It should be somewhere near, if it hasn't sunk in."
Bunter cautiously released his left hand and felt about.
"Hi! Hi! Help!"