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 unrecognizable 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.