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