“An’ pore Potter thought as he’d tricked ’em in Dering Wood!” sighed Mr. Potter gloomily. “An’ if they tak’ me in your cottage, Pen, they’ll take you ’long as my accomplish——”
“Let ’em!” said she serenely. “But as for you, get ’ee down under stone quick!”
Mr. Potter still hesitated, hearkening to the shouts and hallooing, the awful sound of the hue and cry that grew louder every moment.
“What is it?” questioned my lady, clasping her hands, for the terror seemed all about the cottage. “Oh, what does it mean?”
“Hold y’r tongue, lass!” answered Penelope. “You’ll know soon enough, I rackon!”
“The witch’s cottage!” boomed a voice. “The old hag’ll know where t’ find him, sure!” Here a clamour of assent. “If she doan’t open the door, burst it in!” boomed Mr. Oxham again.
“I be main grieved for this, Pen!” sighed Mr. Potter, crossing to the hearth in his leisured fashion, “but what is to be—must be!” So saying, he thrust an arm up the wide chimney and pulled lustily at some hidden object, whereupon was a creaking sound and my lady shrank back, uttering a gasp of surprise to see the broad hearthstone sink from sight and in its place a yawning cavity.
“Quick, Jarge!” warned Penelope, still peering from the lattice.
“If they dogs start ill-usin’ of ’ee, Pen, I be a-comin’ up!” quoth Mr. Potter, seating himself upon the floor, his legs a-dangle in the void below. “You, Mus’ Derwent,” he continued appealingly, “you took ’er part once afore——”