THE ALIBI
_When actually in the embrace of a voracious and powerful wild
animal, the desirability of leaving a limb is not a matter to be
subjected to lengthy consideration._
THE WALLET OF KAI-LUNG
"I tripped right into it," said Wimsey's voice steadily, out of the
blackness. "One sinks very fast. You'd better not come near, or you'll
go too. We'll yell a bit. I don't think we can be very far from
Grider's Hole."
"If your lordship will keep shouting," returned Mr. Bunter, "I think--I
can--get to you," he panted, untying with his teeth the hard knot of a
coil of string.
"Oy!" cried Lord Peter obediently. "Help! Oy! Oy!"
Mr. Bunter groped towards the voice, feeling cautiously before him with
his walking-stick.
"Wish you'd keep away, Bunter," said Lord Peter peevishly. "Where's the
sense of both of us--?" He squelched and floundered again.
"Don't do that, my lord," cried the man entreatingly. "You'll sink
farther in."
"I'm up to my thighs now," said Lord Peter.
"I'm coming," said Bunter. "Go on shouting. Ah, here's where it gets
soggy."
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.
"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!"
Bunter's hand closed over the stick, which, by a happy accident, had
fallen across a stable tuft of grass. He pulled it over to him, and
laid it across his arms, so that he could just rest his chin upon it.
The relief to his neck was momentarily so enormous that his courage was
renewed. He felt he could hang on for ever.
"Help!"
* * * * *
Minutes passed like hours.
* * * * *
"See that?"
A faint, flickering gleam somewhere away to the right. With desperate
energy both shouted together.
"Help! Help! Oy! Oy! Help!"
An answering yell. The light swayed--came nearer--a spreading blur in
the fog.
"We _must_ keep it up," panted Wimsey. They yelled again.
"Where be?"
"Here!"
"Hello!" A pause. Then:
"Here be stick," said a voice, suddenly near.
"Follow the string!" yelled Bunter. They heard two voices, apparently
arguing. Then the string was twitched.
"Here! Here! Two of us! Make haste!"
More consultation.
"Hang on, canst a?"
"Yes, if you're quick."
"Fetchin' hurdle. Two on 'ee, sayst a?"
"Yes."
"Deep in?"
"One of us."
"Aw reet. Jem's comin'."
A splattering noise marked the arrival of Jem with a hurdle. Then came
an endless wait. Then another hurdle, the string twitching, and the
blur of the lantern bobbing violently about. Then a third hurdle was
flung down, and the light came suddenly out of the mist. A hand caught
Bunter by the ankle.
"Where's other?"
"Here--nearly up to his neck. Have you a rope?"
"Aye, sure. Jem! T'rope!"
The rope came snaking out of the fog. Bunter grasped it, and passed it
round his master's body.
"Now--coom tha back and heave."
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.
"Shameless! A mon--ony mon--that's a' tha thinks on. Bide till tha's
wanted. What's this?"
Voices--voices--ever so many fierce faces peering down all round.
"Peter's Pot? An' what were 'ee a-wanting on t'moor this time night? No
good. Nobbody but a fool or a thief 'ud coom oop ere i' t'fog."
One of the men, a farm laborer with wry shoulders and a thin, malicious
face, suddenly burst into tuneless song:
"I been a-courtin' Mary Jane
On Ilkla' Moor bar t'at."
"Howd toong!" yelled Grimethorpe, in a fury. "Doost want Ah should
break ivery bwoan i' thi body?" He turned on Bunter. "Tak thesen off,
Ah tell tha. Tha'rt here for no good."
"But, William--" began his wife. He snapped round at her like a dog,
and she shrank back.
"Naay now, naay now," said a man, whom Wimsey dimly recognized as the
fellow who had befriended him on his previous visit, "tha mun' taak
them in for t' night, racken, or there'll be trouble wi' t' folk down
yonder at t' Lodge, lat aloan what police 'ull saay. Ef t' fellow 'm
coom to do harm, 'ee's doon it already--to 'unself. Woan't do no more
tonight--look at 'un. Bring 'un to fire, mon," he added to Bunter, and
then, turning to the farmer again, "'Tes tha'll be in Queer Street ef
'e wor to goo an' die on us wi' noomony or rhoomaticks."
This reasoning seemed partly to convince Grimethorpe. He made way,
grumbling, and the two chilled and exhausted men were brought near
the fire. Somebody brought two large, steaming tumblers of spirits.
Wimsey's brain seemed to clear, then swim again drowsily, drunkenly.
* * * * *
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
On Ilkla' Moor bar t'at....
An' that is how--an' that is how--is how....
* * * * *
When Wimsey next opened his eyes a pale November sun was struggling
in at the window. It seemed that the fog had fulfilled its mission
and departed. For some time he lay, vaguely unaware of how he came
to be where he was; then the outlines of recollection straightened
themselves, the drifting outposts of dreams were called back, the
burden of his preoccupation settled down as usual. He became aware
of an extreme bodily lassitude, and of the dragging pain of wrenched
shoulder muscles. Examining himself perfunctorily, he found a bruised
and tender zone beneath the armpits and round his chest and back, where
the rescuing rope had hauled at him. It was painful to move, so he lay
back and closed his eyes once more.
Presently the door opened to admit Bunter, neatly clothed and bearing a
tray from which rose a most excellent odor of ham and eggs.
"Hullo, Bunter!"
"Good morning, my lord! I trust your lordship has rested."
"Feel as fit as a fiddle, thanks--come to think of it, why
fiddle?--except for a general feeling of havin' been violently massaged
by some fellow with cast-iron fingers and knobbly joints. How about
you?"
"The arms are a trifle fatigued, thank you, my lord; otherwise, I am
happy to say, I feel no trace of the misadventure. Allow me, my lord."
He set the tray tenderly upon Lord Peter's ready knees.
"They must be jolly well dragged out of their sockets," said his
lordship, "holdin' me up all that ghastly long time. I'm so beastly
deep in debt to you already, Bunter, it's not a bit of use tryin' to
repay it. You know I won't forget, anyhow, don't you? All right, I
won't be embarrassin' or anything--thanks awfully, anyhow. That's that.
What? Did they give you anywhere decent to sleep? I didn't seem to be
able to sit up an' take notice last night."
"I slept excellently, I thank your lordship." Mr. Bunter indicated a
kind of truckle-bed in a corner of the room. "They would have given me
another room, my lord, but in the circumstances, I preferred to remain
with your lordship, trusting you would excuse the liberty. I told them
that I feared the effects of prolonged immersion upon your lordship's
health. I was uneasy, besides, about the intention of Grimethorpe. I
feared he might not feel altogether hospitably disposed, and that he
might be led into some hasty action if we were not together."
"I shouldn't wonder. Most murderous-lookin' fellow I ever set eyes on.
I'll have to talk to him this morning--or to Mrs. Grimethorpe. I'd take
my oath she could tell us something, what?"
"I should say there was very little doubt of it, my lord."
"Trouble is," pursued Wimsey, with his mouth full of egg, "I don't know
how to get at her. That jolly husband of hers seems to cherish the most
unpleasant suspicions of anything that comes this way in trousers. If
he found out we'd been talkin' to her, what you may call privately,
he might, as you say, be hurried by his feelin's into doin' something
regrettable."
"Just so, my lord."
"Still, the fellow must go an' look after his bally old farm some
time, and then, p'raps, we'll be able to tackle her. Queer sort of
woman--damn fine one, what? Wonder what she made of Cathcart?" he added
musingly.
Mr. Bunter volunteered no opinion on this delicate point.
"Well, Bunter, I think I'll get up. I don't suppose we're altogether
welcome here. I didn't fancy the look in our host's eye last night."
"No, my lord. He made a deal of opposition about having your lordship
conveyed to this room."
"Why, whose room is it?"
"His own and Mrs. Grimethorpe's, my lord. It appeared most suitable,
there being a fireplace, and the bed already made up. Mrs. Grimethorpe
showed great kindness, my lord, and the man Jake pointed out to
Grimethorpe that it would doubtless be to his pecuniary advantage to
treat your lordship with consideration."
"H'm. Nice, graspin' character, ain't he? Well, it's up and away for
me. O Lord! I _am_ stiff. I say, Bunter, have I any clothes to put on?"
"I have dried and brushed your lordship's suit to the best of my
ability, my lord. It is not as I should wish to see it, but I think
your lordship will be able to wear it to Riddlesdale."
"Well, I don't suppose the streets will be precisely crowded," retorted
his lordship. "I _do_ so want a hot bath. How about shavin' water?"
"I can procure that from the kitchen, my lord."
Bunter padded away, and Lord Peter, having pulled on a shirt and
trousers with many grunts and groans, roamed over to the window. As
usual with hardy country dwellers, it was tightly shut, and a thick
wedge of paper had been rammed in to keep the sash from rattling. He
removed this and flung up the sash. The wind rollicked in, laden with
peaty moor scents. He drank it in gladly. It was good to see the jolly
old sun after all--he would have hated to die a sticky death in Peter's
Pot. For a few minutes he stood there, returning thanks vaguely in
his mind for the benefits of existence. Then he withdrew to finish
dressing. The wad of paper was still in his hand, and he was about to
fling it into the fire, when a word caught his eye. He unrolled the
paper. As he read it his eyebrows went up and his mouth pursed itself
into an indescribable expression of whimsical enlightenment. Bunter,
returning with the hot water, found his master transfixed, the paper
in one hand, and his socks in the other, and whistling a complicated
passage of Bach under his breath.
"Bunter," said his lordship, "I am, without exception, the biggest ass
in Christendom. When a thing is close under my nose I can't see it. I
get a telescope, and look for the explanation in Stapley. I deserve to
be crucified upside-down, as a cure for anemia of the brain. Jerry!
Jerry! But, naturally, of course, you rotten ass, isn't it obvious?
Silly old blighter. Why couldn't he tell Murbles or me?"
Mr. Bunter advanced, the picture of respectful inquiry.
"Look at it--look at it!" said Wimsey, with a hysterical squeak of
laughter. "O Lord! O Lord! Stuck into the window-frame for anybody to
find. _Just_ like Jerry. Signs his name to the business in letters a
foot long, leaves it conspicuously about, and then goes away and is
chivalrously silent."
Mr. Bunter put the jug down upon the washstand in case of accident, and
took the paper.
It was the missing letter from Tommy Freeborn.
No doubt about it. There it was--the evidence which established the
truth of Denver's evidence. More--which established his alibi for the
night of the 13th.
Not Cathcart--Denver.
Denver suggesting that the shooting party should return in October
to Riddlesdale, where they had opened the grouse season in August.
Denver sneaking hurriedly out at 11:30 to walk two miles across the
fields on a night when Farmer Grimethorpe had gone to buy machinery.
Denver carelessly plugging a rattling sash on a stormy night with an
important letter bearing his title on it for all to see. Denver padding
back at three in the morning like a homing tom-cat, to fall over his
guest's dead body by the conservatory. Denver, with his kind, stupid,
English-gentleman ideas about honor, going obstinately off to prison,
rather than tell his solicitor where he had been. Denver misleading
them all into the wildest and most ingenious solutions of a mystery
which now stood out clear as seven sunbeams. Denver, whose voice the
woman had thought she recognized on the memorable day when she flung
herself into the arms of his brother. Denver calmly setting in motion
the enormous, creaking machinery of a trial by his noble peers in order
to safeguard a woman's reputation.
This very day, probably, a Select Committee of lords was sitting "to
inspect the Journals of this House upon former trials of peers in
criminal cases, in order to bring the Duke of Denver to a speedy trial,
and to report to the House what they should think proper thereupon."
There they were: moving that an address be presented to His Majesty
by the lords with white staves, to acquaint His Majesty of the date
proposed for the trial; arranging for fitting up the Royal Gallery at
Westminster; humbly requesting the attendance of a sufficient police
force to keep clear the approaches leading to the House; petitioning
His Majesty graciously to appoint a Lord High Steward; ordering, in
sheeplike accordance with precedent, that all lords be summoned to
attend in their robes; that every lord, in giving judgment, disclose
his opinion upon his honor, laying his right hand upon his heart; that
the Sergeant-at-Arms be within the House to make proclamations in
the King's name for keeping silence--and so on, and on, unendingly.
And there, jammed in the window-sash, was the dirty little bit of
paper which, discovered earlier, would have made the whole monstrous
ceremonial unnecessary.
Wimsey's adventure in the bog had unsettled his nerves. He sat down on
the bed and laughed, with the tears streaming down his face.
Mr. Bunter was speechless. Speechlessly he produced a razor--and to the
end of his days Wimsey never knew how or from whom he had so adequately
procured it--and began to strop it thoughtfully upon the palm of his
hand.
Presently Wimsey pulled himself together and staggered to the window
for a little cooling draught of moor air. As he did so, a loud
hullabaloo smote his ear, and he perceived, in the courtyard below,
Farmer Grimethorpe striding among his dogs; when they howled he struck
at them with a whip, and they howled again. Suddenly he glanced up at
the window, with an expression of such livid hatred that Wimsey stepped
hurriedly back as though struck.
While Bunter shaved him he was silent.
* * * * *
The interview before Lord Peter was a delicate one; the situation,
however one looked at it, unpleasant. He was under a considerable debt
of gratitude to his hostess; on the other hand, Denver's position
was such that minor considerations really had to go to the wall. His
lordship had, nevertheless, never felt quite such a cad as he did while
descending the staircase at Grider's Hole.
In the big farm kitchen he found a stout country-woman, stirring a pot
of stew. He asked for Mr. Grimethorpe, and was told that he had gone
out.
"Can I speak to Mrs. Grimethorpe, please?"
The woman looked doubtfully at him, wiped her hands on her apron, and,
going into the scullery, shouted, "Mrs. Grimethorpe!" A voice replied
from somewhere outside.
"Gentleman wants see tha."
"Where is Mrs. Grimethorpe?" broke in Peter hurriedly.
"I' t'dairy, recken."
"I'll go to her there," said Wimsey, stepping briskly out. He passed
through a stone-paved scullery, and across a yard, in time to see Mrs.
Grimethorpe emerging from a dark doorway opposite.
Framed there, the cold sunlight just lighting upon her still,
dead-white face and heavy, dark hair, she was more wonderful than ever.
There was no trace of Yorkshire descent in the long, dark eyes and
curled mouth. The curve of nose and cheekbones vouched for an origin
immensely remote; coming out of the darkness, she might have just risen
from her far tomb in the Pyramids, dropping the dry and perfumed
grave-bands from her fingers.
Lord Peter pulled himself together.
"Foreign," he said to himself matter-of-factly. "Touch of Jew perhaps,
or Spanish, is it? Remarkable type. Don't blame Jerry. Couldn't live
with Helen myself. Now for it."
He advanced quickly.
"Good morning," she said, "are you better?"
"Perfectly all right, thank you--thanks to your kindness, which I do
not know how to repay."
"You will repay any kindness best by going at once," she answered in
her remote voice. "My husband does not care for strangers, and 'twas
unfortunate the way you met before."
"I will go directly. But I must first beg for the favor of a word with
you." He peered past her into the dimness of the dairy. "In here,
perhaps?"
"What do you want with me?"
She stepped back, however, and allowed him to follow her in.
"Mrs. Grimethorpe, I am placed in a most painful position. You know
that my brother, the Duke of Denver, is in prison, awaiting his trial
for a murder which took place on the night of October 13th?"
Her face did not change. "I have heard so."
"He has, in the most decided manner, refused to state where he was
between eleven and three on that night. His refusal has brought him
into great danger of his life."
She looked at him steadily.
"He feels bound in honor not to disclose his whereabouts, though I know
that, if he chose to speak, he could bring a witness to clear him."
"He seems to be a very honorable man." The cold voice wavered a trifle,
then steadied again.
"Yes. Undoubtedly, from his point of view, he is doing the right
thing. You will understand, however, that, as his brother, I am
naturally anxious to have the matter put in its proper light."
"I don't understand why you are telling me all this. I suppose, if the
thing is disgraceful, he doesn't want it known."
"Obviously. But to us--to his wife and young son, and to his sister and
myself--his life and safety are matters of the first importance."
"Of more importance than his honor?"
"The secret is a disgraceful one in a sense, and will give pain to his
family. But it would be an infinitely greater disgrace that he should
be executed for murder. The stigma in that case would involve all those
who bear his name. The shame of the truth will, I fear, in this very
unjust society of ours, rest more upon the witness to his alibi than
upon himself."
"Can you in that case expect the witness to come forward?"
"To prevent the condemnation of an innocent man? Yes, I think I may
venture to expect even that."
"I repeat--why are you telling me all this?"
"Because, Mrs. Grimethorpe, you know, even better than I, how innocent
my brother is of this murder. Believe me, I am deeply distressed at
having to say these things to you."
"I know nothing about your brother."
"Forgive me, that is not true."
"I know nothing. And surely, if the Duke will not speak, you should
respect his reasons."
"I am not bound in any way."
"I am afraid I cannot help you. You are wasting time. If you cannot
produce your missing witness, why do you not set about finding the real
murderer? If you do so you surely need not trouble about this alibi.
Your brother's movements are his own business."
"I could wish," said Wimsey, "you had not taken up this attitude.
Believe me, I would have done all I could to spare you. I have been
working hard to find, as you say, the real murderer, but with no
success. The trial will probably take place at the end of the month."
Her lips twitched a little at that, but she said nothing.
"I had hoped that with your help we might agree on some
explanation--less than the truth, perhaps, but sufficient to clear my
brother. As it is, I fear I shall have to produce the proof I hold, and
let matters take their course."
That, at last, struck under her guard. A dull flush crept up her
cheeks; one hand tightened upon the handle of the churn, where she had
rested it.
"What do you mean by proof?"
"I can prove that on the night of the 13th my brother slept in the room
I occupied last night," said Wimsey, with calculated brutality.
She winced. "It is a lie. You cannot prove it. He will deny it. I shall
deny it."
"He was not there?"
"No."
"Then how did this come to be wedged in the sash of the bedroom window?"
At sight of the letter she broke down, crumpling up in a heap against
the table. The set lines of her face distorted themselves into a mere
caricature of terror.
"No, no, no! It is a lie! God help me!"
"Hush!" said Wimsey peremptorily. "Someone will hear you." He dragged
her to her feet. "Tell the truth, and we will see if we can find a way
out. It is true--he was here that night?"
"You know it."
"When did he come?"
"At a quarter past twelve."
"Who let him in?"
"He had the keys."
"When did he leave you?"
"A little after two."
"Yes, that fits in all right. Three quarters of an hour to go and three
quarters to come back. He stuck this into the window, I suppose, to
keep it from rattling?"
"There was a high wind--I was nervous. I thought every sound was my
husband coming back."
"Where was your husband?"
"At Stapley."
"Had he suspected this?"
"Yes, for some time."
"Since my brother was here in August?"
"Yes. But he could get no proof. If he had had proof he would have
killed me. You have seen him. He is a devil."
"M'm."
Wimsey was silent. The woman glanced fearfully at his face and seemed
to read some hope there, for she clutched him by the arm.
"If you call me to give evidence," she said, "he will know. He _will_
kill me. For God's sake, have pity. That letter is my death-warrant.
Oh, for the mother that bore you, have mercy upon me. My life is a
hell, and when I die I shall go to hell for my sin. Find some other
way--you can--you must."
Wimsey gently released himself.
"Don't do that, Mrs. Grimethorpe. We might be seen. I am deeply sorry
for you, and, if I can get my brother out of this without bringing you
in, I promise you I will. But you see the difficulty. Why don't you
leave this man? He is openly brutal to you."
She laughed.
"Do you think he'd leave me alive while the law was slowly releasing
me? Knowing him, do you think so?"
Wimsey really did not think so.
"I will promise you this, Mrs. Grimethorpe. I will do all I can to
avoid having to use your evidence. But if there should be no other way,
I will see that you have police protection from the moment that the
subpoena is served on you."
"And for the rest of my life?"
"When you are once in London we will see about freeing you from this
man."
"No. If you call upon me, I am a lost woman. But you will find another
way?"
"I will try, but I can promise nothing. I will do everything that is
possible to protect you. If you care at all for my brother--"
"I don't know. I am so horribly afraid. He was kind and good to me. He
was--so different. But I am afraid--I'm afraid."
Wimsey turned. Her terrified eyes had seen the shadow cross the
threshold. Grimethorpe was at the door, glowering in upon them.
"Ah, Mr. Grimethorpe," exclaimed Wimsey cheerfully, "there you are.
Awfully pleased to see you and thank you, don'tcherknow, for puttin'
me up. I was just saying so to Mrs. Grimethorpe, an' asking her to say
good-bye to you for me. Must be off now, I'm afraid. Bunter and I are
ever so grateful to you both for all your kindness. Oh, and I say,
could you find me the stout fellows who hauled us out of that Pot of
yours last night--if it is yours. Nasty, damp thing to keep outside the
front door, what? I'd like to thank 'em."
"Dom good thing for unwelcome guests," said the man ferociously. "An'
tha'd better be off afore Ah throws thee out."
"I'm just off," said Peter. "Good-bye again, Mrs. Grimethorpe, and a
thousand thanks."
He collected Bunter, rewarded his rescuers suitably, took an
affectionate farewell of the enraged farmer, and departed, sore in body
and desperately confused in mind.