![]() ![]() ![]() Filth-crusted from the top of his head to the tip of his tail, he admired his new silver coins-tossed here, he knew, by silly mannies trying to buy wishes-and one old rusty key. Then he began to fumble about for a toehold in the muck.īy the time he had floundered his way out of it, Batch was a dirtier and richer imp than he had been moments before. He snuffled deep breaths of rank, sulfurous air through them, letting the good bad smell clear his head. ![]() ![]() and he missed! His arms windmilled as down, down, down he fell, until with a squelching thud he met mud and was buried up to his nose in it, with just those grand pink nostrils poking up. The thought was so wretched it made him twitch just as he reached for a slimy handhold. He imagined his wheelbarrow lying unclaimed forever in the dusty pelvis of that human skeleton back in the catacombs. He was already down so deep now he didn’t know if he could climb back out. Some time passed and his little arms and legs grew tired, and the stones became slimier and slipperier. “ ’Tis devious deep.” No ordinary well was this deep, but Batch already suspected this was no ordinary well. And down some more! “Munch,” he muttered. Then, with scuttling grace, he climbed in and began his long descent. Perhaps this task would have its own rewards, he thought. An ancient reek wafted up from inside the well and Batch breathed deeply, excited in spite of himself. ![]()
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