Schleppel unfolded himself to his full height.
“Hallo, Mr. Poons. Hallo, Reg,” he said.
They stared at the hairy shape that nearly filled the passageway.
“Er, Schleppel…er…could you clear the way for us?” Windle quavered.
“No problem, Mr. Poons. Anything for a friend.”
A hand the size of a wheelbarrow glided through the steam and tore into the blockage, ripping it out with incredible ease.
“Hey, look at me!” said Schleppel. “You’re right. A bogeyman needs a door like a fish needs a bicycle! Say it now and say it loud, I’m—”
“And now could you get out of the way, please?”
“Sure. Sure. Wow!” Schleppel took another swipe at the Queen.
The trolley shot forward.
“And you’d better come with us!” Windle shouted, as Schleppel disappeared in the mists.
“No he shouldn’t,” said the Archchancellor, as they sped along. “Believe me. What was it?”
“He’s a bogeyman,” said Windle.
“I thought you only get them in closets and things?” shouted Ridcully.
“He’s come out of the closet,” said Reg Shoe proudly. “And he’s found himself.”
“Just so long as we can lose him.”
“We can’t just leave him—”
“We can! We can!” snapped Ridcully.
There was a sound behind them like an eruption of swamp gas. Green light streamed past.
“The spells are starting to go off!” shouted the Dean. “Move it!”
The trolley whirred out of the entrance and soared up into the cool of the night, wheels screaming.
“Yo!” bellowed Ridcully, as the crowd scattered ahead of them.
“Does that mean I can say yo too?” said the Dean.
“All right. Just once. Everyone can say it just once.”
“Yo!”
“Yo!” echoed Reg Shoe.
“Oook!”
“Yo!” said Windle Poons.
“Yo!” said Schleppel.
(Somewhere in the darkness, where the crowd was thinnest, the gaunt shape of Mr. Ixolite, the world’s last surviving banshee, sidled up to the shaking building and bashfully shoved a note under the door.