"
We pulled up at dusk at a dismal hovel, on piles, with rickety wooden
stairs leading to a dimly lighted balcony over which fell deep wooden
eaves.
"Is this Jabooka?" we asked, for we had been told to alight at Jabooka.
"No," said the driver; "we cannot reach Jabooka to-night. But here are
fine beds, fine, fine, fine!"
We climbed in. The rooms were whitewashed and looked all right, but
there was a funny smell. We shall know what it means a second time.
There was a crowd of American Montenegrin volunteers in the kitchen. One
gay fellow was in a bright green dressing-gown like overcoat: he said
that his wife--a hard-featured woman who looked as if nobody loved
her--had brought his saddle horse. We got some hard-boiled eggs and
maize bread. Maize bread is always a little gritty, for it has in its
substance no binding material, but when it is well cooked and has plenty
of crust is quite eatable. French cooking is far away, however, and the
bread is usually a sort of soggy, half-baked flabby paste, most
unpalatable and most indigestible.
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