But we cleared the top of the pass without
meeting either, and started on our last long downhill to Andrievitza.
Cheered by the rapidity of our motion the two ruffians on the box
started a howling Podgoritzian kind of melody, exceedingly discordant.
The driver, careless that one of our springs was but wired tree, and
that wheels in Montenegro are easily decomposed, flogged his horses
unmercifully, rattling along the extreme edge of one hundred foot
precipices. We stopped at a cafe for the driver to get coffee; rattled
on again, stopped to inquire the price of hay; more rattle; stopped for
the driver to say, "How de doo" to a pal; more rattle; stopped to ask a
man if his dog has had puppies yet.... But we protested.
Andrievitza was the prettiest village we had yet seen in Montenegro,
and was full of more "Americans." In the street a small boy urged us to
go to "Radoikovitches," but we went to the hotel. The hotel was full,
because a Pasha from Scutari had arrived with his three wives, and all
their families.
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