The governor had told him also to
offer himself as cicerone for the morrow, the cart having been ordered
for our trip to Dechani.
We didn't like cicerones and demurred.
"I kin talk for you," he said. But we owned to speaking Serb.
"I know all de country, kin tell you things: bin 'ere twenty years
ago."
We saw he wanted to come, and noticed that he had a very likable face,
strong features, straight kindly eyes. We realized that he would be a
very pleasant companion and arranged to meet at the stable the next day.
And so, at last, we drove in one of the queer little Serb carts we had
avoided so anxiously. A few planks nailed together and bound around with
an insecure rail, four wheels slipped on to the axles with no pins to
hold them, a Turkish driver dangling his legs--such was our chariot.
Some hay was produced to improvise a seat; we bought some apples on
tick, as the vendor said he had no change for our one shilling note, and
off we drove.
Nikola Pavlovitch started yarning almost at once, and we never had a
dull moment.
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