The driver promised us a better road further on; but the better road
never came, and we hung on waiting for something to break and give us
relief. There were hints, it is true, unfinished hints: some day men
will be able to travel in comfort from Mitrovitza to Ipek, but the day
is not yet. It is strange how the human frame gets used to things, and
we grew to believe that our driver not only liked, but joyed in each
extra bang and jolt--collected them as it were--for certainly he never
avoided anything, though occasionally he wound at the brake, but that
was only for show, because he knew that it did not work.
We reached Mitrovitza at dark with bones unbroken, and rattled down a
road with vague white Turkish houses upon one side, and a muddy looking
stream reflecting dull lights on the other. One last lurid lunge, we
leapt across a drain and broke a trace bar, but too late, we had
arrived.
The Hotel Bristol was full--why are there so many hotels in Serbia named
Bristol?--but we were received by a stupid-looking maid at the Kossovo,
and were given a paper to sign, saying who we were.
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