One of our Albanian guides was overwhelmed with the beauty of Cutting's
silver-plated revolver.
"How much did you pay for it?"
"Thirty francs," said Cutting, shooting at the scenery.
Jan produced his automatic, but the Albanian scorned it as one would
turn from a lark to a bird of Paradise. He turned the glittering object
over lovingly, thought, felt in his pockets, drew out a green and red
knitted purse, and shook his head.
"I will give you thirty francs."
But Cutting wasn't on the bargain. He pocketed the treasure again, and
we plodded on.
"How far are we from Tutigne?" we asked.
"Four hours," said a dignified Albanian, who had joined our party.
"No, two hours," said another.
"Three at most," corrected a third.
The first man lifted his hand. "I say four hours, and it is four hours.
With such horses as these we crawl."
We reached a desolate tableland at dusk. Here the horses halted for some
while. With the halt came a sudden desire to stay there for good.
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