It
seemed as if we should never reach Tutigne. The evening brought with it
chilly damp breezes, and the footsore company was getting quite
disheartened.
"Let us camp here," said everybody.
But the policeman had a mailbag to deliver that night, and we had to
push on. Experienced as we were in Serbian roads, never had we seen such
mud. Down, down sank our feet, and we could only extract them again
clinging to the carts with the sound of a violent kiss. We tried to
escape it by climbing into the thick brushwood, only to find it again,
stickier and more slippery, while the bushes grasped us with thorny arms
and athletically switched our faces. A moonless darkness came upon us
and we had to walk just behind the carriages, peering at the square yard
of road illuminated by candles in our penny lanterns.
Occasionally a voice greeted us. We asked how far Tutigne was.
"About an hour," was the invariable answer all along the line.
But the dignified guide was right. After four hours we reached the main
street, arriving slowly to the music of incredible clatter as our little
carts leapt and jolted over hundreds of big pointed stones laid
carefully side by side--Tutigne's concession to Macadam.
Pages:
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354