But it looked very uninviting--we
remembered the cheery hostess of Jabooka, the woman who came from "other
parts," and knew a thing or two about cleanliness. Every one agreed to
go on. Willett was rather better, so we forged ahead in the downpour
and the dark, splashing through puddles and singing everything we knew.
Our Albanian guides chuckled and chanted their own nasal songs in a
different key as an accompaniment.
Far away we saw a tiny light--Jabooka. We stretched our legs and hurried
along, but alas! the inn room was full. There was the professor, his
face shining from warmth and well-being, crowds of men in uniform, some
fat travelling civilians: faces looked up from the floor, from the
corners, faces were everywhere, wet boys were steaming in front of the
fire, while the hostess and a girl were picking their way as best they
could in the tobacco smoke with eggs and rakia.
Full; even the floor! and we were wet through. The professor had
announced that we were staying at the dirty inn away back.
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