The professor sailed away in the French one, being one up
on us again. It still rained, so we sat contemplating the possibilities
of lunch. No sooner was it on the boil than the biggest automobile in
Montenegro, a covered lorry, turned up.
We persuaded the driver to lunch with us, and packed ourselves and our
dingy packages on to the wet floor. The motor buzzed up and downhill,
incessantly twisting and turning: what we could see of the view from the
back waved to and fro like Alpine scenery seen in the cinematograph.
Stajitch became violently seasick with the fumes of benzine, which arose
from two big tanks we were taking along, and lay with his head lolling
miserably out of the back of the car.
Pod once more, sleepy, inhospitable Pod.
We bargained for rooms at our old inn--mixed beds and floors. The owner
was asking more than ever; he shrugged his shoulders and raised his
hands.
"The war--increasing prices."
So we took what we could, put Stajitch to bed, saw the prefect, our old
friend from Chainitza, who promised us a carriage for Cettinje in the
morning.
Pages:
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388