“Oh, how wonderful!”

They gave us a tiny room and two benches—­much too small for the whole company; so some slept outside on the balcony.

The professor was in the adjoining inn, so we guessed it must be the best; but a young French sailor, from the wireless in Podgoritza, who came to gossip with us, said there was nothing to choose.

He was champing, as the Government were commandeering the wireless company’s motor cars right and left using them to cart benzine; and now they were going to send a refugee Serb officer’s family to Podgoritza in his motor, leaving him sitting.

We spent the next morning waiting for the motor, not knowing if it would arrive or no.  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.

Miss Brindley, joyfully ready to see Cettinje and anything else that might turn up, joined Jo and Jan in the old shandrydan carriage which lumbered along for seven hours to Cettinje.

“We are going to find Turkish delight,” said the others, as they disappeared down a side street, revelling in the idea of a rest.

Cettinje was inches deep in water.  We assured the Count de Salis that much as we needed money to continue the journey, we needed baths more.

This was a weighty matter and needed much thinking out, petroleum being very scarce.  The huge empty Legation kitchen stove was lit and upon it were placed all the kettles, saucepans, and empty tins in the place; the picturesque old baggy-breeched porter, his wife, and little boy stoking hard, and asking lots of questions.  One by one we were ushered into a room, not the bathroom but a room containing the sort of comfortable bath which makes the least water go the longest way, and also a beautiful hot stove.  This solemn rite occupied a whole afternoon.  We had not taken our clothes off for sixteen days and had been in the dirtiest of places.  A change of underclothing was effected.  None too soon! for at Lieva Rieka we had picked up lice.