We immediately hunted out Captain Fabiano, the Italian commander of the wireless telegraph, and found him in a little house at the northern horn of the bay.  He received us gaily.  He spoke an excellent French, so that the Serbian captain could not butt in and interfere, as was his habit.  Fabiano said that it would take a long time to get a wire to Brindisi, where we had heard were several ships of the English fleet, very bored and craving for something to do; we had hoped to get into communication with them.  Then Jan had a brain wave.

“Is not the wind good for Durazzo?” asked he.

“Splendid,” said Fabiano, “and no submarines to-day.”

“Could we not get a fishing boat?”

“I will send and see.”

While we were waiting he told us that he was sheltering the crew of the ship which had been transporting the English mission’s kit.  The captain of the little transport had set fire to the benzine which his boat was carrying, which act so enraged the submarine captain that he fired three torpedoes into her, and afterwards mounted his conning tower and fired ten full clips from his revolver at the swimming men.  Luckily revolver shooting requires much practice.  The men had clung to an overturned boat and had all eventually reached shore, after which they had to march a day and a half without boots or food, often fording rivers which came to their waists.  Fabiano said that he was going to send them home on the Benedetto.

The captain of the port sent back word that we could have a boat immediately—­much to Fabiano’s surprise.  But most of the party were at Alessio.  We hurried off to see the captain of the port.  Explanations, certainly when the luggage came; and off went Jan with a guide to get pack ponies.  Halfway back to Alessio was the stable, but the steeds were not ready, so Jan was ushered up into a top room where was a huge fire, over which an Albanian was stewing a cormorant with all its feathers on.  There were other Albanians and a very old Montenegrin soldier.  He admired everything English, even Jan’s tobacco which he had bought in Pod.

We got to Alessio and packed everything hurriedly, paid the bill, tipped an old soldier two dinars, and off.  As we passed over the bridge the clerk came running behind us.  We had not paid the bridge fees, he said.

“How much?” asked Jan.

He hesitated.

“Two dinars,” said he.  He had been talking to the soldier.

Meanwhile Jo and Blease had found refuge in the house of the military commandant.  It was a hovel like all the houses, but they were given a huge log fire which was built on the mud floor.  Their stockings were soon hanging on a line above the blaze, and their shins were scorching, while they drank wonderful liqueur which was hospitably poured out by the beautiful old host.

Turkish coffee was prepared for them by a soldier in a bursting French fireman’s uniform.