The next day we had a further interview with the War Minister, who introduced to us a man in corduroys, the only really round-faced person we had met in Montenegro.  Part of his name was “Ob,” so as we forgot the rest of it we called him Dr. Ob.  He was the minister of drains, and such things.  As nothing had been previously explained to him about us, he covered his mystification by hailing us jovially, after which he misconstrued everything we said.

He became very excited when we said we had brought 14,000 kilos of stores into Montenegro.

“But we have not got it yet,” he ejaculated.  We explained that it was for the English hospital, and he subsided, very disappointed.

Scutari was talked over again, and Dr. Ob promised to come and tell us that evening if Cettinje could supply a motor for the next morning.

More bows and smiles, and we left wondering.  Montenegrins always promise even when they have no intention of performance—­something like the stage Irishman,—­and we were surprised when Dr. Ob met us in the evening and said that the motor was arranged for next morning at eight.

We tea’d with the count once more.  In the next house lived a gorgeous old gentleman, and we heard that he had been War Minister for forty odd years.  After thirty years or so of office it was considered that he could better uphold the dignity of his position were he able to sign his name.  So he had to learn.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VIII

THE LAKE OF SCUTARI

Dr. Ob, dressed in thick corduroys and an enormous pith helmet, arrived punctually with the motor, a Montenegrin Government motor.  He had two companions, a girl simply dressed with coat and skirt which did not match, and cotton gloves whose burst finger ends were not darned, a Miss Petrovitch, and an officer.  The coachwork—­if one may dignify it by such a phrase—­which was made from packing cases, had a thousand creaks and one abominable squeak, which made conversation impossible.  The scenery was all grey rock and little scrubby trees; the road was magnificent and wound and twisted about the mountain side like a whip lash.  Driving down these curves was no amateur’s game, and we saw immediately that our chauffeur knew his job.  We came over a ridge, and in the far distance, gleaming like the sun itself, a corner of the Lake of Scutari showed between two hill crests.

We ran into a fertile valley, passed through Rieka—­where was the first Slavonic printing-press—­and up into the barren mountains once more.  The peasants seem very industrious, every little pocket of earth is here carefully cultivated and banked almost in Arab fashion.  The houses, too, were better, and rather Italian with painted balconies, but are built of porous stone and are damp in winter.  The Rieka river ran along the road for some way, very green and covered with water-lily pods.