she was trying to hustle him as one hustles the butcher who has belated the meat.  The doctor had let up his efforts since his orgy of respectability in Scutari, and his beard and whiskers were enjoying a half-inch holiday from the razor.  With him was a Slav-Hungarian, who recommended us to go home by Gussigne, Plav and Ipek, the best scenery in all Montenegro he said; he himself had just returned from Scutari, whence he had advanced with a Montenegrin army halfway across Albania.  At each village the natives had fled, burying their corn and driving off their cattle, leaving the villages deserted, and the army, starving, had at last been forced to retire.  Dr. Ob promised us a motor by four, but added that they had no oil and very little benzine.  Then growing more confidential, he took us by the buttonholes and asked us to use our best influence with the Count de Salis, and request him to tell the Admiralty to allow petrol to be brought up from Salonika, where the British had laid an embargo upon it.  He promised pathetically that all the petrol would be brought up overland.

Intensely amused by the doctor’s idea of our importance, we solemnly delivered his message to the Count.

We went to the Serbian Minister, a charming man with a freebooter’s face, for our passports, and then back to Dr. Ob.  The motor was going off at 6.30 he said.  We cheered internally, for we were getting tired of Cettinje, which reminded us of a watchmaker’s wife with her best silk dress on.  On our way downstairs we called in to thank the Minister of War for our jolly trip; and he wished us “Bon voyage.”

We got en route almost up to time, with us was Mrs. G——­, who was also going back as far as Podgoritza.  She was storekeeper and accountant for the Wounded Allies, and ever had a hard and troublesome task between what she needed and what she could get from the Sanitary Department.  She took the front seat with Jo, and inside Jan found a French sailor of the wireless telegraphy, who had had typhoid fever, but was now going back to work.  As we rattled down the curves and along the edge of the darkening chasms of the mountain side, he summed up with the brevity of a “rapin.”

“Dans la journee ici, vous savez, il y’a de quoi faire des cliches.”

We stopped at Rieka for water, and then on once more.  In the glare of our headlights, little clumps of soldiers, with donkeys loaded with the new uniforms, loomed suddenly out of the darkness.  Once a donkey took fright and bolted back, and the soldier in charge yelled and pointed his rifle at us.  If we had moved he would have shot without compunction.  Later the men had bivouacked, and all along the rest of the road we passed little fires of fresh brushwood, the sparks pouring up like fountains into the night, round which the soldiers and drivers were sitting and singing their weird songs.