“You can buy cheap,” she went on.

We regretted that we did not wish to.

“But you must eat to live,” she protested.

We intimated that this was of the nature of a truism, but failed to see the connection.

“But look at them,” she expostulated, holding out a large basket of apples; and we suddenly remembered that “Jabooka” means also apples, and realized that she was not a land agent.

Then on once more.  In the deep valleys were large modern sawmills, but the houses were ever poor, and the windows grew smaller and smaller and were without glass.  At the junction of the Kolashin road, from the north, we picked up a jolly Montenegrin with a big dog.  He was a driver by profession, and he hurried our lethargic progress a little.  Then the front spring broke.  It was mended with wire and a piece of tree; when we started again the reins snapped.

We halted once more at a cafe filled with Americans; some had only left their native land six months agone, yet to the peasant they were all “Americans.”  Some of them seemed very dissatisfied with the reception which they had received, and we don’t wonder.  “In Ipek I coulden get my room,” said one, “tho’ I ’ad wired for ’t, ‘cause one o’ them ’airy popes [Greek priests] ’ad come wid ’is fambly.  I ’ad to sleep like a ’og, you fellers, jess like a ’og.”  We had been under the impression that burning patriotism had called all these men back to their country, but one sturdy fellow disabused us.

“No, you fellers,” he said, “there weren’t no work for us in ’Murrica.  Mos’ o’ the places ‘ad closed down ter a shift or two at the mos’ per wik.  And fer fellers wats used to livin’ purty well there weren’t enough ter pay board alone.  We gotter come or we’d a starved.”  Of course this was not true of many.

On again, rain and sun alternating, but still we were cold, feet especially.

These mountains, these continual groups of slouching, slouch-hatted “Americans,” these little weathered log cabins, falling streams, and pine trees reminded one of some tale of Bret Harte, and one found one’s self expecting the sudden appearance of Broncho Billy or Jack Hamlin mounted upon a fiery mustang.  But we cleared the top of the pass without meeting either, and started on our last long downhill to Andrievitza.  Cheered by the rapidity of our motion the two ruffians on the box started a howling Podgoritzian kind of melody, exceedingly discordant.  The driver, careless that one of our springs was but wired tree, and that wheels in Montenegro are easily decomposed, flogged his horses unmercifully, rattling along the extreme edge of one hundred foot precipices.  We stopped at a cafe for the driver to get coffee; rattled on again, stopped to inquire the price of hay; more rattle; stopped for the driver to say, “How de doo” to a pal; more rattle; stopped to ask a man if his dog has had puppies yet....  But we protested.