But this harmless if childish custom once led to a vendetta.  A man once cracked such an enormous quantity of eggs, that in the evening he was challenged to show his marvellous egg, which he persistently refused to do.  This led to words and words to revolvers, and the man was shot.  Then the egg was found to be a clever imitation in stone.

Though Podgorica is the trading centre of Montenegro, business is not carried on in the same brisk way as in other lands.

We once wished to send a parcel of feathers home, and went accordingly to the post office.  It was towards evening then, and we were informed that the postmaster was “not at home,” and were asked to come next day.  The following morning we again visited the post office, when the contents were carefully noted, and long lists filled out which took roughly about half an hour; at the end of which time a head was thrust out of the window, asking us to call in about an hour and pay.  This was because no post-office clerk is allowed to receive money; he is strangely enough not always honest, and the postmaster was again out.  At the end of the hour we returned and paid.

Another time I tendered a gulden in payment of a telegram, and had to wait a quarter of an hour while a boy was sent into the town to obtain change.

In matters of business it is well to possess one’s soul in patience.  A more unbusinesslike set of people is hard to be found, yet in driving a bargain they are remarkably shrewd, to put it kindly.

Even in such trivial matters as purchasing a hen no indecent hurry is shown.  Such a transaction may take days.  For instance, you wish to buy a hen, and signify the same to a man, and he will say—­

“I have a hen which I can sell thee, but it will break my heart.  Such a hen, and such eggs!  I feel I cannot part with her.”

“Very well,” you say; “don’t make yourself miserable; I’ll buy one somewhere else.”

“But give me till to-morrow.  It is too sudden.”

And he goes away.  If you are not in a hurry, it does not matter and you wait.  It is amusing.

Next day he will come again and say that he has another hen nearly as good as the first, but, as he loves you and respects you, he will part with his beloved hen at a consideration, and names a price far beyond its worth.  You refuse, and state your price for the good hen, the ordinary market price, which he indignantly refuses and departs.  In a few hours he will come again, bringing a hen which, almost with tears, he tells you is the hen—­his beloved hen.

“Take her,” he says, “as a present.”

Whereupon you press upon him the market price, which of course he takes, and the matter is finished.

Such little episodes are trying at first.  The Montenegrin loves money—­it is his curse, or rather the curse of every country on the brink of civilisation—­but he also loves to play the gentleman, who hates sordid money transactions.  He will often make you a present and afterwards send in an extortionate bill.