and told him not to make
a fool of himself, and on we went, taking short cuts, following the
telegraph poles, which staggered across country like a file of
drunkards.

Eventually the carriage caught us up and the driver insisted that we
should get in. He added that he could not lose all day while we walked,
and that he would never get to Mitrovitza; it seemed superfluous to
point out that we had gone quicker than he, but to avoid argument we
clambered in. The driver, in a temper, slashed his horses, and off we
went, over ruts and stones full speed ahead. It was like being in a
small boat in a smart cross-choppy sea, with little torpedoes exploding
beneath the keel at three minute intervals; and this road was marked on
the map as a first-class road; the mind staggers at what the second and
third-class must be like. These countries are still barbarous at heart,
but Europe cries out upon open atrocities, and so they have invented the
post-waggon. After all, pain is a thing one can add up, and the sum
total of misery produced by the post, travelling daily, must in time
exceed that of the Spanish Inquisition. Thus do they gratify their
brutal natures.

We bounded along. The brakes did not work, the carriage banged against
the horses' hocks, who, in turn, leapt forwards, and our four heads met
in a resounding thump in the centre of the waggon; after which Jo
insisted that the widow should turn her hatpins to the other side. The
widow's luggage cast loose and hit us in cunning places when we were not
looking. The cart rocked and heaved, and we expected it to turn over.
There were other waggons on the road--heavy, slow ox carts, exporting
wool or importing benzine or ammunition, with wheels of any shape bar
round--some were even octagonal; and as they filed along they gave forth
sounds reminiscent of Montenegrin song, a last wail from the hospitable
little country whose borders we were leaving behind us.

The driver promised us a better road further on; but the better road
never came, and we hung on waiting for something to break and give us
relief. There were hints, it is true, unfinished hints: some day men
will be able to travel in comfort from Mitrovitza to Ipek, but the day
is not yet. It is strange how the human frame gets used to things, and
we grew to believe that our driver not only liked, but joyed in each
extra bang and jolt--collected them as it were--for certainly he never
avoided anything, though occasionally