he wound at the brake, but that
was only for show, because he knew that it did not work.

We reached Mitrovitza at dark with bones unbroken, and rattled down a
road with vague white Turkish houses upon one side, and a muddy looking
stream reflecting dull lights on the other. One last lurid lunge, we
leapt across a drain and broke a trace bar, but too late, we had
arrived.

The Hotel Bristol was full--why are there so many hotels in Serbia named
Bristol?--but we were received by a stupid-looking maid at the Kossovo,
and were given a paper to sign, saying who we were. Then down to the
restaurant, where we had a beefsteak which was a dream, and back to bed,
which was a nightmare, for all night long we bounced and banged and
bruised our journey over again, and awoke quite exhausted.

The first impression of a town which is entered by moonlight is usually
difficult to recover on the following morning, it is often like the
glimpse of a pretty girl caught, say, in a theatre lobby, and the charm
may never be rewoven. So it was with Mitrovitza, which in daylight
seemed just a dull, ordinary Turkish town. The Prefect was a bear, and
sent us on a long unnecessary walk to the station, a mile and a half.
Sitting on the road was the dirtiest beggar we had yet seen. As we came
towards her she chanted our praises, bowing before us and kissing the
dust; but she aroused only feelings of disgust and getting nothing, she
turned to curses till we were out of sight. The chief imports at the
station seemed to be cannons and maize; the only exports, millstones,
which looked like and seemed almost as palatable as Serbian bread. We
did our business without trouble, and coming back the beggar praised us
once more till we had passed, then hurled even louder curses after us.

We came to a tiny cafe in which were faint tinkling, musical sounds.

Jan: "I wonder what that is?"

Jo: "It sounds queer: shall we explore?"

Jan: "I dunno, perhaps they wouldn't like us."

Jo: "Come along. Let's see anyhow."

And up we went. In a large room was a deep window seat, and in the
window the queerest little Turkish dwarf imaginable. The little dwarf
was sitting cross-legged, and was playing a plectrum instrument. His
head was huge, his back was like a bow, and his plectrum arm bent into
an S curve, which curled round his instrument as though it had been bent
to fit. He was a born artist, and rapped out little airs and trills
which made the heart dance. T