Pod once more, sleepy, inhospitable Pod.
We bargained for rooms at our old inn—mixed beds and floors. The owner was asking more than ever; he shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands.
"The war—increasing prices."
So we took what we could, put Stajitch to bed, saw the prefect, our old friend from Chainitza, who promised us a carriage for Cettinje in the morning.
Miss Brindley, joyfully ready to see Cettinje and anything else that might turn up, joined Jo and Jan in the old shandrydan carriage which lumbered along for seven hours to Cettinje.
"We are going to find Turkish delight," said the others, as they disappeared down a side street, revelling in the idea of a rest.
Cettinje was inches deep in water. We assured the Count de Salis that much as we needed money to continue the journey, we needed baths more.
This was a weighty matter and needed much thinking out, petroleum being very scarce. The huge empty Legation kitchen stove was lit and upon it were placed all the kettles, saucepans, and empty tins in the place; the picturesque old baggy-breeched porter, his wife, and little boy stoking hard, and asking lots of questions. One by one we were ushered into a room, not the bathroom but a room containing the sort of comfortable bath which makes the least water go the longest way, and also a beautiful hot stove. This solemn rite occupied a whole afternoon. We had not taken our clothes off for sixteen days and had been in the dirtiest of places. A change of underclothing was effected. None too soon! for at Liéva Riéka we had picked up lice.
We compared notes on this part afterwards. "Happy hunting?" we inquired like Mowgli's friends. It was good to sit by the big kitchen stove holding bits of dripping clothing to the blaze; the downfall at Cettinje the evening before having completely drenched our damp things again.
Next day outside the world was white and silent, the snow covering the little city and its intrigues with a thick whitewash.