There was a stable full of manure on the ground floor, through which one had to pass, and in the dark one was continually slipping into the midden or running one's head unexpectedly into horses' hindquarters. Up a rickety stair were two rooms. The floor rocked as we walked over it, and every moment we expected to go through and be precipitated into the manure below. The walls and floor were so loosely made that the wind blew through in all directions, and we called it the "castle in the air." We supped on chickens which we had brought from Scutari, and Whatmough and Elmer made a fire in the yard and got us cocoa. By this time we were all getting fed up with romantic surroundings, and wanted something more solid. The swarthy countenances about the bonfire, the queer costumes in the flickering fire, left us unmoved.
Sleep was impossible. The wind caught one in every corner, threatening lumbago. Stajitch fled and camped outside in one of the carriages, despite the rain.
We started as early as possible—dawn. Whatmough, Cutting, Jo and Jan lost the road, but were eventually rescued by a policeman. About eleven one of the carriages broke down, and we had to repair it with tree and wire. Here the houses were again like fortresses, and everybody stared at us as though we came from the moon.
We reached the bank opposite Alessio—a small Turkish-looking village divided between a mud-bank and a hillside. We were about to turn over the bridge when news was brought that a motor-boat belonging to Essad was in San Giovanni harbour. We sent a policeman galloping on to stop it, and followed as fast as our meagre horses would allow. We also heard that a submarine had been in the port the day before and had tried to torpedo the ships lying there—but had missed.
We cantered on, pressing along a stony road which was almost level with the salt marshes on either side. San Giovanni appeared after about an hour and a half. We rode down on to the beach. The motor-boat was getting up anchor. We yelled to the skipper, but he understood no Serb; so we translated through a Turk who was lounging about. The skipper said that he could not embark us there as it was Montenegrin territory, but that if we would go back to Alessio he would wait for us at the mouth of the river and take us down that very night. This seemed too good to be true and we hurried back, passing an Austrian torpedo which had run up on the brown sand—a present from yesterday's raid. We turned the others and cantered ahead to get a boat; reached the bridge once more and crossed into Albania. Officials ran from all sides to stop us, but we ignored them, dismounted, and ran to the side of the river where boats were loading, overloading with passengers. The boatmen refused to take us if we had no passes from the governor.
We hunted the governor's office up the hillside, panting in our haste. We burst in upon him. He was a dirty man in an unclean shirt and unkempt trousers.
"We want to go by the motor-boat," we explained.
"Who are you?" he asked, picking his teeth.
"We are the English about whom the governor of Scutari has telegraphed."