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We expected a free fight, but nothing occurred. When the hay had modestly drawn aside, we found "only a girl." Poor thing! she looked rueful enough. The road was the best we had seen in all the Balkans, white and well-surfaced like an English country highway, and at last we clattered into Nickshitch, the most important town of Northern Montenegro.
We pushed on again, and on the road picked up an overcoat, which later we were able to restore to its owner, a Turk, who was going to Nickshitch to buy sugar and salt for Plevlie. Bits of the big white road appeared and reappeared with insistence. We asked who was responsible for its inception. "Sirdar," said Mike; "he good boy. Much work."
At last one said that he had seen them. "The stuff is rather thin, your excellency, but the boots are splendid." We were accosted by a clean-limbed, joyous youth, who bore on his cap the outstretched winged badge of the police. He said "Mister Sirdar, he tell me take you alon' o' Nickshitch."
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