"What queer horses!" we remarked.

"Bogami," said Bogami; "when there are no horses these are good horses,
Bogami."

"Where is the secretary?"

"Bogami nesnam" (don't know).

From Uzhitze we had good horses, from Prepolji moderate, now these;
imagination staggered at what we should descend to if we did a fourth
lap to Cettinje, for instance, but we climbed up. Jo with her queerly
placed stirrups perched forward something like a racing cyclist.
Bogami's horse was innocent of garniture, save for a piece of chain
bound about its lower jaw, but he slung his great coat over the saw edge
of its backbone and leapt on. He must have had a coccyx of cast iron. We
had to kick the animals into a walk--there were fifty kilometres to go.

After a while we began to wonder if it would not be quicker to get off
and foot it, but we did catch up and eventually pass a Red Cross Turk.
We saw a soldier striding ahead. By kicks and shouts we raised a sprint
along the level road; we drew even with him, and then began a race; on
the uphills we beat him, on the downhills he caught up and passed in
front. He was a taciturn fellow, and save that he was going to Fochar we
learnt nothing about him. On a long uphill we gained a hundred yards,
and by supreme efforts held our gains. He eventually disappeared from
view, and we were rejoicing at our speed when we realized that the
telegraph wires were no longer with us--one can always find the nearest
way by following the telegraph, for governments do not waste wire. Jan