The American, I found, had been teaching himself the language, and claims to have read _Nasreddin Hodja_ in the original. Now he hastened to improve the occasion by the most voluble congratulations to our unmoved drivers. “This wheel evidently knew how to choose the ‘psychological moment’ for its detachment,” he exclaimed. “On the edge of a mountain, we should all have been pitched into the depths; crossing a river, our lady passenger, who cannot swim, would have been drowned; during the race, we could not have avoided a fatal collision. If it had to happen, it could not have happened more wisely!” The job is finished at last; maybe hastened by such lively chatter; but I confess we did not feel really secure. In fact, the prudent suggestion that one of us should hold the reins while our driver “kept an eye on” the wheel was soon justified by a second flying away of that “offending member.” It was this time discovered that something must be found to enlarge the circumference of the axle to keep it fixed, and I immediately offered my pocket-handkerchief. Our driver, however, would not hear of “depriving me” and so I begged the American “not to disturb him, but to see how he would contrive.” Though obviously puzzled for a few minutes, he soon justified my confidence by cutting off a good handful of hair from the horse’s mane, and thus “fixing” the wheel once more. “That’s all very ingenious,” laughed my companion, “but ‘hair’ won’t ‘wear.’” “Then he’ll find something just as original,” was my triumphant retort. Nevertheless it was growing dark, and there were rivers ahead that would seem to demand rather better security than we possessed. My anxieties, however, were soon scattered to the four winds by the most astonishing tirade of unjust contempt for all things English, in which my companion now proceeded to indulge. My anger lasted just long enough for us to cross the river; for once we were over, the good man explained that he’d done it to make me furious, the only way he knew to cure a brave woman’s fit of nerves. * * * * * At last the welcome smoke, rising from peat cottage-fires, brings the comforting knowledge that we have almost reached Enichéir; and we are soon happily searching for some sort of a resting place that may call itself “an inn.” We are offered the choice of four beds in a room with five others already occupied, or an empty, partially wrecked, sleeping apartment containing two!—one for me, one for the boys, and the American on the floor. We naturally accept the latter, and immediately get busy about some cooking and a wash. After the day’s roughening experiences one can sleep whatever the details of the accommodation! At about 9.30 that evening we are awakened by the police, who, however, explain that I am only “wanted” by the Commandant, who has called to wish me _bon voyage_, and inquire if there is anything he can do for my comfort or to speed me on the way.