The Luck of Thirteen | Page 8

tired of the sport just in time to save our limbs, if not
lives, and he dragged the train out of the station into the dark.
At Krusevatch we halted for the next day. After a discussion with the
station-master, who asked us to come down first at six p.m., then at
four, then at one, and lastly in two hours, at nine a.m. we strolled up
towards the town. There was an old beggar on the road, and he was
cuddling a "goosla," or Serbian one-stringed fiddle, which sounds not
unlike a hive of bees in summer-time, and is played not with the tips of
the fingers, as a violin, but with the fat part of the first phalanx. As
soon as he heard our footsteps he began to howl, and to saw at his
miserable instrument; and as soon as he had received our contribution
he stopped suddenly. We were worth no more effort; but we admired
his frankness.
Krusevatz market-place is like the setting of a Serbian opera. The
houses are the kind of houses that occupy the back scenery of opera,
and in the middle is an abominable statue commemorating something,
which is just in the bad taste which would mar an opera setting. There
was an old man wandering about with two knapsacks, one on his back
and one on his chest, and from the orifice of each peered out
innumerable ducks' heads. We returned to the station at nine, but were
told that nothing could be done till one. So we went up to the
churchyard, spread our mackintoshes, and got a much-needed sleep.
The church is very old, but isn't much to look at, and we, being no
archæologists, would sooner look at that of Trsternick, though it is
modern.
We returned to the station to unload our trucks, for at this point the
broad-gauge line ceases, and there is but a narrow-gauge into the
mountains. A band of Austrian prisoners were detailed to help us, and
they at once recognized us, and knew that we came from Vrntze. They
were in a wretched condition: their clothes were torn, they said that
they had no change of underclothes, and were swarming with vermin,
nor could they be cleaned, for they worked even on Sundays, and had
no time to wash their clothes. They begged us for soap, and asked us to
send them a change of raiment from Vrntze. We explained sadly that

we were not going back just yet, but we could oblige them with the
soap, for a case had been broken open, and the waggon was strewn with
bars. We also gave some to the engine-driver, as a bribe to shunt us
gently.
We imagined that the soap had burst because of the shunting, but in our
second truck discovered that this same shunting had been strangely
selective. It had, for instance, opened a case of brandy, it had burst a
box of tinned tongue, and even opened some of the tins which were
strewn in the truck. And yet the truck had been sealed, both doors.
Several cases of biscuits, too, had been abstracted, and all this must
have happened under the very noses of the Englishmen who had
supervised the loading. Some of the prisoners said that they were
starving, so we distributed our spare crusts amongst them, and they ate
them greedily enough.
In the fields by the railway were queer pallid green plants which
puzzled us. They were like tall cabbages, and shone with a curious
ghostly intensity in the gloaming.
We dangled our feet over the side of our waggon watching the flitting
scenery. At one point we passed a train in which were other English
people, who stared amazed at us and waved their hands as we
disappeared. Dusk was down when we passed Vrntze, and we reached
the gorges of Ovchar in the dark. We thundered through tunnels and out
over hanging precipices, the river beneath us a faint band of greyish
light in the blackness of the mountains.
Uzhitze in the morning at 4.30; it was cold and wet. Jan wanted to
hurry off to the hotel, but Jo sensibly refused, and we settled down till a
decent hour.
The hotel was a huge room with a smaller yard; on the one side of the
yard were the kitchens, etc., and on the other a string of bedrooms. We
then crossed the big square to the Nachanlik's (or mayor's) office.
Outside the mayor's office we found an old friend. He had been a
patient in our hospital, and gangrene, following typhus, had so

poisoned his legs that both were amputated. He had been discharged
the day before, and had travelled up from Vrntze, some eight hours, in
an open truck. The Serbian authorities had