The Luck of Thirteen | Page 9

brought him from the station
and had propped him on a wooden bench outside the mayor's office,
where he had remained all night, and where we found him. He was a
charming fellow, though very silent. Once when Jo had remarked upon
this silence he had answered, "When a man has no longer any legs it is
fitting that he should be silent."
He was waiting for his father, who lived twelve hours away in the
mountains. The old man came with a donkey, and there was a most
affecting meeting between the old father and his poor mutilated son.
Tears flowed freely on either side, for Serbs are still simple enough to
be unashamed of emotion. The donkey had an ordinary saddle, on to
which our friend was hoisted. He balanced tentatively for a moment,
then shook his head. A pack-saddle was substituted.
"It is hard," he said, "young enough, and yet like a useless bale of
goods."
Twenty hours he had endured, and yet had twelve to go--thirty-two
hours for a man without legs. This will show of what some Serbs are
made.
Within the office we found a professor whom we had met before, and
who was acting as assistant mayor. We took him to the station and
estimated that thirty-two waggons would deal with our stuff.
[Illustration: SERB CONVALESCENTS AT UZHITZE.]
Jo and Jan went for a stroll, Uzhitze, especially in the back streets, is
like a Dürer etching--that one of the Prodigal Son, for instance, all tiny,
peaky-roofed houses. We took a siesta in the afternoon, but Jan was
dragged out to talk to our professor, who explained that it was
impossible for the Serbian Government to find thirty-two ox-carts at
once, so the convoy must make two journeys. He also said that horses
would be provided for us, and that we would take two or three days to
do the trip, but that the ox-waggons would be at least seven, which was

death to our romantic dream of toiling laboriously up almost
inaccessible mountains at the head of straining ox-carts, sleeping by the
roadside, brigands, and all that.
We went down to the station, unloaded the truck and checked the
numbers. A few were missing, but not so many as we had expected.
A regiment of soldiers were called up; at a word of command they
pounced upon our packing-cases and hurried them off to a storehouse.
The smaller cases were left to go on donkeys, two on either side.
The professor dined with us. He is an Anglophile, and was determined
after the war to go to England in order to discover the secret of her
greatness. He had a theory that it lay in our educational laws, which he
wanted to transplant into Serbia wholesale. Jan thought not, and
suggested that it might lie even deeper than that.
Next day was a Prazhnik, or feast day, and the great square was
crowded with peasantry in their beautiful hand-woven clothes. There
were soldiers straight back from the lines chaffing and flirting with the
pretty girls, and presently a group began to dance the "Kola" about a
man who played a pipe. It is not difficult to dance the Kola. You join
hands till a ring is formed, and then shuffle round and round. If you
have aspirations to style you fling your legs about as much as space
will allow, and we noticed how much better the men danced than the
girls, who were almost all very clumsy.
We were to be called at six, so went to bed early, and in spite of the
odours from the yard slept soundly.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV
ACROSS THE FRONTIER
We got up in good time, breakfasted, but there was no sign of horses.
After waiting two hours a square man was brought up to us by the

waiter and introduced as our guide. The professor, who had promised to
see us off, was apparently clinging to his bed, for he did not come. Our
guide was a taciturn, loose-limbed fellow, but had nice eyes and a
charming manner; he helped us on to our horses, and off we went. Jan
was rather anxious at the start, for he had done very little riding since
childhood; but his horse was quiet, and soon he had persuaded himself
that he was a cavalier from birth. Jo was riding astride for the second
time in her life.
We took the road to Zlatibor (golden hill). There was a heavy mist, the
hills were just outlined in faint washes on the fog, and as we mounted
the zig-zag path, higher and higher, the town became small and
fairylike beneath us; and a soldiers' camp made a queer chessboard on
the green of the valley. Jo's horse cast a shoe almost at