Three had stood all the way from Salonika, as during an
unfortunate moment of interest in the view their seats had been
appropriated by a fat Serbian officer, his wife and daughter. The
fourth, a porter from Folkestone, had settled down on the floor, saying
"he wasn't going to concarn himself with no voos."
They had new uniforms, yellow mackintoshes, white kit bags, and
beautiful cooking apparatus, which took to pieces and served a thousand
purposes.
In the chilly morning we got out at Stalatch, just too late for the
Vrntze train. Luckily the station cafe was open.
The four Englishmen ordered beefsteak, but were given long lean
tasteless sausages. They asked for tea and were given black Turkish
coffee in tiny cups half full of grounds. We asked about the trains, and
were told we should catch the one next day. We argued, and extracted the
promise of a luggage train, which would soon pass.
Why is it that in Serbia they always, on principle, say, "You can't,"
after which under pressure they own, "Somehow you can"? In Montenegro
they say, "Certainly you can," after which they occasionally find that
"Somehow you can't.
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