"Vidite tamo," he cried once more.
Straining our eyes one could just see, between the lowest strata of
cloud, a series of small white round clouds floating.
"Shrapnel," said Sava, pointing.
"They hit one," said Mr. Berry.
I let in the clutch, we sped on once more. Bang! a tire burst.
Motor driving in Serbia is not a profession, it is an art. We were on
another of these first-class Serbian roads. Presently we came to a long
downhill.
"That is the place," said Mr. Berry to Sister Hammond, "where we spent
the night last winter when the motor stuck in the mud. There, beneath
that tree."
We shrugged our way down the hill, and presently came into the gipsy
environments of Kragujevatz.
A man stopped us, holding up a hand.
"Bombe," he said.
We got out. In the soft earth at the side of the road was a neat hole,
four inches in diameter. Peering down we could see the steel handle of
the unburst bomb. We next passed a smashed paling, in the garden behind
a crowd were searching for relics.
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