Three men came to the
table next to us. They exhibited two loaves of bread to the others, and
had the air of some one who had done something very clever. We were
famished.
Suddenly half the cafe rose and rushed to a small counter almost hidden
in the gloom of the far end. Coffee can be got, said some one. Blease,
who could get out the easier, went to explore. In a short while he
wandered back saying that he had got a waiter. A man came through
selling apples. We bought some. At last the waiter came.
"Cafe au lait," said we.
"And bread," we added, as he turned away.
"Nema," he answered, looking back.
"Well eggs, then."
"Nema."
"What have you got?"
"We have nothing but meat."
"No potatoes?"
"No."
We got a sort of Serbian stew, the meat so tough that one had to saw the
morsels apart with a knife and bolt them whole. As we were operating, a
soldier leaned up against our table, and stared at our plates with a
wistful longing. Jo caught his eye. She scraped together all our
leavings; what misery we could have relieved, had we had money enough,
in Serbia then.
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