friendliness our section of the Salonica Force immediately made for
the nearest available enemy and found ourselves at a lonely spot on
the Turkish frontier. The name of the O.C. Local Bulgars began with
Boris, and he was a _Candidat Offizier_ or Cadet, and acting Town
Major. As an earnest of good-will, he showed us photos of his home,
before and after the most recent _pogrom_, and of his grandfather, a
bandit with a flourishing practice in the Philippopolis district, much
respected locally.

We took up our dispositions, and shortly all officers were engaged
sorting out the suspicious characters arrested by the sentries. It was
in this way that I became acquainted with Serge Gotastitch the Serb.

When he was brought before me I sent for Aristides Papazaphiropoulos,
our interpreter, and in the meantime delivered a short lecture to the
Sergeant-Major, Quartermaster-Sergeant and Storeman on the inferiority
of the Balkan peoples, with particular reference to the specimen
before us, to whom, in view of the fact that he seemed a little below
himself, I gave a tot of rum. He eyed it with suspicion.

"What's this?" he asked suddenly (in English). "Whisky?"

I informed him that it was rum.

"That's the goods," he said, and drank it. I then commenced
interrogation.

"You are a Bulgar?" I asked.

"No," said Serge cheerlessly, "I am Serb."