"Serb! Then what are you doing here?"

"I hail from Prilep," he explained. "When Bulgar come Prilep, they
say, 'You not Serb; you Bulgar.' So they bringit me here with others,
and I workit on railroad. My family I not know where they are; no
clothes getting, no money neither. English plenty money," he added, _à
propos_ of nothing.

I ignored the hint.

"Then you are a prisoner of war?" I suggested.

"In old time," he continued, "Turks have Prilep. I go to America and
workit on railroad Chicago--three, four year. When I come back Turks
take me for army. Not liking I desert to Serbish army. When war
finish, Serbs have Prilep. I go home Serbish civil. Then this war
start. Bulgar come to Prilep and say, 'You Bulgar, you come work for
us.' You understahn me, boss?"

"I must look into this," I said to the Sergeant-Major. "Send for the
interpreter and ask the Bulgar officer to step in. He's just going
past."

Boris arrived with a salute and a charming smile and listened to my
tale. Then he turned a cold eye on Serge and burst into a torrent of
Bulgarian, under which Serge stood with lifting scalp.

"Sir," faltered Serge, when the cascade ceased, "I am liar. All I said
to you is false. I am good Bulgar. I hate Serbs."