The hotel was a huge room with a smaller yard; on the one side of the
yard were the kitchens, etc., and on the other a string of bedrooms. We
then crossed the big square to the Nachanlik's (or mayor's) office.

Outside the mayor's office we found an old friend. He had been a patient
in our hospital, and gangrene, following typhus, had so poisoned his
legs that both were amputated. He had been discharged the day before,
and had travelled up from Vrntze, some eight hours, in an open truck.
The Serbian authorities had brought him from the station and had propped
him on a wooden bench outside the mayor's office, where he had remained
all night, and where we found him. He was a charming fellow, though very
silent. Once when Jo had remarked upon this silence he had answered,
"When a man has no longer any legs it is fitting that he should be
silent."

He was waiting for his father, who lived twelve hours away in the
mountains. The old man came with a donkey, and there was a most
affecting meeting between the old father and his poor mutilated son.
Tears flowed freely on either side, for Serbs are still simple enough to
be unashamed of emotion. The donkey had an ordinary saddle, on to which
our friend was hoisted. He balanced tentatively for a moment, then shook
his head. A pack-saddle was substituted.

"It is hard," he said, "young enough, and yet like a useless bale of
goods."

Twenty hours he had endured, and yet had twelve to go--thirty-two hours
for a man without legs. This will show of what some Serbs are made.