Within the office we found a professor whom we had met before, and who
was acting as assistant mayor. We took him to the station and estimated
that thirty-two waggons would deal with our stuff.

[Illustration: SERB CONVALESCENTS AT UZHITZE.]

Jo and Jan went for a stroll, Uzhitze, especially in the back
streets, is like a Dürer etching--that one of the Prodigal Son, for
instance, all tiny, peaky-roofed houses. We took a siesta in the
afternoon, but Jan was dragged out to talk to our professor, who
explained that it was impossible for the Serbian Government to find
thirty-two ox-carts at once, so the convoy must make two journeys. He
also said that horses would be provided for us, and that we would take
two or three days to do the trip, but that the ox-waggons would be at
least seven, which was death to our romantic dream of toiling
laboriously up almost inaccessible mountains at the head of straining
ox-carts, sleeping by the roadside, brigands, and all that.

We went down to the station, unloaded the truck and checked the numbers.
A few were missing, but not so many as we had expected.

A regiment of soldiers were called up; at a word of command they pounced
upon our packing-cases and hurried them off to a storehouse. The smaller
cases were left to go on donkeys, two on either side.

The professor dined with us. He is an Anglophile, and was determined
after the war to go to England in order to discover the secret of her
greatness. He had a theory that it lay in our educational laws, which he
wanted to transplant into Serbia wholesale. Jan thought not, and
suggested that it might lie even deeper than that.