"Café 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.