Wolfe roared, “Then what the devil have you?”
“Some sausage, of a sort.” He hated to admit it. “A few eggs perhaps. Bread, and possibly a little lard.”
Wolfe turned to me. “Another thousand dinars.” I produced it, and he proffered it, with its twin, to our host. “Here, take it. We’re at your mercy — but no lard. I overate of lard in my youth, and the smell sickens me. Your wife might conceivably find a little butter somewhere.”
“No.” He had the dough. “Butter is out of the question.”
“Very well. That would pay for two good meals in the best hotel in Belgrade. Please bring us a pan, a piece of soap, and a towel.”
He moved, in no hurry, to the house door and inside. When he came out again he had the articles requested. Wolfe put the metal pan, which was old and dented but clean, on the stone curb of the well, poured it half full of water, took off his jacket and sweater, rolled up his sleeves, and washed. I followed suit. The water was so cold it numbed my fingers, but I was getting used to extreme hardship. The gray linen towel, brought ironed and folded, was two feet wide and four feet long when opened up. After I had got our combs and brushes from the knapsacks, and they had been used and repacked, I poured fresh water in the pan, placed it on the ground, sat on the edge of the well curb, took off my shoes and socks, and put a foot in the water. Stings and tingles shot through every nerve I had. Wolfe stood gazing down at the pan.
“Are you going to use soap?” he asked wistfully.
“I don’t know. I haven’t decided.”
“You should have rubbed them first.”
“No.” I was emphatic. “My problem is different from yours. I lost hide.”