“Sretan put.”
“Please spell it.”
He did so.
“What does it mean?”
“Happy going.”
“How do I say, ‘The going will be happier if you come along’?”
“You don’t.” He was on his way to the door. Not wanting to be rude, I crossed to the daughter and offered a hand, and she took it. Hers was nice and firm. For one little flash she raised her eyes to mine and then dropped them again. “Roses are red,” I said distinctly, “violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you.” I gave her hand a gentle squeeze and tore myself away.
Out in the yard I found Wolfe standing with his arms folded and his lips compressed, glaring at a vehicle that deserved it. The horse wasn’t so bad — undersized, nearer a pony than a horse, but in good shape — but the cart it was hitched to was nothing but a big wooden box on two iron-rimmed wheels. Wolfe turned to me.
“He says,” he said bitterly, “that he put hay in it to sit on.”
I nodded. “You’d never reach Rijeka alive.” I went and got the knapsacks and our sweaters and jackets, and my socks from the bush. “It’s only a little over a mile, isn’t it? Let’s go.”