“Gavrilo and I became great friends. He was hungry for knowledge and never tired of asking me about the United States and our freedom, free speech, and free opportunity—all of which, of course, seemed very wonderful to one growing up in a decadent, bureaucratic empire, made up of various races held together against their will. In return I gathered from Gavrilo a considerable knowledge of Serb history and legend—and you may be sure that in what he told me, neither the Turks nor the Austrians came off very well. Even as a lad he always referred to the Austrians as shvaba—a Serbian word meaning something like our term boches—and by the time he was sixteen he had promoted them to be proclete shvaba, which may be freely translated as ‘damned boches.’
“For a long time I took his strong anti-Austrian utterances lightly, considering them the result of boyish ebullience of spirit, but as he grew nearer manhood, and the fierceness of his feeling seemed to increase rather than diminish, I became concerned about him; for it is no wiser for an Austrian Serb to call the Austrians shvaba than it would be for an Alsatian to call the Prussians boches.
“As Gavrilo grew up, his passionate racial feeling disturbed me more and more, though, of course, I sympathized with it. I determined to make an opportunity for a serious talk with him on the subject, and to that end suggested that he go with me to the neighboring hills for a couple of days’ gunning; for Bosnia abounds in game.
“Gavrilo proved to be a very good shot. He would shoot wild pigeons, grouse, and woodcock from the hip, and he even brought along a pistol with which he could hit a hare at a considerable distance. These exhibitions of skill were, however, accompanied by remarks which did not make it easier for me to broach the topic upon which I wished to speak to him. When he would hit a pigeon he would exclaim: ‘There goes another member of the Hapsburg family!’ or: ‘That one was a shvab tax collector!’ or, mock-heroically, ‘So much for you, you nobleman of brilliant plumage with a von before your name. No more will the peasants step out of the road and bow down before you!’
“‘Look here, Gavrilo,’ I said, when we sat to rest upon a fallen tree, ‘you are a Serb, and that is something to be proud of, but after all, you are an Austrian subject, and your forefathers have been Austrian subjects for a long time. You have your home here, so why not make the best of a bad bargain, and be like the rest of the young fellows?’
“‘You think I am not like them?’ he replied. ‘That is only because you do not know them as you know me. Every momche who is a worthy descendant of the race that fought to the death at Kossovo—the Field of the Black Bird—is of the comitajia. We younger fellows are to be comitajia also. We have our meetings in the same kafana where the others meet to make their plans. When we are a little older they will take us in and we shall all work together.’
“‘But what is this work you speak of?’
“‘Whatever it is,’ he returned, ‘you may be sure it is in the interest of our race.’
“‘But you speak of comitajia,’ I said. ‘Has not that word more than one significance? I know the military scouts with bombs are comitajia, but are not revolutionists called by the same term?’
“Gavrilo showed his strong white teeth in one of those extraordinary mischievous smiles which now and then illuminated his face. Instead of giving me a direct answer he said: