White Eagles Over Serbia Read Online Free PDF

Methuen. “I know what it must have cost you to get up as early as this.” And he meant it.
    He found his reserved seat and they walked up and down the platform for a while, arm in arm. “All your fancy dress is in the diplomatic bag,” said Dombey. “I just wanted to see how much like an accountant you looked. Actually it is not bad.” Methuen had dressed in a plain business-suit with a dark overcoat; his brief-case, umbrella, brown-paper parcel full of sandwiches proclaimed an inhabitant of the City of London. He had trimmed his moustache slightly and was wearing horn-rimmed spectacles which gave him a timid and urbane look. A pen and pencil were clipped into his vest pocket from which a neat triangle of handkerchief protruded.
    â€œWhy are they buying a submarine?” he asked.
    â€œHeaven knows,” said Dombey with the resignation of a man for whom the Balkan mentality is a closed book. “The thing is an old American one, stripped of all armament, and twice condemned. I doubt if one could take it to sea. It’s been lying in a French dockyard under repair for ages.”
    A whistle blew and Methuen clambered aboard. “Look after yourself,” said Dombey and Methuen told him not to fear anything on that score. The platform began to slide away with its coloured posters, for all the world as if a giant scene-shifter were at work. They ran out into the misty morning towards the grey Channel. Methuen felt his spirits rise as the train gathered way and the monotonous clicking of the wheels slithered and blurred into a rumble of speed.
    Paris in the late afternoon was bright with sunlight, though there was hardly time to do more than glance at it. A blithe French taxi galloped Mr. Judson across the capital to the station where the Orient Express was lying, waiting for its passengers. Sunlight on the river and the animation of crowds which sauntered along its banks awoke many old memories. There were people he would have liked to see, but none of them were friends of Mr. Judson, so he forebore to telephone them. Mr. Judson was too timid to risk more than a glancing encounter with this capital of fun and good food—and so much vice. He found his wagon-lit, attended to his luggage, and disposed himself in gloomy silence to eat the bread and butter he had brought with him. Later, greatly daring, he bought a bottle of Vichy water, counting his change with a suspicious air, and waving away the proffered bottle of red wine which the man tried to press on him.
    In the dining-car that night he was able to size up his fellow-passengers. There were two Italian families travelling part of the way, a few nondescript business men, and three surly-looking Yugoslavs obviously returning from some trade mission in western Europe. They talked all the time with animation but in low tones, while all their ordering was done by one member of the party who spoke a few words of French. They wore cheap overcoats of hideous cut and heavy boots, but seemed inordinately proud of the cheap wrist-watches they all wore on their right arms. Mr. Judson dined opposite them and while he could not hear the subject of their conversation he overheard enough to decide that they were all peasants who had found themselves elected officials under the new dispensation. Two at least were Serbian, while the one who spoke French was either a Croat or a Slovene.
    At the Italian frontier they ran into heavy rain, and by the time the train reached Venice it had hardened into a storm which looked as if it might last for ever. A strong south wind whipped the shallow lagoons to a tawny yellowish froth and the clouds hung low over the city. Here there was a long wait. The train disgorged its passengers, and the polite and intelligent sleeping-car attendants packed their suitcases and took their leave. They were replaced by a couple of unshaven-looking rascals, smelling strongly of plum-brandy and dressed in soiled brown uniforms.