“You are a Bulgar?” I asked.

“No,” said Serge cheerlessly, “I am Serb.”

“Serb!  Then what are you doing here?”

“I hail from Prilep,” he explained.  “When Bulgar come Prilep, they say, ‘You not Serb; you Bulgar.’  So they bringit me here with others, and I workit on railroad.  My family I not know where they are; no clothes getting, no money neither.  English plenty money,” he added, a propos of nothing.

I ignored the hint.

“Then you are a prisoner of war?” I suggested.

“In old time,” he continued, “Turks have Prilep.  I go to America and workit on railroad Chicago—­three, four year.  When I come back Turks take me for army.  Not liking I desert to Serbish army.  When war finish, Serbs have Prilep.  I go home Serbish civil.  Then this war start.  Bulgar come to Prilep and say, ’You Bulgar, you come work for us.’  You understahn me, boss?”

“I must look into this,” I said to the Sergeant-Major.  “Send for the interpreter and ask the Bulgar officer to step in.  He’s just going past.”

Boris arrived with a salute and a charming smile and listened to my tale.  Then he turned a cold eye on Serge and burst into a torrent of Bulgarian, under which Serge stood with lifting scalp.

“Sir,” faltered Serge, when the cascade ceased, “I am liar.  All I said to you is false.  I am good Bulgar.  I hate Serbs.”

“Then you are not, in fact, a Serb?” I said.

“Nope,” said Serge, nodding his head frantically (the Oriental method of negation).

“Do you want to go home?” I asked cunningly.

“Sure, boss,” replied he.  “Want to go Chicago.”

Boris uttered one blasting guttural and Serge receded to the horizon with great rapidity.  “You understand, mon ami,” explained Boris; “he is really a Bulgar, but the villainous Serb propagandists have taught him the Serbian language and that he is Serb.  It is his duty really to fight or work for Bulgaria, just as it was ours to liberate him and his other Bulgar brothers in Serbia from the yoke of the Serbs.  It is understood, my friend?”

“Oh, absolutely,” I replied.

He withdrew, exchanging a glance of hatred with Aristides Papazaphiropoulos, who approached saluting with Hellenic fervour.

“You wish me, Sare?” he asked.

“I did,” I answered, and outlined to him what had passed.  “Is it true that propaganda is, or are, used to that extent?”

“It is true,” he answered sadly.  “The Serb has much propagandism, the Bulgar also.  But in this case both are liars, since the population of Prilep is rightfully Greek.”

* * * * *

Three days later Boris appeared before me with a sullen face.

“I wish to complain,” he said.  “You have with you a Greek, one Papazaphiropoulos.  It is forbidden by the terms of the Armistice that Greeks should come into Bulgaria.  Greeks or Serbs—­it is expressly stated.  I wish to complain.”