We found our truck and climbed in.  There were certainly beds enough, for there were thirty light iron folding bedsteads piled up at one end.  We chose two, and, not satisfied with the stacking of the others, Jan repiled them, with an eye on what our friend had said about Serbian shunting.  Even then Jo was not happy about them.

We sat on our beds, reading or staring out of our open door at the twinkle of the station lights, the moving flares of the engines, and the fountains of sparks which rushed from their chimneys; listening to the chains of bumps which denoted a shunting train.  We heard another chain of bumps, which rattled rapidly towards us and suddenly—­a most awful crash.  The candle went out, and we were flung from bed on to the floor.  Our truck hurtled down the line at about thirty miles an hour, and suddenly struck some solid object.  Another wild crash, and the whole twenty-eight beds flung themselves upon the place where we had been, and smashed our couches to the ground.

We have read stories of the Spanish Inquisition about rooms which grow smaller, and at last crush the unfortunate victim to a jelly:  we can now appreciate the feeling of the unfortunate victim aforesaid.  There were piles of packing-cases at either end of the van, and for the next hour, as we were hurtled up and down by the Serbian engine-driver, at each crash these packing-cases crept nearer and nearer.  The beds had fallen across the door, so it was impossible to escape.  When the lower cases had reached the beds they halted, but the upper ones still crept on towards us.  In the short, wild intervals of peace Jan tried to push the cases back and restore momentary stability.  In addition to diminishing room, we were flung about with every crash, landing on the corner of a packing-case, on the edge of an iron bedstead, and with each crash the light went out.  We will give not one jot of advantage to your prisoner in the Spanish Inquisition, save that we escaped whereas he did not.

The engine-driver tired of the sport just in time to save our limbs, if not lives, and he dragged the train out of the station into the dark.

At Krusevatch we halted for the next day.  After a discussion with the station-master, who asked us to come down first at six p.m., then at four, then at one, and lastly in two hours, at nine a.m. we strolled up towards the town.  There was an old beggar on the road, and he was cuddling a “goosla,” or Serbian one-stringed fiddle, which sounds not unlike a hive of bees in summer-time, and is played not with the tips of the fingers, as a violin, but with the fat part of the first phalanx.  As soon as he heard our footsteps he began to howl, and to saw at his miserable instrument; and as soon as he had received our contribution he stopped suddenly.  We were worth no more effort; but we admired his frankness.