We went back in a fury to the mayor.

“You knew this,” we cried angrily to him.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Where can we get bread?”

He took up the passes and looked at them.  His face lightened.

“This one,” he said, turning to another, “is written—­Give them bread to the value of three francs.  We will give them three francs.”

“No you won’t,” said we; “you’ll give us bread.  You cannot leave these English sisters to starve.”

After some grumbling he said we could inquire at the “first army.”  We made him write out an order; we also made him give us a clerk to accompany us.  He gave us a tattered old man whose toes were sticking from his boots.

We presented both orders at the “first army.”  It refused at once.  We threatened it with the War Office and with the mayor.  After some demur it sent us across the town again to the “magazine” office.

At the magazine office we were more wily.  We presented our little order for three humble loaves.  He first said “Nema,” then admitted that there was bread and that we could have it.  We then showed the order for the other loaves.

“No, no,” he cried, “you cannot have all that bread.”

We pointed out that it was not much for a whole mission.  He still refused.  So Jo got up and made a little speech.  It was a nasty little speech, but they deserved it, for we had found that they had bread.

She pointed out that the English Missions had now been working in Serbia for a year, gratis; that no matter if we got no transport we were going to get to England, and that it would not look well in the English papers if we wrote a true account of our experiences, saying that they had allowed the English Missions to starve.  The threat of publicity finished him.  He grumbling consented to give us ten loaves in addition to our own to last for two days.  Not daring to leave them, and to send an orderly for them, we rolled them up in Jo’s overcoat and staggered down the road to the hospital.

On the way we met an old Serbian peasant woman.  She walked for a while with us, turning her eyes to heaven and crying—­

“What times we live in.  Only God can help, only God.”

At the hospital we met Sir Ralph Paget.  He told us that the Transport Board had promised him ten ox carts for the morrow.  Two large motor lorries had turned up to take the two contingents of the “Stobarts.”  They were packing in, and we asked them to take our holdall as far as Rashka, for we were still distrustful of the ox carts.  We had begun to get into a habit of not believing in anything till it was actually there.

An Englishman came suddenly in with a face purple with anger and swearing.  He was the dispenser from Krag who had been left at Lapovo to bring on the stores.

“What’s the matter?” we cried.

“Brought my motor from Lapovo with the hospital stuff,” he said furiously.  “Left it out there on the road.  Came in here to tell you about it; and when I go back the cussed thing isn’t there.  Found all the stores in a beastly bullock cart.  The people said that a Serb officer had come along, turned all our stuff out, and gone off with the motor. * * * *.”