“The tables shall be moved and the stove lit,” she said.  “It will be ready in a few minutes.”

We picked our way back to the fire, avoiding the dung-heap and pig-stye, whereby we nearly fell into a cesspool.  Cocoa was brewing, one card-house had been erected as a shelter for some of our things.  The drivers were crouched round their own fire cooking something.  It was difficult to find our bundles in the carts as one only recognized them by the drivers.  We climbed in feeling about by the light of a match.  Jo found a foot in one.

“How can we find things with people lying on them?” she said to the foot.

It remained immobile; she pulled it—­no response.  She tugged it.  A face lifted itself at the far end of the cart.  It was the corporal’s wife lying on her own possessions, very tired and rather cross.  Jo patted her remorsefully and decamped.

We must have looked like a regiment of gnomes bearing forbidden treasure as we hobbled through the darkness, laden with our bundles of blankets.  The light in the office nearly blinded us, and the heat from the stove struck us like a violent blow.  The mayor, his wife, two hurriedly dressed children and several other people received us.  There was an awkward silence.  Jo murmured in the background—­

“It is manners here to go up, shake hands, and say one’s name.”

Very uncomfortably everybody did so, one by one.  Another silence.  We racked our brains—­the weather—­our journey—­the war.  One had nothing sensible to say about anything.  Jo asked the children’s age.  The information was supplied.  Silence.  We filled the gap by smiling.  At last the mayor’s wife said we must be worn out, and they all left us.

The mayor crept back.  “Don’t talk about the military situation,” he said; “if these Turks knew it they might kill us all.”  Then he shut the door.

We flew to a window and opened it, changed our stockings, hung wet boots and socks over the stove, ate bully beef, and rolled up, pillowing our heads on our little sacks—­thirteen sleepy people.

The mayor’s wife opened the door an inch and peeped at us as we lay, looking, indeed, more like a jumble sale than anything.  Mawson wore a Burglar cap tied under his chin, and a collection of khaki mufflers, looking equipped for a Channel crossing.  Miss Brindley’s head was tied up in a bandana handkerchief; Jo’s in a purple oilsilk hood; others shared mackintosh sheets and blankets; West pulled his Serbian cap right down to his mouth.  Jan put on the white mackintosh dressing-coat, over that his greatcoat, then he spread out a red, green, yellow and black striped Serbian rug, rolled up in it with many contortions, and pushed his feet into a tent bag.  Blease in a Balaklava, showing nose like an Arctic explorer, got into a black oilskin, one corner of which had been repaired with a large yellow patch, he then rolled up in oddments collected from the company, as his own overcoat had been stolen, and bound it all together by tying the many coloured knitted rug around him, after putting the lamp out inadvertently with his head.