J. S. MACHAR
arrangements. Here we have a small communist settlement, whose guest you are until you become a member. And you will become a member next Saturday as soon as you can contribute towards the supplies" explained Dušek.
I did not quite understand, but I assented. I entrusted myself entirely to my experienced friend, for even when I was at liberty, I had no very strong instinct for these various necessities of life.
Dušek made a sign to a man, the man came up, and looked at him questioningly. Dušek nodded, then he introduced us. The man's name was Declich. He gave me his hand without saying a word, went away again and searched for something under the other bed, by the window and in his box.
"An Istrian peasant, a Slav name, but he is an Italian. At the beginning of the war with Italy he was interned; then they searched his house, discovered pictures of Dante, Manzoni and Cavalloti, and our dear Papa Declich (we all call him papa,—he is our house-keeper) arrived here. Whether they have anything else against him, I do not know. Every man in this building has a corner in his soul which he allows nobody to see—all except the thieves, murderers, sharpers, robbers—they'll tell you everything, in fact more than everything, to make themselves interesting in your eyes."
In the meanwhile Papa Declich had put a bottle of wine on the table, a small dish of butter, and from an old newspaper he unwrapped some salami sausage, ham, cheese; salt he had in a match-box; then be searched for glasses, cut up the bread—the feast was ready.
"Budi, Hedrich, Voronin" called out Dušek to our fellow-diners.
A tall, good-looking infantry volunteer came up briskly and was already sitting at the table. Budi, a handsome fellow, a Dalmatian Serb,—"they have kept him here for weeks, and heaven knows what they want to pump out of him."
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