It was the morning of the 16th, after Peter and I had been living like pigs on black bread and condemned tin stuff, that we came in sight of a blue sea on our right hand and knew we couldn't be very far from the end.
It was jolly near the end in another sense.

We stopped at a station and were stretching our legs on the platform when I saw a familiar figure approaching.

It was Rasta, with half a dozen Turkish gendarmes.
I called Peter, and we clambered into the truck next our horse-box.

I had been half expecting some move like this and had made a plan.
The Turk swaggered up and addressed us.

'You can get back to Rustchuk,' he said.