“His——”
“Well! ‘His.’ What else?”
Romashov, who had just turned away, heard him mutter in a low voice: “You wait! Won’t I just give you a stroking down after the lesson.” But directly Romashov turned back to him he said loudly and kindly: “His Excellency—well, how does it go on, Khliabnikov?”
“His—infantry—lieutenant,” muttered Khliabnikov in a broken, terrified voice.
“A-a-a!” cried Shapovalenko, grinding his teeth. “Whatever shall we do with you, Khliabnikov? I am really afraid to think what will become of you; you are just like a camel, except that you can’t even make yourself heard. You don’t make the slightest attempt to learn. Stand there until the end of the lesson, and after dinner come to me, and I’ll take you alone. Grechenko! Who is the commander of this corps?”
“As it is to-day, so it will be to-morrow, and so on to the end of my life,” thought Romashov, as he passed from platoon to platoon. “Shall I throw it all up? Shall I leave the service? I don’t know what to do!”
After the instruction the men were kept busy in the yard, which was arranged as a shooting range. While one party practised shooting in a looking-glass, another learned to hit a target with a shot, and a third learned rifle-shooting. Ensign Lbov’s clear, animated tenor voice giving orders to the 2nd platoon could be heard at a distance.
“Right—turn—firing company—one, two!” “Compan-y!” he dragged out the last syllable, paused, and then, abruptly: “Fire!”
There was a loud report, and Lbov in his joyful, inspiring voice, cried again:
“Present!”