“Very well,” agreed Romashov indifferently. “If you ask me, I should say that it’s a hog’s life that we are leading; but, as you say, if one thinks so it is better to leave the service altogether.”
While they talked they walked up and down, and at length halted close to the 4th platoon. The soldiers were sitting or lying around their piled arms; some of them were eating bread, for soldiers eat bread all day long, and under all circumstances, at reviews, at halting-places in the manœuvres, in church before confession, and even before physical punishment.
Romashov heard a quietly provocative voice say:
“Khliabnikov! I say, Khliabnikov!”
“Yes?” said Khliabnikov gruffly, through his nose.
“Work,” answered the other sleepily.
“What kind of work, you blockhead?”
“All kinds—ploughing, cattle driving.”
Romashov glanced at the grey, pitiful face of Khliabnikov, and again was seized by an uneasy pain at his heart.