Captain Sliva bestowed on Romashov an annihilating look, pressed his underlip against his little grey, bristling moustache, and at length exclaimed, with an expression of the deepest contempt—
“Wha-at’s that?”
Romashov stood as white as a corpse, his pulse beat violently, and a cold shudder ran through his body.
“I said that such a method of treatment was cruel and cowardly, and I—retain my opinion,” answered Romashov nervously, but without flinching.
“You don’t say so!” twittered Sliva. “Listen to my young cockerel. Should you, against all likelihood, be another year with the regiment, you shall be provided with a muzzle. That you may rely on. Thank God, I know how to deal with such germs of evil. Don’t worry yourself about that.”
Romashov fearlessly directed at him a glance of hatred, straight in his eyes, and said, almost in a whisper—
“If ever I see you maltreat a soldier I will report it at once to the commander of the regiment.”
“What, do you dare?” shrieked Sliva in a threatening voice, but checked himself instantly. “Enough of this,” he went on to say dryly; “you ensigns are a little too young to teach veterans who have smelt powder, and who have, for more than a quarter of a century, served their Tsar without incurring punishment. Officers, return to your respective posts.”
Captain Sliva turned his back sharply on the officers and went away.
“Why do you poke your nose into all that?” asked Viätkin as he took Romashov by the arm and left the place. “As you know, that old plum[16] isn’t one of the sweetest; besides, you don’t know him yet as well as I do. Be careful what you are about; he is not to be played with, and some fine day he’ll put you in the lock-up in earnest.”