"I've not done that lately," admitted the squire.
"H'm. I thought not from your belly. You can shoot, you say. Bears, perhaps?"
"Bears, yes. And quail on the wing. And wild fowl at dawn. And men, too, when they insult me," retorted Ian, his temper fast slipping out of control.
The Cossack grinned. This sort of talk he liked. He had wondered whether the Pole would give as good as he got. His manner thawed slightly, as he said:
"Well, you've the pigeon-colored eyes of men who shoot straight. But you're too fat for a Cossack, and too old."
"You're fifty if you're a day," said Ian.
"Wrong for you. I'm only forty-five. But I've had a hard life, which I'm used to. You, my gentleman, have always had a soft bed to sleep on and rich food to feed on. That's why your stomach is too big for your years."
Ian suddenly felt very much ashamed of his spare flesh. Over and over again he had promised himself he would go to Marienbad and get rid of it. But that was out of the question now. So he said eagerly:
"I'll get thin soon enough campaigning. Look here, Colonel, you and I bear no love to one another. We've a good many old scores to pay off."
"You're right about that," admitted the other with a grin. "And the fault's not always been on the Cossack side, either."