“Well, you see, they have sent our Major to the right about, don’t ye?” observes Kvassoff, a little, rubicund, choleric, small-brained fellow, the same who had announced the supersession of the Major.
“We’ll just grease their palm for them,” this, in staccato tones from the morose old fellow in the corner who had finished his sour cabbage soup.
“I should think he would grease their palms, by Jove,” says another; “he has stolen money enough, the brigand. And, only think, he was only a regimental Major before he came here. He’s feathered his nest. Why, a little while ago he was engaged to the head priest’s daughter.”
“But he didn’t get married; they turned him off, and that shows he’s poor. A pretty sort of fellow to get engaged! He’s got nothing but the coat on his back; last year, Easter time, he lost all he had at cards. Fedka told me so.”
“Well, well, pals, I’ve been married myself, but it’s a bad thing for a poor devil; taking a wife is soon done, but the fun of it is more like an inch than a mile,” observes Skouratoff, who had just joined in the general talk.
“Do you fancy we’re going to amuse ourselves by discussing you?” says the ex-quartermaster in a superior manner. “Kvassoff, I tell you you’re a big idiot! If you fancy that the Major can grease the palm of an Inspector-General you’ve got things finely muddled; d’ye fancy they send a man from Petersburg just to inspect your Major? You’re a precious dolt, my lad; take it from me that it is so.”
“And you fancy because he’s a General he doesn’t take what’s offered?” said some one in the crowd in a sceptical tone.
“I should think he did indeed, and plenty of it whenever he can.”
“A dead sure thing that; gets bigger, and more, and worse, the higher the rank.”