Diatloff, the quartermaster, came towards the kitchens. When we had told him that we were not complaining of any grievance, he returned, and reported to the Major at once.
“Ah, those fellows are not in it,” said he, lowering his tone a bit, and much pleased. “Never mind, bring them along here.”
We left the kitchen. I could not help feeling humiliation; all of us went along with our heads down.
“Ah, Prokofief! Jolkin too; and you, Almazof! Here, come here, all the lump of you!” cried the Major to us, with a gasp; but he was somewhat softened, his tone was even obliging. “M—tski, you’re here too?... Take down the names. Diatloff, take down all the names, the grumblers in one list and the contented ones in another—all, without exception; you’ll give me the list. I’ll have you all before the Committee of Superintendence.... I’ll ... brigands!”
This word “list” told.
“We’ve nothing to complain of!” cried one of the malcontents, in a half-strangled sort of voice.
“Ah, you’ve nothing to complain of! Who’s that? Let all those who have nothing to complain of step out of the ranks.”
“All of us, all of us!” came from some others.
“Ah, the food is all right, then? You’ve been put up to it. Ringleaders, mutineers, eh? So much the worse for them.”
“But, what do you mean by that?” came from a voice in the crowd.