Lukáshka rose and examined the captured pheasant. After stroking the dark burnished head of the bird, which rolled its eyes and stretched out its neck in terror, Lukáshka took the pheasant in his hands.
“We’ll have it in a pilau tonight. You go and kill and pluck it.”
“And shall we eat it ourselves or give it to the corporal?”
“He has plenty!”
“I don’t like killing them,” said Nazárka.
“Give it here!”
Lukáshka drew a little knife from under his dagger and gave it a swift jerk. The bird fluttered, but before it could spread its wings the bleeding head bent and quivered.
“That’s how one should do it!” said Lukáshka, throwing down the pheasant. “It will make a fat pilau.”
Nazárka shuddered as he looked at the bird.
“I say, Lukáshka, that fiend will be sending us to the ambush again tonight,” he said, taking up the bird. (He was alluding to the corporal.) “He has sent Fómushkin to get wine, and it ought to be his turn. He always puts it on us.”