A woman peddling eatables was standing in the throng. The recruit saw her, grabbed her tray, and flung its contents into the telyéga.
"D-don't worry, I'll p-pay—the d-deuce," he began to scream in a drunken voice; and here he drew out of his stocking a purse with money in it, and flung it to the waiter.
He stood leaning with his elbows on the wagon, and stared, with moist eyes, at those who sat in it.
"Which is my mátushka?" he asked. "Be you her? I've got something for her too."
He pondered a moment, and diving into his pocket brought out a new handkerchief folded, untied another which he had put on as a girdle under his coat, hastily took the red scarf from his neck, bundled them together, and thrust them into the old woman's lap.
"Na! I give 'em to you," he said, in a voice that grew weaker and weaker.
"Why? thank you, friend!—What a simple lad he is!" said she, addressing the old man Dutlof, who came up to their telyéga.
The recruit was now entirely quiet and dumb, and kept dropping his head lower and lower, as though he were going to sleep then and there.
"I'm going for you, I'm going to destruction for you," he repeated. "And so I make you a present."
"I s'pose he's really got a mother," cried some one in the crowd. "Fine young fellow! Too bad!"