"Just wait a bit, and I'll count," said the soldier, quite coolly. And forthwith he began: "One, two, three, four, five, six," and so on, as if he were never going to leave off.
At first Suvoroff was rather amused at his smartness; but he soon found the game getting much too cold to be pleasant, for he was in his usual light dress, while the sentry at least had on a good thick frieze coat. Keener and keener blew the bitter night wind, till the poor old General felt as if he should never be warm again. For a while he bore up manfully, hoping the soldier would get tired and leave off; but when the man got up to a thousand, and was still counting away as if he meant to keep it up all night, Suvoroff could stand it no longer.
"What's your name, my fine fellow?" asked he, as well as his chattering teeth would let him.
"Vasili [Basil] Pushkin,"[1] answered the soldier, "private in the Seventh Foot."
"Very good," said the Marshal; "I won't forget you. Good-night."
The next morning Pushkin was sent for to the General's quarters; and Suvoroff, turning to his staff officers, said:
"Gentlemen, here's a man whom I tried to fool last night, but I met my match, and something more. I said I'd make any man a sergeant who was smart enough for that, and I must keep my word."
And he did so that very day.