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This
red-haired
man
was
neither
a
sergeant
nor
a
corporal
,
but
being
robust
he
ordered
about
those
weaker
than
himself
.
The
soldier
they
called
"
Jackdaw
,
"
a
thin
little
fellow
with
a
sharp
nose
,
rose
obediently
and
was
about
to
go
but
at
that
instant
there
came
into
the
light
of
the
fire
the
slender
,
handsome
figure
of
a
young
soldier
carrying
a
load
of
wood
.
"
Bring
it
here
--
that
's
fine
!
"
They
split
up
the
wood
,
pressed
it
down
on
the
fire
,
blew
at
it
with
their
mouths
,
and
fanned
it
with
the
skirts
of
their
greatcoats
,
making
the
flames
hiss
and
crackle
.
The
men
drew
nearer
and
lit
their
pipes
.
The
handsome
young
soldier
who
had
brought
the
wood
,
setting
his
arms
akimbo
,
began
stamping
his
cold
feet
rapidly
and
deftly
on
the
spot
where
he
stood
.
"
Mother
!
The
dew
is
cold
but
clear
...
It
's
well
that
I
'm
a
musketeer
...
"
he
sang
,
pretending
to
hiccough
after
each
syllable
.
"
Look
out
,
your
soles
will
fly
off
!
"
shouted
the
red-haired
man
,
noticing
that
the
sole
of
the
dancer
's
boot
was
hanging
loose
.
"
What
a
fellow
you
are
for
dancing
!
"
The
dancer
stopped
,
pulled
off
the
loose
piece
of
leather
,
and
threw
it
on
the
fire
.
"
Right
enough
,
friend
,
"
said
he
,
and
,
having
sat
down
,
took
out
of
his
knapsack
a
scrap
of
blue
French
cloth
,
and
wrapped
it
round
his
foot
.
"
It
's
the
steam
that
spoils
them
,
"
he
added
,
stretching
out
his
feet
toward
the
fire
.
"
They
'll
soon
be
issuing
us
new
ones
.
They
say
that
when
we
've
finished
hammering
them
,
we
're
to
receive
double
kits
!
"
"
And
that
son
of
a
bitch
Petróv
has
lagged
behind
after
all
,
it
seems
,
"
said
one
sergeant
major
.
