At the moment when the brothers entered, the latter was asleep in the booth, and the commissary officer was making up his accounts of the government money, in anticipation of the end of the month. The commissary officer had a very comely and warlike exterior. His stature was tall, his moustache huge, and he possessed a respectable amount of plumpness. The only disagreeable points about him were a certain perspiration and puffiness of the whole face, which almost concealed his small gray eyes (as though he was filled up with porter), and an excessive lack of cleanliness, from his thin, greasy hair to his big, bare feet, thrust into some sort of ermine slippers. “Money, money!” said Kozeltzoff number one, entering the shed, and fixing his eyes, with involuntary greed, upon the pile of bank-notes. “You might lend me half of that, Vasíly Mikhaïlitch!” The commissary officer cringed at the sight of his visitors, and, sweeping up his money, he bowed to them without rising. “Oh, if it only belonged to me! It's government money, my dear fellow. And who is this you have with you?” said he, thrusting the money into a coffer which stood beside him, and staring at Volodya. “This is my brother, who has just come from the military academy. We have both come to learn from you where our regiment is stationed.” “Sit down, gentlemen,” said the officer, rising, and going into the shed, without paying any heed to his guests. “Won't you have something to drink? Some porter, for instance?” said he. “Don't put yourself out, Vasíly Mikhaïlitch.” Volodya was impressed by the size of the commissary officer, by his carelessness of manner, and by the respect with which his brother addressed him. “It must be that this is one of their very fine officers, whom every one respects. Really, he is simple, but hospitable and brave,” he thought, seating himself in a timid and modest manner on the sofa. “Where is our regiment stationed, then?” called out his elder brother into the board hut. “What?” He repeated his query. “Zeifer has been here to-day. He told me that they had removed to the fifth bastion.” “Is that true?” “If I say so, it must be true; but the deuce only knows anyway! He would think nothing of telling a lie. Won't you have some porter?” said the commissary officer, still from the tent. “I will if you please,” said Kozeltzoff. “And will you have a drink, Osip Ignatievitch?” went on the voice in the tent, apparently addressing the sleeping commissioner. “You have slept enough; it's five o'clock.” “Why do you worry me? I am not asleep,” answered a shrill, languid little voice. “Come, get up! we find it stupid without you.” And the commissary officer came out to his guests. “Fetch some Simferopol porter!” he shouted. A servant entered the booth, with a haughty expression of countenance, as it seemed to Volodya, and, having jostled Volodya, he drew forth the porter from beneath the bench.