“Was it beyond the pit by the plane tree? Then it is mine! I set the nets last night.” 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.” Lukáshka went whistling along the cordon. “Take the string with you,” he shouted. Nazirka obeyed. “I’ll give him a bit of my mind today, I really will,” continued Nazárka. “Let’s say we won’t go; we’re tired out and there’s an end of it! No, really, you tell him, he’ll listen to you. It’s too bad!” “Get along with you! What a thing to make a fuss about!” said Lukáshka, evidently thinking of something else. “What bosh! If he made us turn out of the village at night now, that would be annoying: there one can have some fun, but here what is there? It’s all one whether we’re in the cordon or in ambush. What a fellow you are!” “And are you going to the village?” “I’ll go for the holidays.” “Gúrka says your Dunáyka is carrying on with Fómushkin,” said Nazárka suddenly. “Well, let her go to the devil,” said Lukáshka, showing his regular white teeth, though he did not laugh. “As if I couldn’t find another!” “Gúrka says he went to her house. Her husband was out and there was Fómushkin sitting and eating pie. Gúrka stopped awhile and then went away, and passing by the window he heard her say, ‘He’s gone, the fiend.... Why don’t you eat your pie, my own? You needn’t go home for the night,’ she says. And Gúrka under the window says to himself, ‘That’s fine!’” “You’re making it up.” “No, quite true, by Heaven!” “Well, if she’s found another let her go to the devil,” said Lukáshka, after a pause. “There’s no lack of girls and I was sick of her anyway.” “Well, see what a devil you are!” said Nazárka. “You should make up to the cornet’s girl, Maryánka. Why doesn’t she walk out with any one?” Lukáshka frowned. “What of Maryánka? They’re all alike,” said he. “Well, you just try...” “What do you think? Are girls so scarce in the village?”