"Wrong!" broke in Shapovalenko angrily, bringing the Manual down hard on the palm of his hand. "No, that is quite right," replied Fokin calmly. "Wh-a-at? If your chief says it is wrong, it is wrong." "Look in the book and see for yourself." "I am your officer, and as such I must know better than you. A fine thing, indeed! Perhaps you think that I want to enter a cadet school for instruction? What do you know about anything? What's a St-a-a-n-dard? Ste-ndard! There's no such word as Sta-a-andard. The sacred Stendard of War----" "Don't quarrel now, Shapovalenko," put in Romashov. "Get on with the lesson." "Very good, your Honour!" drawled Shapovalenko. "Only allow me to inform your Honour that all these volunteers are far too clever." "That will do, that will do! get on with the lesson." "Very good, your Honour--Khliabnikov! Who is the commander of this corps?" Khliabnikov stared with wild eyes at the "non-com." All the sound which came from his open mouth was a croak, which might have been made by a hoarse crow. "Answer!" cried Shapovalenko furiously. "His----" "Well! 'His.' What else?" Romashov, who had just turned away, heard him mutter in a low voice: "You wait! Won't I just give you a stroking down after the lesson." But directly Romashov turned back to him he said loudly and kindly: "His Excellency--well, how does it go on, Khliabnikov?" "His--infantry--lieutenant," muttered Khliabnikov in a broken, terrified voice. "A-a-a!" cried Shapovalenko, grinding his teeth. "Whatever shall we do with you, Khliabnikov? I am really afraid to think what will become of you; you are just like a camel, except that you can't even make yourself heard. You don't make the slightest attempt to learn. Stand there until the end of the lesson, and after dinner come to me, and I'll take you alone. Grechenko! Who is the commander of this corps?" "As it is to-day, so it will be to-morrow, and so on to the end of my life," thought Romashov, as he passed from platoon to platoon. "Shall I throw it all up? Shall I leave the service? I don't know what to do!" After the instruction the men were kept busy in the yard, which was arranged as a shooting range. While one party practised shooting in a looking-glass, another learned to hit a target with a shot, and a third learned rifle-shooting. Ensign Lbov's clear, animated tenor voice giving orders to the 2nd platoon could be heard at a distance. "Right--turn--firing company--one, two!" "Compan-y!" he dragged out the last syllable, paused, and then, abruptly: "Fire!" There was a loud report, and Lbov in his joyful, inspiring voice, cried again: "Present!" Sliva went from platoon to platoon, stooping and walking slowly, finding fault and making coarse remarks: