“Here’s a handkerchief. Tie it about your neck. It’s a very warm one.” “Around the neck?” Sergey asked suddenly, startled by his own question. But as the same thing occurred to all of them, no one seemed to hear him. It was as if nothing had been said, or as if they had all said the same thing at the same time. “Never mind, Vasya, tie it about your neck. It will be warmer,” Werner advised him. Then he turned to Yanson and asked gently: “And you, friend, are you cold?” “Werner, perhaps he wants to smoke. Comrade, perhaps you would like to smoke?” asked Musya. “We have something to smoke.” “I do.” “Give him a cigarette, Seryozha,” said Werner delightedly. But Sergey was already getting out a cigarette. All looked on with friendliness, watching how Yanson’s fingers took the cigarette, how the match flared, and then how the blue smoke issued from Yanson’s mouth. “Thanks,” said Yanson; “it’s good.” “How strange!” said Sergey. “What is strange?” Werner turned around. “What is strange?” “I mean—the cigarette.” Yanson held a cigarette, an ordinary cigarette, in his ordinary live hands, and, pale-faced, looked at it with surprise, even with terror. And all fixed their eyes upon the little tube, from the end of which smoke was issuing, like a bluish ribbon, wafted aside by the breathing, with the ashes, gathering, turning black. The light went out. “The light’s out,” said Tanya. “Yes, the light’s out.” “Let it go,” said Werner, frowning, looking uneasily at Yanson, whose hand, holding the cigarette, was hanging loosely, as if dead. Suddenly Tsiganok turned quickly, bent over to Werner, close to him, face to face, and rolling the whites of his eyes, like a horse, whispered: “Master, how about the convoys? Suppose we—eh? Shall we try?” “No, don’t do it,” Werner replied, also in a whisper. “We shall drink it to the bitter end.” “Why not? It’s livelier in a fight! Eh? I strike him, he strikes me, and you don’t even know how the thing is done. It’s just as if you don’t die at all.” “No, you shouldn’t do it,” said Werner, and turned to Yanson. “Why don’t you smoke, friend?” Suddenly Yanson’s wizened face became wofully wrinkled, as if somebody had pulled strings which set all the wrinkles in motion. And, as in a dream, he began to whimper, without tears, in a dry, strained voice: “I don’t want to smoke. Aha! aha! aha! Why should I be hanged? Aha! aha! aha!” They began to bustle about him. Tanya Kovalchuk, weeping freely, petted him on the arm, and adjusted the drooping earlaps of his worn fur cap. “My dear, do not cry! My own! my dear! Poor, unfortunate little fellow!” Musya looked aside. Tsiganok caught her glance and grinned, showing his teeth. “What a queer fellow! He drinks tea, and yet feels cold,” he said, with an abrupt laugh. But suddenly his own face became bluish-black, like cast-iron, and his large yellow teeth flashed.