who were always walking hastily, almost running, at times strangely silent, at times mumbling something in an uncanny way.
"At the war," answered he who had laughed, and again burst into a hollow, lingering laugh, as if something was choking him.
"What is he laughing at?" asked somebody indignantly. "Look here, stop it!"
The other choked once more, gave a titter and stopped obediently.
It was growing dark, the cloud seemed to be settling down on the earth, and we could with difficulty distinguish each other's yellow phantom-like faces. Somebody asked,—
"And where is Fatty-legs?"
"Fatty-legs" we called a fellow-officer, who, being short, wore enormous water-tight boots.
"He was here just now. Fatty-legs, where are you?"
"Fatty-legs, don't hide. We can smell your boots."
Everybody laughed, but their laugh was interrupted by a rough, indignant voice that sounded out of the darkness:
"Stop that! Are you not ashamed? Fatty-legs was killed this morning reconnoitring."
"He was here just now. It must be a mistake."
"You imagined it. Heigh-ho! you there, behind the samovar, cut me a slice of lemon."
"And me!"
"And me!"
"The lemon is finished."
"How is that, boys?" sounded a gentle, hurt voice, full
