“Why, that’s our Tíkhon,” said the esaul .
“So it is! It is!”
“The wascal!” said Denísov.
“He’ll get away!” said the esaul , screwing up his eyes.
The man whom they called Tíkhon, having run to the stream, plunged in so that the water splashed in the air, and, having disappeared for an instant, scrambled out on all fours, all black with the wet, and ran on. The French who had been pursuing him stopped.
“Smart, that!” said the esaul .
“What a beast!” said Denísov with his former look of vexation. “What has he been doing all this time?”
“Who is he?” asked Pétya.
“He’s our plastún . I sent him to capture a ‘tongue.’ ”
“Oh, yes,” said Pétya, nodding at the first words Denísov uttered as if he understood it all, though he really did not understand anything of it.
Tíkhon Shcherbáty was one of the most indispensable men in their band. He was a peasant from Pokróvsk, near the river Gzhat. When Denísov had come to Pokróvsk at the beginning of his operations and had as usual summoned the village elder and asked him what he knew about the French, the elder, as though shielding himself, had replied, as