like that!” exclaimed Pétya. “Why shouldn’t I go?”
“Because it’s useless.”
“Well, you must excuse me, because … because … I shall go, and that’s all. You’ll take me, won’t you?” he said, turning to Dólokhov.
“Why not?” Dólokhov answered absently, scrutinizing the face of the French drummer boy. “Have you had that youngster with you long?” he asked Denísov.
“He was taken today but he knows nothing. I’m keeping him with me.”
“Yes, and where do you put the others?” inquired Dólokhov.
“Where? I send them away and take a weceipt for them,” shouted Denísov, suddenly flushing. “And I say boldly that I have not a single man’s life on my conscience. Would it be difficult for you to send thirty or thwee hundwed men to town under escort, instead of staining—I speak bluntly—staining the honor of a soldier?”
“That kind of