“Mother! The dew is cold but clear.⁠ ⁠… It’s well that I’m a musketeer⁠ ⁠…” he sang, pretending to hiccup after each syllable.

“Look out, your soles will fly off!” shouted the red-haired man, noticing that the sole of the dancer’s boot was hanging loose. “What a fellow you are for dancing!”

The dancer stopped, pulled off the loose piece of leather, and threw it on the fire.

“Right enough, friend,” said he, and, having sat down, took out of his knapsack a scrap of blue French cloth, and wrapped it round his foot. “It’s the steam that spoils them,” he added, stretching out his feet toward the fire.

“They’ll soon be issuing us new ones. They say that when we’ve finished hammering them , we’re to receive double kits!”

“And that son of a bitch Petróv has lagged behind after all, it seems,” said one sergeant major.