things a fantastic world of his own had taken possession of his brain and at that moment afforded him pleasure. The enemy’s guns were in his fancy not guns but pipes from which occasional puffs were blown by an invisible smoker.
“There … he’s puffing again,” muttered Túshin to himself, as a small cloud rose from the hill and was borne in a streak to the left by the wind.
“Now look out for the ball … we’ll throw it back.”
“What do you want, your honor?” asked an artilleryman, standing close by, who heard him muttering.
“Nothing … only a shell …” he answered.
“Come along, our Matvévna!” he said to himself. “Matvévna” was the name his fancy gave to the farthest gun of the battery, which was large and of an old pattern. The