Broken barrels lay about in confusion in the small, crowded glade.
Uprooted stumps stretched out their dead, scraggy roots, and chips
of wood littered the ground. Dense oaks and birches encircled the
clearing, and drooped over it slightly on all sides as if desiring
to sweep away and destroy this offensive rubbish and dirt.
Suddenly Yakob moved forward from the tree, stepped to one side,
stopped, and shaking his head observed dryly:
"So, when we're in the army with Yefim, it's on such men as Pavel
Mikhaylovich that they'll set us."
"Against whom did you think they'd make you go?" retorted Rybin
glumly. "They choke us with our own hands. That's where the
jugglery comes in."
"I'll join the army all the same," announced Yefim obstinately.
"Who's trying to dissuade you?" exclaimed Ignaty. "Go!" He looked
Yefim straight in the face, and said with a smile: "If you're going
to shoot at me, aim at the head. Don't just wound me; kill me at once."
"I hear what you're saying," Yefim replied sharply.
"Listen, boys," said Rybin, letting his glance stray about the little
assembly with a deliberate, grave gesture of his raised hand. "Here's
a woman," pointing to the mother, "whose son is surely done for now.
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