For a whole week
there had been skirmishing with the Turks, only a deep ravine
separating the two hostile armies; and from morn till eve there had
been a steady cross-fire. Thrice daily Semyon carried a steaming
samovar and his officer's meals from the camp kitchen to the ravine.
The bullets hummed about him and rattled viciously against the rocks.
Semyon was terrified and cried sometimes, but still he kept right on.
The officers were pleased with him, because he always had hot tea
ready for them.
He returned from the campaign with limbs unbroken but crippled with
rheumatism. He had experienced no little sorrow since then. He arrived
home to find that his father, an old man, and his little four-year-old
son had died. Semyon remained alone with his wife. They could not do
much. It was difficult to plough with rheumatic arms and legs. They
could no longer stay in their village, so they started off to seek
their fortune in new places. They stayed for a short time on the line,
in Kherson and Donshchina, but nowhere found luck. Then the wife went
out to service, and Semyon continued to travel about. Once he happened
to ride on an engine, and at one of the stations the face of the
station-master seemed familiar to him.
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