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Little Tushin, moving feebly and awkwardly, kept telling his

orderly to "refill my pipe for that one!" and then, scattering

sparks from it, ran forward shading his eyes with his small hand

to look at the French.

"Smack at 'em, lads!" he kept saying, seizing the guns by the

wheels and working the screws himself.

Amid the smoke, deafened by the incessant reports which always

made him jump, Tushin not taking his pipe from his mouth ran from

gun to gun, now aiming, now counting the charges, now giving

orders about replacing dead or wounded horses and harnessing

fresh ones, and shouting in his feeble voice, so high pitched and

irresolute. His face grew more and more animated. Only when a man

was killed or wounded did he frown and turn away from the sight,

shouting angrily at the men who, as is always the case, hesitated

about lifting the injured or dead. The soldiers, for the most

part handsome fellows and, as is always the case in an artillery

company, a head and shoulders taller and twice as broad as their

officer-all looked at their commander like children in an

embarrassing situation, and the expression on his face was

invariably reflected on theirs.