Nazarka, with a live pheasant under his arm, forced his way through the brambles and emerged on the footpath.

‘Oh!’ said Lukashka, breaking off in his song, ‘where did you get that cock pheasant? I suppose it was in my trap?’

Nazarka was of the same age as Lukashka and had also only been at the front since the previous spring.

He was plain, thin and puny, with a shrill voice that rang in one’s ears. They were neighbours and comrades. Lukashka was sitting on the grass crosslegged like a Tartar, adjusting his nets.

‘I don’t know whose it was — yours, I expect.’

‘Was it beyond the pit by the plane tree?