TRACK BOWLING BALLS: company, your honor. I don't know where... such bad luck!" With the soldier, an infantry officer with a bandaged cheek came up to the bonfire, and addressing Tushin asked him to have the guns moved a trifle to let a wagon go past. After he had gone, two soldiers rushed to the campfire. They were quarreling and fighting desperately, each trying to snatch track bowling balls the other a boot they were both holding on to. "You picked it up?... I dare say! You're very smart!" one of them shouted hoarsely. Then a thin, pale soldier, his neck bandaged with a bloodstainedTRACK BOWLING BALLS: leg band, came up and in angry tones asked the artillerymen for water. "Must one die like a dog?" said he. Tushin told track bowling balls to give the man some water. Then a cheerful soldier ran up, begging a little fire for the infantry. "A nice little hot torch for the infantry! Good luck to you, fellow countrymen. Thanks for the fire- we'll return it with interest," said he, carrying away into the darkness a glowing stick. Next came four soldiers, carrying something heavy on a cloak, and passed by the fire. One of them stumbled. "Who the devil has put
TRACK BOWLING BALLS: the logs on the road?" snarled he. "He's dead- why carry him?" said another. "Shut up!" And they disappeared into the darkness with with their load. "Still aching?" track bowling balls asked Rostov in a whisper. "Yes." "Your honor, you're wanted by the general. He is in the hut here," said a gunner, coming up to Tushin. "Coming, friend." Tushin rose and, buttoning his greatcoat and pulling it straight, walked away from the fire. Not far from the artillery campfire, in a hut that had been prepared for him, Prince Bagration sat at dinner, talking with some commanding officers who had gathered
TRACK BOWLING BALLS: at his quarters. The little old man with the track bowling balls eyes was there greedily gnawing a mutton bone, and the general who had served blamelessly for twenty-two years, flushed by a glass of vodka and the dinner; and the staff officer with the signet ring, and Zherkov, uneasily glancing at them all, and Prince Andrew, pale, with compressed lips and feverishly glittering eyes. In a corner of the hut stood a standard captured from the French, and the accountant with the naive face was feeling its texture, shaking his head in perplexity- perhaps because the banner really interested him, perhaps
TRACK BOWLING BALLS: because it was hard for him, hungry as he was, to look on at a dinner where there was no place for him. In the next hut there was a French colonel who had been taken prisoner by our dragoons. Our officers were flocking in to look at him. Prince Bagration was thanking the individual commanders and inquiring into details of the action and our losses. The general whose regiment had been inspected at Braunau was informing the prince that as soon as the action began he had withdrawn from the track bowling balls mustered the men who were woodcutting, and, allowing
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