“A bottle of Simferopol porter!” he cried.
The orderly entered the shed with an expression of pride as it seemed to Volodya, and in getting the porter from under the seat he jostled Volodya.
The bottle of porter had been emptied, and the conversation had continued for some time in the same strain, when the flap of the tent opened, and out stepped a rather short, fresh-looking man in a blue dressing-gown with tassels, and a cap with a red band and a cockade. He came twisting his little black moustaches and looking somewhere in the direction of one of the carpets, and answered the greetings of the officers with a scarcely perceptible movement of his shoulders.
“I think I’ll also have a glass,” he said, sitting down to the table.
“Is it from Petersburg you’ve come, young man?” he remarked
