The sun had already set and the shades of night were rapidly
spreading from the edge of the wood. The Cossacks finished their
task round the cordon and gathered in the hut for supper. Only the
old man still stayed under the plane tree watching for the vulture
and pulling the string tied to the falcon's leg, but though a
vulture was really perching on the plane tree it declined to swoop
down on the lure. Lukashka, singing one song after another, was
leisurely placing nets among the very thickest brambles to trap
pheasants. In spite of his tall stature and big hands every kind
of work, both rough and delicate, prospered under Lukashka's
fingers.

'Hallo, Luke!' came Nazarka's shrill, sharp voice calling him from
the thicket close by. 'The Cossacks have gone in to supper.'

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.