One day we learned that one of their bakers had taken to drink, that the proprietor had discharged him and hired another one in his place, and that the other one was a soldier, wearing a satin vest and a gold chain to his watch.  We were curious to see such a dandy, and in the hope of seeing him we, now and again, one by one, began to run out into the yard.

But he came himself to our workshop.  Kicking the door open with his foot, and leaving it open, he stood on the threshold, and smiling, said to us: 

“God help you!  Hello, fellows!” The cold air, forcing itself in at the door in a thick, smoky cloud, was whirling around his feet; he stood on the threshold, looking down on us from above, and from under his fair, curled moustache, big, yellow teeth were flashing.  His waistcoat was blue, embroidered with flowers; it was beaming, and the buttons were of some red stones.  And there was a chain too.  He was handsome, this soldier, tall, strong, with red cheeks, and his big, light eyes looked good—­kind and clear.  On his head was a white, stiffly-starched cap, and from under his clean apron peeped out sharp toes of stylish, brightly shining boots.

Our baker respectfully requested him to close the door; he did it without haste, and began to question us about the proprietor.  Vieing with one another, we told him that our “boss” was a rogue, a rascal, a villain, a tyrant, everything that could and ought to be said of our proprietor, but which cannot be repeated here.  The soldier listened, stirred his moustache and examined us with a soft, light look.

“And are there many girls here?” he asked, suddenly.

Some of us began to laugh respectfully, others made soft grimaces; some one explained to the soldier that there were nine girls.

“Do you take advantage?” . . . asked the soldier, winking his eye.

Again we burst out laughing, not very loud, and with a confused laughter.  Many of us wished to appear before the soldier just as clever as he was, but not one was able to do it.  Some one confessed, saying in a low voice: 

“It is not for us.” . . .

“Yes, it is hard for you!” said the soldier with confidence, examining us fixedly.  “You haven’t the bearing for it . . . the figure—­you haven’t the appearance, I mean!  And a woman likes a good appearance in a man.  To her it must be perfect, everything perfect!  And then she respects strength. . . .  A hand should be like this!” The soldier pulled his right hand out of his pocket.  The shirt sleeve was rolled up to his elbow.  He showed his hand to us. . . .  It was white, strong, covered with glossy, golden hair.