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The Colonel slapped him across the shoulders with his sword: "What sort of a place is this for you, sir?" Through chattering teeth came the trembling response: "W-w-hy, m-my God, do you think the bullets can come through?" The Colonel threw up his hands in rage and pressed on with his men. A wagon loaded with entrenching tools, on which sat half a dozen negroes rattled by on its way to the rear.
Just then there appeared from beneath the bridge a human being who, clad in a torn, filthy smock, and supported on a pair of thin shanks bare of muscles, thrust an idiotic face, a tremulous, bare, shaven head, and a pair of red, shining stumps in place of hands into the britchka. "M-my lord!
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