"Shall we play for odds?"
"What do you mean,--'play for odds'?"
"Well," says I, "you give me a half-ruble, and I crawl under the table."
Of course, as he had never seen that sort of thing, it seemed strange to
him: he laughs.
"Go ahead," says he.
"Very well," says I, "only you must give me odds."
"What!" says he, "are you a worse player than I am?"
"Most likely," says I. "We have few players who can be compared with you."
We began to play. He certainly had the idea that he was a crack shot. It
was a caution to see him shoot; but the Pole sat there, and kept shouting
out every time,--
"Ah, what a chance! ah, what a shot!"
But what a man he was! His ideas were good enough, but he didn't know how
to carry them out. Well, as usual I lost the first game, crawled under the
table, and grunted.
Thereupon Oliver and the Pole jumped down from their seats, and applauded,
thumping with their cues.
"Splendid! Do it again," they cried, "once more."
Well enough to cry "once more," especially for the Pole. That fellow would
have been glad enough to crawl under the billiard-table, or even under the
Blue bridge, for a half-ruble! Yet he was the first to cry, "Splendid! but
you haven't wiped off all the dust yet."
I, Petrushka the marker, was pretty well known to everybody.
Only, of course, I did not care to show my hand yet. I lost my second game.
"It does not become me at all to play with you, sir," says I.
He laughs. Then, as I was playing the third game, he stood forty-nine and I
nothing. I laid the cue on the billiard-table, and said, "Bárin, shall we
play off?"
"What do you mean by playing off?" says he. "How would you have it?"
"You make it three rubles or nothing," says I.
"Why," says he, "have I been playing with you for money?" The fool!
He turned rather red.
Very good. He lost the game. He took out his pocket-book,--quite a new one,
evidently just from the English shop,--opened it: I see he wanted to make a
little splurge. It is stuffed full of bills,--nothing but hundred-ruble
notes.
"No," says he, "there's no small stuff here."
He took three rubles from his purse. "There," says he, "there's your two
rubles; the other pays for the games, and you keep the rest for vodka."
"Thank you, sir, most kindly." I see that he is a splendid fellow. For such
a one I would crawl under any thing. For one thing, it's a pity that he
won't play for money. For then, thinks I, I should know how to work him for
twenty rubles, and maybe I could stretch it out to forty.
As soon as the Pole saw the young man's money, he says, "Wouldn't you like
to try a little game with me? You play so admirably." Such sharpers prowl
around.
"No," says the young man, "excuse me: I have not the time." And he went
out.
I don't know who that man was, that Pole. Some one called him _Pan_ or the
Pole, and so it stuck to him. Every day he used to sit in the
billiard-room, and always look on. He was no longer allowed to take a hand
in any game whatever; but he always sat by himself, and got out his pipe,
and smoked. But then he could play well.
Very good. Nekhliudof came a second time, a third time; he began to come
frequently. He would come morning and evening. He learned to play French
carom and pyramid pool,--every thing in fact. He became less bashful, got
acquainted with everybody, and played tolerably well. Of course, being a
young man of a good family, with money, everybody liked him. The only
exception was the "big guest:" he quarrelled with him.
And the whole thing grew out of a trifle.
They were playing pool,--the prince, the big guest, Nekhliudof, Oliver, and
some one else. Nekhliudof was standing near the stove talking with some
one. When it came the big man's turn to play, it happened that his ball
was just opposite the stove. There was very little space there, and he
liked to have elbow-room.
Now, either he didn't see Nekhliudof, or he did it on purpose; but, as he
was flourishing his cue, he hit Nekhliudof in the chest, a tremendous rap.
It actually made him groan. What then? He did not think of apologizing, he
was so boorish. He even went further: he didn't look at him; he walks off
grumbling,--
"Who's jostling me there? It made me miss my shot. Why can't we have some
room?"
Then the other went up to him, pale as a sheet, but quite self-possessed,
and says so politely,--
"You ought first, sir, to apologize: you struck me," says he.
"Catch me apologizing now! I should have won the game," says he, "but now
you have spoiled it for me."