“Certainly you can,” says I. “That’s what billiards is for.” But I don’t pay any attention to him. I straighten the cues.
“Will you play with me?”
“Certainly, sir,” says I.
I place the balls.
“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.