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 anything. 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. Someone 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—everything 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 someone else. Nekhliudof was standing near the stove talking with someone. When it came the big man’s turn to play, it happened that his