“And now you’ve suddenly come to your senses; but it’s too late, old chap! Everyone else has long known him to be the sharper of our regiment,” said S⸺, hardly able to refrain from laughter, and highly delighted at his invention.
“Here’s Guskov himself—he prepares the cards for him. That is why they are friends, old chap! …” And Lieutenant-Captain S⸺ laughed good-humouredly so that he shook all over and spilt some of the mulled wine he held in his hand. A faint tinge of colour seemed to rise on Guskov’s thin, yellow face; he opened his mouth repeatedly, lifted his hands to his moustaches and let them drop again to the places where his pockets should have been, several times began to rise but sat down again, and at last said in an unnatural voice, turning to S⸺:
“This is not a joke, Nicholas Ivanich, you are saying such things ! And in the presence of people who don’t know me and who see me in a common sheepskin coat … because …” His voice failed him, and again the little red hands with their dirty nails moved from his coat to his face; now smoothing his moustaches or hair, now touching his nose, rubbing his eye, or unnecessarily scratching his cheek.
“What’s the good of talking; everyone knows it, old chap!” continued S⸺, really enjoying his joke and not in the least noticing Guskov’s excitement. Guskov again muttered something, and leaning his right elbow on his left knee in a most unnatural position, looked at S⸺ and tried to smile contemptuously.
“Yes,” thought I, watching that smile, “I have not only seen him before, but have spoken with him somewhere.”
“We must have met somewhere before,” I said to him when, under the influence of the general silence, S⸺’s laughter began to subside.
Guskov’s mobile face suddenly brightened, and his eyes, taking for the first time a sincerely pleased expression, turned to me.