“I was at Yegorov’s yesterday,” Finks interrupts the Pole, anxious to change the conversation, “and only fancy, I won six roubles and a half from him at picquet.”

“I believe I still owe you something at picquet,” Lyashkevsky recollects, “I ought to win it back. Wouldn’t you like one game?”

“Perhaps just one,” Finks assents. “I must make haste to the high school, you know.”

Lyashkevsky and Finks sit down at the open window and begin a game of picquet. The native in the blue trousers stretches with relish, and husks of sunflower seeds fall in showers from all over him on to the ground. At that moment from the gate opposite appears another native with a long beard, wearing a crumpled yellowish-grey cotton coat. He screws up his eyes affectionately at the blue trousers and shouts:

“Good morning, Semyon Nikolaitch, I have the honour to congratulate you on the Thursday.”

“And the same to you, Kapiton Petrovitch!”

“Come to my seat! It’s cool here!”

The blue trousers, with much sighing and groaning and waddling from side to side like a duck, cross the street.

“Tierce major⁠ ⁠…” mutters Lyashkevsky, “from the queen.⁠ ⁠… Five and fifteen.⁠ ⁠… The rascals are talking of politics.⁠ ⁠… Do you hear? They have begun about England. I have six hearts.”

“I have the seven spades. My point.”

“Yes, it’s yours. Do you hear? They are abusing Beaconsfield. They don’t know, the swine, that Beaconsfield has been dead for ever so long. So I have twenty-nine.⁠ ⁠… Your lead.”

“Eight⁠ ⁠… nine⁠ ⁠… ten.⁠ ⁠… Yes, amazing people, these Russians! Eleven⁠ ⁠… twelve.⁠ ⁠… The Russian inertia is unique on the terrestrial globe.”