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 pocketbook⁠—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.”