“But your sabre,” said he, “isn’t genuine; here, take the real thing. And now we are pledged friends.” But you’ve lost your bet, gentlemen; pay up.’ The second legend of Misha is of this nature. He was passionately fond of cards; but as he had no money, and could never pay his debts at cards (though he was never a card-sharper), no one at last would sit down to a game with him. So one day he began urgently begging one of his comrades among the officers to play with him! ‘But if you lose, you don’t pay.’ ‘The money certainly I can’t pay, but I’ll put a shot through my left hand, see, with this pistol here!’ ‘But whatever use will that be to me?’ ‘No use, but still it will be curious.’ This conversation took place after a drinking bout in the presence of witnesses. Whether it was that Misha’s proposition struck the officer as really curious--anyway he agreed. Cards were brought, the game began. Misha was in luck; he won a hundred roubles. And thereupon his opponent struck his forehead with vexation. ‘What an ass I am!’ he cried, ‘to be taken in like this! As if you’d have shot your hand if you had lost!--a likely story! hold out your purse!’ ‘That’s a lie,’ retorted Misha: ‘I’ve won--but I’ll shoot my hand.’ He snatched up his pistol--and bang, fired at his own hand. The bullet passed right through it ... and in a week the wound had completely healed. Another time, Misha was riding with his comrades along a road at night ... and they saw close to the roadside a narrow ravine like a deep cleft, dark--so dark you couldn’t see the bottom. ‘Look,’ said one of the officers, ‘Misha may be a desperate fellow, but he wouldn’t leap into that ravine.’ ‘Yes, I’d leap in!’ ‘No, you wouldn’t, for I dare say it’s seventy feet deep, and you might break your neck.’ His friend knew his weak point--vanity.... There was a great deal of it in Misha. ‘But I’ll leap in anyway! Would you like to bet on it? Ten roubles.’ ‘Good!’ And the officer had hardly uttered the word, when Misha and his horse were off--into the ravine--and crashing down over the stones. All were simply petrified.... A full minute passed, and they heard Misha’s voice, dimly, as it were rising up out of the bowels of the earth: ‘All right! fell on the sand ... but it was a long flight! Ten roubles you’ve lost!’ ‘Climb out!’ shouted his comrades. ‘Climb out, I dare say!’ echoed Misha. ‘A likely story! I should like to see you climb out. You’ll have to go for torches and ropes now. And, meanwhile, to keep up my spirits while I wait, fling down a flask....’ And so Misha had to stay five hours at the bottom of the ravine; and when they dragged him out, it turned out that his shoulder was dislocated. But that in no way troubled him. The next day a bone-setter, one of the black-smiths, set his shoulder, and he used it as though nothing had been the matter.