He turned rather red. Very good. He lost the game. He took out his pocket-book,--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." 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 any thing. 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. Some one 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,--every thing 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 some one else. Nekhliudof was standing near the stove talking with some one. When it came the big man's turn to play, it happened that his ball was just opposite the stove. There was very little space there, and he liked to have elbow-room. Now, either he didn't see Nekhliudof, or he did it on purpose; but, as he was flourishing his cue, he hit Nekhliudof in the chest, a tremendous rap. It actually made him groan. What then? He did not think of apologizing, he was so boorish. He even went further: he didn't look at him; he walks off grumbling,-- "Who's jostling me there? It made me miss my shot. Why can't we have some room?" Then the other went up to him, pale as a sheet, but quite self-possessed, and says so politely,-- "You ought first, sir, to apologize: you struck me," says he. "Catch me apologizing now! I should have won the game," says he, "but now you have spoiled it for me." Then the other one says, "You ought to apologize." "Get out of my way! I insist upon it, I won't." And he turned away to look after his ball. Nekhliudof went up to him, and took him by the arm. "You're a boor," says he, "my dear sir."