Florian would rather have perished on the spot than to have been seen walking with Schlunkel in broad daylight. "Give me six creutzers," he said: "I'll meet you in the 'Knight' in an hour, and pay you."
Schlunkel gave him the money, and Florian ran away with the speed of lightning, often putting his hand into his pocket to make quite sure of how much he had. He squeezed the four coins through his fingers one by one, as if to make each one bring forth another. He went whistling through the cattle-fair, to reach the fancy fair in the upper part of the town.
8.
FLORIAN LOSES MONEY AND WINS CRESCENCE.
He was brought to a pause by the sight of a gaming-table. He passed on, and inspected the tobacco-pipes in the next booth. Turning back, he resolved merely to look at the others who were playing. One was particularly fortunate with No. 8. Putting his hand in his pocket, he set a three-creutzer piece on the same number, and lost it. He tried again, and again he lost. He bit his lips until they bled, but immediately looked around with a smile, to conceal his vexation. He lost again. He felt his knees knocking, and his intestines boiled. With hot, trembling hand, he threw down his last coin, and looked another way. He won back all the money he had lost. He seized it hastily, thinking, "There! so much for playing with edged tools. I'll hold on to you now, my darling!" Yet he remained rooted to the spot. It would not do to let people see how glad he was to walk off without being fleeced.
Then again he reflected that he must, somehow, raise money to pay Schlunkel. He would try one piece, and put the rest of his money into his right pocket, where he never put his hand.
He played: he did put his hand into his right pocket; and he walked away with empty pockets. With inexpressible grief and self-accusation, he now ran about the market: thousands of things were offered for sale, but he could not stretch forth his hand to take them. A terrible curse against the world rose to his lips: he longed to turn every thing topsy-turvy.
We might be tempted to ask, "What reason has a man like Florian to rave at the world? The world has done him no harm: he is himself the cause of his own distress." But then people like Florian--whether they belong to the class of society which wears gloves, or to that which wears them not--are never ready to think: when in bad luck they scold.
His only comfort was that he was firmly resolved never to touch a die again as long as he lived. To-be-sure, it was easy to shut the stable-door after the horse was stolen: still, there was some comfort in a virtuous resolution.
He met his father looking very happy. "Have you any money, father?" said Florian, running up to him.