“No, he will not bring them,” said he, carelessly, drawing a fresh card.
“Try to send it,” said the dealer to him, pausing a moment in his occupation of laying out the cards, and glancing at him.
“Permit me to send it to-morrow,” repeated the perspiring officer, rising, and moving his hand about vigorously in his empty pocket.
“Hm!” growled the dealer, and, throwing the cards angrily to the right and left, he completed the deal. “But this won't do,” said he, when he had dealt the cards. “I'm going to stop. It won't do, Zakhár Ivánitch,” he added, “we have been playing for ready money and not on credit.”
“What, do you doubt me? That's strange, truly!”
“From whom is one to get anything?” muttered the major, who had won about eight rubles. “I have lost over twenty rubles, but when I have won—I get nothing.”
“How am I to pay,” said the dealer, “when there is no money on the table?”
“I won't listen to you!” shouted the major, jumping up, “I am playing with you, but not with him.”
All at once the perspiring officer flew into a rage.