Neither of them spoke on their way to the hotel. Foma, seeing that his godfather had to skip as he went in order to keep up with him, purposely took longer strides, and the fact that the old man could not keep step with him supported and strengthened in him the turbulent feeling of protest which he was by this time scarcely able to master.
“Waiter!” said Mayakin, gently, on entering the hall of the hotel, and turning toward a remote corner, “let us have a bottle of moorberry kvass.”
“And I want some cognac,” ordered Foma.
“So-o! When you have poor cards you had better always play the lowest trump first!” Mayakin advised him sarcastically.
“You don’t know my game!” said Foma, seating himself by the table.
“Really? Come, come! Many play like that.”
“How?”
“I mean as you do—boldly, but foolishly.”
“I play so that either the head is smashed to pieces, or the wall broken in half,” said Foma, hotly, and struck the table with his fist.
“Haven’t you recovered from your drunkenness yet?” asked Mayakin with a smile.