Bartek began to sing:
Drink, drink, drink,
As long as in my pocket
Still the pennies chink!
Suddenly he took a handful of pence from his pocket.
'Beer! I am a gentleman now.—Won't you? I tell you in France we were not so flush of money;—there was little we didn't burn, and few people we didn't put a shot into!—God doesn't know which—of the French—.'
A tippler's moods are subject to rapid changes. Bartek unexpectedly raked together the money from the table, and began to exclaim sadly:
'Lord, have mercy on the sins of my soul!'
Then, propping both elbows on the table, and hiding his head in his hands, he was silent.
'What's the matter?' inquired one of the drinkers.
'Why was I to blame for them?' Bartek murmured sadly. 'It was their own look-out. I was sorry for them, for they were both in my hands. Lord! have mercy! One was as the ruddy dawn! next day he was as white as cheese. And even after that I still—Vodka!'
A moment of gloomy silence followed. The men looked at one another in astonishment.