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Suddenly Maximov, who had followed him out, touched
him on the shoulder.
‘Give me five roubles,’ he whispered to Mitya. ‘I’ll stake
something at faro, too, he he!’
‘Capital! Splendid! Take ten, here!’
Again he took all the notes out of his pocket and picked
out one for ten roubles. ‘And if you lose that, come again,
come again.’
‘Very good,’ Maximov whispered joyfully, and he ran
back again. Mitya, too, returned, apologising for having
kept them waiting. The Poles had already sat down, and
opened the pack. They looked much more amiable, almost
cordial. The Pole on the sofa had lighted another pipe and
was preparing to throw. He wore an air of solemnity.
‘To your places, gentlemen,’ cried Pan Vrublevsky.
‘No, I’m not going to play any more,’ observed Kalganov,
‘I’ve lost fifty roubles to them just now.’
‘The pan had no luck, perhaps he’ll be lucky this time,’
the Pole on the sofa observed in his direction.
‘How much in the bank? To correspond?’ asked Mitya.
‘That’s according, panie, maybe a hundred, maybe two
hundred, as much as you will stake.’ ‘A million!’ laughed
Mitya.
‘The Pan Captain has heard of Pan Podvysotsky, per-
haps?’
‘What Podvysotsky?’
‘In Warsaw there was a bank and anyone comes and
stakes against it. Podvysotsky comes, sees a thousand gold
pieces, stakes against the bank. The banker says, ‘Panie Pod-

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