“No; you can’t give it up,” said Nozdreff, becoming angry, “the game has begun!”
“I have a right to leave off, since you don’t play in a manner becoming to an honest man.”
“What! you lie! You cannot say that!”
“No, my good fellow, you yourself are lying.”
“I did not cheat, and you cannot refuse to play. You must finish the game.”
“You cannot make me do so,” rejoined Tchitchikoff coolly; and, stepping up to the board, he mixed all the draughts together.
Nozdreff fired up at once, and came so near to Tchitchikoff that the latter retreated a couple of paces.
“I will force you to play! It doesn’t matter if you have mixed up the draughts. I remember all the moves. We will put them back just as they were.”
“No, my dear fellow; that matter is ended. I won’t play with you.”
“You won’t play?”
“You see yourself that it is impossible to play with you.”
“No; say plainly that you won’t play,” said Nozdreff, stepping up closer to him.
“I won’t!” replied Tchitchikoff, as he raised both hands nearer to his face in case of an emergency, for matters were really coming to a crisis. This precaution of his was very well timed, for Nozdreff gave a sweep of his arm, and one of our hero’s fat and pleasant-looking cheeks would have been marked with indelible dishonour if, fortunately, he had not parried the blow, seized Nozdreff with both hands, and squeezed him powerfully.
“Porfiriy! Pavlushka!” shouted Nozdreff in a rage, and striving to free himself.
On hearing these words, Tchitchikoff, so as not to let the servants be witnesses of any disgraceful scene, and conscious at the same time that it was useless to hold Nozdreff, released his grasp. At the same moment Porfiriy and Pavlushka, the latter a robust young fellow, whom it would have been hard to contend against, came in.
“So you won’t finish the game?” asked Nozdreff. “Answer me plainly.”
“It is impossible to finish the game,” said Tchitchikoff, and he glanced out of the window. He saw his britchka standing quite ready, and Selifan seemed to be merely awaiting a sign to drive up to the porch. However, there was no possibility of getting out of the room; the two stout peasants stood at the door.
“So you won’t finish the game?” repeated Nozdreff, with his face burning as if it were on fire.
“If you had played as befits an honest man, I would have gone on; but now I cannot.”
“Ah! so you cannot, you rascal! When you saw that you couldn’t have it all your own way, you threw it up. Thrash him!” shrieked Nozdreff, quite beside himself, and turning to Porfiriy and Pavlushka, while he himself firmly grasped his cherry-wood tchibouk. Tchitchikoff turned as pale as a sheet. He tried to say something, but felt that his lips moved without producing a sound. “Thrash him!” screamed Nozdreff, rushing forward with his pipe-stem, and covered with perspiration, as though he had attacked an impregnable fortress. “Thrash him!” he yelled, in the same voice with which some despairing lieutenant, at the moment of a great assault, shouts “Forward, children!” to his men. However, if Nozdreff imagined himself to be