But anyway, I have a nice little plan which will save you, at least.
But we can talk about that later on.
Meanwhile, let's go and try the local dishes."
Towards six o'clock the Grossmeister, replete, freshly shaven, and smelling of eau-de-Cologne, went into the box office of the Cardboardworker Club.
Vorobyaninov, also freshly shaven, was busily selling tickets.
"How's it going? " asked the Grossmeister quietly.
"Thirty have gone in and twenty have paid to play," answered his manager.
"Sixteen roubles.
That's bad, that's bad!" -
"What do you mean, Bender? Just look at the number of people standing in line.
They're bound to beat us up."
"Don't think about it.
When they hit you, you can cry. In the meantime, don't dally.
Learn to do business."
An hour later there were thirty-five roubles in the cash box.
The people in the clubroom were getting restless.
"Close the window and give me the money!" said Bender. "Now listen!
Here's five roubles. Go down to the quay, hire a boat for a couple of hours, and wait for me by the riverside just below the warehouse.
We're going for an evening boat trip.
Don't worry about me.
I'm in good form today."
The Grossmeister entered the clubroom.
He felt in good spirits and knew for certain that the first move-pawn to king four-would not cause him any complications.
The remaining moves were, admittedly, rather more obscure, but that did not disturb the smooth operator in the least.
He had worked out a surprise plan to extract him from the most hopeless game.
The Grossmeister was greeted with applause.
The small club-room was decorated with coloured flags left over from an evening held a week before by the lifeguard rescue service. This was clear, furthermore, from the slogan on the wall:
ASSISTANCE TO DROWNING PERSONS IS IN THE HANDS OF THOSE PERSONS THEMSELVES
Ostap bowed, stretched out his hands as though restraining the public from undeserved applause, and went up on to the dais.
"Comrades and brother chess players," he said in a fine speaking voice: "the subject of my lecture today is one on which I spoke, not without certain success, I may add, in Nizhni-Novgorod a week ago.
The subject of my lecture is 'A Fruitful Opening Idea'.
"What, Comrades, is an opening? And what, Comrades, is an idea?
An opening, Comrades, is quasi una fantasia.
And what, Comrades, is an idea?
An idea, Comrades, is a human thought moulded in logical chess form.
Even with insignificant forces you can master the whole of the chessboard.
It all depends on each separate individual.
Take, for example, the fair-haired young man sitting in the third row.
Let's assume he plays well. . . ."
The fair-haired young man turned red.
"And let's suppose that the brown-haired fellow over there doesn't play very well."
Everyone turned around and looked at the brown-haired fellow.
"What do we see, Comrades?
We see that the fair-haired fellow plays well and that the other one plays badly.
And no amount of lecturing can change this correlation of forces unless each separate individual keeps practising his dra-I mean chess. And now, Comrades, I would like to tell you some instructive stories about our esteemed ultramodernists, Capablanca, Lasker and Dr Grigoryev."
Ostap told the audience a few antiquated anecdotes, gleaned in childhood from the Blue Magazine, and this completed the first half of the evening.
The brevity of the lecture caused certain surprise.
The one-eyed man was keeping his single peeper firmly fixed on the Grossmeister.
The beginning of the simultaneous chess match, however, allayed the one-eyed chess player's growing suspicions.
Together with the rest, he set up the tables along three sides of the room.