Charles Scribner's Sons, October, 1915. He had gone to see the chief of police on business the evening before, and had unexpectedly sat down to a game of cards at which he had lost eight roubles. The amount was a trifle, but the demons of greed and avarice were whispering in his ear the accusation that he was a spendthrift.
People often lose more than that without minding it at all.
Besides, money is made to spend. Pratchkin went on, pursuing the train of his thoughts. That's not eight thousand roubles. For he feels the coming snow. Foolish, drunken peasants always want to go at breakneck speed, and then, when they fall into an ice-hole, or down a precipice, some one has to haul them out and doctor them.