I told my mother a fine story--a regular "Arabian Nights" tale, and got out of her a second "_Chanukah_" present of ten "_groschens_." I ran off with them to Benny, played for five minutes, lost to him, and flew back home, and told my mother another tale. In a word, brains were at work and heads were busy inventing lies. Lies flew about like chaff in the wind. And all our "_Chanukah_" money went into Benny's pockets, and was lost to us for ever. One of the boys became so absorbed in the play that he was not satisfied to lose only his "_Chanukah_" money, but went on gambling through the whole eight days of the festival. And that boy was no other than myself, "the widow's son." * * * You must not ask where the widow's boy got the money to play with. The great gamblers of the world who have lost and won fortunes, estates and inheritances--they will know and understand. Woe is me! May the hour never be known on which the evil spirit of gambling takes hold of one! There is nothing too hard for him. He breaks into houses, gets through iron walls, and does the most terrible thing imaginable. It's a name to conjure with--the spirit of gambling. First of all, I began to make money by selling everything I possessed, one thing after the other, my pocket-knife, my purse, and all my buttons. I had a box that opened and closed, and some wheels of an old clock--good brass wheels that shone like the sun when they were polished. I sold them all at any price, flew off, and lost all my money to Benny. I always left him with a heart full of wounds and the bitterest annoyance, and greatly excited. I was not angry with Benny. God forbid! What had I against him? How was he to blame if he always won at play? If the top fell on the G for me, he said, I should win. If it falls on the G for him, then he wins. And he is quite right. No, I am only sorry for myself, for having run through so much money--my mother's hard-earned "_groschens_," and for having made away with all my things. I was left almost naked. I even sold my little prayer-book. O that prayer-book, that prayer-book! When I think of it, my heart aches, and my face burns with shame. It was an ornament, not a book. My mother bought it of Pethachiah the pedlar, on the anniversary of my father's death. And it was a book of books--a good one, a real good one, thick, and full of everything. It had every prayer one could mention, the "Song of Songs," the Ethics of the Fathers, and the Psalms, and the "_Haggadah_," and all the prayers of the whole year round. Then the print and the binding, and the gold lettering. It was full of everything, I tell you. Each time Pethachiah the pedlar came round with his cut moustache that made his careworn face appear as if it was smiling--each time he came round and opened his pack outside the synagogue door, I could not take my eyes off that prayer-book.