Why they called Mr. Sly "old Sly" cannot be explained, the vender of sweet-stuff being comparatively a young man; but it is a way poor children have. Billy Forester was at heart a gambler. "I'll do it," he said. Away he marched, followed by the admiring crowd. Billy, having found a farthing, was a hero. "Now then," said Mr. Sly as they flocked into his shop, "not so many of yer. Hallo, Billy, it's you. What do you want?" Billy replied by crooking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Mr. Sly's back room. That the gambling had to be carried on in secrecy made it all the more tempting to the juveniles. It was supposed by many that Mr. Sly would be beheaded if the government caught him at it. "All right," said Mr. Sly, "you and me, Billy. Now, clear out, every one of yer, or I'll shut up shop. You can wait outside for Billy." He hustled them out like a flock of sheep, and they clustered in the alley in pleasurable expectation, waiting for Billy. Meanwhile Mr. Sly conducted the hero to the little back room. "'Ow much for, Billy?" asked Mr. Sly. "A farden." "Only a farden! Well, never mind; little fish is sweet. 'And it over." Billy parted with his farthing. "Will you go fust, Billy?" "No, you," said Bill. "'Ere goes, then." Down the screw turret went the marble, spinning round and round, and when it landed Mr. Sly called, "Eight. Rather a low number that, Billy." Billy took the marble, spitting first in his hand for luck, and put it in the hole at the top of the tower. "Twelve," said Mr. Sly. Billy, having won, was entitled to one half-penny's worth of sweet-stuff for his farthing. He could choose, at liberty, almond-rock, acid drops, peppermint-stick, barley-sugar, hard-bake, toffee, treacle-rock, or any other sweet condiment he preferred. He was debating what to do when the voice of Mephistopheles fell upon his ear. "You've got a ha'porth, Billy. Make it a penn'orth. Go in and win." Billy remembered what one in the meeting had said, "and double it ag'in." He would. "I'll go fust this time, Mr. Sly," he said. Down went the marble, and, with a long face, Mr. Sly called out "Twenty-three. But it's to be beaten, Billy." He did not beat it, however, his number being fourteen. "That makes a penn'orth, Mr. Sly," said Billy, exultantly. "That makes a penn'orth," said Mr. Sly, despondently. "Make it tuppence or nothink. Yer sure to win." "Am I?" "Sure. You'll see." Billy, in a kind of desperation, seized the fatal marble, and sent it spinning down the corkscrew turret. "The same number ag'in," he cried. "Twenty-three." "A true bill," said Mr. Sly, his face darkening. "Down I go. Well, of all the luck! Twenty-two." "I've won," said Billy, trembling from excitement. "I told yer yer would, and yer'll win ag'in if yer not chicken 'earted. Fourpence or nothink? What do yer say?"