"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.