"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."