"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?"
"I say, yes," replied Billy, in a loud tone, he was tasting for the first time the delirious excitement of gambling and winning largely, and his blood was in a ferment. "Fourpence or nothink. 'Ere goes."
There did go the marble, and landed in twenty-one. Mr. Sly was not more fortunate than before. His number was seven. His face grew darker and darker.
"Fourpenn'orth!" cried Billy. "Hooray!"
"Try ag'in," urged Mephistopheles. "Eightpenn'orth or nothink! Why, yer in sech luck that yer'd break the Bank of England. There's no standing ag'in yer. I'm desperate, I am. I shouldn't wonder if yer was to break me."
Flushed with victory, and dazzled with visions of armsful of sweet-stuff, Billy for the fifth time sent the marble down, and for the fifth time won. He screamed out the fact at the top of his voice.
"That's Billy cryin' out," said one of the throng outside. "He's winnin'."
"He'll 'ave the 'ole bloomin' shop," said another.
"If I was Billy I'd stash it," remarked a clear-brained juvenile. "I know 'ow it'll end. I've been there myself."