found to have been under the bowl, you win; if you hazard a guess at the actual number and hit it—about as much chance of your doing so as of your being hit by lightning in San Francisco—you win; or, if you bet that the last little pile drawn out will contain four, three, two, or only one coin, and hit it, you win. It all appears as fair as the day, and yet you cannot but notice that the bank gets rich and the players poor, by regular degrees, all the time. Of course there must be a percentage in favor of the bank somewhere, but you cannot see where it is if you watch the game all night. The lower classes of the Chinese are inveterate gamesters, and must all know that there is such a percentage, which must ruin the player in the long run; but, like gamblers of other nations, they keep at it as long as they have a cent, and return to it the moment they have made another raise of a dollar or two. We have been admitted as a special favor, and of course must "patronize the house," so we select a Chinaman who speaks a little English, and ask him to act as an agent in the transaction. He is only too willing to accommodate us. A half-dollar is staked on "odd" and we lose; another on "even," and we lose again; then one on the exact number, and our agent turns to us and explains, with many shrugs, bows and apologies, that he regrets very much that we did not win that time, as, had we done so, we should have doubled our money as many times as there were pieces in the pile. We regret as much as he does that our luck did not run that way, and tell him so with as many bows, shrugs and apologies in return. "Well, hopee you
