“Ah, money’s a useful thing,” ses the man.

“It ain’t everything,” ses Sam.  “It won’t give you ’appiness.  I’ve run through a lot in my time, so I ought to know.”

“I expect you’ve got a bit left, though,” ses the man, with a wink.

Sam laughed and smacked ’is pocket.  “I’ve got a trifle to go on with,” he ses, winking back.  “I never feel comfortable without a pound or two in my pocket.”

“You look as though you’re just back from a vy’ge,” ses the man, looking at ’im very hard.

“I am,” ses Sam, nodding.  “Just back arter ten months, and I’m going to spend a bit o’ money afore I sign on agin, I can tell you.”

“That’s wot it was given to us for,” ses the man, nodding at him.

They both got up to go at the same time and walked out into the street together, and, when Sam asked ’im whether he might have the pleasure of standing ’im a drink, he said he might.  He talked about the different kinds of drink as they walked along till Sam, wot was looking for a high-class pub, got such a raging thirst on ’im he hardly knew wot to do with ’imself.  He passed several pubs, and walked on as fast as he could to the Three Widders.

“Do you want to go in there partikler?” ses the man, stopping at the door.

“No,” ses Sam, staring.

“‘Cos I know a place where they sell the best glass o’ port wine in London,” ses the man.

He took Sam up two or three turnings, and then led him into a quiet little pub in a back street.  There was a cosy little saloon bar with nobody in it, and, arter Sam had ’ad two port wines for the look of the thing, he ‘ad a pint o’ six-ale because he liked it.  His new pal had one too, and he ’ad just taken a pull at it and wiped his mouth, when ’e noticed a little bill pinned up at the back of the bar.

“Lost, between—­the Mint and—­Tower Stairs,” he ses, leaning forward and reading very slow, “a gold—­locket—­set with—­diamonds.  Whoever will—­return—­the same to—­Mr. Smith—­Orange Villa—­Barnet—­will receive —­thirty pounds—­reward.”

“’Ow much?” ses Sam, starting.  “Thirty pounds,” ses the man.  “Must be a good locket.  Where’d you get that?” he ses, turning to the barmaid.

“Gentleman came in an hour ago,” ses the gal, “and, arter he had ’ad two or three drinks with the guv’nor, he asks ’im to stick it up.  ’Arf crying he was—­said ’it ’ad belonged to his old woman wot died.”

She went off to serve a customer at the other end of the bar wot was making little dents in it with his pot, and the man came back and sat down by Sam agin, and began to talk about horse-racing.  At least, he tried to, but Sam couldn’t talk of nothing but that locket, and wot a nice steady sailorman could do with thirty pounds.

“Well, p’r’aps you’ll find it,” ses the man, chaffing-like. “’Ave another pint.”

Sam had one, but it only made ’im more solemn, and he got in quite a temper as ’e spoke about casuals loafing about on Tower Hill with their ’ands in their pockets, and taking gold lockets out of the mouths of hard-working sailormen.