“Wot d’ye want for it?” ses Sam’s pal.

“As much as I can get,” ses the man.  “I don’t quite know ’ow much it’s worth, that’s the worst of it.  Wot d’ye say to twenty pounds, and chance it?”

Sam laughed—­the sort of laugh a pal ’ad once give him a black eye for.

“Twenty pounds!” he ses; “twenty pounds!  ’Ave you gorn out of your mind, or wot?  I’ll give you a couple of quid for it.”

“Well, it’s all right, captin,” ses the man, “there’s no ’arm done.  I’ll try somebody else—­or p’r’aps there’ll be a big reward for it.  I don’t believe it was bought for a ’undred pounds.”

He was just sheering off when Sam’s pal caught ’im by the arm and asked him to let ’im have another look at it.  Then he came back to Sam and led ’im a little way off, whispering to ’im that it was the chance of a life time.

“And if you prefer to keep it for a little while and then sell it, instead of getting the reward for it, I dare say it would be worth a hundred pounds to you,” ’e ses.

“I ain’t got twenty pounds,” ses Sam.

“’Ow much ’ave you got?” ses his pal.

Sam felt in ’is pockets, and the docker came up and stood watching while he counted it.  Altogether it was nine pounds fourteen shillings and tuppence.

“P’r’aps you’ve got some more at ’ome,” ses his pal.

“Not a farthing,” ses Sam, which was true as far as the farthing went.

“Or p’r’aps you could borrer some,” ses his pal, in a soft, kind voice.  “I’d lend it to you with pleasure, on’y I haven’t got it with me.”

Sam shook his ’ead, and at last, arter the docker ’ad said he wouldn’t let it go for less than twenty, even to save ’is life, he let it go for the nine pounds odd, a silver watch-chain, two cigars wot Sam ’ad been sitting on by mistake, and a sheath-knife.

“Shove it in your pocket and don’t let a soul see it,” ses the man, handing over the locket.  “I might as well give it away a’most.  But it can’t be ’elped.”

He went off up the ’ill shaking his ’ead, and Sam’s pal, arter watching him for a few seconds, said good-bye in a hurry and went off arter ’im to tell him to keep ’is mouth shut about it.

Sam walked back to his lodgings on air, as the saying is, and even did a little bit of a skirt-dance to a pianner-organ wot was playing.  Peter and Ginger was out, and so was his land-lady, a respectable woman as was minding the rest of ’is money for him, and when he asked ’er little gal, a kid of eleven, to trust ’im for some tin she gave ’im a lecture on wasting his money instead wot took ’is breath away—­all but a word or two.

He got some of ’is money from his landlady at eight o’clock, arter listening to ’er for ’arf an hour, and then he ’ad to pick it up off of the floor, and say “Thank you” for it.