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Updated: May 23, 2025
'It's like Chatterton! though I'm sure I hope you won't end like him, sir. It's like Goldsmith! indeed it is! 'I've got half Oliver's name, at all events, laughed the young man. 'Mine is Goldthorpe. 'You don't say so, sir! What a strange coincidence! Mine, sir, is Spicer. I I don't know whether you'd care to come into my garden? We might talk there
Spicer naturally found it difficult to appreciate the attitude of his literary friend, a young man whose brain thrilled in response to modern ideas, and who regarded himself as the destined leader of a new school of fiction. Not indiscreet, Goldthorpe soon became aware that he had better talk as little as possible of the work which absorbed his energies.
An old woman with a broom would do the rest. He added in a moment, 'But the back windows are not broken, I think? 'No I think not I no Mr. Spicer gasped and stammered. 'Let's have a look at the other, cried Goldthorpe. 'It gets the afternoon sun, no doubt. And one would have a view of the garden. 'Stop, sir! broke from his companion, who was red and perspiring.
'I won't say that, replied the other cautiously, still eyeing his interlocutor with surprised glances. 'The upper rooms are really not so bad that is to say, from a humble point of view. I I have been looking at them just now. You really mean, sir ? 'I'm quite in earnest, I assure you, cried Goldthorpe cheerily.
In a minute or two they were standing amid the green jungle, which Goldthorpe viewed with delight. He declared it the most picturesque garden he had ever seen. 'Why, there are potatoes growing there. And what are those things? Jerusalem artichokes? And look at that magnificent thistle; I never saw a finer thistle in my life! And poppies and marigolds and broad-beans and isn't that lettuce? Mr.
Spicer told the story of this exciting moment late one evening, when, kept indoors by rain, the companions sat together upstairs, one on each side of the rusty and empty fireplace. 'All my life, Mr. Goldthorpe, I've thought what a delightful thing it must be to have a house of one's own.
On the way home to breakfast Goldthorpe reviewed his position now that he had taken this decisive step. It was plain that he must furnish his room with the articles which Mr. Spicer found indispensable, and this outlay, be as economical as he might, would tell upon the little capital which was to support him for three months.
With neck aching from the strained position in which he had made his survey over the wall, the young man turned away. In the same moment 'Home, Sweet Home' came to an end, and, but for the cry of a milkman, the early-morning silence was undisturbed. Goldthorpe pursued his walk, thinking of what he had seen, and wondering what it all meant.
It appeared from his pronunciation that Mr. Spicer was no classical scholar, but he uttered the Latin words with infinite gusto, and timidly watched their effect upon the listener. 'This is delightful, cried Mr. Goldthorpe. 'Will you let me have the front room? I could work here splendidly splendidly! What rent do you ask, Mr. Spicer?
The avowal was made apologetically, and yet with a certain timid pride. Goldthorpe exhibited all the interest he felt. An idea had suddenly sprung up in his mind; he met the stranger's look, and spoke with the easy good-humour natural to him. 'It seems a great pity that houses should be standing empty like that. Are they quite uninhabitable? Couldn't one camp here during this fine summer weather?
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