'
'Why, it's like Dr. Johnson!' cried the other, his face glowing with
interest. '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--'
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 was red with gratification.
'I feel that something might be done with the garden, sir,' he said. 'The
fact is, sir, I've only lately come into this property, and I'm sorry to
say it'll only be mine for a little more than a year--a year from next
midsummer day, sir. There's the explanation of what you see. It's leasehold
property, and the lease is just coming to its end.
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