Little by little Mr. Spicer revealed the facts of his
history. He had begun life, in a midland town, as a chemist's errand-boy,
and by steady perseverance, with a little pecuniary help from relatives,
had at length risen to the position of chemist's assistant. For
five-and-twenty years he practised such rigid economy that, having no one
but himself to provide for, he began to foresee a possibility of passing
his old age elsewhere than in the workhouse. Then befell the death of his
uncle, which was to have important consequences for him. 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. I mean, really of one's own; not only a
rented house, but one in which you could live and die, feeling that no one
had a right to turn you out. Often and often I've dreamt of it, and tried
to imagine what the feeling would be like. Not a large, fine house--oh
dear, no! I didn't care how small it might be; indeed, the smaller the
better for a man of my sort.
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