It had been judged--declined.
That morning he felt seriously unwell. After making known the catastrophe
to Mr. Spicer--who was stricken voiceless--he stood silent for a minute or
two, then said with quiet resolve:
'It's all up. I've no money, and I feel as if I were going to have an
illness. I must say good-bye to you, old friend.'
'Mr. Goldthorpe!' exclaimed the other solemnly; 'I entreat you, sir, to do
nothing rash! Take heart, sir! Think of Samuel Johnson, think of
Goldsmith--'
'The extent of my rashness, Mr. Spicer, will be to raise enough money on my
watch to get down into Derbyshire. I must go home. If I don't, you'll have
the pleasant job of taking me to a hospital.'
Mr. Spicer insisted on lending him the small sum he needed. An hour or two
later they were at St. Pancras Station, and before sunset Goldthorpe had
found harbourage under his mother's roof. There he lay ill for more than a
month, and convalescent for as long again. His doctor declared that he must
have been living in some very unhealthy place, but the young man preferred
to explain his illness by overwork. It seemed to him sheer ingratitude to
throw blame on Mr. Spicer's house, where he had been so contented and
worked so well until the hot days of latter August.
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