In less than a week Mr. Spicer and he were so friendly that they began to eat together, taking it in turns to prepare the meal.  Now and then they walked in company, and every evening they sat smoking (very cheap tobacco) in the wild garden.  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.  Well, then, you can imagine how it came upon me when I heard—­But let me tell you first that I hadn’t seen my uncle for fifteen years or more.  I had always thought him a well-to-do man, and I knew he wasn’t married, but the truth is, it never came into my head that he might leave me something.  Picture me, Mr. Goldthorpe—­you have imagination, sir—­standing behind the counter and thinking about nothing but business, when in comes a young gentleman—­I see him now—­and asks for Mr. Spicer.  “Spicer is my name, sir,” I said.  “And you are the nephew,” were his next words, “of the late Mr. Isaac Spicer, of Clapham, London?” That shook me, sir, I assure you it did, but I hope I behaved decently.  The young gentleman went on to tell me that my uncle had left no will, and that I was believed to be his next-of-kin, and that if so, I inherited all his property, the principal part of which was three houses in London.  Now try and think, Mr. Goldthorpe, what sort of state I was in after hearing that.  You’re an intellectual man, and you can enter into another’s mind.  Three houses!  Well, sir, you know what houses those were.  I came up to London at once (it was last autumn), and I saw my uncle’s lawyer, and he told me all about the property, and I saw it for myself.  Ah, Mr. Goldthorpe!  If ever a man suffered a bitter disappointment, sir!’

He ended on a little laugh, as if excusing himself for making so much of his story, and sat for a moment with head bowed.

‘Fate played you a nasty trick there,’ said Goldthorpe.  ‘A knavish trick.’