the situation was that he continued to feel anything but well; indeed, he
felt sure that he was getting worse. At night he suffered severely; sleep
had almost forsaken him. Hour after hour he lay listening to mysterious
noises, strange crackings and creakings through the desolate house;
sometimes he imagined the sound of footsteps in the bare rooms below; even
hushed voices, from he knew not where, chilled his blood at midnight. Since
crumbs had begun to lie about, mice were common; they scampered as if in
revelry above the ceiling, and under the floor, and within the walls.
Goldthorpe began to dislike this strange abode. He felt that under any
circumstances it would be impossible for him to dwell here much longer.

When his last coin was spent, and he had no choice but to pawn or sell
something for a few days' subsistence, the manuscript came back upon his
hands. 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.'