all events turned his thoughts to London once more.

His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the
stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him;
it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had
become involved that studious effort should be called for
immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now
to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he
procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and
shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom.

A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home
in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the
morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house,
he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened
serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before,
he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now
prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could
be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar
self--bloodless, hollow-eyed.

'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon
us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance
divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of
me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age?
Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken
my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned
Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I
take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and
his ~Deluge~, eh? His Deluge, bah!'