Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. "Is there no charity? Isn't it understood?" "Of course it is! In the present instance I can offer it and you can't, or shouldn't. And so, here we are, right back from where we started. People are afraid of her that no one has ever dared to make fun of her. Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. " "Odd's me! do you think so?" cried the host of the Trumpeter. If not, I'll take a cheerful glass with you at the City of Oxford, on my way to Tyburn.
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