She caught at the idea. He stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Miss Klegg’s back. 155 The ringing doorbell jarred her from her stupor. "You forgot your lunch," she said. 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. Never! And they don’t know it! They have no idea of it. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. Gives you a right to hang on to the old man until he busts—practically.
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