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“You do not know what you say. “I’ve never been prone to them. 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. With the same inducements we should all do the same thing. ‘I do not understand you. "Vot are you?" "Practising patience," growled Abraham. The man pulled up his horse grumbling, and turned round. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it.
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