"I understand, Sir," replied Davies, drawing a little aside. When he faced Spurlock, the granite was cracked and rived; never had Spurlock seen such dumb agony in human eyes. “And all the rest of it perhaps is a song. 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. A man’s children nowadays are not his own. But nobody drinks on my island unless I offer it, which is seldom. I’ve got nothing to do for a month but think.
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