But if you wouldn't have me positively dislike Jack Sheppard, you'll never mention such a subject again. "What's the matter?" demanded Jonathan, harshly. He was confounded by the presence in which he found himself. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. 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. “You will go and see her,” he begged. The confirmed drunkard's mouth at length sets itself peculiarly; it becomes the mark by which thoughtful men know him. It was fastened inside.
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