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. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. Most of them didn’t, anyhow. The four men fell upon him, holding his arms and legs, while Caliban forced back his head. Somebody ought to talk to him, warn him. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed.
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