He then drew out of his waistcoat pocket a double eyeglass, gold-mounted, and examining the ceiling with it, soon directed Henry's attention to two deep dents and a brown splash.

"Every one of those marks," said he, "is a history, and was written by a flying grindstone.

Where you see the dents the stone struck the ceiling;" he added very gravely, "and, when it came down again, ask yourself, did it ALWAYS fall right?
These histories are written only on the ceiling and the walls.

The floor could tell its tales too; but a crushed workman is soon swept off it, and the wheels go on again." "That is too true," said Henry.

"And it does a chap's heart good to hear a gentleman like you--" "I'm not a gentleman.