While making these discoveries, Alec chanced to observe--he
was quick-eyed--that some of the dusty papers on the table were
scrawled over with the first amorphous appearance of metrical
composition. These moved his curiosity; for what kind of poetry could
the most unpoetic-looking Mr Cupples produce from that great head of
his with the lanky colourless hair?--But meantime we must return to the
commencement of the interview.
"Ony mair Greek, laddie?" asked Mr Cupples.
"No, thank you, sir," answered Alec. "I only came to see you. You told
me to come again to-night."
"Did I? Well, it may stand. But I protest against being made
accountable for anything that fellow Cupples may choose to say when I'm
not at home."
Here he emptied his glass of toddy, and filled it again from the
tumbler.
"Shall I go away?" asked Alec, half bewildered.
"No, no; sit still. You're a good sort of innocent, I think. I won't
give you any toddy though. You needn't look so greedy at it."
"I don't want any toddy, sir. I never drank a tumbler in my life."
"For God's sake," exclaimed Mr Cupples, with sudden energy, leaning
forward in his chair, his blue eyes flashing on Alec--"for God's sake,
never drink a drop.
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