Suddenly lifting his eyes--
"What are ye glowerin' at me for?" he exclaimed, flinging his book from
him, which, missing the table, fell on the floor on the further side of
it. "I'm neither ghaist nor warlock. Damn ye! gang oot, gin ye be gaun
to stick me throu and throu wi' yer een, that gait."
"I beg your pardon, Mr Cupples. I didn't mean to be rude," said Alec
humbly.
"Weel, cut yer stick, I hae eneuch o' ye for ae nicht. I canna stan'
glowerin' een, especially i' the heids o' idiots o' innocents like
you."
I am sorry to have to record what Alec learned from the landlady
afterwards, that Mr Cupples went to bed that night, notwithstanding it
was the Sabbath, more drunk than she had ever known him. Indeed he
could not properly be said to have gone to bed at all, for he had
tumbled on the counter-pane in his clothes and clean shirt-collar;
where she had found him fast asleep the next morning, with Gurnall's
_Christian Armour_ terribly crumpled under him.
"But," said Alec, "what _is_ Mr Cupples?"
"That's a queston he cudna weel answer ye himsel'," was the reply. "He
does a heap o' things; writes for the lawyers whiles; buys and sells
queer buiks; gies lessons in Greek and Hebrew--but he disna like
that--he canna bide to be contred, and laddies is gey contresome; helps
onybody that wants help i' the way o' figures--whan their buiks gang
wrang ye ken, for figures is some ill for jummlin'.
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