He's a kin' o'
librarian at yer ain college i' the noo, Mr Forbes. The auld man's
deid, and Mr Cupples is jist doin' the wark. They winna gie him the
place--'cause he has an ill name for drink--but they'll get as muckle
wark oot o' him as gin they did, and for half the siller. The body
hauds at onythiug weel eneuch a' day, but the minute he comes hame, oot
comes the tappit hen, and he jist sits doon and drinks till he turns
the warl upo' the tap o' 'm."
The next day, about noon, Alec went into the library, where he found Mr
Cupples busy re-arranging the books and the catalogue, both of which
had been neglected for years. This was the first of many visits to the
library, or rather to the librarian.
There was a certain mazy sobriety of demeanour about Mr Cupples all day
long, as if in the presence of such serious things as books he was
bound to be upon his good behaviour, and confine his dissipation to
taking snuff in prodigious quantities. He was full of information about
books, and had, besides, opinions concerning them, which were always
ready to assume quaint and decided expression. For instance: one
afternoon, Alec having taken up _Tristram Shandy_ and asked him what
kind of a book it was, the pro-librarian snatched it from his hands and
put it on the shelf again, answering:
"A pailace o' dirt and impidence and speeeritual stink.
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