His hand, small, delicately shaped, and dirty, grasped, all the time he was examining Alec, a tumbler of steaming toddy; while his feet, in list slippers of different colours, balanced themselves upon the fender[.] "You've been fighting, you young rascal!" said Mr Cupples, in a tone of authority, the moment he had satisfied himself about Alec's countenance.

"That won't do.

It's not respectable." And he gave the queerest unintelligible grin.
Alec found himself strangely attracted to him, and impelled--a feeling not unfrequent with him--to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
"The world itself isn't the most respectable planet in the system, Mr Cupples," said he; "and no honest inhabitant of it can be always respectable either." Mr Cupples chuckled and laughed groggily, muttering somewhere in his chest-- "You young dog! there's stuff in you!" Then composing himself a little, he said aloud: "Tell me all about it directly." Alec obeyed, and, not without emotion, gave Mr Cupples the whole history of the affair.
"Damn you!" remarked Mr Cupples in a husky voice, as he held out a trembling hand to Alec, "you're one of the right sort.

I'll do anything for you I can.

Where's your Homer ?" So saying, he rose with care and went towards a cupboard in the corner.
His pipe had been so far interrupted during their conversation, that Alec was now able, by the light of the tallow candle, to see the little garret room, with its ceiling on one side sloping nearly to the floor, its walls begrimed with smoke, and the bare plaster covered with grotesque pencil-drawings--caricatures of Homeric heroes in the guise of schoolboys, polemic clergymen of the city in the garb of fish-wives militant, and such like.