"Hillo, bantam!" exclaimed Mr Cupples, to Alec entering his garret within an hour of his arrival in his old quarters, and finding the soul of the librarian still hovering in the steam of his tumbler, like one of Swedenborg's damned over the odour of his peculiar hell.

As he spoke he emptied the glass, the custom of drinking from which, instead of from the tumbler itself--rendering it impossible to get drunk all at once--is one of the atonements offered by the Scotch to their tutelar god--Propriety.--"Come awa'.

What are ye stan'in' there for, as gin ye warna at hame," he added, seeing that Alec lingered on the threshold.
"Sit doon.

I'm nae a'thegither sorry to see ye." "Have you been to the country, Mr Cupples ?" asked Alec, as he took a chair.
"The country! Na, I haena been i' the country.

I'm a toon-snail.