“And he can say the Shorter Catechism and repeat the Psalms of David by heart,” put in Langford sonorously.
“Mr. Langford,––that’ll do. Scotsmen shouldna be flippant ower such serious subjects,” the goodly Mrs. Clunie chided.
“Come up stairs and I’ll show ye your room.”
She showed Phil into a comfortable little place, fixed a price that suited his scanty purse, collected a month’s rent on the spot––lest haply Phil might run into temptation by having that much more money in his possession––and left the newcomer to his own devices.
Half an hour later, Langford shouted to him from the hallway.
“Come on over, Ralston, if you’re awake.”
Phil obeyed.
“We’ve all had to go through what you did,” said Langford, “but Mrs. Clunie is worth it;––she’s a crackerjack. How do you like the lay-out?”
Phil was busy taking in the physical features of Langford’s room.
But for the bed and the bureau, the room was more 60 like a study than a bedroom. It contained bookcases from floor to ceiling, packed with literary treasures.