Dr. Rupert Twaddle
The antiquarian smiles kindly as
Ms. Margery Carter approaches him, having not yet reached the front of the store.
"Ahhh yes, Ms. Carter, a grateful ray of light to grace us this fine afternoon. What what?" he pauses, looking over the article she shows him.
"...torn out by its root and buried in the rough sands of the sea..." he murmurs to himself, then shakes his head, refocusing himself.
"Yes, yes, of course, Ms. Carter. I will be up forthwith." He nods to the erstwhile students, the cat scampering away from the wheeled contrivance in which she sits.
"Chip, if you could accompany Ms. Carter up the elevator?" He politely excuses himself to finish checking the front of the shop before going upstairs to join them.
Approaching the front of the store, he smiles at
Evie, his shop assistant. She newly attends the
Annex admitted on his recommendation. She has a promising mind, worked for him the last two years, and the interest of many young Harvard Men in the shop is likely attributed to her presence at the counter. Rupert doesn't mind; he needs all the help with the business that he can get and she is able enough at managing the counter as he is apt to wander elsewhere.
"Good afternoon, Ms. Evie," he greets her cheerfully.
"It seems I will be adjourning to conference. Will you mind the front and close up when you leave? Good, good..." he avers absently as she confirms, stating she has an engagement for dinner and shall lock up in an hour or two.
- Evie at Bookstore.png (28.11 KiB) Viewed 1043 times
He squints suspiciously at the actual sunlight coming through the wide front windows, pursing his lips and turning to see the others in the overstuffed chairs.
"Guten abend, Johann," he greets the older gentleman.
"So glad to have you... Khafka is it? A shame, his demise. Though such things do tend to bring a mystique to their published works." He smiles.
"I seldom read fiction, of course. Coffee? Tea? Evie can see to you, perhaps another hour or so."
When Johann has finished, he turns to engage pleasantries with the young man reading Blackwood, but is interrupted mid-greeting by the boy at the door.
"Yes, yes... I am he, no need for shouting, yes, yes... Twaddle, RUPERT Twaddle..." Finding his assertion of identity insufficient, he fishes among his pockets, finding two handkerchiefs, a pipe and pouch, a small notepad, three stubby pencils, a handful of pocket change, and at last a worn and folded billing invoice with a postal envelope that bears his name.
"No, I DON'T carry a government identification, who does? Is this a war?" he scoffs. Flustered and flushed, he finally receives the telegram, adjusts his spectacles, and pores over it.
His large, furry eyebrows arch as he reads it, hopeful for the prospect.
"Nahant?" he murmurs to himself.
"That will take all morning to drive there. Through Lynn, at that. Best take Trusty. I do need new shoes, hrm. They should know, at least, I shan't work on Mondays, either."
He sees the boy standing with gloved hand extended. Dr. Twaddle scoffs and balks a moment, his inward offense at the presumption of
tipping.
"Yes, yes, good lad to pursue a trade than the beggar's sixpence. One moment, one moment," he grouses, preparing a written note with his stubby pencil and notepad, then tearing out the sheet.
Code: Select all
To N. Cobb, Nahant
Expect arrival for luncheon on Tuesday STOP
Terms are 1% of collection as private transfer and 30% commission on remaining consignment STOP
Counting the words, he decides to send no more and he apportions the fee for the telegraph office. He then places an extra quarter in the lad's hand with it.
"Now, straight back and see the message is delivered, yes?" He insists on receiving the lad's name as well (with a jab at 'not needing to see his government identification') and then sends him on his way.
"Grammar school, lad," he calls out as a last word.
"Too young," he shakes his head, continuing the conversation presumably with himself.
Still flustered by the exchange and the relative tizzy of activity occuring during the last 15 minutes, he absently mutters some excuses and retires to the elevator himself, ascending to the 3rd floor to join the others.
On the Third Floor...
Dr. Twaddle grumbles and curses under his breath as he struggles to get the elevator door and gate to open. When he at last joins his gathered companions, he takes a moment to compose himself and pour a cup of tea for his nerves. He adjusts the oil lamps and replaces the water on the tiled stove that stands against the wall, still refusing to have electricty added to the building.
"Wayne, do you have a motor vehicle that is operational? Yes? Would you be able to drive out to Nahant on Tuesday? An inheritor has a library collection, and well, I could certainly use some improved consignment stock in the shop. I hope they're not faffing around, but if they pay for a telegraph boy... at least it'sa free lunch," he trails off, losing his thought as he sees the others looking at the newspaper.
"Quite right -- curiosities in our own Yard, as it were, must be properly pondered. Chip, do you know if they've addressed the medical causes? I thought the black tongue epidemic was only happening in southern states."
He brightens.
"There was an exquisite record we found in the Tell Nebesheh dig -- I was there with Flinders and Hilda -- where they recorded the excising of the tongue for speaking out of turn and false witness, feeding the tongue to the cats at the temple to honor Bastet, and..." he trails off.
"But yes, a blackened tongue, you say? 'Stained' black? Quite a difference if naturally black, putrified black, dyed black..." He turns to Ms. Carter.
"Your thoughts, Ms. Carter? Or... has the cat got your tongue?" He chuckles, finding this funny.
