Well, well. Just when I was thinking about knocking the old boy off the payroll for good, Randolph St Cubbins checked in today. This was the first we’d heard of him since we received an order for books we’d never published scrawled on the stationary of the Temple Bar Hotel, Dublin, accompanied, as usual, by an assortment of Guiness-stained meal and taxi receipts. But I digress.
Today a package arrived from our long-absconding, fiddle-footed book traveller Randolph St Cubbins. Interestingly, the return address on the package is for the ‘North Pole’, but the package was postmarked in Toronto. This further fuels our suspicion that Randolph is having us on. Likely holed up in the Black Rooster on Bathurst or some other such scheme. Blackguard! Well, say what you will, he does occasionally make a book sale or two, and he certainly knows how to butter up the old employer with a Christmas gift. So here’s to you, St Cubbins, wherever you may be. Merry Christmas!
ANDREW STEEVES ¶ PRINTER & PUBLISHER
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