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You know the type, the kind of man who breaks his wife's heart not because he's bad, but because he's querulous. The nagging type. Nothing could please him. So one day he came to Simpson's show, where I was second in command. "How many patients have you got accommodation for here?" he asked me, Simpson being laid up with a recurrence of his malaria. "Four hundred and fifty, sir," I said.
In 1882 Bancroft could find no better or fuller description than Simpson's, which he uses fully, and reproduces also Simpson's (Kern's) illustration. In the same year investigation by the assistants of the Bureau of Ethnology was commenced. Colonel James Stevenson and a party visited the canyon, and a considerable amount of data was obtained. In all, 46 ruins were visited, 17 of which were in Del Muerto; and sketches, ground plans, and photographs were obtained. The report of the Bureau for that year contains an account of this expedition, including a short description of a large ruin in Del Muerto, subsequently known as Mummy Cave. A
Arrangements had been made to convey the news of a general rising to the men at Simpson's Ranges in time to enable them to reach the disturbed centre before the outbreak of hostilities, and on a Friday morning, shortly after midnight, Jim Done, Mike Burton, and the three Peetrees set off together.
There is a street light a kerosene lamp on a post in front of the Methodist meeting house, but the sexton forgets it, generally speaking, or, at any rate, neglects to fill it except at rare intervals. Simmons's front windows are ablaze, of course, and so are the dingy panes of Simpson's barber shop.
Public prostitutes, two thousand one hundred and twenty three. Concert saloons of ill repute, seventy-two. The number of waiting girls was not then taken. The newspapers of last week, in reporting Bishop Simpson's speech, delivered in St. Paul's Church, made him say that there are twenty thousand prostitutes in New York.
But he hated to acknowledge a failure. He disliked to disavow his own judgment. He made a final effort with her, took her one day to luncheon at Simpson's, and in one of the pewlike compartments, over mutton and caper sauce, he tried to "talk a little life into her." "What the devil has come over you?" he demanded savagely. "You were larky enough over in New York.
They prove the scrupulous fidelity of my Journal. Dr. Johnson said it was a very exact picture of a portion of his life. While we were chatting in the indolent stile of men who were to stay here all this day at least, we were suddenly roused at being told that the wind was fair, that a little fleet of herring-busses was passing by for Mull, and that Mr. Simpson's vessel was about to sail.
"None but the barbarians of the Thames," thought Mike, "none other would have allowed that most shameful bridge." Mike hated Simpson's. He could not abide the stolid city folk, who devour there five and twenty saddles of mutton in an evening. He liked better the Cock Tavern, quiet, snug, and intimate. Wedged with a couple of chums in a comfortable corner, he shouted
"He looks twenty years younger," he said, with a smile. "He'd pass for his own son anywhere." Mrs. Simpson's eyes snapped. "Perhaps he'd pass for my son," she remarked. "Yes, easy," said the tactful Mr. Mills. "You can't think what a difference it's made to him. That's why I came to see you so you shouldn't be startled." "Thank you," said Mrs. Simpson. "I'm much obliged.
Fogg's house, so he must have left Clara Belle there, and Rebecca's heart glowed to think that her poor little friend need not miss the raising. She began to run now, fearful of being late for supper, and covered the ground to the falls in a brief time. As she crossed the bridge she again saw Abner Simpson's team, drawn up at the watering trough.
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