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Simson examined the injury quickly and called for the doctor, who probed Neil's shoulder with knowing fingers, while the latter's white face was being sopped with the dripping sponge. "Right shoulder's dislocated, Jim," said Dr. Prentiss quietly to the trainer. "Take hold here; put your hands here, and pull toward you steadily. Now!" Then Neil fainted.

He then handed him his money back, pushed him gently from the room, and so made a devoted slave of Tom Simson. There was a remembrance of this in his boyish and enthusiastic greeting of Mr. Oakhurst. He had started, he said, to go to Poker Flat to seek his fortune. Alone? No, not exactly alone; in fact a giggle he had run away with Piney Woods. Didn't Mr. Oakhurst remember Piney?

Simson walked beside him back to college and across the campus and the common to his room, and saw him installed in an easy-chair with a pillow behind the injured shoulder. "There you are," said the trainer. "Prentiss will look in this evening and I'll see you in the morning. You'd better keep indoors for a few days, you know. I'll have your meals sent over.

"There's one chance in a hundred to save her yet," he said, pointing to Piney; "but it's there," he added, pointing toward Poker Flat. "If you can reach there in two days she's safe." "And you?" asked Tom Simson. "I'll stay here," was the curt reply. The lovers parted with a long embrace. "You are not going, too?" said the Duchess, as she saw Mr. Oakhurst apparently waiting to accompany him.

Now Simson, like a cautious youth, aware of the frailty of matches, wisely resolved to penetrate as far as possible into the interior of the cupboard, in the direction in which he knew his particular boots to be, before striking a light. But at the first step he tripped on something and fell prostrate over a human carcase, which emitted a muffled gasp and moved heavily as he tumbled upon it.

Come, tell the jury, Yes, or No, Mr Simple; it is an important question." Simson looked up and down. Half a dozen friends were winking at him suggestively from different parts of the court, and he couldn't make out their meaning. At length he perceived Munger nodding his head, and as Hunger had lent him a crib to Ovid the day before, he decided to refer to him. "Yes," he said.

Upon this he laughed aloud, then said, "That's not such a bad idea; but it would ruin me forever if it were known that John Simson was ghost-hunting." "There it is," said I; "you dart down on us who are unlearned with your phonetic disturbances, but you daren't examine what the thing really is for fear of being laughed at. That's science!" "It's not science, it's common-sense," said the Doctor.

Simson, "someone has got to be Master. The only question is who." Mary had unwrapped the paper parcel. It contained half a sheep's head. "How would you like it done?" she whispered. Mr. Simson considered. There came a softer look into his eyes. "How did you do it last time?" he asked. "It came up brown, I remember, with thick gravy." "Braised," suggested Mary. "That's the word," agreed Mr. Simson.

But now the doctrines of Antoinette Bourignon, a French lady mystic, reached Scotland, and won the sympathies of some students of divinity including the Rev. John Simson, of an old clerical family which had been notorious since the Reformation for the turbulence of its members.

He dropped a warning to the Duchess and Mother Shipton, who of course knew the facts of their associate's defection. "They'll find out the truth about us all when they find out anything," he added, significantly, "and there's no good frightening them now." Tom Simson not only put all his worldly store at the disposal of Mr. Oakhurst, but seemed to enjoy the prospect of their enforced seclusion.