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Updated: May 10, 2025
"You oughtn't to let young roughs like that come into the buildings. Are they here from some school or something?" "No sir," said the janitor. "They're students." "Students?" repeated Mr. Sims. "And what are they shouting like that for?" "There's a notice up that their professor is ill, and so the class is cancelled, sir." "Class!" said Mr. Sims. "Are those a class?" "Yes, sir," said the janitor.
In the proper order of things it should have been "Abe." Wasn't Absalom Sims always called "Abe"? There was obviously an intentional tinge of satire in this unusual abbreviation. Whether it was due to the "turn" or not, the fact remained that at the advanced age of four and twenty Sally was still unmarried. He lived and fished and hunted mostly alone.
Before him Josephson, the little camera man, quailed. From his path extra people departed, fleeing headlong; and in his presence property men were as though they were not and never had been. Out of the hands of Bertram Colfax, born Sims, he wrenched a megaphone and through it he bellowed: "Put more punch in it, Monte that's what I'm asking you for the punch! Choke her, Harcourt!
It was war time, and he might have been on the look-out for an enemy. "We shall be much obliged to you, Morton, if you make out a rich prize some day," observed Sims. "A Dutchman from Java, or a Spaniard from the Manillas, would be about the thing." Day after day passed, but neither friend nor foe was seen.
An ocean rendezvous had also been arranged with the American destroyer flotilla under Admiral Sims, which had been operating in European waters since May 4, 1917, in order that the passage of the danger zone might be attended by every possible protection. Frequent indications pointing to the presence of submarines in the expedition's course were observed as the transports neared European waters.
And with him was a friend, a sallow, insignificant man in the middle fifties, with ragged, sandy hair, wearing thin. "Shake hands with Tommy Vidal," said Mr. Sims proudly. If he had said, "Shake hands with Aristotle," he couldn't have spoken with greater pride. This then was Tommy Vidal, the intellectual giant of whom I had heard a hundred times. Tommy had, at college, so Mr.
It is a very serious thing; for I am in the habit of setting my watch by that train." "I will see to it," replied Dr. Sims. "By the way, do you want any books?" In the same quiet tone the other responded: "What for?" "To read." "What is the use of that?" "Or any newspapers? To know " "To know what?" he interrupted, speaking with extreme volubility. "No, indeed!
Aside from a large painting of Jesus near the entrance, the tone was functional and non-denominational. A sign announced that two babies had been born overnight. The hospital was known for its high-quality birthing. I could work here, he thought. But he had no idea whether he'd get the job. Gifford Sims hadn't exactly been blown over.
Witness Welsh penillion singing. And wherever this fine physical endowment goes hand in hand with a delicate ear and a poetic temperament, you get your great vocalist, your Sims Reeves or your Patti.
But still the game was Rouleau's, who grew more and more excited with every win. The lieutenant played coolly, and with seeming indifference, in which he was imitated by Mr. Sims, the loss of a few dollars being a matter of small moment to either. "It would make it more interesting if we made it a dollar to play," at length said Mr. Sims. The suggestion was accepted, and the game went on.
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