His name, it appears, was Fitzroy Simpson. He was a man of excellent birth and education, who had squandered a fortune upon the turf, and who lived now by doing a little quiet and genteel book-making in the sporting clubs of London.
"The police imagine, I take it, that this Fitzroy Simpson, having drugged the lad, and having in some way obtained a duplicate key, opened the stable door and took out the horse, with the intention, apparently, of kidnapping him altogether.
"The net is drawn pretty close round Fitzroy Simpson," he remarked, "and I believe myself that he is our man.
Now, presuming that there was some understanding between Simpson and these gypsies, might he not have been leading the horse to them when he was overtaken, and may they not have him now?"
"And nothing to connect this man Simpson with the interests of the Mapleton stables?"
I sew on brown gingham dresses every afternoon when Emma Jane and the
Simpsons are playing house or running on the Logs when their mothers do not know it.
Simpson mused for a few moments after this, and then, thrusting his head out of the window, gave a shrill whistle, and pronounced some word aloud, several times.
Simpson, after having let a variety of expletive adjectives loose upon society without any substantive to accompany them, tucked up his sleeves, and began to wash the greens for dinner.
"I heard
Simpson say, my lady, that Sir Patrick was at the stables."
The remaining forty received sentences varying from thirty to forty-five years; while Arthur
Simpson, referred to in the Manuscript as being ill of typhoid fever at the time of the explosion, received only fifteen years.
Simpson! turn that drunken wretch out," screamed Mrs.
Raggles," said Becky in a passion of vexation, "you will not surely let me be insulted by that drunken man?" "Hold your noise, Trotter; do now," said Simpson the page.