THE PATROL OF THE CYPRESS HILLS

“HE’S TOO HA’SH,” SAID OLD Alexander Windsor, as he shut the creaking door of the store after a vanishing figure, and turned to the big iron stove with outstretched hands; hands that were cold both summer and winter. He was of lean and frigid make.

“Sergeant Fones is too ha’sh,” he repeated, as he pulled out the damper and cleared away the ashes with the iron poker.

Pretty Pierre blew a quick, straight column of cigarette smoke into the air, tilted his chair back, and said: “I do not know what you mean by ‘ha’sh,’ but he is the devil. Eh, well, there was more than one devil made sometime in the North West.” He laughed softly.

“That gives you a chance in history, Pretty