F. They were headed by an athleticlooking, swarthy-featured man, who was armed with a cutlass, which he waved over his head to cheer on his companions. “I too am asked. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. ” He signed his name and reflected. “Never mind me. ‘Parbleu,’ came indignantly from the lady. I spied a small picture of them in your house, though. This spot, which still retains its name, acquired the appellation from an old crone who lived there, and who, in addition to a very equivocal character for honesty, enjoyed the reputation of being a witch. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. "You were watched to-night by Blueskin.
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