The summer season was in full blast at Lake Toxaway. Hundreds of Southerners and scores of others were there, enjoying the invigorating climate, the cooling breezes, and the open-air pastimes—golf, tennis, fishing, horseback riding, and rowing. For weeks the weather had been fair and fine, and the beautiful and popular resort, in the Blue Ridge, teemed with vivacious visitors, who romped on the lake, in the woods, and along the roads by day and danced, played cards and other indoor games, and chatted in the evenings, making merry fifteen hours a day.

Among the guests at Toxaway Inn was an Englishman, a Mr. Ferrier, who had come to North Carolina in search of rare beetles. To the other guests of the fashionable hostelry Ferrier was a freak—a bug hunter—who, although he mixed but rarely with the crowd, was well known to all by his tall, lanky form, his long stride, and energetic and positive air, on account of which he had incurred, without his knowledge, the dislike of many who came in touch with him. Wherever he went he left the impression that he believed England was the only place fit for a decent person to live.

Captain James Brusard, proprietor of the inn, would not have tolerated Ferrier, with his whims and kicks, had he not been one of his most profitable guests, occupying an expensive room, for which he paid an exorbitant price. The Englishman was liberal with his money, but his manner, which to the average Southerner seemed surly and uncivil, made him disagreeable to those with whom he came in contact, especially the easy-going, indolent servants, most of whom were oldtime negroes, such as had been with the Brusards for more than half a century. The excellent fare, carefully selected and well cooked, the exhilarating atmosphere, the refreshing water and the wealth of insects and flowers pleased him very much, but hilarious pleasure-seekers, and the indifferent negroes riled him. The pretty, elegantly-dressed women, with their merry chatter, did not appeal to him.

“Bugs! Bugs!! Nothing but bugs!” was his cry.

“I never seed sich a man since I been born,” said Uncle George, the head porter. “We ain’t got nuthin’ dat suits him. Whenever I see him comin’, wid dat baskit on his arm, an’ dat single-bar’l glass on his eye, den I knows some trouble’s on de way.”

Ferrier, much to the joy of his fellow lodgers, spent most of his time in the woods, hunting insects. Every sunny day he would leave bright and early and stay away until late in the afternoon, sometimes tramping ten or twelve miles and back between suns. Natives, as well as visitors, soon became interested in him and his work, but no one ever sought him out to interrogate him, or to converse with him. His demeanor was forbidding, yet he never intentionally affronted any one. To the few he made up to he was very affable and likable. He meant well, but his neighbors could not become accustomed to his brusqueness.

The Toxaway country abounds in deer, grouse and trout. During the busy season, sportsmen bring in many trophies of the hunt. Ferrier, if one were to judge from his conversation, was an authority on game. In talking of the catch or kill of the North Carolina fishermen or hunters, he would speak slightingly, and this, more than any other thing, made him unpopular.

“I ’clar’ ’fo’ Gawd,” said Uncle George, one day, “ain’t we got nuthin’ as good as whut dey’s got in Englan’?”

Robert Brusard, son of the Captain, caught a very large trout, brought it home and exhibited it in front of the hotel, and one after another declared that it was the finest fish of the kind he had ever seen, but when Ferrier saw it he shook his head, and said: “Yes, yes, that is a big trout, but we have larger ones than that in England.” When a grouse was shown he made about the same comparison, and a deer, always giving his country the best of it. This kept up until every American in the community was mad at Ferrier.

“Ef I live, so hep me Gawd, I’ll git somefin’ bigger dan whut dey’s gut in Englan’,” declared Uncle George, the boss of all the darkies. “I sho’ is gwine to git even wid dat man.

“When Marse Robert go out here an’ ketch de bigges’ trout dat de oles’ men in dese parts ever seed, den come ’long dat man, wid his single-bar’l eyeglass, slap it up to his face, an’ ’low: ‘Yes, dat’s er putty big fish, but dey’s gut bigger ones dan dat in Englan’.’ I don’t say much, fur I ain’t never been dare. But dat ain’t all. No, sir, he don’t stop den, but des keep on an’ on.

“De yudder day, when Marse Jim killed dat grouse—I believe dat’s whut dey call it, but it look des lak a sho’ nuff ole speckle hen to me—an’ fetch it here, all whut see it, ’cepin’ dat Englishman, say dat it’s de bigges’ bird uv de kind in all de lan’, I wondered whut he gwine to say. Yes, sir, I des wonder whut he gwine to say. But I ain’t hafter wonder long, fur he come ’long, steppin’ two yards at a time, an’ stop, an’ put on dat single-bar’l eyeglass, an’ look down at de grouse. I helt my breaf until he say: ‘Yes, yes, dat’s er putty big bird, but dey’s gut bigger grouse dan dat in Englan’.’

“Dat wuz too much. I des gut right sick when he say it. An’ no longer dan de day befo’, right dare in de back yard, he say dat de deer whut de gemmun frum Atlanty kilt wuz er big one, but not as big as de ones dey have in Englan’.”

One afternoon, not long after the deer incident, the old negro was fishing in Horseshoe River, at the foot of the mountain, when he saw another fisherman catch a mud turtle, or cooter, as the natives called it. At the sight of the wriggling thing, a happy thought came to Uncle George.

“I sho’ will trade fur dat cooter an’ git even wid de Englishman,” said he. “Yes, sir; dat’s des whut I’ll do.”

Going up to the man who had landed the turtle, George asked: “Say, boss, how’ll you swap dat tuckle fur some fish?”

“I’ll trade fair,” said the mountaineer.

“Well, I’m yo’ man, ef you will, fur I wants dat cooter,” declared the darkey.

“I’ll give you two trouts fur him?”

The exchange was made and George set out for home. No one knew what the negro was up to until he let a few of his friends, white and black, onto his game.

“Marse Jim, I wants you an’ Marse Robert to come roun’ to de back yard des arter dinner,” said George to Mr. Brusard.

“What are you up to, George?” asked the white man.

“Des a little fun, sir. Be sho’ an’ be dere!”

George went through the house, telling those whom he liked that he would expect them at the rear of the building that evening at half-past nine.

At the appointed hour the little yard was full of curious persons, anxious to know what sort of trick the ex-slave had on hand.

“George, what is this you are giving us?” asked young Brusard.

“Ax me no questions, an’ I’ll tell you no lies,” answered the negro.

“Marse Jim, ef you all des wait here till de Englishman go to his room den you’ll see some fun.”

“What have you done to Mr. Ferrier’s room?”

“Des evenin’, while I wuz down on Horseshoe, fishin’, I seed a mountain man ketch er tuckle, one of dese here cooters whut bites an’ holds on till it thunders, an’ I swapped fur it, brought it home an’ tuck it up dere an’ put it in dat man’s bed. Yes, sir; I slip up dere right easy lak, pull de kiver down an’ slip him in beween de sheets, so dat when Mr. Ferrier hop in he’ll hop out ergin. All you gut to do is to wait.”

A little snicker passed over the crowd.

Soon after nine the bug-hunter climbed the stairs from the office to his room, unlocked the door, struck a match and lit the candle on the table by the bed.

“Now listen,” whispered Uncle George; “he’s up dere. Did you hear him scratch de match. He won’t be dere long ’fo’ he jumps in de bed, an’ den trouble’ll begin.

“Look, look; see de light go out!

“Now listen, an’ you’ll hear him bounce in!

“Listen; hear de bed a screachin’!

“He’s in.”

“Help! Ho!” came from the window above.

“Listen!” cried the darkey.

The crowd below could hear everything. Ferrier sprung out of the bed, fell over a chair, rose to his feet, scrambled out the door, and came flying down the back way, yelling every jump.

“Help! A dog! A mad cat!”

The onlookers stood perfectly still, while Ferrier rushed into the yard, with the turtle hanging on to his night shirt.

“Take it off! Kill it!” shouted the Englishman.

“Des let him run,” whispered Uncle George.

Round and round the frightened fellow went, with the turtle swinging against his legs, now and then scratching them.

“Knock this thing off, George,” he cried to the old negro.

“Ef you’ll stop so I kin hit it widout hittin’ you,” was the reply.

Picking up a broom handle, George cracked the creature on the head and broke it loose.

“What in the name of the Lord is that, George?” asked the Briton, as he turned and gazed upon the dying turtle.

“Dat, sir, is a ’Merikin bed bug. Is you gut any in Englan’ dat kin beat it?”