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?” SHE DIDN’T LIKE MY YELLOW SHOES Human nature is the same the world over, and the train is the best place to get the cream of it.