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.