Rensselaer Republican, Volume 16, Number 12, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 November 1883 — A Night of Terror. [ARTICLE]

A Night of Terror.

A good story is told on one of the best known and most popular commercial tourists traveling in this circuit, As he hasn’t paid us anything as hush money we feel bound by duty and the insatiable demands of our friends, who persist in wanting something to read, to give publicity to the episode, and now you have it. The tourist, who is the hero of this tale, has an intense, almost maniacal hatred for the species of bug that sometimes is found inhabiting beds, and if, perchance, he encounters any of the pesky critters he is sure to go into “conniptions”—and the office—and raise a small sized thunder in the vicinity of his locality. Not long since he put up at a hotel in a small town not a million miles from Fort W’ayne, He was given room No. 13, which, to his superstitious mind, boded evil. But as he had to take room 13 or nothing, he took room 13. On retiring to his couch, in other words, when he went to bed, he set about to minutely examine the interstices of the furniture, all the while in great fear that he would find wdiat he was looking for and surprise a colony ot the enemy. But he found not a living, creeping creature, so, partly assured, he blew out the gas, or turned off thd candle or whatever it was, and got between the covers. We say partly assured, because he had done the same thing before and discovered before morning that he hadn't looked in the right place for the bugs. He lay awake for an hour waiting for the voracious beasts of prey to begin on his anatomy. In this frame of mind it was easy to imagine he could feel the tickling sensation produced by the bugs running races up and down his—his limbs. Now he was sure he could feel the trotting, and pacing and running stock exercising on the track. Yes, and even the heavy draught and general purpose bugs he could feel as they were led out to be awarded the premium. Hejgrewrdesperate.: y He grew more desperate. What had he done that he should be made to serve as an agricultural fair ? The live stock seemed to be getting more numerous and heavy until—great jeewhilikens! he could feel one walking over his feet. He could feel its footsteps, and it appeared to be outside the covers. Slowly it stepped over his feet and then deliberately began to walk airing the now thoroughly terrified drummer's—limbs. He could have sworn that this Jumpo of bugs weighed five pounds. —He could stand it no longer. Whyshould he lie there quietly to be devoured by this voracious Goliath of bugdom ? He wouldn’t. With a terrific and almost unearthly yell, he gave a furious kick that sent the bug across the room, while he (the drummer) ran out of his room and came in collision with a committee consisting of the night Clerk, (who was also dish-washer during the day) the landlady, a chambermaid and a locomotive engineer who wanted to know what was up, 2ZZZZZZ “Oh! Lord Coleridge, what bugs! what bugs!” was all the terrified fellow’ could Offer in explanation. “Bugs, you drunken deliriuin tremens galoot,—do you say there are bugs in my house?” demanded the irate landlady. “Go and see for yourselves,” panted the tourist. The committee, all but the chambermaid who had precipitately flown when she saw the drummer’s deshabille (which is French for underclothes) now “I kicked a whopper of a bug into that corner,” said the commercial man, “and maybe you’ll find him there with a broken neck.” The landlady with the light advanced to the point indicated, and bolding the tallow dip aloft she‘pointed to a creature under the washstand. “There’s your big bug, sir.” It was the cat.— The Hoosier.