Harry Blake, who had an eccentric passion for carving his name on everything, never let a captured turtle slip through his fingers without leaving his mark engraved on its shell.

He must have lettered about two thousand from first to last.

We used to call them Harry Blake's sheep.
These turtles were of a discontented and migratory turn of mind, and we frequently encountered two or three of them on the cross-roads several miles from their ancestral mud.

Unspeakable was our delight whenever we discovered one soberly walking off with Harry Blake's initials! I've no doubt there are, at this moment, fat ancient turtles wandering about that gummy woodland with H.B.neatly cut on their venerable backs.
It soon became a custom among my playmates to make our barn their rendezvous.

Gypsy proved a strong attraction.