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Updated: May 31, 2025
There an aged seafaring person, temporarily stranded, mulcted the Professor of a dollar an undertaking that required no art and in the course of his recital touched upon yonder little cesspool of infernal iniquities. An uncharted volcanic island: one that he could have all for his own; you may guess whether Dr. Schermerhorn was interested.
It appeared to stagger as though hurt; and every eight or ten paces it stopped and rested in a bent-over position. The murky light was too dim for me to make out details; but after a moment a rift in the veil enabled me to identify Dr. Schermerhorn carrying, with great difficulty, the chest. I took no chances, but began at once to shout, as soon as I saw the men had noticed his coming.
Suddenly he turned to me and laid his hand on my shoulder with one of those sudden bursts of confidence I came later to recognise and look for, but in which I could never quite believe nor disbelieve. "I am eaten with curiosity," he stated in the least curious voice in the world. "I suppose you know who his Nibs is?" "Dr. Schermerhorn, do you mean?" "Yes. Well, I've been with him ten years.
I was born in the village of Huntingdon, on Long-Island, on the 11th day of May, 1786. Joseph Atterley, my father, formerly of East Jersey, as it was once called, had settled in this place about a year before, in consequence of having married my mother, Alice Schermerhorn, the only daughter of a snug Dutch farmer in the neighbourhood.
At the top Captain Selover met him. "Hello, doctor," he squeaked. "Here in good time. We're busy, you see. Let me carry your chest for you." "No, no!" Dr. Schermerhorn fairly glared. "It's almighty heavy," insisted the captain. "Let me give you a hand." "You must not touch!" emphatically ordered the scientist. "Where iss the cabin?" He disappeared down the companionway clasping his precious load.
The salt smell of seaweed was in my nostrils: I found the place pleasant With these few and scattered impressions we returned to the ship. It had been warped to a secure anchorage, and snugged down. Dr. Schermerhorn and Darrow were on deck waiting to go ashore. I made my report. The two passengers disappeared. They carried lunch and would not be back until night-fall.
"We'd better begin with the singing children," he said to Schermerhorn, "and then we won't feel we're keeping them up late." The guide led them through Dupont Street, the street of the bazaars, and another smaller, less noisy street, where fat, long-gowned men, and women with gold clasps in their glittering edifices of ebony hair, chaffered for dried abalones, green sugarcane, and Chinese nuts.
In contact with the men, I dreaded lest sooner or later he do something to lessen or destroy the awe in which they held him. Of course Dr. Schermerhorn had been mistaken in his man: A real captain of men would have risen to circumstances wherever he found them. But who could have foretold? Captain Selover had been a rascal always, but a successful and courageous rascal.
The savages were attacking the house of a Mr. Schermerhorn, where a few of the settlers had collected for defense, when Benteen approached.
"You say there's a harbour?" inquired Captain Selover. "It should be on the west end," said Dr. Schermerhorn. Captain Selover drew me one side. He, too was a little aroused. "Now wouldn't that get you?" he squeaked. "Doctor runs up against a Norwegian bum who tells him about a volcanic island, and gives its bearings. The island ain't on the map at all.
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