A Matter of Interest

A Matter of Interest
by Robert W. Chambers

He that knows not, and knows not that he knows not, is a fool. Shun
him.
He that knows not, and knows that he knows not, is simple. Teach him.
He that knows, and knows not that he knows, is asleep. Wake him.
He that knows, and knows that he knows, is wise. Follow him.
--Arabian Proverb.

I.
Much as I dislike it, I am obliged to include this story in a volume
devoted to fiction: I have attempted to tell it as an absolutely true story,
but until three months ago, when the indisputable proofs were placed
before the British Association by Professor James Holroyd, I was
regarded as an impostor. Now that the Smithsonian Institute in
Washington, the Philadelphia Zoological Society, and the Natural
History Museum of New York city, are convinced that the story is
truthful and accurate in every particular, I prefer to tell it my own way.
Professor Holroyd urges me to do this, although Professor Bruce
Stoddard, of Columbia College, is now at work upon a pamphlet, to be
published the latter part of next month, describing scientifically the
extraordinary discovery which, to the shame of the United States, was
first accepted and recognised in England.
Now, having no technical ability concerning the affair in question, and
having no knowledge of either comparative anatomy or zoology, I am

perhaps unfitted to tell this story. But the story is true; the episode
occurred under my own eyes--here, within a few hours' sail of the
Battery. And as I was one of the first persons to verify what has long
been a theory among scientists, and, moreover, as the result of
Professor Holroyd's discovery is to be placed on exhibition in Madison
Square Garden on the twentieth of next month, I have decided to tell, as
simply as I am able, exactly what occurred.
I first wrote out the story on April 1, 1896. The North American
Review, the Popular Science Monthly, the Scientific American, Nature,
Forest and Stream, and the Fossiliferous Magazine in turn rejected it;
some curtly informing me that fiction had no place in their columns.
When I attempted to explain that it was not fiction, the editors of these
periodicals either maintained a contemptuous silence, or bluntly
notified me that my literary services and opinions were not desired. But
finally, when several publishers offered to take the story as fiction, I cut
short all negotiations and decided to publish it myself. Where I am
known at all, it is my misfortune to be known as a writer of fiction.
This makes it impossible for me to receive a hearing from a scientific
audience. I regret it bitterly, because now, when it is too late, I am
prepared to prove certain scientific matters of interest, and to produce
the proofs. In this case, however, I am fortunate, for nobody can
dispute the existence of a thing when the bodily proof is exhibited as
evidence.
This is the story; and if I write it as I write fiction, it is because I do not
know how to write it otherwise.
I was walking along the beach below Pine Inlet, on the south shore of
Long Island. The railroad and telegraph station is at West Oyster Bay.
Everybody who has travelled on the Long Island Railroad knows the
station, but few, perhaps, know Pine Inlet. Duck shooters, of course, are
familiar with it; but as there are no hotels there, and nothing to see
except salt meadow, salt creek, and a strip of dune and sand, the
summer-squatting public may probably be unaware of its existence.
The local name for the place is Pine Inlet; the maps give its name as
Sand Point, I believe, but anybody at West Oyster Bay can direct you

to it. Captain McPeek, who keeps the West Oyster Bay House, drives
duck shooters there in winter. It lies five miles southeast from West
Oyster Bay.
I had walked over that afternoon from Captain McPeek's. There was a
reason for my going to Pine Inlet--it embarrasses me to explain it, but
the truth is I meditated writing an ode to the ocean. It was out of the
question to write it in West Oyster Bay, with the whistle of locomotives
in my ears. I knew that Pine Inlet was one of the loneliest places on the
Atlantic coast; it is out of sight of everything except leagues of gray
ocean. Rarely one might make out fishing smacks drifting across the
horizon. Summer squatters never visited it; sportsmen shunned it,
except in winter. Therefore, as I was about to do a bit of poetry, I
thought that Pine Inlet was the spot for the deed. So I went there.
As I was strolling along