Captain Farr discovered them, floating about in an olive bottle, a few miles off Boston Light. As soon as he had examined the papers (which are slightly damaged by salt water and olive vinegar) he perceived their bearing upon an important literary question of the day, and very properly sent them to "The Librarian."
The original papers are to be deposited in the Ezra Beesly Free Public Library of Baxter (Captain Farr's native town), where in a week or two they may be seen by anyone applying to the librarian, or one of his assistants, between 9 a.m. and 8 p.m.
The narrative, written in a shaky hand, on twelve sheets of note paper, contains the following remarkable statement:
I, Professor Horatio B. Fassett, M.A., Ph.D., write this appeal (with a perfectly detestable fountain-pen) on an uninhabited and (so far as I am aware) unknown island, somewhere off the eastern coast of South America, on (as near as I can guess) the twelfth of December, 1908. For two years have I dwelt in wretchedness in this place, a most unwilling (and unsuccessful) follower of Robinson Crusoe. I know that it is customary in such appeals as this, which I am about (in the words of the burial service) to commit to the deep, to give, approximately at least, the latitude and longitude of my desert isle, in order that searching parties (which I earnestly pray may be sent for me) shall know where to look.
Alas! all my studies have been devoted to literature and the fine arts, and although I have certain instruments which poor Captain Bucko used to ascertain the ship's position, I am as helpless with them as an infant. True, I have endeavored to look at the sun with them—and the moon, too, but I could not observe that those bodies had any than their usual aspect when thus viewed. As for the signs which are engraved on the surface of these instruments, I could copy them down here in hope that they might give a clue to those expert in navigation; but as they are, so far as I can see, exactly the same as those which were on the instruments when we left New York, I fear it would be of no avail.
The only hint, then, of the geographical position of this island must come from my narrative. I beseech whatever person finds it to send news of me without delay to the president and faculty of Upidee University, where, alas, I suppose my chair (the James A. Rewbarb professorship of German Literature) is already filled.
It is unnecessary for me to speak much of my career. In the obituary notices that doubtless appeared when the ship "Hardtack" failed to arrive at Valparaiso, I suppose it was stated that I was the only passenger on that unfortunate vessel. I am, I believe, the only survivor of her wreck. Worn out with revising proof of the second edition of my doctor's thesis ("That the umlaut should be placed one-fourth of a millimetre higher than is now the custom") I had, at the advice of my physician, embarked on the "Hardtack," sailing from New York for Valparaiso, Sept. 9, 1906.
The voyage was uneventful for about four weeks, and life on the ship (which I think, by the way, was called by the captain a "brig") was not distasteful to me. One morning, however, I heard a commotion overhead, and going upstairs found Captain Bucko in a state of great excitement. I asked him the cause, and he replied that the mate had put the brig in irons.
I had often read of this custom in times of mutiny, so I remarked: "I suppose it was by your orders, Captain?"