CHAPTER XVII. 



"BLACK" WHALE CAPTURED BY AMAGANSETT 

 FISHERFOLK 



BLUBBER SERVED AT DINNER THE MEMBERS OF THE CAMP FIRE 

 CLUB OF AMERICA EAT BLUBBER WITHOUT BEING AWARE OF 

 WHAT IT IS HOW TO TELL A FISH FROM A WARM BLOODED 

 AQUATIC MAMMAL WHITE BONES OF GIANT HANDS THE 

 LONESOME SHORE OF NEW YORK MILK GIVERS THE 

 HIND LEGS OF A WHALE TIME WHEN ALL WHALES HAD 

 TEETH WHALES WITH FINGER NAILS IN THEIR MOUTHS 

 HOW I GOT THE EYE OF A WHALE AND WHAT IT LOOKED 

 LIKE. 



Amagansett is a quaint fisherfolk town on Long 

 Island. There are buildings there of recent con- 

 struction and on the ocean front some modern sum- 

 mer cottages, but a neglected old windmill, just 

 such a one as the valiant Don Quixote attacked, 

 stands guard over a small scattered flock of gray, 

 weatherbeaten houses whose hand-rived shingled 

 sides bear mute testimony to their age and respec- 

 tability. 



Among the dust and cobwebs of the attics of 

 these ancient houses are treasure troves that would 

 give an antiquarian palpitation of the heart, old 

 flint-locked guns, with barrels as long as a pike 

 handle, and cartridge boxes containing flints and 

 cartridges, the latter made of the newspapers of 



