Vol. XCIII 
MARCH, 1923 
ADVENTURES IN COMRADESHIP 
THE FIRST OF A SERIES OF STORIES IN WHICH WILL BE FOUND 
SOMETHING OF INTEREST TO ALL FATHERS OF GROWING BOYS 
ERHAPS this series of narratives 
should never have been written. 
Perhaps there is too much of the 
personal between every line, 
erhaps, after a manner of speaking, 
lere is an obtrusive moral lesson dan- 
ling from the end of every fishing line: 
spiritual text in every charge of gun- 
lOt. 
But there is a fair measure of the 
'ire of sportsmanship as well, and the 
jiurmur of pale green waters along 
opic shores: moralizing will be inter- 
| ipted by the bang of guns and the 
nging melody of the reel. If you. the 
| :ader, by any chance uncover a moral. 
e will ask you to be lenient. For this 
peument is in no sense a preachment, 
?spite the fact that its opening para- 
raphs hold the subtle hint of it. plus a 
fentimental confession. 
Emotionalism, by rights, should be 
| ft in a man’s library when he shoulders 
is gun or takes his favorite rod from 
1 s case. A really good sportsman, bred 
( i the bone, boasts poker countenance 
id frozen enthusiasms. Lifting a trout 
om its stream is no laughing matter 
Ar is it inherently romantic. A brave 
! ttle fighter has been conquered and you 
'e in at his death. I have always main- 
ined that the true trout fisherman is 
liritually clean. His achievements are 
once tragic and glorious. 
I I once fished with a man in Florida 
aters whose one passion was to fill his 
i otor boat with gorgeous sailfish, ex- 
l ibit them on the Miami dock—seven or 
ght pitiful carcasses hanging in silent 
’proach—and then start the murderous 
'usade all over again the next morning, 
hey called him “Sailfish Murphy.” My 
pme for him was less flattering. One 
; ^edition with this gentleman was quite 
ifficient. Ever afterward, the mere 
'ought of him was abhorrent to me. 
Conservation of game is not blithering 
mtiment; it’s a great law unto itself, 
nd, somewhere on the dim perspective 
By W. LIVINGSTON LARNED 
FOREWORD 
of it, conscience rides, snarling, in¬ 
tolerant. 
The adventures of which you shall 
hear, were brought about by a strange 
blend of coincidence and the accidental. 
And while the prelude to them is tinged 
with a confession, I make the confession 
Keenly alert to master the technique of 
the great outdoors 
proudly and with head held high, for I 
believe there’s something in this thing 
for fathers—for a great many fathers. 
If you are a believer in fair play to 
game, then I am certain you will stumble 
upon chapters to your liking. 
I HAD arrived home just after the 
* supper hour, following five days on 
a Virginia duck - hunting jollification. 
Rheumatism from long sessions in water 
and swamp mud and three bedraggled 
specimens represented my trophies. 
Southern hospitality had not run slug¬ 
gishly and there had been bottles of 
corn, gourmandising of rich foods, late 
hours. Somewhere in the fuss and 
bluster of leave-taking I had lost my 
best shotgun. My temper was as ruffled 
as the feathers on the ducks, their 
beauty marred by salt and ice. 
Slippered, my pipe lighted, I had 
sneaked off selfishly to my study and 
was reading when there came a timid 
step at the door. I was conscious of a 
repressed presence. When I looked up 
I saw my boy there, all smiles, all ex¬ 
pectation. 
“Well—what is it?” I demanded. 
For a moment he looked as if he 
would retreat. Then his courage re¬ 
turned and he spoke: 
“Did—did you have a nice time, 
father?” the faltering voice asked, “Did 
you shoot many ducks ?” 
Too tired to talk, I snapped back, 
“Certainly, I had a nice time. Duck¬ 
hunting isn’t punishment, you know.” 
He did not continue the conversation. 
When I looked up again he had gone. 
A little while afterward my wife drew 
a hassock up to my chair in the dim, 
study light, put her hand in mine and 
said: 
“I want to speak with you about 
Sonny-Boy.” 
“Well,” I replied, “well—” 
“Have you noticed,” she went on, 
“that he is getting to be quite a man— 
Contents copyrighted by Forest and Stream Pub, Co. 
