sensation of "really sailing a 
which may seem dull, time-worn, shabby hands on tiller, he enjoyed the 
with age, to HIM, are, in reality, ' ~ - 
splendid sport to every new generation. 
Sonnyboy was having the time of his 
young life and every little while, as he 
turned the tiller every so little, one way 
or the other, under Mike’s guidance, he 
cast a ladiant glance in my direction 
eager for my approval. These were 
boat." He was beginning to 
tan up. where once he had 
been blueish-white, from school 
study and too many story¬ 
books. I saw, at the tiller of 
The Elsie, a NEW son, a boy 
being gradually transformed. 
i • r , , , % i . giauuauy LI dllb lUrlllGCl, 
hi. hist tastes of real responsibility and and, what was more significant 
thpv miKPr hie mil cp > f ^ I ,*11 1 . « . ^ . 
they caused his pulse to throb ! 
“Always watch, th’ luff uv yo’ sail,” 
Mike said, “when yo' is holdin’ her to 
th - wind dat’s th’ fust place what shakes 
. . . which mean dat yo’ has her too close 
ter de wind ... she des’ tryin’ ter shake 
hit out! Haul her off ontil hit fills 
agin’ . . tiller to yo’, Son. tiller to yo’. 
“Yo’ sets ter de windward . . . like 
yo’ is now . . . dat side er de boat . 
so as it will give yo’ a chanct in case 
yo’ mu s’ haul her off right quick. Pull 
her to yo’, ef yo’ wants ter haul her 
off . . 
ter luff 
still, a change taking place in 
my own relations with him. 
I his was indeed comradeship ! 
And I marvelled that pref¬ 
erence had so long included 
men of my own age, with 
Sonny barred, because of his 
Youth. As if Youth were 
a hindrance, a thing to be 
shunned, uncompanionable and 
half-baked ! 
Several hundred feet off the 
- - shore of a large water oak and 
1 ush her .frum yo ef yo wants mangrove island, we dropped anchor in 
Ip w’ l h „ en -. y ° :. S ‘'. S L 5 ftee " L'W water ’ a . nd riared up lines 
de lee side of de boat, den it mixes vo 
all up . . . sort ob 
for still-fishing for whiting. 
Mike had 
il akward like 
an' doin’ every¬ 
thin’ backwards.” 
Sonnyboy’s 
head was kept 
? busy nodding. 
He was getting 
every word of 
it, reasoning it 
out . . . asking 
himself the why 
and the where¬ 
fore. 
“Starbo’d is 
Right . . . port is 
| boat," Mike ram¬ 
bled on, “See dat 
boat coinin’ to yo’ 
|: • • • well, yo’ ai¬ 
rways keeps ter de 
i starboard. Bern’s 
d e rules... 
dem's de rules! 
Young Cap’n . 
yo sho’ c’n RUN DAT BOAT !” 
I can never forget the look of sublime 
satisfaction on Sonnyboy’s face, as, 
a “hunch” that the big fellows would be 
coming in with this tide, after the three 
days of severe storm which had preceded 
our little cruise. 
And Mike was playing an 
altogether safe hunch! 
We could have pulled in 
a hundred whiting, ranging 
from two pounds to three and 
a half. We did take over 
fifty, because Alike carefully 
explained that his “church 
festival” could use them, and 
there would be no waste. The 
shrimp bait is a delicacy with 
this delicious pan-fish and the 
lines scarcely touched bottom 
before there was a jazzy tug. 
"Keep dat line coinin’ .... 
don’ hav’ no slack,” Mike 
would shout, as he coached 
Sonnyboy, who was now in a 
species of deliriously happy 
trance. He was con¬ 
tributing successfully to the 
box. And when one was 
missed, and the lad gave ejac¬ 
ulations of dismay or disappointment, 
Mike came back with: “Giv’ de’ fish a 
chanct, Little Cap’n: play fair wid ’em. 
Yo’ can't git ’em 
— 
LiEL.tiS 
DAD 
ALL 
de time; ef 
y o’ DID, it 
wouldn’t be no 
fun.” 
And in sym¬ 
pathy with this, 
I told him of 
"Blue Ridge 
T o m m y,” the 
truest sportsman 
and the greatest 
trout fisherman I 
had ever known. 
For I had met 
I' o m m y, the 
phenom’, w bile 
whipping streams 
in the Blue Ridge 
Mountains, years 
before. There 
was a kindly 
moral in the true 
story for Sonny¬ 
boy . . . for all 
fishermen. 
Tommy was a youngster—just a bit 
older than my own son, and he had been 
reared in the high, picturesque hills. His 
father before him, a mountaineer, had 
been a famous fly-fisherman, and Tom 
began when he was old enough to 
toddle. 
It was characteristic of Tommy’s 
sportsmanship, that he never fished 
down stream—and he never moved his 
elbow from his side. That eight and a 
half foot cane rod had been purchased 
at a country store and his line was in¬ 
differently good. But what a fly! And 
he made them for himself . . j grouse 
and ycllowhammer feathers scientifical¬ 
ly fitted into cork! His use of flies, 
incidentally, was regulated by the sea¬ 
son of the year and the conditions of 
water. He suffered no fool notion that 
a superior fly was serviceable on ALL 
occasions, ALL THE WHILE. 
Blue-Ridge Tommy fished up stream 
dropping his fly with rare grace and 
skill above breaks caused by submerged 
rocks, and then permitting it to float 
(Continued ou page 254) 
I ’af/0 233 
