I HAD taken Mike van Wyk and his young son on their first duck shoot. Using Mike’s .410, the boy had chanced an impossibly high shot at a circling flock of whiteface, and a single lucky pellet had brought one down. His unmerited glee slumped when I made him strip down and swim the dam to retrieve it. At the fireside, I told Mike a .410 wasn’t enough gun for ducks, and the boy must learn not fire into the flock. “I think he got the message,” chuckled Mike.
“It’ll do him good,” I said, “I had to do the same once, when I was his age, and suffered much worse.” “How so?” asked Mike. “Oh, I was barely thirteen. It was just before sunup; I had the farm’s .410…
