Let me say at the outset that this tale is the truth, and nothing but the truth, as I recall it. The moinds of men sometimes play them tricks, so should I err in this somewhat porcine story I shall not worry too much, for even Napolean made a mistake at Waterloo, Cleopatra and Anthony had to back-track from Alexandria, and of course we all remember that the Swedes miscalculated when they met Peter the Great.

Speaking of Sweden reminds me of one who long since departed from the snow-capped peaks of that far-off land for our own California. If the northern land in which he was born had had such rifleman as he, maybe Sweden would still be living off Russia, instead of having to work like the rest of us nations. The gentleman in question is none other than my friend and colleague, George Brommers.

But perhaps I am ahead of my story. It began like this.

I was sitting in my apartment one night several months ago, dreaming of places where animals walk in goodly numbers. My imagination, I admit, visualized Africa, Sumatra, and other distant lands as perhaps no mortal man ever actually saw them.

The insistant ringing of the telephone brought me out of my reverie and I was pleased to hear the voice of George coming through the receiver. After the usual greetings I waited for what news my friend wished to expatiate on. Those who know George will agree that he beats not about the bush, but rather that he chops it down, and if there be chips that fall he leaves them lie. That night was no exception. The conversation over the phone was something like this:

George - Do you want to go wild boar hunting on Santa Cruz Island over the weekend?

Without hesitation of even thought, my reply was in the affirmative.

George - Then be at Santa Barbara at six o'clock Friday night.

I - Whos's going and what about these hogs? What are they like? And what's the dope on the hunt?

George - About thirty or forty are sailing from Pier 1 at Santa Barbara at nine o'clock Friday aboard some sea-going sloop-of-war, and we'll get bcak sometime Sunday night.

Now, about the hogs: it seems there are plenty of them on the island, and they're mean as hell. They tear down hay sheds, eat sheep when they can catch them and even devour an occasional calf. I hear they ain't so backward as men are concerned, either. Two or three hunters have had their oants cut off by wounded boars, and I'm told the boars are especially find of dark, sun-tanned fellows, so, you big Turk, you better be vareful or they'll surely knaw on your frame.

(Note - I cannot figure how he takes sixty-three sixty-fourths English and Irish and one sixty-fourth American Indian and gets a Turk out of it, but that's George's pet name for yours truly.)

I - The details sound interesting, but who's going to look out for you, as you've long since given up shooting the bow for shooting the bull?

My sudden offensive attack stopped him momentarily, but not for long. Geroge van come back, even when one feels he has him behind the eight ball. He fed me this one: