Talman gave me a sceptical look. It wasn’t that he thought I was crazy, but maybe just a little nuts.
‘Well, George,’ he said at last, ‘I think you’ve been drinking too much of that sour mash in the Kentucky sun!’ I had been living south of the line for five years, that part was certainly true. As for the whisky, I didn’t touch the stuff. Talman and I had been firm friends for around twenty years, a long relationship established through our mutual love of North American wildlife. We’d completed several expeditions together over the years on mainland America, and also once into the forested wilds of northern Canada. Eventually, my teaching commitments had meant a move of home, but luckily, or unluckily, as things worked out, half a decade on had found me back in my beloved Boston. The downside of that was I had no job and very little money.