“Why do all the old field trial guys treat you so kindly, Ben?” Sam asked during a sundown session in Ben’s library-conference room on a Friday afternoon. The curmudgeons had just poured themselves drams of The Macallan 12, and Ben had just got off the phone with a friend and some-time client inquiring if Ben knew of any quail plantation jobs needing filling (it was March and the “spring shuffle” time for such hands was in full bloom). Read more