“Got to c-cut down on that,” he thought. “Plays the devil with a man’s health!”
Sometimes, in his blackest hours, he felt that perhaps it was not only his health that had suffered. He would remember the James Vincey who had come to Port Linton twenty years ago, and sometimes he even shed tears, thinking of that promising young man and of what he had become.
Turning the corner, he saw before him the cool, dim office of the Green Arrow Navigation Company. He made for it with what haste he could. There was his refuge.
The doors stood open, and in he went. It was a dignified and handsome office. Along one side was a mahogany counter, and facing it were groups of wicker chairs and tables beneath palms in pots. At the end was a low wooden railing with a gate, and behind this a girl sat at a typewriter.
As he went toward her, she came hurrying out of the inclosure, shutting the gate behind her.
“Hello, Uncle James!” she said casually.
“’Lo, Joey!” he answered. “T-touch—sun.”
He sank heavily into one of the wicker chairs and took off his helmet.
“Shall I get you a carriage?” she asked.
“Might be ‘visable,” he said.