He had got a post as clerk in the London office of the Green Arrow Navigation Company. He had been only twenty-two then, and a queer mixture of boyishness and maturity. He had had a lifetime of experience of a sort; but of average, everyday life he knew next to nothing. He was a shabby, silent boy, coolly and doggedly determined to get on in the world.
He had got on. Here he was, at twenty-nine, manager of the Port Linton branch, going to master Port Linton and go on to something better. He was still very young and intolerant in some ways, very mature in others. He was very lonely, proud as Lucifer, and stubborn as a mule.
The leisurely air of the office—his office—had annoyed him. He knew how to handle men—he had learned that as a lieutenant at twenty-one. He was just, and he was inflexible. He saw that things were lamentably slack here, and he had wasted no time in telling Sprague and McLean that a new era had begun.
He had intended to let this girl know it, too—until he had glanced up and their eyes met.
Hard as nails was young Napier with Sprague, and McLean, and every one else with whom he did business; but not with Joey.
“Mr. Brown used to give me notes about the letters, and I answered them myself,” she explained.
Napier gave her his letters, and she answered them in the courteous and stilted fashion that Mr. Brown had taught her.
“I’m sorry,” said Napier, “but I’m afraid this won’t quite do. Sit down, and I’ll give you some idea of what I want.”
While he talked, he often glanced at her, and always he found her steadfast gray eyes fixed upon his face. She took the letters away and did them over again—his way this time.
“She’s game,” he thought. “No whining—no excuses!”