An unwelcome memory awakened in him. He remembered how, at the beginning of the war, he had gone to enlist, and the doctor had rejected him—a fine, big fellow in the forties, in the prime of life. Vincey had been very indignant.
The doctor had known him well, and had made allowances.
“I’d advise you, Vincey,” he had said, “to cut down on—er—alcoholic stimulants.”
So Vincey had stayed behind in Port Linton, while his friends went overseas. He had wangled some sort of military post for himself, and had been made a captain; but a captain who sat at a desk was not what suited him, and for some weeks he had let “alcoholic stimulants” alone.
But he had gone back to them. “The strain of the war,” he said to himself; and then, when it was over, there was the strain of his uncomfortable financial position.
He glanced uneasily at Napier. This young jackanapes had had four years of it. Well, some fellows were like that—they could stand a strain.
He beckoned to one of the colored boys and ordered a whisky and soda.
“This climate—” he explained.
Then, to his great indignation, the other man rose.
“If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know,” said Napier, and walked off.