Vincey was purple with anger. He half rose, but the whisky had come, and he sank back to drink it. His eyes glaringly followed Napier.
“Damned young prig!” he said to himself.
Slender and strong and straight was the young prig, with a fine pair of shoulders and a well set head. A steady hand the young prig had, a steady voice, a steady glance. Four years of it!
“Another whisky!” called Captain Vincey.
He gulped it down, waiting for the familiar feeling of partial oblivion; but it did not come. Something within him was wide awake.
“Joey!” he thought.
His thoughts were not clear; they never were clear in these days. He felt a confused sort of anguish, for he had fleeting glimpses of Joey’s face, and it hurt him. He loved Joey, and had meant to do much for her—his only sister’s child. He still would do something for her—something, but what could he do?
That fellow—taken a fancy to him, had she? Well, perhaps she’d get over it, once she knew how he had treated her uncle.
“Joey’s very fond of me,” he thought.
Then he remembered the James Vincey he had been long ago—a promising young fellow. A girl had been fond of him, but she had decided to wait until he stopped drinking; and in the course of time he had forgotten about her.