"I wish I could see you more clearly," he said presently. His voice
as well as his words expressed profound regret, but there was no hint
of despair or heartbreak now.
Bryce, who up to this moment had refrained from discussing his
father's misfortunes, drew the old man a little closer to his side.
"What's wrong with your eyes, pal?" he queried. He did not often
address his parent, after the fashion of most sons, as "Father,"
"Dad" or "Pop." They were closer to each other than that, and a rare
sense of perfect comradeship found expression, on Bryce's part, in
such salutations as "pal," "partner" and, infrequently, "old sport."
When arguing with his father, protesting with him or affectionately
scolding him, Bryce, with mock seriousness, sometimes called the old
man John Cardigan.
"Cataracts, son," his father answered. "Merely the penalty of old
age."
"But can't something be done about it?" demanded Bryce. "Can't they
be cured somehow or other?"
"Certainly they can. But I shall have to wait until they are
completely matured and I have become completely blind; then a
specialist will perform an operation on my eyes, and in all
probability my sight will be restored for a few years. However, I
haven't given the matter a great deal of consideration.
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