You have never been deficient in that," the old man
protested.
"Why didn't you have the old skid-road planked with refuse lumber so
you wouldn't fall through? And you might have had the woods-boss
swamp a new trail into the timber and fence it on both sides, in
order that you might feel your way along."
"Yes, quite true," admitted the old man. "But then, I don't spend
money quite as freely as I used to, Bryce. I consider carefully now
before I part with a dollar."
"Pal, it wasn't fair of you to make me stay away so long. If I had
only known--if I had remotely suspected--"
"You'd have spoiled everything--of course. Don't scold me, son.
You're all I have now, and I couldn't bear to send for you until
you'd had your fling." His trembling old hand crept over and closed
upon his boy's hand, so firm but free from signs of toil. "It was my
pleasure, Bryce," he continued, "and you wouldn't deny me my choice
of sport, would you? Remember, lad, I never had a boyhood; I never
had a college education, and the only real travel I have ever had was
when I worked my way around Cape Horn as a foremast hand, and all I
saw then was water and hardships; all I've seen since is my little
world here in Sequoia and in San Francisco."
"You've sacrificed enough--too much--for me, Dad.
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