For
the present, however, it was all a profound and disturbing mystery,
and after an hour of futile concentration there came to Bryce the old
childish impulse to go to his father with his troubles. That sturdy
old soul, freed from the hot passions of youth, its impetuosity and
its proneness to consider cause rather than effect, had weathered too
many storms in his day to permit the present one to benumb his brain
as it had his son's.
"He will be able to think without having his thoughts blotted out by
a woman's face," Bryce soliloquized. "He's like one of his own big
redwood trees; his head is always above the storm."
Straightway Bryce left the office and went home to the old house on
the knoll. John Cardigan was sitting on the veranda, and from a stand
beside him George Sea Otter entertained him with a phonograph
selection--"The Suwanee River," sung by a male quartet. As the gate
clicked, John raised his head; then as Bryce's quick step spurned the
cement walk up the little old-fashioned garden, he rose and stood
with one hand outstretched and trembling a little. He could not see,
but with the intuition of the blind, he knew.
"What is it, son?" he demanded gently as Bryce came up the low steps.
"George, choke that contraption off,"
Bryce took his father's hand.
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