“I’ve come to see you through.”
“You’re too late; I’m down and out.” In Bruce’s voice Burt recognized his own harsh tones. “You’ve got nothing that I want now; you might as well go back.” His black eyes were relentless—hard.
“Won’t you shake hands with me, Bruce?” There was pleading in his voice as he took a step toward his son. Bruce did not stir, and Burt added with an effort: “It ain’t so easy as you might think for me to beg like this.”
“I begged, too, but it didn’t do any good.”
“I’ve come twenty miles—on foot—to tell you that I’m sorry. I’m not young any more, Bruce. I’m an old man—and you’re all I’ve got in the world.”
An old man! The words startled Bruce—shocked him. He never had thought of his father as old, or lonely, but always as tireless, self-centred, self-sufficient, absorbed heart and soul in getting rich. He seemed suddenly to see the bent shoulders, the graying hair and eyebrows, the furrows and deep, drooping lines about the mouth that had not been engraved by happiness. There was something forlorn, pathetic about him as he stood there with his hand out asking for forgiveness. And he had plodded through the snow—twenty miles—on foot to see him!
The blood that is thicker than water stirred, and the tugging at his heart strings grew too hard to withstand. He unfolded his arms and stretched out a hand impulsively—“Father!” Then both—“Dad!” he cried.
“My boy!” There was a catch in the old man’s voice, misty eyes looked into misty eyes and fifteen years of bitterness vanished as father and son clasped hands.
When Burt could speak he looked at Bruce quizzically and said, “I thought you’d be married by this time, Bruce.”
“Married! What right has a Failure to get married?”