“may i speak, sir?”
“I hardly think you know what the field you are going to take from the men—from us all—means, sir. Not only do we play ball and go there to eat our luncheon but each noon time we have a chance to get a breath of fresh air and go back to work better in consequence. The field, moreover, is the only open lot in this part of the town. At night hundreds of men who have worked hardall day congregate there to get sight of the green grass and enjoy a little interval of quiet. They bring their families from the huddled districts where there is neither sky, tree, nor breathing space. Suppose you lived as they do? Suppose when you went home at night it was to a tenement in a crowded part of the city? You return to a big house on the top of a hill where the trees catch every breeze that passes; where there are shrubs, gardens, flowers. Who needs this space more—you or your employees?”
When he began to speak, Peter had had no clear idea of what he should say; but as he went on words came to him. Was not he himself one of these working men who knew what the heat, the odor, the noise of the tanneries meant? As he went on his voice vibrated with earnestness. There was no doubting his sincerity. It was in truth Peter Strong and not Peter Coddington who made the appeal.
As Mr. Coddington listened without comment to the speech his wordlessness was an enigma to the men. It seemed as if it was a silence ofsuppressed anger and in consternation Carmachel plucked Peter’s sleeve.
“Say no more, lad,” he whispered. “You’ve gone too far. You forget that it is the president himself you’re talking to. You shouldn’t have said what you did, even though it’s true.”
But Peter scarcely heard.
He was watching his father—watching his face for the gleam that did not come.
“I will consider what you have said, Strong,” replied Mr. Coddington after a pause. “I will acknowledge that I was ignorant of the fact that the spot meant anything to the people of the community. If the conditions are as you say we may be able to find a solution for the problem. May we consider this interview at an end?”
Although the remark was in the form of a question the committee felt itself dismissed and uncomfortably the men filed into the corridor.
“We’ve gained nothing!” was Bryant’s first word when they found themselves alone. “We’ve only succeeded in antagonizingMr. Coddington and solidified his intention of taking the field. We might have got somewhere if Strong had not put his foot in it. What possessed you to pitch into the president like that, young fellow?”
“What made you speak at all?” put in Carmachel. “Don’t you know your place better than to think a rich man like Mr. Coddington is going to stand for having a kid like you lay down the law to him? How ever did you dare? Your job is gone—that’s certain. I’m sorry, too, for we all like you here at the works.”
“Oh, Peter! Peter! Why did you say it?” wailed Nat Jackson. “I know you had the best of intentions, but don’t you see that you’ve upset the whole thing?”
There was something very like a sob in Nat’s tone.
Poor Peter! From every hand came reproaches. If only he had not spoken! His impulse, good at heart, had been one of mistaken zeal. It was not that he himself had lost his cause—he had lost it for hundreds of men in whom he had become interested, and whom he had struggled to serve.
Very wretched the boy was for the remainder of the day; when night came he dreaded to go home. What would his father say to him?
Peter might have saved himself this worry, for when he entered the dining-room and sat down to dinner he found the good-humor of his father quite undisturbed and no allusion was made to the day’s occurrence. Surely this was carrying out to the letter the agreement they had made. Peter Coddington was his son and he treated him as such; but to Peter Strong, the boy of the tannery, he had nothing to say. Miserably Peter waited for the opportunity to offer explanation or apology. It did not come and all chance for securing it vanished when, directly after the coffee was served, Mr. Coddington rose, announced that he had an engagement, and was whirled off in the motor-car. He did not return until long after his son was asleep.
Had Peter known what this mysterious engagement was his slumbers would have been happier, for the president of the company had gone on no idle errand. Screened from view in the far cornerof the big touring-car he had ridden past the tanneries and with his own eyes had seen the benches in the ball field thronged with sweltering humanity. Twice, three times he passed. He saw the boys at their games; the tired mothers resting in the twilight; the babies that toddled at their feet; and the men—his men—lying full-length on the grass drinking in the cool air. This was what he had come out to see.
The result of it was that the next morning, in the doorway of every factory of the Coddington Company, the following notice was posted:
After careful investigation Mr. Coddington has decided that it is for the interest of his men that the plan to erect a building on the ball field be abandoned. Instead the land will be laid out as a recreation ground to be known as Strong Park, and to be reserved for the Coddington employees, their families, and their friends. Negotiations have been opened for a site on Central Street, where the new patent leather factory will shortly be erected.Signed:H. M. Coddington, President.
After careful investigation Mr. Coddington has decided that it is for the interest of his men that the plan to erect a building on the ball field be abandoned. Instead the land will be laid out as a recreation ground to be known as Strong Park, and to be reserved for the Coddington employees, their families, and their friends. Negotiations have been opened for a site on Central Street, where the new patent leather factory will shortly be erected.
Signed:H. M. Coddington, President.
What an ovation the men gave Peter that day!And how grateful Peter was to his father! So grateful that before going to bed he felt compelled to break their compact of silence and exclaim:
“Father, it’s splendid of you to keep the field for the men! I can’t thank you half enough, sir. But you ought not to name it after me.”
“I’m not naming it after you,” was his father’s laconic reply. “I’m naming it after Peter Strong.”
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A CATASTROPHE
I
N an incredibly short space of time Strong Park began to be a reality. Men commenced grading its uneven turf; laying out walks and flower-beds; erecting benches and a band stand, and setting out trees and shrubs. An ample area at one end of the grounds was reserved for a ball field; and adjoining it parallel bars, traveling rings, and the apparatus necessary to an out-of-door gymnasium was put in place.
All these arrangements Peter witnessed with delight. He longed to tell his father so, but unfortunately was granted no opportunity. Once,and once only, did Mr. Coddington refer to the project and that was to inquire whimsically of Peter if his friend Strong was satisfied with the preparations, and whether he had any suggestions to make. Young Strong had no suggestions, Peter declared. He thought the park perfect. And indeed it was! Neither thought nor money had been spared to make it so.
Peter was very proud of his father those days when, on every hand, he heard the men extolling the president’s generosity. More than once the great secret of his relation to the Coddingtons trembled on his lips and almost slipped from him, but he succeeded in holding it resolutely in check. Despite his intimacy with Nat and his frequent visits to the Jackson home not a hint of his real identity escaped him. His assumed rôle was made easier, perhaps, by the fact that he had entered so heartily into it. He was really living the career of Peter Strong, and the Peter Coddington who had idled away so many months in purposeless, irresponsible dallying was rapidly becoming but a hazy memory. There was no denying that PeterStrong’s life was the far more interesting one—every day it became more absorbing.
“You see we’re really doing something!” exclaimed Peter enthusiastically to Nat Jackson one Saturday afternoon when they were taking one of their long tramps together. “Washing and carting skins isn’t much in itself, and it would not be any fun at all if it wasn’t part of the chain. But when you think how necessary a step in the process it is, and consider that there could be no leather unless somebody did just what I am doing, it seems well worth while. I never did anything before that was actually necessary. It is rather good sport.”
And, in truth, Peter was doing something. Had he doubted it the ever increasing fund toward his motorcycle would have been a tangible proof. Already it was quite a little nest-egg and the boy, who had never before earned a penny, felt justifiably proud of the crisp bills that he was able to tuck at intervals into the bank. Once more, as a recognition of his faithful work, his pay had been raised—this time to seven dollars.
It was toward the middle of August that Mr. Tyler, the superintendent, who evidently was keeping closer watch of Peter’s progress than he had suspected, notified him that on the fifteenth he was to leave the beamhouse and report in the finishing department. Peter was not only astonished but a good deal distressed. He had worked not a whit harder or more faithfully than had Nat Jackson, and deserved the promotion no more—in fact not as much as his chum. It seemed grossly unfair. Peter turned the matter over and over in his mind. He would have rejoiced in the good fortune had he considered it came to him justly; but to take what belonged to somebody else—that robbed it of all its charm. He thought and thought what he should do and at last he gained courage to go to Mr. Tyler with his dilemma. An appeal for his friend could do no harm and it might do good.
When he had made his errand known the superintendent tilted back in his chair and regarded him in silence.
“Jackson is far better informed as to theprocesses than I am, Mr. Tyler,” Peter pleaded. “Besides, he has a mother to support and needs to get on. If there is only one vacancy in the finishing department can’t you give him the chance? He has been a year in the beamhouse already, and if there is a promotion it belongs by right to him.”
Mr. Tyler fingered his watch-chain. He had never had precisely this experience before—to try to push a man and have him beg that you give his good luck to somebody else. Surely this Peter Strong was an extraordinary person! Mr. Tyler could now understand how even the president of the company, under the spell of his simple eloquence, had not only surrendered a valuable building lot for a park but had actually named it after the youthful enthusiast. The superintendent couldn’t but admire the lad’s earnestness. At the same time, however, he did not at all fancy having his plans questioned or interfered with; therefore when he spoke it was to dash Peter’s demands to earth with a rebuff.
“Most men would hail with gratitude an opening that took them out of the beamhouse, Strong,”replied he stiffly. “It is generous of you, no doubt, to make this plea for your friend, but you see you are the person recommended for the promotion. In this world we must take our chances as they come. Unfortunately the opportunities of life are not transferable, my boy. I will, however, bear Jackson in mind and see if anything can be done for him. Good-morning.”
The nod of Mr. Tyler’s head was final.
Peter turned away, heart-sick at his failure. He had done all he could unless, indeed, he broke his bond and appealed to his father, and any such breach of their contract he considered out of the question. Yet how he dreaded to tell the Jacksons of his success. Nat would be so hurt! Still, they must, of course, know it in time and how much better to hear the news from Peter himself than in cowardly fashion to leave the spread of the tidings to rumor. Accordingly he told his tale as bravely as he could.
“It isn’t as if I deserved it one bit more than you, Nat,” he concluded. “It has just happened to come to me—I’ve no idea why.”
“Of course you deserve it, Peter,” cried Nat. “Haven’t you worked like a tiger in the beamhouse ever since you came here? You know you have. Everybody says so. There isn’t a man in the works but likes you and will be glad at your good luck—I most of all. Some day I’ll be making a start up the ladder myself; wait and see if I don’t!”
Although he spoke with a generous heartiness and made every attempt to conceal his chagrin, Peter knew that in reality Nat honestly felt that he had failed to receive the prize that he had rightfully won. Had not the friendship of the boys been of tough fibre it would have been shattered then and there. As it was their affection for each other bridged the chasm and it would have been hard to tell which of them suffered the more—the lad who through no fault of his own had taken the award that belonged to his chum, or the lad who had won the prize only to see it handed to some one else. Peter, who was the victim of success, seemed of the two the more overwhelmed with regrets and therefore it was Nat who, despite his bitter disappointment, turned comforter.
“You mustn’t be so cut up over it, Peter, old boy! Of course I know you didn’t have anything to do with it. The men in a factory are like so many checkers—they are moved about just any way that those higher up choose to play the game. It is all right and I want you to know I think so. Don’t start in at your new job feeling that I’m sorry you have it. I’m glad; really I am, Peter!”
“It’s mighty decent of you, Nat. I wish I had the chance to show you how much I appreciate it.”
“I don’t want you to show me; I just want you to believe that I mean what I say. And you mustn’t mind our working in different departments. We’ll be together at noon time just the same. It won’t make any difference.”
But still Peter was not happy. Day after day he waited hopefully to see if Mr. Tyler would make good his promise and do something for young Jackson; but nothing came of it, and no course remained but to accept unwillingly the promotion and set his foot on this upward rung of the ladder.
The finishing department occupied several floors of the building devoted to calfskins, and the firsttask given Peter was to help stretch and tack the skins which were still wet from dyeing on boards, after which they were dried by steam in a large, hot room. In some factories, he learned, the skins were put in great rooms with open shutters on all sides, where they dried in the air. But the Coddington Company, he was told, preferred drying by steam. Peter was very slow at tacking the wet skins on the boards. The speed with which the boys worked who had been long at the job astounded him. With lightning swiftness they took up the big, flat-headed tacks, placed, and struck them. One could scarcely follow the motions of their hands. Fortunately for Peter he was released from this work after a few days and set to helping the men who measured the finished skins in an automatic measuring machine; this machine recorded the dimensions of the skins on a dial and was a wonderfully intricate contrivance. Try as he would Peter was unable to fathom how it could so quickly and exactly compute a problem that it would have taken him a long time to solve.
Incidentally he learned many other things ofthe workmen. Some of the very stiff calfskins, he discovered, were “dusted” or laid in bins of damp sawdust and softened before they were taken to the finishers. There were a multitude of processes, he found, for converting the leather into the special kinds desired. What a numberless variety of finishes there was! There was willow calf—a fine, soft, chrome-tanned leather which, the foreman told him, was put into the best quality of men’s and women’s shoes; box calf—a high grade, storm-proof leather, chrome tanned and dull finished; chrome calf—finished in tan color, and with a fine, smooth grain; boarded calf—tanned either in chrome or quebracho; wax calf—finished by polishing the flesh side until it took a hard, waxy surface; mat calf that was dull in finish; storm calf, oiled for winter wear; and French calf, which, like wax calf, was finished on the flesh side.
“How in the world could any one think of so many different things to do to the skin of a calf?” ejaculated Peter.
His head fairly ached with the informationpoured into it by the zealous foreman who, by the way, was an Englishman named Stuart.
“In time you’ll sort out all I have told you,” Stuart answered encouragingly, observing Peter’s despair. “It is simple enough when you once understand the different finishing processes. First the leather is rolled by machinery until it is pliable enough for the finishers to work on. Then it goes through a ‘putting out’ process; by that I mean that it is laid out on benches where it is stretched and flattened by being smoothed with a piece of hard rubber; next the edges are trimmed off and the odd bits sold; some of these go to hardware dealers who use them for washers or for the thousand and one purposes that leather is needed for in making tools.”
“More economy!” put in Peter.
“Yes, I guess you have learned already that we do not waste much here,” grinned Stuart.
Peter nodded.
“Afterward,” Stuart continued, “follow the many methods for getting certain varieties of finish on the leather. Here, for instance, you will seemen graining tan stock by working it by hand into tiny wrinkles; they use heavy pieces of cork with which they knead the material until the leather is checked in minute squares. It looks like an easy thing to do, but it isn’t. It requires skilled workmen in order to get satisfactory results. Over here,” and he beckoned to Peter, “men are making ‘boarded calf’ by beating and pounding it as you see, that they may get fine, soft stock. Here still others are glassing the leather and giving it a smooth surface by rubbing it with a heavy piece of glass.”
“And what are those fellows over by the wall doing?” inquired Peter, pointing to a group of workmen who, with right leg naked, were standing in a row and rapidly drawing tan leather first over a wooden upright set in the floor, and then over their knee.
“Those,” Stuart answered, “are knee-stakers. Strangely enough no machine has yet been invented which will give to certain kinds of leather the elasticity and softness which can be put into it by a man’s stretching it over his bare knee. It is acurious way to earn one’s living, isn’t it? See how quickly they work and how strong they are. Just look how the muscles of their legs stand out!”
“I should say so,” Peter answered. “Why, it almost seems as if they must have been track sprinters all their lives. They must be well paid.”
“What they earn depends on how fast they work,” Stuart said. “All this finishing is piece work. The more a man can do in an hour the higher he is paid. Almost all these fellows are skilled workmen who have been at just this task for a long time. They do it rapidly and well, and receive good wages.”
Stuart walked on and Peter followed.
“Here is a machine that makes gun-metal finished leather for the uppers of black shoes; the leather is, as you see, put through a series of rollers where it is blacked, oiled, and ironed, and comes out with that dull surface.”
“Are all these different kinds of leather really made from calfskins?” asked Peter at last.
“Practically so—yes,” replied Stuart. “Upper or dressed leather is made from large calfskins orelse from kips. Kips, you know, are the skins of under-sized cows, oxen, horses, buffalo, walrus, and other such animals. These are tanned and sorted out in the beamhouse when wet. The thick ones are usually split thin by machinery and the two parts are finished separately. The part of the leather where the hair grew is the more valuable and is called the grain; the other part which was next to the animal is called the split. Remember those two terms—the grain and the split.”
“I’ll try my best,” said Peter with a doubtful shake of his head. “I am dreadfully afraid, though, that I shall forget some of the things you have told me to-day.”
“I don’t expect you to remember all I’ve told you, Strong,” laughed Stuart, good-naturedly. “Why, you would not be a human, breathing boy if you did. It has taken me a long time to learn the facts that I have been telling you. But do remember about the grain and the split; and while you are remembering that, try also to remember that a rough split is the cheapest leather made. Some heavy hides are split two, four, andeven six times and are then sold. You can see this sort of leather up-stairs in the shipping-room of the other factory, and if I were you I would take the trouble to go up there some time and look at it. You may be interested, too, to know——”
But what the interesting item was Peter never found out.
A boy, breathless from running, came rushing into the room.
“If you please, sir,” he panted, “Mr. Bryant sent me to find Peter Strong! Young Jackson has been hurt. He slipped on the wet floor and the wheel of a heavy truck went over his ankle. Jackson says it is only a sprain, but Mr. Bryant thinks the bones are broken. They’ve telephoned for a doctor. Jackson is lying on the floor awful white and still, and he says he wants Peter Strong. Mr. Bryant told me to tell you to send him right away.”
Peter needed no second bidding. Down the stairs he flew.
Only yesterday he had longed for a chance to prove his friendship for Nat. Now, all unsolicited, the opportunity had come.
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TWO PETERS AND WHICH WON
A
FLUTTER with anxiety, Peter followed the messenger back to the beamhouse.
Of all people why should this calamity come to Jackson? In addition to the suffering that must of necessity accompany such a disaster Peter reflected, as he went along, that Nat could ill afford to lose his wages and incur the expense of doctor’s bills. Poor Nat! It seemed as if he had none of the good luck he deserved—only disappointment and misfortune.
Peter found his chum stretched on the floor in a dark little entry adjoining the workroom, with Bryant keeping guard.
“I am down and out this time, no mistake, Pete!” called Nat with a rather dubious attempt to be cheerful. “You see what happens when you go off into another department and leave me. I was all right while you were here.”
Peter knelt beside him.
“I’m mighty sorry, old chap,” he said. “Does it hurt much?”
As Jackson tried to turn, his lips whitened with pain.
“Well, rather! I guess, though, I’ll be all right in a few days. It’s only a sprain.”
As Peter glanced questioningly at Bryant, who was standing in the shadow, the older man shook his head and put his finger to his lips.
“Well, anyway, Nat,” answered Peter, trying to feign a gaiety he did not feel, “you will at least get a vacation. I told you only the other day you needed one.”
“I don’t need it any more than you do, Peter. Besides I can’t stop work, no matter what happens. What would become of my mother, and who would pay our rent if my money stoppedcoming in? No sir-e-e! I shall get this foot bandaged up and be back at the tannery to-morrow. The doctor can fix it so I can keep at work, can’t he, Mr. Bryant?”
“I hope so, Jackson,” replied Bryant, kindly. “We’ll see when he comes.”
But the doctor was far less optimistic. He examined the ankle, pronounced it fractured, and ordered Nat to the hospital where an X-ray could be taken before the bones were set.
Nat, who had endured the pain like a Spartan, burst into tears.
“What will become of us—of my mother, Peter?” he moaned.
“Now don’t you get all fussed up, Nat,” said Peter soothingly. “Leave things to me. I’ll take care of your mother and attend to the house rent. I have plenty of money. You know I have been saving it up ever since I came here.”
“Oh, but Peter—I couldn’t think of taking your money!” Nat protested.
“Stuff! Of course you can take it! I should like to know whose money you would take if not mine.Anyway you can’t help yourself. I have you in my power now and you’ve got to do just as I say.”
“But I don’t see how I can ever pay it back, Peter.”
“No matter.”
“It does matter.”
“Well, well! We will settle all that later. Don’t worry about it. I am only too thankful that I have the money to help you out,” was Peter’s earnest response. “I’d be a great kind of a chum if I didn’t stick by you when you are in a hole like this. You’d do the same for me.”
“You bet I would!”
“Of course! Well, what’s the difference?”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to take you at your word, Peter,” agreed Nat reluctantly, after an interval of reflection. “I do not just see what else I can do at present.”
“That’s the way to talk,” cried Peter triumphantly. “I’ll look out for everything. See! They have come with a motor-car to take you to the hospital! You are going to have your long-coveted ride in an automobile, Nat.”
Nat laughed in spite of himself.
“I’m not so keen about it as I was.”
Gently the men lifted him in and the doctor followed.
“I’ll be out in a week, Peter—sure thing!” called Nat shutting his lips tightly together to stifle a moan as the car shot ahead.
“A week, indeed!” sniffed Bryant, as he turned away. “It’ll be nearer a month. So Jackson has a mother to look after, has he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, suppose you go right over there and ease her mind about this accident before she hears of it through somebody else. Tell her there is no cause for alarm. The boy will have the best of care at the hospital, and she can go there and see him every day during visiting hours.”
“And you think it will be a month before he will be about again, Mr. Bryant?” questioned Peter, anxiously.
“Oh, I’m no doctor. How can I tell?” was Bryant’s somewhat testy answer. “One thing iscertain, however; he won’t be here again this week. Sprint along.”
And so it was Peter Strong who bore the sorry tidings to Nat’s mother, and who cheered and encouraged her as affectionately as if he had been her own son; it was also Peter who, during the weeks that followed, paid the Jacksons’ rent and provided sufficient funds for living expenses. How he blessed his motorcycle savings! Without them he never could have helped Nat at this time when help was so sorely needed. Far from begrudging the money Peter exulted in spending it. A motorcycle seemed singularly unimportant when contrasted with a crisis like this. Yet magnificent as his little fortune had seemed it dwindled rapidly. How much everything cost! How had Nat ever managed to keep soul and body together on what he earned? Peter’s savings melted like the snows before the warm spring sunshine, and one day the lad awoke to the fact that there was no more money in the bank and that Nat’s mother was absolutely dependent for food upon his daily earnings. It was a new sensationand a startling one—to know that you must work—that if you stopped some one dear to you would go hungry.
Poor Peter!
He now had a spur indeed—an incentive to toil as he never had toiled before!
Stuart was delighted with his recently acquired pupil.
“He is as steady a little chap as you would care to see,” he told Bryant when they met in the yard one day. “And he is bright as a button, too. Already he has caught on to the various finishing processes and is as handy as any of the men in the department. And then he is such a well spoken lad; not like many of the boys who come into the tannery. He must have come of good family. Do you know anything about his people?”
“Not a thing. I’ve heard that Mr. Coddington got him his job in the first place, but that may not be true; I think, though, it is more than likely, because they have pushed him ahead faster than is customary. But at any rate the boy hasmade good, no matter who started him. He will be at the top of the ladder yet.”
Peter Strong, however, was not thinking at the present time of the top of the ladder. His mind was entirely set upon relieving the worry of his sick chum and providing the necessary comforts for Mrs. Jackson. Only on Saturdays had he time to go to the hospital and see Nat; but he wrote long letters—jolly, cheery letters, which he dashed off every night before going to bed.
“About every man in the tannery has inquired for you, Nat,” he wrote, “and pretty soon I am going to charge a fee for information. Your mother is all right, and declares that she now has two sons instead of one. You better hurry up and come home, or she may decide she likes me better than she does you!”
How Nat laughed when he read that message! The very idea!
Of all this busy life and its varied interests Peter’s family knew nothing. His father and mother had gone for a month’s trip to the Catskills and there was no one but the servants at home to tell his troubles to had he wished to unburden hisworries. So he plodded bravely on alone. How glad he was that the beamhouse was left behind, and that during those warm September days he could work in a large, well-ventilated room where there was fresher air. Perhaps, however, he grew a little thin under his unaccustomed load of anxiety, for when his father and mother returned from their vacation Peter was conscious more than once of his father’s fixed gaze, and one evening when the boy was going to bed there was a knock at the door and Mr. Coddington entered the room. For a few seconds he roamed uneasily about, straightening a picture here and an ornament there; then he said abruptly:
“Well, Peter—the summer is almost over. Here it is nearly the middle of September! I fancy the weeks have gone pretty slowly with your friend Strong. What do you say to quitting the tannery and going back to school?”
Peter’s breath almost stopped. He had not dreamed of leaving his work. Such a myriad of thoughts arose at the bare suggestion that he could not answer.
Mr. Coddington misunderstood his silence.
“Of course you are astonished, my boy, and not a little glad, I imagine. When I sent you to the tannery, however, I did not intend to keep you there permanently. I simply wanted to wake you up to doing something and make you prove the stuff you were made of. You have done that and more too. I have heard nothing but the best reports, and I am proud of you, Peter. The tannery has served its purpose for the present. Suppose we leave it now for a while.”
Still Peter did not speak.
“Perhaps you are disappointed to stop short of earning money enough for your motorcycle,” suggested Mr. Coddington, puzzled by the lad’s silence. “Is that it? Tell me now, how much would you need to put with what you have already saved? Do you recall the sum you have in the bank?”
“I haven’t any money in the bank, Father,” was Peter’s unwilling reply.
“What! Not a cent?”
Peter shook his head.
“Have you drawn it out and spent it all?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m sorry to hear that—sorry, and a little disappointed. However, we mustn’t expect too much of you. Come now, what do you say to my proposition of returning to school?”
“I can’t do it, sir.”
“What!”
“I’m afraid you can’t quite understand, sir. You see Peter Coddington would like to go back, but Peter Strong won’t let him. Peter Strong must stay at the tannery, Father. He can’t leave. There are reasons why it isn’t possible,” Peter blurted out incoherently.
“What reasons?” demanded his father. “You’ve not been getting into trouble, Peter?”
“No, sir.”
Mr. Coddington looked baffled—baffled, and displeased.
Poor Peter! He longed to explain, but a strange reticence held him back. He had never mentioned at home either Strong’s affairs or his friends and it now seemed well-nigh impossible to make anyone—even his own father—understand how much he cared for Nat, and what this disaster had meant to them both; besides, it was too much like blowing his own trumpet to sit up and tell his father how he had played fairy godmother to the Jacksons. It would sound as if he wanted praise, and Peter, who was naturally a modest lad, shrank from anything of the sort. Accordingly he said never a word.
Mr. Coddington wandered to the window and drummed nervously on the pane.
“You have no more explanations to make to me, Peter?” he asked at last, turning and facing his son.
“I—I’m afraid not, sir. You see it is hard to explain things. No one would understand,” faltered the boy.
Chagrined as he was, Mr. Coddington strove to be patient.
“Come now, Peter,” he urged, “no matter what you’ve done let’s out with it. Maybe I’ve made a mistake in not allowing you to talk more freely here at home about your affairs at the tannery. Itcertainly seems to have resulted in making you less frank with me than you used to be. Let us put all that behind us now. Just what sort of trouble have you got into down there?”
Words trembled on Peter’s lips. Would it be loyal to tell his father—to tell any one, all the Jacksons’ affairs? Nat had told them in confidence and had not expected they would be passed on to anybody else. No, he must keep that trust sacred. He must tell no one.
“I can’t tell you, Father,” he said. “I’ll come out all right, though. Don’t worry about me. I’ve just got to keep on working at the tannery as hard as I can.”
“Are you trying to pay up something?” inquired his father, an inspiration seizing him.
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Coddington realized that further attempts to get at the truth were useless, and not a little perturbed he left the room.
All the next day Peter was haunted by reproaches. It took no very keen vision to detect that his father was worried, and this worry the boyfelt he must relieve. His course lay clearly outlined before him; he would go to the hospital and ask Nat’s permission to tell the entire story. Much as Peter disliked to speak of what he had done to help the Jacksons it was far preferable to having his father suffer the present anxiety.
Accordingly when Saturday afternoon came Peter set forth to make his appeal to Nat. It was not until he almost reached the hospital that a new and disconcerting thought complicated the action which but a few moments before had appeared so simple. How was he to explain to Nat this intimacy with Mr. Coddington? The president of the company, Nat knew as well as he, had not been near Peter since he entered the tannery. Why should young Strong suddenly be venturing to approach this august personage with his petty troubles? Of course Nat wouldn’t understand—no, nor anybody else for that matter who was unacquainted with the true situation. Here was a fresh obstacle in Peter’s path. What should he do?
When he entered the ward he struggled bravely to bring his usual buoyancy to his command; butif the attempt was a sad failure it passed unnoticed, for the instant he came within sight Nat beckoned to him excitedly.
“Guess who’s been to see me!” cried he, his eyes shining with the wonder of his tidings. “Guess, Peter! Oh, you never can guess—Mr. Coddington, the boss himself! Yes, he did,” he repeated as he observed Peter’s amazement. “He came this morning and he sat right in that chair—that very chair where you are sitting now. He wanted to know everything about the accident, and about you; I had to tell him about Mother and the rent, and how you were taking my place at home and paying for things while I was sick. He screwed it all out of me! He inquired just how much we paid for our rooms, and what I earned, and how long I had been in the beamhouse. Then he asked what Father’s name was, and what Mother’s family name was before she was married; and strangest of all, he wanted to know if we came from Orinville, Tennessee. That was my mother’s old home, but I don’t see how Mr. Coddington knew it, do you? Goodness,Peter! He shot off questions as if they were coming out of a gun. Then he began to ask about you and where you lived, and who your people were. Doesn’t it seem funny, Pete—well as I know you I couldn’t tell him one of those things? So I just said that I didn’t know, but that Peter Strong was the finest fellow in the world, and he seemed to agree with me. Afterward he went away. What ever do you suppose made him come?”
“I don’t know,” Peter replied thoughtfully.
All the way home Peter pondered on the marvel. How had his father found out about his friendship for Nat? It must have been Bryant who had told; nobody else knew. Bryant had overheard Nat’s conversation the day he had been taken to the hospital, and Bryant must have acquainted Mr. Coddington with the whole affair. Well, it was better so. His father now had the facts, and had them direct from Nat himself. Peter would be divulging no confidence if he mentioned them.
During the next few days many a surprise awaited Peter Strong. When he went to pay Mrs.Jackson’s weekly rent he was told by the landlord that the account had already been settled, and the rent paid three months in advance. A gentleman had paid it. No, the landlord did not know who it was. In addition to this good fortune Mrs. Jackson astonished the boy still further by dangling before his gaze a substantial check which she said had come from the Coddington Company with a kind note of sympathy. The check was to be used for defraying expenses during the illness of her son.
Peter had no difficulty in guessing the source of this generosity.
Nor was this all. Nat scrawled him an incoherent note that bubbled with delight; he had been promoted to the finishing department, and henceforth was to receive a much larger salary!
That night Peter went home a very happy boy. It seemed as if there was not room for any more good things to be packed into a single day; but when at evening a crate came marked with his name, and on investigation it proved to containthe long-coveted motorcycle, Peter’s joy knew no bounds.
“Do you suppose now that your chum Strong could let Peter Coddington return to school?” was his father’s unexpected question.
Peter stopped short.
It was a long time before he spoke; then he said slowly:
“Father, I don’t think there is a Peter Coddington any more. There’s only Peter Strong, and he is so interested in his work and in doing real things that you couldn’t coax him to go to school if you tried—especially since he has just been given a new motorcycle!”
Mr. Coddington rubbed his hands together as he always did when he was pleased.
“You must not decide hastily, Peter,” urged he. “Take a week to think carefully about it and then tell me your decision.”
“But I know now!” cried Peter. “A little while ago I thought the tannery the most awful place in the world; I hated the smell of it and the very sight of the leather. But somehow I do notfeel that way now. I did not realize this until you spoke the other day of my leaving and going back to school; then I was surprised to discover that, when I thought it all over, I did not want to go back. Work can be fun—even hard work—if all the time you know that you are doing something real—something that is needed and that helps. If you don’t mind, Father, I’d rather stay in the tannery and aid Peter Strong to work up.”
“Do you still insist on Peter Strong’s doing the climbing? Why not give Peter Coddington a chance?”
“I’d rather not, sir. It was Peter Strong who began at the foot of the ladder, and I want him to be the one to reach the top if he can; it is only fair. Please don’t spoil it now by crowding Peter Coddington into his place.”
“Well, well! You may do your own way, Peter, but it is on one condition. Nat Jackson needs a trip away. The doctors say he is tired out and won’t get well as fast as he should unless he has a change of some sort. I am going to arrange with his mother to take him for a month tothe seashore, and I know he will be much happier if Peter Strong goes with him. What do you say?”
Peter looked intently at his father, a tiny cloud darkening his face.
“You need not have any compunctions about going, Peter,” explained Mr. Coddington, reading the trouble in his eyes. “Both the boys have worked faithfully and need a vacation. Their positions will be held for them until they return and their pay will go on during their absence.”
“Oh, Father! How good of you to do so much, not only for me but for Nat and his mother!”
Mr. Coddington did not reply at once. After a pause he said gently:
“Peter, anything I can do for the Jackson family is but a small part of what I owe them. All my life I have tried to trace them. I have searched from Tennessee to Cape Cod. And now, here in my own tannery, I find the clue for which I have been hunting. Your friend Nat and his mother are proud people, and would never accept all that I wish I might offer them; but at least Ihave this opportunity to furnish help in a purely business way. To provide this trip is a great pleasure to me. Some time you shall know the whole story and then you will understand. I want you to know, for the obligation is one that will go down from father to son so long as a Coddington lives to bear the name. Good-night, my boy.”