But that night when Peter got home his father called him into the library and motioning to a chair before the open fire, observed dryly:

"Your friend Strong had a narrow escape to-day, Peter."

"Yes, sir. But for you he would have lost his job."

"I'm afraid so," the president nodded. "Since noon I have been thinking the matter over. What Strong said brought things before me in an entirely new light. I don't think I ever realized before some of the conditions at the tanneries."

Peter waited.

"If it were possible--mind, I do not say it could be done--but if a scheme could be worked out to make a big sort of rest room where the men could go at noon do you think that would obviate the difficulties of my employees? Would it prevent them from converting packing-cases into lunch rooms?"

"You mean a big room with tables and chairs where the men could go and eat their lunch, Father?"

"Something of the sort. Perhaps there could be magazines and books there, too."

"Hurrah! It's a splendid plan. When will you do it, Father?" cried Peter.

"I didn't say I was going to do it at all. I merely asked you to find out your friend Strong's opinion. Do you know, some of Strong's ideas are not so bad. Ask him if a room such as I describe would be as satisfactory to him as the packing-box lunch room from which he and his friend Jackson were to-day ejected."

"Of course Strong will like it!"

"I think I will give the orders, then. That vacant floor may as well be used for this purpose as any other. We shall not want it at present, and if we ever need more room we must devise some other way. I've a fancy, somehow, to call the new venture the Strong Reading-Room."

Peter started to speak.

"Purely as a joke, you know," went on Mr. Coddington, waving his hand.

"Just as a reminder to Strong how very near he came to losing his position."

Mr. Coddington glanced up humorously; then he chuckled and so did Peter.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER IX

PETER AIDS IN A SURPRISE AND RECEIVES ONE

All the next few months corps of men worked secretly transforming into a reading-room the great vacant place, which, on that memorable day, Peter and Nat had appropriated as a lunch room. Carpenters laid the new floor and stained it; painters tinted the walls a soft green; masons constructed a hospitable fireplace. One end of the room was furnished with tiers of book-shelves, tables, chairs, and reading lights; the other was dotted with a myriad of small tables for the use of those who wished to lunch at the factories.

Then one Sunday afternoon when everything was completed Peter and his father made a clandestine trip to the tannery and admitting themselves, crept up-stairs where Mr. Coddington unlocked the door of the "forbidden chamber." The whole room glowed with sunshine which flooded the polished floors and reflected its brightness in the shiny bra.s.s andirons adorning the fireplace.

Peter, who had not seen the place since it was finished, exclaimed with delight.

"You are satisfied then, Peter?" inquired his father, enjoying his pleasure. "Do you think there is anything else that your friend Strong would suggest?"

The lad looked critically about.

"Only one thing, and perhaps that is not necessary after all. But doesn't it seem to you that the s.p.a.ce over the fireplace needs a picture or something? It looks so bare!"

"A picture! I had not thought of that. Yes, I see what you mean."

"Just one picture," went on Peter. "Something that will show well from this end of the room when people come in."

"Yes, it would certainly be a distinct improvement. We'll have a picture there."

Peter raised his eyes shyly to his father's face.

"I think it would be nice," he said, "to have a picture of you."

"A picture of me! Pooh, pooh! Nonsense! The men see me often enough--too often, I fancy. Remember they do not care for me as you do. No, indeed!

I could not think of sticking my own portrait up in my tanneries. I shouldn't want to see it myself."

"I don't suppose you would," admitted Peter, reluctantly.

"But we'll have a picture there all the same, Peter. Will you trust me to select it?"

"Of course I will. Just get something to do with sheep or horses--something that the men will enjoy and understand."

Mr. Coddington smiled down into the eager face.

"I guess I can find a picture the men will like; it may take a little while, though, to get just the right thing. Had we better throw open the room now without it, or wait until everything is complete?"

"Oh, wait! Wait!" was Peter's plea. "Do not open it until everything is done! We do not need to use the place at this season of the year anyway, because the weather is now so warm that every one goes to the park at noon. The secret can be kept until fall, can't it?"

"Yes, indeed. n.o.body, with the exception of Mr. Tyler and the workmen, knows about the room; and they are pledged not to tell."

Accordingly the shades of the new reading-room were lowered, it was securely locked, and the key put into Mr. Coddington's pocket.

As the hammering that had for so long echoed through the factory ceased queries concerning the noise and the mission of the carpenters died away. Even Peter himself forgot about the great mystery, for the ball season was now on and in addition to its engrossing interests he and Nat were transferred to Factory 3 where they became much absorbed in the tanning of cowhides. Here again the preparation of the leather took them back to the beamhouse with its familiar processes of liming, unhairing, puering and tanning. Was there never to be an end to beamhouses, Peter wondered.

"No sooner do we get out of one and find ourselves happy at some clean, decent work than off we go to another! I am about tired of beamhouses!"

wailed Peter.

Nevertheless the two boys stuck resolutely to the beamhouse and to tanning cowhides.

At Factory 3 there also were tanned other light weight hides that underwent a chrome process of tannage rather than the oak or hemlock processes used at the sole leather plant at Elmwood.

It seemed to Peter that he had never dreamed there were so many creatures in the whole world until he began to handle the shipments of hides that came to the factory to be tanned.

"Do all these skins come from the ranches of our own country?" he inquired one day when, from the window, he saw a train of heavily laden freight cars come rolling into the yard. "Why, I shouldn't think there would be a single live animal left in America."

"There wouldn't," replied the boss good-naturedly. "No, indeed. Only a small part of the hides tanned here and at the Elmwood tanneries come from our ranches. The United States cannot begin to produce hides enough to fill the demand. Therefore we import a great many from abroad as well as from South America. When a shipment arrives the skins are sorted: the cowhides and those to be tanned in chrome coming here, and the heavy skins and those to be tanned in oak or hemlock being sent on to Elmwood, where all the sole leather is made. The hides vary in weight, ranging from twenty-five to sixty pounds. There are skins of steers, horses, buffaloes, walrus, bulls, and oxen. The strongest and most perfect ones are made into belting to run the machinery of factories. Leather for this purpose, as you can easily see, must be of equal strength in every part to withstand the great strain put upon it. Some factories turn out belting and nothing else. Other heavy hides are tanned into sole leather for harnesses, bags, trunks, and the soles of shoes. Then there are lots of hides which are not perfect. These are the skins of branded cattle and steers. You know, of course, that on many of the ranches the stock is branded so that it can be easily identified in case it is lost. These branded hides have flaws or thin places in them and are not so valuable in consequence."

"I can see that," a.s.sented Peter. "What is done with such leather?"

"Well, it is usually tanned in oak, or in a blend of oak and hemlock known as union tan, and is sold for purposes where less strength will be demanded of it than if it were made into belting."