"Well, you can't," the bookkeeper responded acidly. "He's busy. If you are wanting a job I can tell you right now that there are none to be had. We have more boys already than we know what to do with. You better not wait. It won't do any good."

"But I must see Mr. Tyler," persisted Peter. "My fa---- I was told to give him this card."

"Why didn't you say you had a card in the first place?" was the gruff question. "Give it here. You can sit down on that bench and wait."

As the accountant held out his hand Peter delivered up the card.

"Peter Strong--hump!" read the bookkeeper. "Sent by--oh, you're sent by Mr. Coddington, are you? Some relative of his, perhaps."

"Mr. Coddington said I was to present the card to Mr. Tyler," Peter answered, ignoring the implied query.

"He shall have it right away, Strong. You'll excuse my brusqueness. I did not understand that you were sent here. We have so many young boys applying for work that we have to pack them off in short order,"

explained the man glibly.

It was evident that he was not a little discomfited at the chill reception he had accorded Peter, for he anxiously continued to reiterate excuses and apologies. Fortunately in the midst of his explanations an electric bell beside his desk rang and cut him short.

"That is Mr. Tyler now," he murmured. "I'll take in your card right away."

Peter watched him as he hurried down the center of the long room and disappeared into a little gla.s.s cage in the corner.

It was an oblong room in which reigned the din of typewriters. Over against the farther wall a dozen or more men were bending so intently over heavy, leather-bound ledgers that it seemed as if they must have sat in that exact spot from the beginning of the world, adding, adding, adding! Vacantly the lad's eye wandered along to the s.p.a.ce just opposite him where, framed in neat oak, hung a printed notice headed: "Labor Laws of the State of Ma.s.sachusetts." For the want of a better amus.e.m.e.nt Peter sauntered over and began to read. The length of the working day, he gathered, was ten hours except for boys under sixteen, whom the law forbade working longer than eight hours. A smile pa.s.sed over the lad's face. Eight hours was surely long enough--from eight until twelve, and from one until five. What if he had been sixteen instead of fifteen, and been forced to get to the tannery at seven o'clock in the morning and work until six at night! There must be boys who did. For the first time in his life Peter was thankful that he was no older.

Just at this moment he saw the bookkeeper returning.

"If you please, Strong," said the older man with a deference that contrasted markedly with his former greeting, "will you step this way?

Mr. Tyler is expecting you."

Peter followed through the central aisle of the long room and entered the small, gla.s.s-enclosed s.p.a.ce where a man surrounded by a chaos of papers and letters was sitting at a roll-top desk.

"This, Mr. Tyler, is young Strong," announced the bookkeeper to the superintendent.

"I am glad to see you, Strong."

So sharply did his eye sweep over Peter that the boy trembled lest this oracle suddenly announce:

"I know all about you. Your name is not Strong at all. You are Peter Coddington, and you have been sent to the mill because you flunked your examinations."

Nothing of the sort happened, however. The superintendent merely remarked with a nod: "That will do, Carter. You may go."

Peter heard the latch click as Mr. Carter went out.

"Well, young man, so you want a job in the tannery?" were Mr. Tyler's next words.

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Coddington telephoned me about you. He told me that you are entirely inexperienced and with no knowledge of the business. I should say the only thing for you to do is to begin at the very bottom of the ladder, if you want to make anything of yourself."

"I suppose so, sir."

The superintendent tilted back in his chair and carefully studied the lad before him.

"You look able-bodied."

"Oh, yes, sir."

"Not afraid of work?"

Peter hesitated.

"I don't mind working if I like what I'm doing, sir," he replied with naive truthfulness.

It was obvious that the honest reply pleased Mr. Tyler.

"I guess that is the way with many of us, Strong," he laughed. "But if you are to have a position here you will have to stick at your work whether you like it or not."

"I mean to try to."

"That's the proper spirit. You are not afraid of getting your hands dirty?"

Peter laughed contemptuously. Later he remembered that laugh and smiled grimly at his own ignorance.

Mr. Tyler seemed satisfied.

"Well, I can set you to work right away unloading skins," he said. "We are short-handed and can use a boy to advantage. Are you over sixteen?"

"No, sir, I am fifteen."

"That's bad. I don't like to take these eight-hour boys. The time we want workmen most is in the early morning and at closing time. Those are the very hours you under-age fellows are not here. However, since you have come at Mr. Coddington's recommendation we'll have to get on without you the best way we can. Strong, your name is! Do you know Mr.

Coddington personally?"

"I've known him all my life," was the reply.

"Then you know an honest, upright gentleman," declared Mr. Tyler warmly.

"His friendship is well worth having and a possession to be proud of.

Take care you do not disappoint him."

"I do not mean to disappoint him," was Peter's quick reply. "He told me, though, that after he got me the place he should not do anything more for me. I've got to make good myself. He's the president of the company and I am just a boy in the works."

Unconsciously the lad repeated his father's very words.

"That's right. That's the way to go at it," the superintendent a.s.sented cordially. "It is very kind of Mr. Coddington to bother his head about you at all, for he is such a busy man that he has more things to remember in a day than most of the rest of us have ever thought of in all our lives. After you once get in here he, of course, can't take the time to follow you up. Having done you the favor of giving you a start he will drop you from his mind. You cannot expect anything else and I am glad you have common sense enough to see it."

At the thought of his father "dropping him from his mind" Peter smiled inwardly. Of course Mr. Tyler could not see the smile, and even if he had he would not have understood it. As it was he now cut short the interview by touching a bell at his elbow in response to which a messenger appeared.

"Take this boy down to the yard, Johnson," he said. "Introduce him to Carmachel and tell him he is to help unload skins. His name is Strong.

Good luck to you, young man. Remember the world is a large place and there are plenty of fine positions waiting for the men who prove themselves big enough to fill them."

Peter took the superintendent's hand but he forgot to answer. Somehow Mr. Tyler's words awakened a train of thoughts which were so entirely new that he could not immediately drive them from his mind. So the great universe of work demanded that you should fill your position, not rattle round in it! The mere fact that one had a rich father did not help much then after all. It might aid you in keeping your job, to be sure, but it could not aid you in doing it. Evidently at the Coddington tanneries there were plenty of men ready to take your chance if you were not smart enough to hold on to it yourself. Peter decided that it behooved him to "hustle." It was a novel sensation to feel this spur to action.