"I should think the last baking would be enough to dry the stuff without putting it outdoors a third time," ventured Peter to one of the men.

"Wouldn't you!" responded the laborer with a smile. "But no! Nothing but the sun will do the business."

"It's strange, isn't it?" mused Peter.

"Strange, and almighty inconvenient," his companion a.s.sented.

That it was inconvenient Peter, after his months of experience at the factory, agreed only too cordially. Many a shower had fallen and more than once had he been forced to rush out into the yard at the sound of the whistle and help the others drag the half dry stock to a place of shelter. Since the difficulty was one not to be obviated it was accepted good-humoredly as an evil necessary to this branch of leather manufacture.

"I tell you what, Nat, some day science has got to find a way to get rid of certain obstacles that stand in the path of making leather," declared Peter. "Somebody must invent an unhairing device to do away with the taking off of the white hair by hand. You'd better try your brain at the puzzle. Another chance for you to make yourself famous is to think out a machine for softening fine leather that will take the place of knee-staking. Still another opportunity to write your name in golden letters across the tanneries of the world is to perfect a patent leather varnish that will dry indoors. Now there are three roads to fortune open to you, old man. You'd better select one."

Nat grinned.

"After you, Peter," said he. "You choose your path to fame first and I will follow."

"I'll leave the fame to you, Nat," laughed Peter. "Somehow I've never aspired to be famous--it's lucky for me, I guess, that I haven't, too."

But fame came to Peter notwithstanding--came that very day, and in a way he did not at all expect.

Directly after lunch he was sent by Mr. Tolman to the office in Factory 1 to carry some samples of finished leather to Mr. Tyler. Little dreaming how eventful was to be his errand he set out, whistling as he went. Mr. Tyler was busy that afternoon, so busy that he glanced hurriedly at the samples of stock, gave Peter a roughly scrawled message to take back, and dismissed him. Now it happened that the patent leather plant was quite a little walk from the other factories, for the site purchased for it was far less convenient than the old ball field would have been. A dusty stretch of road intervened which wound its way to the summit of a rise of ground and then sloped gradually down to the yard of the new factory. Peter ambled up this hill none too swiftly, for the day was hot, and on reaching its crest he was surprised to notice that although the sun was shining brightly overhead across the green marshes to the east a shower was stealing in from the distant sea.

Instantly his mind flew to the tannery. The patent leather would have to be rushed in. To-day an unusually large quant.i.ty of stock was sunning on the racks, and it would take the united efforts of all hands to get it under cover before the approaching storm reached the factory yards.

Even now the warning whistle should be sounding.

Peter stood still and listened.

But no discordant blast broke the stillness.

He quickened his steps.

Despite the cloudless blue of the heavens the wall of mist with its burden of rain was steadily creeping nearer.

There must be some mistake.

Tolman couldn't have seen the storm coming.

Breaking into a run Peter dashed in at the factory gate and raced up two stairs at a time to the office.

Tolman was nowhere to be seen. The room was empty!

Aghast, the boy glanced about. Every second was precious. What should he do? He thought a moment of his father and what the loss would mean to the company. Then, without further hesitation, he touched the bell that gave to the engineer the signal for the blowing of the factory whistle.

It seemed as if the interval of silence in which Peter waited, listening only to the beating of his own heart, was endless.

Then the well-known belch from the great chimney told him that his warning was being carried to every corner of the building. From the window he could see the men, hatless and alert, pouring out into the yard.

Eager to join in the work he rushed down-stairs and was soon in the thick of the excitement.

Although the sun was still unclouded no one questioned the wisdom of the order. In and out toiled the men and the stock was very nearly all within doors when Mr. Tolman strode into the yard.

His face was flushed with rage.

"Who gave that signal?" he bawled when he came near enough to be heard.

Every one stopped.

Immovable with surprise the men waited, the great frames of wet leather suspended in their hands.

Peter Strong stepped forward.

"I did, Mr. Tolman," he answered quietly.

"How dare you touch that bell! I'll teach you, young man, that we have no practical jokes here."

"It isn't a joke," Peter said. "I tried to find you and tell you that a storm was coming. When I couldn't, I gave the signal myself."

"Who's running this factory, Strong--you or I? Tell me that."

"You wouldn't want the stock ruined, Mr. Tolman."

"That's my affair. Storm! There isn't going to be any storm! You're a meddlesome young scoundrel! Just because you have had some notice taken of you over at the other works you think you can come in here and run the whole place. Well, I'll show you that you can't manage my business."

Fuming with anger Tolman sprang forward, his arm upraised.

"Don't you touch that boy, Tolman!" cried a voice from the crowd.

It was McCarthy.

But the man was too enraged to heed the warning.

With a quick thrust he struck out toward the lad.

All the blood in Peter's body seemed to throb in his cheeks. Swiftly as a deer he leaped forward and, catching the upraised arm, he held it as if in a vise.

"Let me go! Let me go, or it will be the worse for you," bl.u.s.tered Tolman, struggling vainly to wrench himself free from Peter's grasp.

"I shall not let you go until you cool down a bit, Mr. Tolman," replied Peter firmly.

"You had no right to meddle," snapped Tolman.

"I had the same right that any man has to prevent the destruction of the company's property," was Peter's retort.

"You let me go this minute, you young cub, or you'll regret it," yelled Tolman in a fury. "Who are you that you think you can come here and give orders to me and my men?"

Fearlessly Peter met his eye. Then he sent the man spinning into the crowd.

"Who am I, Mr. Tolman? Who am I? I'll answer that question. I am Peter Coddington, and I have the right to protect my father's property whenever I think it is necessary."