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 antagonizing Mr. 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 corner of 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 pa.s.sed. 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 gra.s.s 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.

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."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER V

A CATASTROPHE

In an incredibly short s.p.a.ce 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 ident.i.ty escaped him. His a.s.sumed role 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 Peter Strong'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 Sat.u.r.day 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 the processes 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 grat.i.tude 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 first task 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 of the 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 mult.i.tude 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?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Peter.

His head fairly ached with the information poured 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."