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THE STORY OF LEATHER
by
SARA WARE BASSETT
Author of
"The Story of Lumber"
"The Story of Wool"
"The Story of Glass"
"The Story of Sugar"
"The Story of Silk"
"The Story of Porcelain"
Illustrated by C. P. Gray
[Illustration: THE REVOLVING DRUMS]
[Illustration]
The Penn Publishing
Company Philadelphia
1927
Copyright
1915 by
The Penn
Publishing
Company
The Story of Leather
_To_
_Mr. A. C. Lawrence_
_whose friendship has followed me all_
_my life and but for whose kindly aid_
_this book could never have been written._
_S. W. B._
Contents
I. THE THUNDERBOLT 9
II. PETER WINS ANOTHER NAME 28
III. A NEW FRIEND 51
IV. PETER'S MAIDEN SPEECH 70
V. A CATASTROPHE 97
VI. TWO PETERS AND WHICH WON 112
VII. THE CLIMB UP THE LADDER 133
VIII. A NARROW ESCAPE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 151
IX. PETER AIDS IN A SURPRISE AND RECEIVES ONE 172
X. THE CLIMB BECOMES DIFFICULT 186
XI. TOLMAN EXPERIENCES A SHOCK 209
XII. MR. CODDINGTON TELLS A STORY 225
Illustrations
PAGE
THE REVOLVING DRUMS _Frontispiece_
A MATCH WAS UNDER WAY 47
"MAY I SPEAK, SIR?" 90
IN THE FINISHING DEPARTMENT 137
THE THREE MEN STEPPED FORWARD 164
HE SENT THE MAN SPINNING INTO THE CROWD 219
[Illustration]
THE STORY OF LEATHER
CHAPTER I
THE THUNDERBOLT
Peter Coddington sat in the afternoon sunshine on the steps of his big
colonial home looking absently out over the circular drive, and the
quaint terraced garden, to the red-tiled roof of the garage beyond. But
he was not thinking of the garage; he could not, in fact, even have told
you the color of its vivid tiling. No! He had far more important things
to think of than that--disquieting things which worried him and made him
very unhappy. For about the twentieth time he took from his pocket his
school report and ran his eye down the column of figures written upon
the white card. He did not read because the reading gave him pleasure.
Neither was the bit of pasteboard white any more. Instead it was thumbed
and worn at the corners until it had gradually assumed a dismal grayish
hue--a color quite in harmony with Peter's own mood.
Peter really did not need to look at the report at all, for already he
could close his eyes and see before him in glaring type:
Algebra 40
History 20
Latin 30
French 30
Drawing 25
What a horrible fascination there was in those marks! He found himself
repeating them aloud to impress upon his mind the fact that they
actually were true. But what was far more tragic than these testimonials
of defeat was a foot-note written in red ink in the well-known hand of
Mr. Christopher, the principal of the school. It read:
"In consequence of Peter Coddington's poor scholarship and
unsatisfactory deportment it is against the rules of the Milburn High
School that he retain any position in school athletics until such time
as both his studies and his conduct reach the standard required by the
school authorities."
It was that single sentence that made Peter's face so grave. The marks
alone were bad enough. He was heartily ashamed of them because he knew
that if he had studied even a reasonable amount of time he could easily
have passed in every subject. It was by no means difficult work for a
boy of his ability. But to be put off the ball team! Why, it was on his
pitching that the whole Milburn school was pinning its faith in the
coming game against Leighton Academy. "Peter will save the day!" the
fellows had declared. What would they say when they discovered that
their hero was to be dropped from the team--that he had not passed one
of the freshman examinations?
Half the pride and glory of the freshman class centered about Peter.
Throughout the grammar school he had made a wonderful record in
athletics; his unerring drop kick had won him fame at football long
before he was out of the sixth grade, and he could pitch a ball with a
speed and curve almost professional in its nicety. "Wait until Peter
Coddington gets into the high school!" had been the cry. "Milburn can
then wipe up the ground with every school within reach." As Peter had
never been much of a student the gate of this temple of learning had
been difficult to reach; but at last the day came when he managed to
squeak inside the coveted portals where all the honors promised him were
at once laid at his feet. He became a member of the football eleven,
pitcher on the freshman nine, president of his class. Friends swarmed
about him, for he had a pleasant way of greeting everybody, he treated
generously, and he had a winsome little chuckle that spread merriment
wherever he went.
None of these qualities, however, helped his poor scholarship, which he
jauntily excused by explaining to his father at the end of the first
quarter that he had not really got into the game yet. In consequence Mr.
Coddington listened and was patient. When the mid-year record dropped
even lower Peter's argument was that it took time to adjust one's self
to novel conditions. But as spring brought no improvement Mr.
Coddington, a man of few words, remarked severely: "I will give you one
more chance, son."
The list of figures in Peter's hand were the fruit of that chance.
Peter had a wholesome awe of his father. He was not a man to be
bamboozled. On the contrary Mr. Coddington was a keen, direct person who
came straight to a point in a few terse sentences; predominant in his
character was an unflinching sense of justice which was, however,
fortunately tempered with enough kindness to make a misdoer mortified
but never afraid in his presence. Peter admired his father tremendously
and if for one reason more than another because he was so "square."
Never during all the span of the lad's fifteen years could he recall a
single instance when Mr. Coddington had broken his word. It was this
knowledge that made Peter so uncomfortable as he glanced once more at
the bedraggled report card. What had his father meant by saying he
would grant him one more chance?
The boy wished now that he had considered the matter in a more serious
light. He had known all along that his marks were dropping behind, and
every morning he had vaguely resolved to make a spurt that day so that
when examination time came he might cross the tape neck and neck with if
not in advance of the other fellows. The promised spurt, however, had
not been made. Instead he had drifted along, studying only enough to
keep his head above water and putting all his zeal into tennis or
baseball until the present climax with its direful calamity had been
reached.
Unquestionably it was perfectly fair that he should forfeit his place on
the team. All the boys knew the rule of the school. But somehow it did
not seem _real_. When a fellow could kick a goal and pitch a ball as he
could something must surely intervene to prevent such a fate. Nothing
dreadful had ever happened to Peter before. It was not likely, he argued
optimistically, that it could happen now. Considerably cheered by this
logic he slipped his grimy report into its still more grimy envelope and
began to whistle. Buoyed up by comfortable reveries he whistled fully
five minutes, when the tune came to an abrupt end. A step on the gravel
had arrested it. Looking around Peter saw his father coming along the
drive toward him.
"Not at the game to-day, Peter?" exclaimed the elder man in surprise.
"No, sir."
"How is that?"
"I did not feel like going, Father."
"Not feel like going! Why, that's something new for you. You're not
sick?"
Peter was conscious of a swift scrutiny.
"I'm worried about something," he blurted out.
"I'm sorry to hear that, my boy. What is the trouble? Grass stains on
your new white tennis flannels?"
Peter shook his head in reply to the smiling question.
"It is a real trouble this time," he answered.
Silently he drew from his pocket the crumpled envelope which he handed
to his father. As Mr. Coddington took out the card and scanned it
rapidly the quizzical expression that had lighted his face gave way to a
frown of displeasure.
"Well?" he questioned.
"I'm mighty sorry, Father," began Peter. "You see I kept thinking I
would make up my work before the exams came; but somehow I have been
hustling more for the baseball championship than----"
A curt question cut short further apologies:
"Your studies have not been too difficult for you, then?"
"Oh, no. I can easily make them up with a tutor," was the eager
response. "I guess if you ask Mr. Christopher he will let me take the
examinations over again before school closes and the next time----"
"There is to be no next time," put in his father quietly.
Peter stared.
"Wh-a-t--do--you mean, sir?"
"You will see."
Without another word the older man turned away. Peter saw him walk to
the garage, and a few moments later the motor-car shot past, spun down
the drive, and the music of its siren horn announced that it was turning
into the street. Where had his father gone so suddenly?
He had but just come home, and it was never his custom to dash off in
such an abrupt fashion. It was easy to see that he was annoyed about the
school report. That was not strange--of course he would be. Peter was
himself. But at least Mr. Coddington had not lost his place as pitcher
of a ball team, and since he hadn't there seemed to be no reason why he
should be so cut up. Then an inspiration came to the boy. Perhaps his
father had gone to demand that Mr. Christopher take his son back on the
nine. Ah, that must be it! His father was much interested in athletics
Peter knew, and when in college had pulled the winning shell to a
spectacular victory for his Alma Mater. His father would never stand by
and see the star pitcher of the Milburn High School swept off the team
just because of a few failures in Latin, algebra, and other such
rubbish.
Peter drew a sigh of relief.
Yes, his fortunate star would rise again; he was confident of it. All
would yet be well. He would tutor up for the examinations, pass them
gloriously, and win back his place on the team. None of the fellows need
be the wiser. His father would fix it up--nay, he probably was fixing it
up at this very moment.
Until dusk Peter waited anxiously for the sound of the motor's return.
It was nearly seven when over the gravel rolled the heavy rubber-tired
wheels that announced Mr. Coddington's arrival. The boy sat in precisely
the spot where his father had left him and after alighting from the car
the elder man made his way toward the motionless figure sitting so still
in the June twilight.
"I have been to see Mr. Christopher," began Mr. Coddington when he came
within speaking distance, "and have made all the arrangements for your
future career."
Eagerly Peter looked up.
"I'm going back on the team?" he cried joyously.
"You are going to work!" was the sharp retort.
"What!"
"I have been very busy during the last two hours," continued Mr.
Coddington. "I have got for you the first, last, and only job I shall
ever get. It is up to you now."
"But I don't understand," protested Peter, aghast.
"Why not? It is not a difficult thing to comprehend. You have fooled
away your days and my money long enough. Life is a serious business--not
a game. It is time you took it in earnest. To-morrow morning at eight
o'clock you are going to work, and you must make good at the position
I've found for you, or you will lose your place. If you do I shall not
lift a finger to help you to find another."
A great lump rose in Peter's throat but he managed to choke it back.
"Where am I going?" he gasped when he was able to speak.
"To the tannery," was the laconic reply.
If the clouds had fallen or the earth opened Peter could not have been
more astounded.
The tannery!
Of course he knew his father owned the vast tanneries to the west of the
town, for that was the reason the Coddingtons lived at Milburn instead
of migrating to the near-by city, as had so many of their prosperous
neighbors; but beyond the fact that it was the tanneries which
indirectly provided him with tennis racquets, skates, bicycles,
motor-cars, and spending money Peter knew nothing about them. They were
red brick buildings covering a wide area, and from their doors at noon
and night hundreds of workmen with lunch-boxes and newspaper bundles
poured out into the streets. Peter never spoke of the tanneries. Even
when, on the highway, he encountered the heavy carts laden with hides
and marked "H. M. Coddington, Leather," he always looked the other way
and hurried past as fast as he could. Occasionally in hot weather when
the wind was in a certain quarter and brought a faint odor from the
beamhouses into the fashionable part of the town where Peter lived
their neighbors complained, and the boy always felt with a vague sense
of mortification that everybody blamed him and his family for the
annoyance. Sometimes this breath of damp, steamy leather even forced
itself in at the windows of the Coddington library and mingled
shamelessly with the rich hangings and paintings that furnished it.
Peter always resented the intrusion. How dare it follow them there!
Mr. Coddington, on the other hand, although not reveling in the
unpleasant tannery smells, had a sincere respect for the industry which
furnished him his living, not only because it enabled him to provide his
family with a luxurious home, but also because he regarded it as a
life-work that was well worth the doing. Was he not giving to the world
a necessity which it could not do without? It was a self-respecting
trade. Therefore why should he not feel there was dignity in the long
buildings with their whirring wheels, their hundreds of busy workmen,
and their ponderous green trucks which, loaded with skins, ever rumbled
back and forth through the main street? His pride was the more
justifiable since alone, and aided only by his brain and his
perseverance, he himself had built up this mighty industry which had
become the chief support of the flourishing little New England town.
Milburn, in fact, had grown up around the business that he had founded.
From the lowest rung of the ladder he had worked his way up to the
highest. The climb had been no easy one. On the contrary it had been
hard work. How could he help but feel a pride--nay, an affection, even,
for the great throbbing world of labor which he had created, and which
furnished thousands of people with homes, food and clothing!
Since this was his point of view it naturally was impossible for him to
appreciate the horror that his words brought to the boy who sat on the
steps beside him. Peter knew his father too well to offer protest at the
judgment that his own misdeeds had brought. It was a perfectly fair
retribution. Moreover, he had been warned--Peter clearly recalled the
fact now. But he had rushed blindly on, not heeding the warning.
"The tannery?" he at last repeated aloud.
"Yes. That is where I began, Peter, and it won't hurt you to do the
same."
"Shan't I go back to school at all?"
"Not for the present."
"And the school team----"
"It must get on without you as best it may."
Peter fought to keep back the tears.
"Will everybody know?" he faltered after a pause.
"No. I simply told Mr. Christopher that I had decided to take you out of
school. He knows nothing more, nor does any one else. Now, Peter, I do
not wish you to take this as a punishment." Stooping, Mr. Coddington
put his hand kindly on the lad's shoulder. "In so far as it is the
consequence of misspent, wasted time it is, to be sure, a punishment;
none of us can escape the direct results of our own actions. In another
sense, however, it is merely a fresh opportunity--a chance to substitute
success for failure, to make good at a different kind of work. It is in
this light that you must try and regard it, son. I want to make a man of
you if I can. I must make a man of you. You are the only child I have,
and if I stand by and allow you to make a fizzle of your life I shall be
quite as much to blame as you. Remember that unhappy as you are this
affair is costing me something, too."
There was a break in Mr. Coddington's voice.
As the boy raised his head and looked into the face bending over him he
read in it an expression quite new--a softness and sympathy that he had
never before caught in the gray eyes which, but a moment previous, had
regarded him so sternly.
As a result when Peter answered much of the bitterness had crept out of
his tone.
"I suppose all the men at the factory will have to know who I am," he
reflected.
"I'm afraid so. I see no way that that can be avoided," assented his
father.
"I hate to have them. They will all be grinning over the knowledge that
I was put into the factories because I flunked at school. Isn't there
any way to prevent their knowing? Couldn't I take another name when I go
into the tannery and let them think I am somebody else?"
Mr. Coddington mused a few seconds before answering.
"Why, yes," he replied meditatively, "I suppose it could be done. Nobody
knows you at the works, so there would be no danger of your being
recognized. My plan to send you there I have kept to myself. You could
easily enter under some other name if you chose. You must consider,
however, that if you decide to go in simply as an ordinary boy I shall
not be able to help you much; nor can you expect to be favored in any
way by the men. You would have to stand on your own feet and take your
own chances." Again Mr. Coddington ruminated. "That might not be a bad
idea, either," he observed, half aloud.
"Oh, I would so much rather take another name, Father," pleaded Peter.
But Mr. Coddington did not heed the interruption; he was still thinking.
"I do not mean to stand behind you after you are in the tannery,
anyway," he went on. "In every department there is a foreman to whom you
will be accountable--not to me. Nor must you come running home and here
report every real or fancied injustice. So far as business goes I am the
president of the company and you are simply a boy in my employ. Out of
working hours we will be father and son and will enjoy our drives,
walks, and reading together just as we have in the past. One rule,
however, must be strictly adhered to--we will not talk shop."
"I understand, sir," nodded Peter.
"Now just a last word," concluded Mr. Coddington. "To-morrow morning you
must be prompt at the works. Eight o'clock is the hour you are to
present yourself and that does not mean before eight or after eight; it
means on the stroke of eight. You will carry a luncheon which your
mother will see is put up for you. You are to hand to Mr. Tyler, the
superintendent of Factory 1, a card bearing my signature and you are to
say to him that you are the boy I telephoned him about. He does not know
who you are, but he understands that I am interested in you and he will
start you in wherever he thinks best. On the card I shall write your
name--and by the by"--a smile flitted over Mr. Coddington's face--"what
is your name to be?"
Peter hesitated; then his lips curved into a faint reflection of his
father's merriment.
"I think I will enter the tannery as Peter Strong," he answered.
[Illustration]