TOLMAN EXPERIENCES A SHOCK
During the next few months Peter and Nat talked little and learned much.
An occasional question was all they dared to ask, and that only when the
men with whom they were associated seemed amiably disposed. Far from
pushing their way to the front they took orders obediently from their
superiors, slighting no task to which they were assigned, no matter how
trivial it appeared. In consequence sentiment throughout the factory
slowly turned in their favor. The chill silence of the workmen melted to
gradual friendliness. Two such modest boys as these could not be coming
to usurp anybody's position. No, indeed! First one and then another of
the employees advanced bits of information which were accepted so
gratefully that it became a pleasure to follow them with more. Before
two months had passed the general opinion prevailed that Tolman had been
grossly unjust to the newcomers, and with the reaction a strong desire
arose among the men to atone for any previous unfairness.
This change in the atmosphere caused the good spirits which Peter and
Nat had found it difficult to sustain through the ordeal of censure and
misrepresentation to well up in a great happiness. Their daily work
became a joy instead of a matter for dread. Making patent leather
certainly was absorbingly interesting.
They had now reached the department where the varnish was put on the
leather, and although not skilful enough to share in the actual doing
the boys gained much knowledge simply by watching the process and asking
questions. They learned that it was necessary to apply three coats of
varnish to the material, and when the slickers put them on it was a
fascinating operation. Sometimes the men used a rotary sweep of the
arm, swirling the varnish round and round over the surface of the
leather; sometimes they took quick backward and forward strokes. Usually
four men worked together enameling a single skin. Amateurs would have
spread the japan too thickly in some spots, too thinly in others; but
not so these veterans at their trade. Deftly the blue-black liquid--so
elastic and so oily--was coated over the leather, and the glistening
finish put out in the sun to dry. After the second coat had hardened it
was rubbed down with pumice that the surface might be perfectly smooth
before the final layer of japan was applied. The last coat was then put
on evenly with the spreaders of thin wood, and before the material was
put out for its last sunning it was baked in an oven heated to a
temperature of about a hundred and sixty degrees.
"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 assented.
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 quantity 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," blustered
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."
An awed silence fell upon the group of men.
[Illustration: HE SENT THE MAN SPINNING INTO THE CROWD]
No one doubted the truth of the lad's assertion. It spoke in the dignity
of his whole figure; in the proud poise of his head; in the
unflinching gaze with which he met their eyes.
Of course he was Peter Coddington!
Why had they never guessed it before?
More than one man, as the work of carrying in the skins was completed,
reviewed in his mind Peter's career at the tanneries and marveled that
he had not suspected the secret from the first.
Tolman, astounded at the shock of the discovery, paused, then shuffled
shamefacedly forward as if to offer an apology, but no word came to his
lips.
The awkwardness of the stillness was dispelled by Peter himself, who,
turning at last to the men, said simply: "We made good time getting the
leather under cover, and we were none too soon. See--here comes the
rain!"
* * * * *
How the news sped through the vast tanneries! It seemed fairly to leap
from one building to another. On every hand the men took up the tale and
discussed it.
Peter Strong--their Peter--was the president's son! He was Peter
Coddington!
It was all too wonderful to believe; and yet, after all, it was so
simple!
Why hadn't they known it all along, the workmen asked each other.
"He was a thoroughbred from the minute he began pitching calfskins!"
ejaculated Carmachel. "Think of it! Think of his pitching calfskins in
my old brown overalls--him as could have picked out any job in the
tannery that he chose!"
"And think of the months he put in working in the beamhouses too!
Slaving away there in the smell and heat just like any of the rest of
us!" said another man.
"And how he duffed in in the other department! He wasn't afraid of
getting his hands dirty! And what a worker he was!"
"And mind how he stood by us men and got the park for us--stood up and
faced his father man to man. The Little Giant!"
"Aye! Don't forget the ball playing!"
"And how he brought his lunch every day like the rest of us!"
On every hand the men admitted that their idol, Peter, was indeed worthy
to be the son of the president of the great Coddington tanneries.
"And yet I can't help thinking," reflected Carmachel, "that in spite of
his parentage, and his money, and everything else he really is our
Peter--a product of the works, just as his father said."
There was little work done in the factories that afternoon. Excitement
ran too high. Over and over the men talked in undertones of the
wonderful story. Of course no one questioned its veracity and yet there
was no rest until the tale was taken to Mr. Coddington for confirmation.
It was Tyler who first ventured to broach the matter to the president.
He related the chain of events leading up to Peter's avowal and then,
receiving no reply, fumbled uncomfortably at his scarf-pin and wished he
had not spoken.
Finally Mr. Coddington glanced up, answering with characteristic
terseness:
"Yes, it is true that Peter is my boy, Tyler," he said. "Not a bad sort
either, as boys go."
"Why, he is one boy in a hundred, Mr. Coddington--a son to be proud of!"
burst out Tyler.
"Oh, Peter has possibilities," admitted the president with a smile.
But he would say nothing more. Instead he shut himself up in his office
where he went determinedly to work. But those who peeped through the
glass door could see that throughout the whole afternoon the smile that
had lighted his face still lingered there faintly.
He smiled as he rode home in his big limousine too, and he continued to
smile during dinner, but he said nothing.
Peter, who was watching him closely, thought every instant he would
either make some allusion to the events of the day or make some opening
so that he could do so.
Now that all was over the boy was not a little chagrined that in a
moment of anger he should have let his secret pass his lips. Henceforth
the game was spoiled. Probably his father thought he should not have
lost his temper and blurted out the truth. It was a foolish thing to do
and now that he thought it over coolly Peter regretted that he had done
it. He longed to talk with his father, but he did not just know how to
begin.
He was finally spared the embarrassment of confession or explanation,
for as the president pushed back his chair from the table he remarked
casually:
"So your secret is out, son."
"Yes, sir. I didn't mean to tell, but I got so angry at Tolman, Father."
"Well, perhaps it is just as well to travel under your own name from now
on. It's a rather good name. And by the by, Peter, here is a receipt for
the money Strong owes me on that motorcycle. We'll cancel that debt. The
company was saved several times the amount by getting that lot of patent
leather in out of the rain to-day."
"But I can't take money for that, Father," stammered Peter.
"Strong can. That will close my dealings with him. To me it is worth a
far bigger sum than that to get my own boy back again."
[Illustration]