"More economy!" put in Peter.

"Yes, I guess you have learned already that we do not waste much here," grinned Stuart.

Peter nodded.

"Afterward," Stuart continued, "follow the many methods for getting certain varieties of finish on the leather. Here, for instance, you will see men graining tan stock by working it by hand into tiny wrinkles; they use heavy pieces of cork with which they knead the material until the leather is checked in minute squares. It looks like an easy thing to do, but it isn't. It requires skilled workmen in order to get satisfactory results. Over here," and he beckoned to Peter, "men are making 'boarded calf' by beating and pounding it as you see, that they may get fine, soft stock. Here still others are glassing the leather and giving it a smooth surface by rubbing it with a heavy piece of glass."

"And what are those fellows over by the wall doing?" inquired Peter, pointing to a group of workmen who, with right leg naked, were standing in a row and rapidly drawing tan leather first over a wooden upright set in the floor, and then over their knee.

"Those," Stuart answered, "are knee-stakers. Strangely enough no machine has yet been invented which will give to certain kinds of leather the elasticity and softness which can be put into it by a man's stretching it over his bare knee. It is a curious way to earn one's living, isn't it? See how quickly they work and how strong they are. Just look how the muscles of their legs stand out!"

"I should say so," Peter answered. "Why, it almost seems as if they must have been track sprinters all their lives. They must be well paid."

"What they earn depends on how fast they work," Stuart said. "All this finishing is piece work. The more a man can do in an hour the higher he is paid. Almost all these fellows are skilled workmen who have been at just this task for a long time. They do it rapidly and well, and receive good wages."

Stuart walked on and Peter followed.

"Here is a machine that makes gun-metal finished leather for the uppers of black shoes; the leather is, as you see, put through a series of rollers where it is blacked, oiled, and ironed, and comes out with that dull surface."

"Are all these different kinds of leather really made from calfskins?" asked Peter at last.

"Practically so—yes," replied Stuart. "Upper or dressed leather is made from large calfskins or else from kips. Kips, you know, are the skins of under-sized cows, oxen, horses, buffalo, walrus, and other such animals. These are tanned and sorted out in the beamhouse when wet. The thick ones are usually split thin by machinery and the two parts are finished separately. The part of the leather where the hair grew is the more valuable and is called the grain; the other part which was next to the animal is called the split. Remember those two terms—the grain and the split."

"I'll try my best," said Peter with a doubtful shake of his head. "I am dreadfully afraid, though, that I shall forget some of the things you have told me to-day."

"I don't expect you to remember all I've told you, Strong," laughed Stuart, good-naturedly. "Why, you would not be a human, breathing boy if you did. It has taken me a long time to learn the facts that I have been telling you. But do remember about the grain and the split; and while you are remembering that, try also to remember that a rough split is the cheapest leather made. Some heavy hides are split two, four, and even six times and are then sold. You can see this sort of leather up-stairs in the shipping-room of the other factory, and if I were you I would take the trouble to go up there some time and look at it. You may be interested, too, to know——"

But what the interesting item was Peter never found out.

A boy, breathless from running, came rushing into the room.

"If you please, sir," he panted, "Mr. Bryant sent me to find Peter Strong! Young Jackson has been hurt. He slipped on the wet floor and the wheel of a heavy truck went over his ankle. Jackson says it is only a sprain, but Mr. Bryant thinks the bones are broken. They've telephoned for a doctor. Jackson is lying on the floor awful white and still, and he says he wants Peter Strong. Mr. Bryant told me to tell you to send him right away."

Peter needed no second bidding. Down the stairs he flew.

Only yesterday he had longed for a chance to prove his friendship for Nat. Now, all unsolicited, the opportunity had come.



CHAPTER VI

TWO PETERS AND WHICH WON

Aflutter with anxiety, Peter followed the messenger back to the beamhouse.

Of all people why should this calamity come to Jackson? In addition to the suffering that must of necessity accompany such a disaster Peter reflected, as he went along, that Nat could ill afford to lose his wages and incur the expense of doctor's bills. Poor Nat! It seemed as if he had none of the good luck he deserved—only disappointment and misfortune.

Peter found his chum stretched on the floor in a dark little entry adjoining the workroom, with Bryant keeping guard.

"I am down and out this time, no mistake, Pete!" called Nat with a rather dubious attempt to be cheerful. "You see what happens when you go off into another department and leave me. I was all right while you were here."

Peter knelt beside him.

"I'm mighty sorry, old chap," he said. "Does it hurt much?"

As Jackson tried to turn, his lips whitened with pain.

"Well, rather! I guess, though, I'll be all right in a few days. It's only a sprain."

As Peter glanced questioningly at Bryant, who was standing in the shadow, the older man shook his head and put his finger to his lips.

"Well, anyway, Nat," answered Peter, trying to feign a gaiety he did not feel, "you will at least get a vacation. I told you only the other day you needed one."

"I don't need it any more than you do, Peter. Besides I can't stop work, no matter what happens. What would become of my mother, and who would pay our rent if my money stopped coming in? No sir-e-e! I shall get this foot bandaged up and be back at the tannery to-morrow. The doctor can fix it so I can keep at work, can't he, Mr. Bryant?"

"I hope so, Jackson," replied Bryant, kindly. "We'll see when he comes."

But the doctor was far less optimistic. He examined the ankle, pronounced it fractured, and ordered Nat to the hospital where an X-ray could be taken before the bones were set.

Nat, who had endured the pain like a Spartan, burst into tears.

"What will become of us—of my mother, Peter?" he moaned.

"Now don't you get all fussed up, Nat," said Peter soothingly. "Leave things to me. I'll take care of your mother and attend to the house rent. I have plenty of money. You know I have been saving it up ever since I came here."

"Oh, but Peter—I couldn't think of taking your money!" Nat protested.

"Stuff! Of course you can take it! I should like to know whose money you would take if not mine. Anyway you can't help yourself. I have you in my power now and you've got to do just as I say."

"But I don't see how I can ever pay it back, Peter."

"No matter."

"It does matter."

"Well, well! We will settle all that later. Don't worry about it. I am only too thankful that I have the money to help you out," was Peter's earnest response. "I'd be a great kind of a chum if I didn't stick by you when you are in a hole like this. You'd do the same for me."

"You bet I would!"

"Of course! Well, what's the difference?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to take you at your word, Peter," agreed Nat reluctantly, after an interval of reflection. "I do not just see what else I can do at present."

"That's the way to talk," cried Peter triumphantly. "I'll look out for everything. See! They have come with a motor-car to take you to the hospital! You are going to have your long-coveted ride in an automobile, Nat."

Nat laughed in spite of himself.

"I'm not so keen about it as I was."

Gently the men lifted him in and the doctor followed.

"I'll be out in a week, Peter—sure thing!" called Nat shutting his lips tightly together to stifle a moan as the car shot ahead.

"A week, indeed!" sniffed Bryant, as he turned away. "It'll be nearer a month. So Jackson has a mother to look after, has he?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, suppose you go right over there and ease her mind about this accident before she hears of it through somebody else. Tell her there is no cause for alarm. The boy will have the best of care at the hospital, and she can go there and see him every day during visiting hours."

"And you think it will be a month before he will be about again, Mr. Bryant?" questioned Peter, anxiously.

"Oh, I'm no doctor. How can I tell?" was Bryant's somewhat testy answer. "One thing is certain, however; he won't be here again this week. Sprint along."

And so it was Peter Strong who bore the sorry tidings to Nat's mother, and who cheered and encouraged her as affectionately as if he had been her own son; it was also Peter who, during the weeks that followed, paid the Jacksons' rent and provided sufficient funds for living expenses. How he blessed his motorcycle savings! Without them he never could have helped Nat at this time when help was so sorely needed. Far from begrudging the money Peter exulted in spending it. A motorcycle seemed singularly unimportant when contrasted with a crisis like this. Yet magnificent as his little fortune had seemed it dwindled rapidly. How much everything cost! How had Nat ever managed to keep soul and body together on what he earned? Peter's savings melted like the snows before the warm spring sunshine, and one day the lad awoke to the fact that there was no more money in the bank and that Nat's mother was absolutely dependent for food upon his daily earnings. It was a new sensation and a startling one—to know that you must work—that if you stopped some one dear to you would go hungry.

Poor Peter!

He now had a spur indeed—an incentive to toil as he never had toiled before!

Stuart was delighted with his recently acquired pupil.

"He is as steady a little chap as you would care to see," he told Bryant when they met in the yard one day. "And he is bright as a button, too. Already he has caught on to the various finishing processes and is as handy as any of the men in the department. And then he is such a well spoken lad; not like many of the boys who come into the tannery. He must have come of good family. Do you know anything about his people?"

"Not a thing. I've heard that Mr. Coddington got him his job in the first place, but that may not be true; I think, though, it is more than likely, because they have pushed him ahead faster than is customary. But at any rate the boy has made good, no matter who started him. He will be at the top of the ladder yet."

Peter Strong, however, was not thinking at the present time of the top of the ladder. His mind was entirely set upon relieving the worry of his sick chum and providing the necessary comforts for Mrs. Jackson. Only on Saturdays had he time to go to the hospital and see Nat; but he wrote long letters—jolly, cheery letters, which he dashed off every night before going to bed.

"About every man in the tannery has inquired for you, Nat," he wrote, "and pretty soon I am going to charge a fee for information. Your mother is all right, and declares that she now has two sons instead of one. You better hurry up and come home, or she may decide she likes me better than she does you!"

How Nat laughed when he read that message! The very idea!

Of all this busy life and its varied interests Peter's family knew nothing. His father and mother had gone for a month's trip to the Catskills and there was no one but the servants at home to tell his troubles to had he wished to unburden his worries. So he plodded bravely on alone. How glad he was that the beamhouse was left behind, and that during those warm September days he could work in a large, well-ventilated room where there was fresher air. Perhaps, however, he grew a little thin under his unaccustomed load of anxiety, for when his father and mother returned from their vacation Peter was conscious more than once of his father's fixed gaze, and one evening when the boy was going to bed there was a knock at the door and Mr. Coddington entered the room. For a few seconds he roamed uneasily about, straightening a picture here and an ornament there; then he said abruptly:

"Well, Peter—the summer is almost over. Here it is nearly the middle of September! I fancy the weeks have gone pretty slowly with your friend Strong. What do you say to quitting the tannery and going back to school?"

Peter's breath almost stopped. He had not dreamed of leaving his work. Such a myriad of thoughts arose at the bare suggestion that he could not answer.

Mr. Coddington misunderstood his silence.

"Of course you are astonished, my boy, and not a little glad, I imagine. When I sent you to the tannery, however, I did not intend to keep you there permanently. I simply wanted to wake you up to doing something and make you prove the stuff you were made of. You have done that and more too. I have heard nothing but the best reports, and I am proud of you, Peter. The tannery has served its purpose for the present. Suppose we leave it now for a while."

Still Peter did not speak.

"Perhaps you are disappointed to stop short of earning money enough for your motorcycle," suggested Mr. Coddington, puzzled by the lad's silence. "Is that it? Tell me now, how much would you need to put with what you have already saved? Do you recall the sum you have in the bank?"

"I haven't any money in the bank, Father," was Peter's unwilling reply.

"What! Not a cent?"

Peter shook his head.

"Have you drawn it out and spent it all?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm sorry to hear that—sorry, and a little disappointed. However, we mustn't expect too much of you. Come now, what do you say to my proposition of returning to school?"

"I can't do it, sir."

"What!"

"I'm afraid you can't quite understand, sir. You see Peter Coddington would like to go back, but Peter Strong won't let him. Peter Strong must stay at the tannery, Father. He can't leave. There are reasons why it isn't possible," Peter blurted out incoherently.

"What reasons?" demanded his father. "You've not been getting into trouble, Peter?"

"No, sir."

Mr. Coddington looked baffled—baffled, and displeased.

Poor Peter! He longed to explain, but a strange reticence held him back. He had never mentioned at home either Strong's affairs or his friends and it now seemed well-nigh impossible to make any one—even his own father—understand how much he cared for Nat, and what this disaster had meant to them both; besides, it was too much like blowing his own trumpet to sit up and tell his father how he had played fairy godmother to the Jacksons. It would sound as if he wanted praise, and Peter, who was naturally a modest lad, shrank from anything of the sort. Accordingly he said never a word.

Mr. Coddington wandered to the window and drummed nervously on the pane.

"You have no more explanations to make to me, Peter?" he asked at last, turning and facing his son.

"I—I'm afraid not, sir. You see it is hard to explain things. No one would understand," faltered the boy.

Chagrined as he was, Mr. Coddington strove to be patient.

"Come now, Peter," he urged, "no matter what you've done let's out with it. Maybe I've made a mistake in not allowing you to talk more freely here at home about your affairs at the tannery. It certainly seems to have resulted in making you less frank with me than you used to be. Let us put all that behind us now. Just what sort of trouble have you got into down there?"

Words trembled on Peter's lips. Would it be loyal to tell his father—to tell any one, all the Jacksons' affairs? Nat had told them in confidence and had not expected they would be passed on to anybody else. No, he must keep that trust sacred. He must tell no one.

"I can't tell you, Father," he said. "I'll come out all right, though. Don't worry about me. I've just got to keep on working at the tannery as hard as I can."

"Are you trying to pay up something?" inquired his father, an inspiration seizing him.

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Coddington realized that further attempts to get at the truth were useless, and not a little perturbed he left the room.

All the next day Peter was haunted by reproaches. It took no very keen vision to detect that his father was worried, and this worry the boy felt he must relieve. His course lay clearly outlined before him; he would go to the hospital and ask Nat's permission to tell the entire story. Much as Peter disliked to speak of what he had done to help the Jacksons it was far preferable to having his father suffer the present anxiety.

Accordingly when Saturday afternoon came Peter set forth to make his appeal to Nat. It was not until he almost reached the hospital that a new and disconcerting thought complicated the action which but a few moments before had appeared so simple. How was he to explain to Nat this intimacy with Mr. Coddington? The president of the company, Nat knew as well as he, had not been near Peter since he entered the tannery. Why should young Strong suddenly be venturing to approach this august personage with his petty troubles? Of course Nat wouldn't understand—no, nor anybody else for that matter who was unacquainted with the true situation. Here was a fresh obstacle in Peter's path. What should he do?

When he entered the ward he struggled bravely to bring his usual buoyancy to his command; but if the attempt was a sad failure it passed unnoticed, for the instant he came within sight Nat beckoned to him excitedly.

"Guess who's been to see me!" cried he, his eyes shining with the wonder of his tidings. "Guess, Peter! Oh, you never can guess—Mr. Coddington, the boss himself! Yes, he did," he repeated as he observed Peter's amazement. "He came this morning and he sat right in that chair—that very chair where you are sitting now. He wanted to know everything about the accident, and about you; I had to tell him about Mother and the rent, and how you were taking my place at home and paying for things while I was sick. He screwed it all out of me! He inquired just how much we paid for our rooms, and what I earned, and how long I had been in the beamhouse. Then he asked what Father's name was, and what Mother's family name was before she was married; and strangest of all, he wanted to know if we came from Orinville, Tennessee. That was my mother's old home, but I don't see how Mr. Coddington knew it, do you? Goodness, Peter! He shot off questions as if they were coming out of a gun. Then he began to ask about you and where you lived, and who your people were. Doesn't it seem funny, Pete—well as I know you I couldn't tell him one of those things? So I just said that I didn't know, but that Peter Strong was the finest fellow in the world, and he seemed to agree with me. Afterward he went away. What ever do you suppose made him come?"

"I don't know," Peter replied thoughtfully.

All the way home Peter pondered on the marvel. How had his father found out about his friendship for Nat? It must have been Bryant who had told; nobody else knew. Bryant had overheard Nat's conversation the day he had been taken to the hospital, and Bryant must have acquainted Mr. Coddington with the whole affair. Well, it was better so. His father now had the facts, and had them direct from Nat himself. Peter would be divulging no confidence if he mentioned them.

During the next few days many a surprise awaited Peter Strong. When he went to pay Mrs. Jackson's weekly rent he was told by the landlord that the account had already been settled, and the rent paid three months in advance. A gentleman had paid it. No, the landlord did not know who it was. In addition to this good fortune Mrs. Jackson astonished the boy still further by dangling before his gaze a substantial check which she said had come from the Coddington Company with a kind note of sympathy. The check was to be used for defraying expenses during the illness of her son.

Peter had no difficulty in guessing the source of this generosity.

Nor was this all. Nat scrawled him an incoherent note that bubbled with delight; he had been promoted to the finishing department, and henceforth was to receive a much larger salary!

That night Peter went home a very happy boy. It seemed as if there was not room for any more good things to be packed into a single day; but when at evening a crate came marked with his name, and on investigation it proved to contain the long-coveted motorcycle, Peter's joy knew no bounds.

"Do you suppose now that your chum Strong could let Peter Coddington return to school?" was his father's unexpected question.

Peter stopped short.

It was a long time before he spoke; then he said slowly:

"Father, I don't think there is a Peter Coddington any more. There's only Peter Strong, and he is so interested in his work and in doing real things that you couldn't coax him to go to school if you tried—especially since he has just been given a new motorcycle!"

Mr. Coddington rubbed his hands together as he always did when he was pleased.

"You must not decide hastily, Peter," urged he. "Take a week to think carefully about it and then tell me your decision."

"But I know now!" cried Peter. "A little while ago I thought the tannery the most awful place in the world; I hated the smell of it and the very sight of the leather. But somehow I do not feel that way now. I did not realize this until you spoke the other day of my leaving and going back to school; then I was surprised to discover that, when I thought it all over, I did not want to go back. Work can be fun—even hard work—if all the time you know that you are doing something real—something that is needed and that helps. If you don't mind, Father, I'd rather stay in the tannery and aid Peter Strong to work up."

"Do you still insist on Peter Strong's doing the climbing? Why not give Peter Coddington a chance?"

"I'd rather not, sir. It was Peter Strong who began at the foot of the ladder, and I want him to be the one to reach the top if he can; it is only fair. Please don't spoil it now by crowding Peter Coddington into his place."

"Well, well! You may do your own way, Peter, but it is on one condition. Nat Jackson needs a trip away. The doctors say he is tired out and won't get well as fast as he should unless he has a change of some sort. I am going to arrange with his mother to take him for a month to the seashore, and I know he will be much happier if Peter Strong goes with him. What do you say?"

Peter looked intently at his father, a tiny cloud darkening his face.

"You need not have any compunctions about going, Peter," explained Mr. Coddington, reading the trouble in his eyes. "Both the boys have worked faithfully and need a vacation. Their positions will be held for them until they return and their pay will go on during their absence."

"Oh, Father! How good of you to do so much, not only for me but for Nat and his mother!"

Mr. Coddington did not reply at once. After a pause he said gently:

"Peter, anything I can do for the Jackson family is but a small part of what I owe them. All my life I have tried to trace them. I have searched from Tennessee to Cape Cod. And now, here in my own tannery, I find the clue for which I have been hunting. Your friend Nat and his mother are proud people, and would never accept all that I wish I might offer them; but at least I have this opportunity to furnish help in a purely business way. To provide this trip is a great pleasure to me. Some time you shall know the whole story and then you will understand. I want you to know, for the obligation is one that will go down from father to son so long as a Coddington lives to bear the name. Good-night, my boy."



CHAPTER VII

THE CLIMB UP THE LADDER

If Peter expected to hear more of the mysterious tie that linked his family with that of the Jacksons he was disappointed; for his father did not refer to the story again, and although the boy burned with curiosity to know more he had not the courage to ask. Had not Mr. Coddington gone steadily forward perfecting plans for the seashore outing it would have seemed as if the incident had entirely slipped from his mind. But the personal interest he displayed in arranging every detail of the trip proved beyond question that the memory of the obligation at which he had hinted was still vividly before him. The vacation was arranged without trouble. Mrs. Jackson's first objections to accepting this favor at the hands of the Coddington Company were quieted when told by the doctors that the plan would be highly beneficial to the health of her boy. Both Peter and Nat were in high spirits. To lads who had been confined within doors all summer the prospect of bathing, sailing, and a month in the open was like water to the thirsty.

Fortunately Dame Nature herself smiled graciously upon the project, for during the next four weeks she coaxed back to earth warm, golden days from the fast fleeing Indian summer. The magic touch of sunshine and fresh air flooded Nat's cheek with healthy color and as if by miracle, strength returned to the delicate ankle; as for Peter he became swarthy as a young Arab. So delighted was Mrs. Jackson in watching the transformation in her two boys that she was quite unaware that a soft pinkiness was stealing into her own face. A vacation had seemed such an impossible thing that she had never dared picture how welcome such a rest would be.

When, weeks later, the trio returned to town and Mr. Coddington surprised them by meeting them at the station with the motor-car his gratification was extreme. He waved aside all thanks, however, and after dropping Nat and his mother at their home he rolled off with Peter, explaining that he would take the lad to his own door. Nat wondered not a little where that door was, and he would have been overwhelmed with amazement had he known that portals no less pretentious than those of the Coddington mansion itself opened to receive his chum. Very wide open indeed were they thrown when the car bringing Peter and his father turned into the long avenue leading to the house. How glad Peter's mother was to see him, and how satisfied she was with the witchcraft that wind and wave had wrought!

"I guess there is no doubt that now you are fit either for school or for work, Peter," said Mr. Coddington. "Which is it to be? Are you still firm in your decision to stick to the tannery? It isn't too late to change your mind, you know, if you wish to do so."

"I'm firmer for the tannery than ever, Father," answered Peter, smiling.

"Going to fight it out, are you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good!"

It was only one word, but Peter knew that his father was pleased.

Accordingly on the following Monday morning the boy again took up his old work in the finishing department. Here Nat joined him, and since this branch of leather manufacture was an entirely new world to Jackson, Peter took his turn at explaining its various processes, and felt no little pride in having the teaching obligations reversed, and being able to give his chum instructions concerning matters of which he was ignorant. The two boys were becoming quite expert at boarding calfskins and had settled down with great contentment to this task when one day they were surprised and perhaps not a little disappointed to receive orders to leave their present occupation and report for duty at Factory 2, the sheepskin tannery.



"Another beamhouse!" exclaimed Peter in dismay. "I thought we were through with that sort of thing for good and all, Nat."

"Oh, it isn't likely we'll stay there," was Nat's hopeful rejoinder. "Evidently somebody higher up wants us to have this chance to see how sheepskins are prepared and I, for one, am not sorry for I've no very clear idea."

"I'm worse off than you, Nat," chuckled Peter. "I've no idea at all."

"Nonsense, Peter! By this time you must know the general process for preparing skins."

"Why, yes. I suppose the hair is taken off and the skins tanned just as calfskins are."

"Yes, the main facts are the same. There are many points, however, where the processes differ because the skins of sheep, kids, goats, and such creatures must undergo entirely different treatment. The kid used for gloves and even for shoes, you see, is far more delicate than is the calfskin that we have been finishing."

"Yes, of course," agreed Peter thoughtfully. "Well, I suppose we shall now find out all about it and that it will be interesting; but I do wish, Nat, that we could learn it somewhere except in another beamhouse."

Peter's wish, alas, was of no avail and accordingly once more the two boys donned rubber boots and overalls and started again at the foot of the ladder—this time in Factory 2, where the skins of sheep, kids, and goats were tanned. Sheepskins, they soon learned, were received by the tanners in one of two conditions: either the wool was already off and they arrived in casks drenched or pickled, many bales of one dozen each being packed in a cask; or the skins came to the tannery salted, with the wool on and precisely in the condition that they were when taken from the backs of the sheep at the ranches and abattoirs. So long as the hair was on the skins were called "pelts"; but the moment the hair was removed the skins became "slats." The pickled skins it was simple enough to tan, for they had been carefully prepared for the tanners before being shipped; there were firms, the foreman told Peter, that did just this very thing. If desired the pickled sheepskins could even be worked into a cheap white leather without further tanning. Most of them, however, were tanned.

But the unhairing of the sheep pelts was a different problem. After they had been soaked about twenty-four hours in borax and water to get out the dirt and salt they must first be put through a machine that cleansed the wool and shaved off any fat adhering to the flesh side. Then they were ready to have the wool removed. A very delicate process this was, Peter and Nat soon discovered. Each pelt was spread smoothly on a table wool side down, and a preparation of lime and sulphide of sodium was spread evenly over it with a brush, great care being taken to let none of the liquid used get upon the wool side of the skin. The pelt was then folded and left from eight to ten hours until the solution which had been brushed over it had penetrated it and loosened the hair. The wool could then very easily be pulled off, sorted as the skins were unhaired, and sold to dealers as "pulled wool."

One fact interested Peter very much, and that was that usually the slats were thinnest where the wool was longest.

"I suppose the strength of the sheep all went to its hair," speculated he to Nat. "Isn't it funny that it should!"

Another thing the boys learned about sheepskins which was very different from the treatment of calfskins was that before the slats could be tanned they had to be put through a powerful press and have the grease squeezed out of them.

"The skin of a sheep has a vast amount of oil in it," explained one of the workmen, "and it is impossible to do anything until this grease has been extracted; so we put a bunch of skins under a heavy press and then collect the grease that runs out, refine, and sell it."

Peter and Nat watched this pressing with great interest.

When the skins came out of the press they were so hard and stiff that it was necessary to put them into the revolving drums that separated and softened them. This was called "wheeling up the slats." The odor in the press room was far worse than anything that Peter had yet encountered—much more disagreeable than was an ordinary beamhouse. Both he and Nat were only too glad when noon time came and they could get out into the air.

"Whew!" cried Peter, throwing himself down in the sunshine, "I hope they don't put us in that press room to work, Nat."

"It's fierce, isn't it?" Nat answered. "The men must hate it."

"I suppose they get accustomed to it just as I got used to the beamhouse," Peter said. "Why, when I began work in the beamhouse of Factory 1 I thought I never could endure it. Do you remember how you tried to cheer me up that first day?"

Nat laughed at the memory.

"Indeed I do. You looked perfectly hopeless, Peter."

"That's about the way I felt," smiled Peter, "and I believe I'd feel so again if I thought I had weeks of that press room smell before me."

But Peter need not have feared any such calamity, for after lunch he and Nat were given a lesson in tanning sheepskins and were told they were to work at that task until further notice.

The process, they discovered, differed very radically from the calfskin treatment with which they were so familiar. Many of the slats were tanned by being laid in trays of fine, moist powder that looked like brown sugar.

"What is this stuff?" inquired Peter of a man who stood near by.

"That is sumac, young man."

"Sumac! Just common sumac?"

"Well, no. It is the same sort of thing, though. We import this from Sicily, because the foreign leaves grow larger and contain more tannin. Sicilian sumac makes better leather than does the American variety, which comes chiefly from Virginia."

Peter nodded.

"And how long, pray, do the skins lie covered up in this snuffy brown powder?" questioned Nat.

"About a week," answered the man. "We do not tan all sheepskins this way, however. Some, as you will see, are tanned by being suspended from a bar into a vat of quebracho. Others are put into wheels of chrome tan just as calfskins are. White leathers are tanned, or more properly speaking tawed, in a mixture of alum and egg-yolk."

"Egg-yolk!" gasped Peter. "Eggs—such as we eat?"

"I am not so sure that they are such as you would care to eat," grinned the man, "but the yolks come from eggs, nevertheless."

"I should think it would take lots of men to break the eggs fast enough and get them ready," murmured Peter, half aloud.

"Bless your heart! We don't break the eggs here!" roared the workman, shaking with laughter. "No, indeed. We get egg-yolk by the barrel; when we pour it out it looks like thin yellow paint. We tan kid for gloves in egg-yolk," he went on, observing that both Nat and Peter were much interested. "After sheepskins are tanned the leather must all be fat-liquored, dried by steam or air fans, dampened, split or shaved off to uniform thickness, dyed in revolving paddle-wheels filled with color, and tacked on boards to dry just as calfskins are. The chemists who have laboratories up-stairs test the dyes and mix or match the colors for us. Then the skins go to the various rooms for the different finishes. And speaking of finishes, I suppose you went into the buffing-room in the other factory."

"No," said Peter, "we didn't—at least I didn't."

"Nor I," put in Nat. "The door was always closed and no one was admitted."

"They don't like to have people go in if they can help it because every time the door is opened it stirs things up; but I can take you into our buffing-room if you want to go."

"I wish you would," cried Peter.

Accordingly all went up-stairs and their guide cautiously pushed open a door on which NO ADMITTANCE was scrawled in large letters. The moment Peter squeezed through it he drew in his breath and then regretted that he had done so, for he at once began to cough.

The boys glanced about the room before them.

Every window was closed, making the air hot and stuffy; yet, Peter asked himself, how was such a condition to be avoided in a place where it was evident that even the tiniest draught must create instant havoc? This room which Peter and Nat surveyed was thick with flying white particles that were being whirled into space from rapidly turning emery wheels. The workmen who were busy buffing the flesh side of split skins in order to get the rough surface required for a suede finish seemed enveloped in a miniature blizzard. As the swiftly turning discs sent clouds of white dust into the air it settled on the hair, faces, eyelashes, and clothing until the laborers looked like snow men moving amid the blinding flakes of an old-fashioned storm. Peter and Nat, who looked on, began to be changed into snow men, too.

"I guess you don't want to stay in here long," announced their guide, raising his voice to be heard above the noise of the revolving wheels. "As you see, they are making 'suede,' or ooze finished leather. Some calfskins are finished this way too, as of course you know. A certain amount of this leather will be left white for gloves or shoes; more of it, however, will be stretched on boards and brushed over with some colored dye. Suede is made in all sorts of fancy shades for women's party slippers."

Peter nodded and then, quite without warning, he sneezed.

Immediately a cloud of whiteness shot into the air.

"Hurry! Let's get out!" cried Nat. "I'm going to sneeze, too."

The man who was conducting them opened the door a crack and they all three slipped through. Safe in the outer room they stopped and laughingly surveyed one another. All were as white as if sprinkled with powder.

"Goodness!" Peter exclaimed, rubbing his eyelashes. "How can those men breathe? I should think that in a day they would swallow enough dust to fill their lungs up solid."

"They don't mind it."

"Well, I only hope we shan't be put in there to work."

"So do I!" was Nat's fervent rejoinder.

Fortunately for the boys they escaped doing duty in the buffing-room. Instead they worked throughout the year in the beamhouse and the different finishing departments of Factory 2. Although this factory was known as the sheepskin tannery they soon found that the skins of lambs, kids, and goats were also tanned and finished there. The skins of the young kids or goats were much too delicate for shoes and were made into thin flexible leather for kid gloves; the leather commonly known as kid and used for shoes was not really kid at all, the boys were told, but the skin of mature goats. Inquiry also brought forth the surprising information that there were between sixty and seventy different kinds of goatskin, the thickness and grain of the material depending on the climate and the conditions under which the animals had been raised. Some of these skins were imported from Brazil, some from Buenos Ayres, Mexico, France, Russia, India, China, Tripoli, or Arabia.

Goat breeders, the foreman said, killed their flocks at the season of the year when the men who collected skins made their rounds. These collectors went from one station to another and the goat herders, carrying bundles of skins on their backs, went down to the station nearest the hill country in which they were grazing their flocks and sold their stock to the collector, who promptly paid them in cash. When the collector had bought all the skins he wished he had them baled and sent them across country to the nearest seaport from which they were shipped to America. Many of the skins coming from India and Russia were sent first to London and then reshipped to the United States.

All goatskins, of no matter what variety, were tanned by the chrome process, and because they were smaller and of lighter weight than hides, tanned much more quickly. They were finished in many different ways: glazed kid, which was made in colors as well as black, had a shiny surface made by "striking" or burnishing the leather on the grain side; mat kid, soft and dull, was treated with oil and wax; suede kid was made in fancy colors for party shoes. These were some of the most important varieties. Then there was buckskin, the skin of the reindeer, most frequently buffed and finished in colors for gloves, or in white for shoes. Kangaroo was also classed under the head of kid.

"Is patent kid finished in this factory?" inquired Peter one day.

"No. All the patent leathers—both patent kid and patent calf—have a factory all to themselves."

"I'd like to see it."

"Oh, you will some day, no doubt. I hear they need a new boss over there. The men hate Tolman. Who knows but you may get his job!"

Peter laughed, and so did the other men who chanced to be standing about.

"I guess there is no danger that Tolman will lose his place on my account," replied the boy with no little amusement.

Many months later when Peter met Tolman he recalled this incident and understood more fully why the men disliked him and felt that the patent leather factory needed a new head.



CHAPTER VIII

A NARROW ESCAPE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES

All this time, strangely enough, no hint of Peter Strong's identity had become known. It was little short of a miracle that it should not have been discovered. Many circumstances, however, fostered the secret. In the first place none of the men from the tanneries ever came to the fashionable west side of the town; there was nothing to call them there. Had they come the chances were that they would probably at some time have encountered Peter in company with his father and mother driving, motoring, or going to church. Several school friends had, it is true, unearthed the interesting information that Peter was "working," but the discovery was greeted with but scant curiosity. One's place in life closes up very quickly after one drops from sight. When the idol of the Milburn ball team had vanished it had caused great agitation and for a brief interval he had been sincerely mourned; then some one else had been raised up to fill the gap, life was readjusted, and soon Peter and his glorious record were forgotten.

Under other conditions this lack of loyalty on the part of his friends would have wounded Peter sorely; now, however, the feeling was one of mortified pride rather than pained regret. His own attitude toward his former comrades had also in the meantime undergone a change. The boys he had looked up to, even the wisest of the seniors, seemed to him very young indeed, and their football worries pitiably unimportant. They were but preparing for the real work of the world while Peter, and others like him, were actually doing it. In consequence not a lad among all his former classmates was half so companionable or congenial as was his new friend, Nat Jackson.

And so, as the months sped past and Peter's second year in the tannery neared its end, he found himself not only content with the present life but more and more absorbed in each fresh experience of leather making. The bond with the Jackson home strengthened, and the desire to make good at his "job" drove him to throw all the interest and power of his strong young life into his task.

Winter had added many facts to his growing knowledge about leather. Up to February he and Nat had been together in the beamhouse and seen the great care which was taken that the freshly tanned skins should not freeze. Fortunately for the Coddington Company most of their buildings were new and were equipped with steam-heated lofts where drying could be accomplished with little trouble; but one or two of the old buildings had shutters and in consequence were dependent upon drying the wet skins in the outer air. If the leather was allowed to freeze its fibre was greatly weakened and its value decreased. Accordingly during cold weather the shutters in the old factories had to be closed and the newly tanned hides piled on the floor and covered with heavy canvas. Of course the leather rolled badly, but since it was possible to dampen and stretch it into shape this difficulty could be overcome.

In the finishing department where the two lads were next sent many more new features swelled their increasing fund of information. Wherever they went they left a train of friends behind them. Peter seemed to be the general property of the tanneries. The men quarreled good-naturedly over which factory could really claim the Little Giant. To all this chaff Peter returned modest replies and the odd little chuckle that had so endeared him to his schoolmates. Nobody could imitate that chuckle—nobody—although many of them tried. It was a part of Peter himself, a part of the good will he felt toward the world and everybody in it.

"You can't hear it without your heart warming toward the lad," remarked Carmachel one day.

Armed with this simple weapon Peter went on his way. He met the men about him with a frank expectation that they would like him, and they did. Nat also made friends, but as he was a much quieter boy most of those who sought him out did so because he shone with a glory reflected from Peter. Was he not Strong's chum? He must somehow be worth knowing if he had that honor.

This rough kindliness of the workmen robbed labor of much of its hardship. The two lads pushed eagerly ahead and were delighted when, toward spring, they were again promoted—this time to the department which turned out the tooled and embossed leathers.

This was one of the most fascinating phases of leather making and for a long time it had interested both Peter and Nat. It seemed too good to be true that they should now win positions in that factory.

"It's like the stories of the Arabian Nights, the way we've gone on and all the time kept together, Peter," Nat said one day. "Think of it! We have been given more money and better jobs all the time. I do not just see why, either. Lots of the men who started long ago in the beamhouse of Factory 1 are still there and haven't had a cent added to their pay envelope; and look at us! It's just luck—that's what it is."

"Not entirely luck, Nat," objected Peter, shaking his head. "Some of it, to be sure, is sheer good fortune; but some of it is hard work. If we had not made good every step of the way I doubt if we should have been sent on up the ladder."

"I wonder!" was Nat's thoughtful answer. "Do you know, Pete, I've sometimes thought that perhaps Mr. Coddington was keeping an eye on us and giving orders that we be shoved along. He could do it, I suppose, if he wanted to."

"I suppose he could," agreed Peter, uneasily, "but he is pretty busy, and is it likely——"

"No, of course it isn't. He did a lot for me when I was sick and it isn't reasonable to think he would do anything more. He wouldn't be called upon to. It is just that we are under a lucky star."

"I wish the star was a lucky enough one to send you a motorcycle then, Nat," laughed Peter. "You know this going off riding by myself is no sort of a stunt. I don't have any fun at all. Why, I would rather tramp the country on my two feet with you than to ride all over it without you. Somehow you've got to get a motorcycle, Nat—you've simply got to."

"And just how do you expect me to carry out such a crazy scheme?" was the derisive retort. "Maybe you've a plan to suggest whereby, entirely without a cent, I am to purchase a toy like that. It can't be done without Aladdin's lamp—at least I can't do it any other way. A motorcycle indeed! Why, I have not a cent to spend for such a thing. I couldn't even buy one of the pedals, let alone anything more. Forget it, Peter, and let's talk sense."

"I shan't forget it," Peter answered earnestly. "You are going to have a motorcycle if I have to—to—pawn my rubber boots to get you one."

They both laughed.

Peter was in great spirits.

This was their first day in the new factory and as the boys took up the novel task of learning how to make embossed leathers he made the inward resolve that every penny he earned there should be put into the bank toward a motorcycle for Nat.

The embossing department was indeed a wonderful place. Such magic as was wrought here! Pieces of dyed leather of every imaginable hue were put into great machines where heavy squares of copper, set in powerful presses, stamped upon them various patterns or impressions. The designs engraved on the dies were imitations of the texture of every known sort of fancy leather. There was alligator, lizard skin, pigskin, snakeskin and sealskin; even grained leather was copied. So perfect was the likeness that it seemed impossible to tell the embossed and artificially made material from the real.

"How is any one to know whether his card-case is real seal or not?" queried Peter, aghast at the perfection of the dies.

The foreman shrugged his shoulders.

"I guess you'd have some trouble," said he. "Comfort yourself, though, that you are not the only one. Just this fall Mr. Coddington himself came in here to compare our leather with some pieces of seal he had had sent him. He put his samples down on the table and later on when he went to get them he could not tell for the life of him which they were. We had a great laugh about it, I can tell you. Yes, we do pretty good work here, and we have about all the orders for pocketbook and bag leather that we can fill. At present we are so busy that we are running all the dies, and that is why we need extra men."

Peter and Nat found that the department was indeed busy. All day they were upon their feet feeding pieces of leather into the presses, and it was their fatigue—a fact unimportant in itself—which led to a remarkable chain of events in the Coddington tanneries.

It happened that one morning Peter was sent up to the shipping room on the sixth floor of the factory with a bale of finished leather, and when he was ready to return he found that the elevator which he had used in coming up was out of order, and that he must now walk down the many flights of stairs. Accordingly he started, whistling as he went. When he reached the fifth floor he was much surprised to discover that it was vacant. A great expanse it was, flooded with sunshine. Peter paused to look about. Some unused packing-cases littered one corner of the room and instantly the thought flashed into his mind—what a warm, quiet, secluded spot for him and Nat to eat their lunch! Why, they could even bring a book and curl up in the shelter of the boxes and read. As it was still too chilly to go out there was no way, during the winter months, but to huddle somewhere under the machinery of the factory and eat one's lunch. Peter detested the arrangement, unavoidable as it was, and always rejoiced when the noon hour was over.

But here was an escape from such disagreeable conditions. Here was an unused room! Why should it not become a refuge from the noise, the dirt, and the turmoil of the factory? The plan seemed innocent enough, and when Peter confided it to Nat neither of them could see the slightest objection to it. In consequence, at noon time they crept up-stairs, and arranged a cozy little corner for themselves behind the packing-cases. It was almost as good as playing Robinson Crusoe, this building a fortress and hiding inside it. Then, too, the constant chance of being discovered provided just the necessary tremor of excitement to make it interesting. What fun it was! They called their stronghold Sterling Castle, and many a joke and jibe they made concerning it—jokes at which they laughed heartily when they were by themselves.

The vast empty space, they learned by cautious questioning, had originally been intended as a supply room; it was found, however, that it was not needed for this purpose and therefore it had been left in its present unoccupied condition.

There seemed not an iota of possibility that the place would ever be used and Peter and Nat exulted in the fact that they might lunch there undisturbed for the rest of their days if they so desired. For weeks they spent every noon hour in the sunshine behind their barricade talking softly together, eating their luncheon, and sometimes reading aloud.

Then came calamity.

It was on a sharp April day when the shelter of their sunny corner was especially welcome. Peter had just been rolling out one of the most stirring chapters of "Ivanhoe" when suddenly he paused, listening intently.

"It's the elevator!" he whispered. "It is stopping at this floor. Somebody is getting out, Nat."

"Who can it be?"

"Hush!"

The two boys kept very still.

Steps and voices came nearer.

"Yes, every floor is protected by fire-escapes, as you see," declared a voice.

"It is some insurance man," breathed Peter. "Don't move, Nat."

"Have you hand extinguishers here also?"

"Yes, at each corner of the room and on the walls."

"This floor is not in use, I take it."

"No," broke in another voice—the voice of Mr. Coddington himself. "We never have had occasion to use this floor, although we probably shall do so when we require more room for supplies. What are those packing-cases doing here, Tyler? They look as though they were empty."

"I hardly think empty cases would be left on this floor, sir. They shouldn't be."

Mr. Tyler was evidently annoyed.

"Empty or full, they've no business in this room," said Mr. Coddington, sharply. "They might cause fire."

Simultaneously the three men stepped forward to investigate.

Mr. Tyler kicked the back of the nearest case with his foot, but Mr. Coddington, who never stopped until he had got at the bottom of things, grasped the edge of one of the great boxes and tried to turn it over.

Now it happened that the boys, struggling to remain unseen, had huddled into this very box.

"The case is heavy, Tyler. I can't stir it. Just see what is in it."

Mr. Tyler, alert to obey, dragged forth the case with the assistance of the insurance agent and when it was tipped up and Peter and Nat tumbled out on the floor three more astonished men never were seen.



"How did you two boys get here?" questioned Mr. Tyler severely. "What are you doing?"

Nat, thoroughly terrified, looked helplessly at Peter. He couldn't have answered had he tried. Peter himself was a good deal taken aback. He glanced at his father for some hint as to how to proceed, but Mr. Coddington's face was a study in conflicting emotions and furnished no clue. Therefore, after waiting a moment and receiving no aid in his dilemma, Peter replied simply:

"We are eating our luncheon."

"Eating your lunch! And who told you you might come here for such a purpose?"

"Nobody. It just was a big, empty place with lots of sunshine and it seemed nicer than eating down-stairs," gasped Peter.

"Are you sure they were eating their lunch and not starting a fire?" suggested the insurance inspector in an undertone.

"Of course we weren't setting a fire!" Peter cried indignantly, hearing the whispered words of the inspector. "We just came up here to get where it was clean and quiet. When it is too cold to go out there isn't any place to eat except right in the factory."

"Well, that is no excuse for your coming here. It is against the rule for any of the employees to come above the fourth floor without permission. I thought you both understood that. If you didn't it is your own fault. You may finish out your week here and on Saturday night you may consider yourselves discharged from the tannery." Mr. Tyler put his hand on Peter's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Strong," he added.

"Just one moment, Tyler."

It was Mr. Coddington who spoke.

"Tell me more fully about this matter, Peter Strong. You say you have no suitable place to eat your lunch."

"Yes, sir."

"What do the other men do?"

"They sit around under the machinery anywhere they can. Often the place is dirty and sometimes it is hot. If the windows are opened to air the rooms the men get cold," answered Peter.

"Strong is a little fussy, I am afraid, Mr. Coddington," interrupted Mr. Tyler. "The conditions are the same as they always have been—the same as they are in most mills. The men can go home at noon if they like."

"But they can't get home, and eat anything, and get back here, all within an hour," objected Peter. "Besides, they are often too tired. It is much easier to stay right in the tannery. Of course in warm weather we have the park and can go outside, so then we are all right; but during the winter——"

"That will do, Strong," cut in Mr. Tyler. "Remember your time is up this week. What's your name?" The superintendent turned severely on Nat.

"Jackson."

"Oh, yes—Jackson. You are the boy who was hurt."

Nat nodded.

"I am sorry to see that you are making such a poor return to the company for its kindness to you. It is unfortunate all around. But we cannot have the rules of the tannery broken. Mr. Coddington will, I am sure, agree with me there."

"Undoubtedly, Tyler. Any person who is at fault should be punished. In this particular case, however, just who is at fault? If, as the lads say, they have nowhere to go at noon, is the fault wholly theirs if they seek a remedy from their discomfort? Suppose we suspend their sentence until we investigate the conditions and simply caution them not to repeat the offense. Had these empty cases not been left here by some negligent persons seclusion would have been impossible. Somebody beside the boys was to blame. Order the boxes removed and drop the matter."

Without another word Mr. Coddington stalked toward the elevator and the men who accompanied him had no choice but to follow.

Peter and Nat breathed a sigh of relief.

There had been but a hair's breadth between them and a discharge from the tannery! To Peter the danger was not a very real one, but Nat, who was in ignorance of the true facts, was pale with fright.

"Whew, Peter! That was a close call," he stammered. "A narrow squeak! But for Mr. Coddington we should both have been fired. I don't know what I should have done if I had lost my place. It was mighty good of him to give us another chance, wasn't it?"

"Mr. Coddington is all right, you can bet your life on that!" agreed Peter heartily. "It was lucky, though, that he was here."

Still aglow with excitement, the boys flew down over the stairs and took up their work, making no further allusion to the incident.

But that night when Peter got home his father called him into the library and motioning to a chair before the open fire, observed dryly:

"Your friend Strong had a narrow escape to-day, Peter."

"Yes, sir. But for you he would have lost his job."

"I'm afraid so," the president nodded. "Since noon I have been thinking the matter over. What Strong said brought things before me in an entirely new light. I don't think I ever realized before some of the conditions at the tanneries."

Peter waited.

"If it were possible—mind, I do not say it could be done—but if a scheme could be worked out to make a big sort of rest room where the men could go at noon do you think that would obviate the difficulties of my employees? Would it prevent them from converting packing-cases into lunch rooms?"

"You mean a big room with tables and chairs where the men could go and eat their lunch, Father?"

"Something of the sort. Perhaps there could be magazines and books there, too."

"Hurrah! It's a splendid plan. When will you do it, Father?" cried Peter.

"I didn't say I was going to do it at all. I merely asked you to find out your friend Strong's opinion. Do you know, some of Strong's ideas are not so bad. Ask him if a room such as I describe would be as satisfactory to him as the packing-box lunch room from which he and his friend Jackson were to-day ejected."

"Of course Strong will like it!"

"I think I will give the orders, then. That vacant floor may as well be used for this purpose as any other. We shall not want it at present, and if we ever need more room we must devise some other way. I've a fancy, somehow, to call the new venture the Strong Reading-Room."

Peter started to speak.

"Purely as a joke, you know," went on Mr. Coddington, waving his hand. "Just as a reminder to Strong how very near he came to losing his position."

Mr. Coddington glanced up humorously; then he chuckled and so did Peter.



CHAPTER IX

PETER AIDS IN A SURPRISE AND RECEIVES ONE

All the next few months corps of men worked secretly transforming into a reading-room the great vacant place, which, on that memorable day, Peter and Nat had appropriated as a lunch room. Carpenters laid the new floor and stained it; painters tinted the walls a soft green; masons constructed a hospitable fireplace. One end of the room was furnished with tiers of book-shelves, tables, chairs, and reading lights; the other was dotted with a myriad of small tables for the use of those who wished to lunch at the factories.

Then one Sunday afternoon when everything was completed Peter and his father made a clandestine trip to the tannery and admitting themselves, crept up-stairs where Mr. Coddington unlocked the door of the "forbidden chamber." The whole room glowed with sunshine which flooded the polished floors and reflected its brightness in the shiny brass andirons adorning the fireplace.

Peter, who had not seen the place since it was finished, exclaimed with delight.

"You are satisfied then, Peter?" inquired his father, enjoying his pleasure. "Do you think there is anything else that your friend Strong would suggest?"

The lad looked critically about.

"Only one thing, and perhaps that is not necessary after all. But doesn't it seem to you that the space over the fireplace needs a picture or something? It looks so bare!"

"A picture! I had not thought of that. Yes, I see what you mean."

"Just one picture," went on Peter. "Something that will show well from this end of the room when people come in."

"Yes, it would certainly be a distinct improvement. We'll have a picture there."

Peter raised his eyes shyly to his father's face.

"I think it would be nice," he said, "to have a picture of you."

"A picture of me! Pooh, pooh! Nonsense! The men see me often enough—too often, I fancy. Remember they do not care for me as you do. No, indeed! I could not think of sticking my own portrait up in my tanneries. I shouldn't want to see it myself."

"I don't suppose you would," admitted Peter, reluctantly.

"But we'll have a picture there all the same, Peter. Will you trust me to select it?"

"Of course I will. Just get something to do with sheep or horses—something that the men will enjoy and understand."

Mr. Coddington smiled down into the eager face.

"I guess I can find a picture the men will like; it may take a little while, though, to get just the right thing. Had we better throw open the room now without it, or wait until everything is complete?"

"Oh, wait! Wait!" was Peter's plea. "Do not open it until everything is done! We do not need to use the place at this season of the year anyway, because the weather is now so warm that every one goes to the park at noon. The secret can be kept until fall, can't it?"

"Yes, indeed. Nobody, with the exception of Mr. Tyler and the workmen, knows about the room; and they are pledged not to tell."

Accordingly the shades of the new reading-room were lowered, it was securely locked, and the key put into Mr. Coddington's pocket.

As the hammering that had for so long echoed through the factory ceased queries concerning the noise and the mission of the carpenters died away. Even Peter himself forgot about the great mystery, for the ball season was now on and in addition to its engrossing interests he and Nat were transferred to Factory 3 where they became much absorbed in the tanning of cowhides. Here again the preparation of the leather took them back to the beamhouse with its familiar processes of liming, unhairing, puering and tanning. Was there never to be an end to beamhouses, Peter wondered.

"No sooner do we get out of one and find ourselves happy at some clean, decent work than off we go to another! I am about tired of beamhouses!" wailed Peter.

Nevertheless the two boys stuck resolutely to the beamhouse and to tanning cowhides.

At Factory 3 there also were tanned other light weight hides that underwent a chrome process of tannage rather than the oak or hemlock processes used at the sole leather plant at Elmwood.

It seemed to Peter that he had never dreamed there were so many creatures in the whole world until he began to handle the shipments of hides that came to the factory to be tanned.

"Do all these skins come from the ranches of our own country?" he inquired one day when, from the window, he saw a train of heavily laden freight cars come rolling into the yard. "Why, I shouldn't think there would be a single live animal left in America."

"There wouldn't," replied the boss good-naturedly. "No, indeed. Only a small part of the hides tanned here and at the Elmwood tanneries come from our ranches. The United States cannot begin to produce hides enough to fill the demand. Therefore we import a great many from abroad as well as from South America. When a shipment arrives the skins are sorted: the cowhides and those to be tanned in chrome coming here, and the heavy skins and those to be tanned in oak or hemlock being sent on to Elmwood, where all the sole leather is made. The hides vary in weight, ranging from twenty-five to sixty pounds. There are skins of steers, horses, buffaloes, walrus, bulls, and oxen. The strongest and most perfect ones are made into belting to run the machinery of factories. Leather for this purpose, as you can easily see, must be of equal strength in every part to withstand the great strain put upon it. Some factories turn out belting and nothing else. Other heavy hides are tanned into sole leather for harnesses, bags, trunks, and the soles of shoes. Then there are lots of hides which are not perfect. These are the skins of branded cattle and steers. You know, of course, that on many of the ranches the stock is branded so that it can be easily identified in case it is lost. These branded hides have flaws or thin places in them and are not so valuable in consequence."

"I can see that," assented Peter. "What is done with such leather?"

"Well, it is usually tanned in oak, or in a blend of oak and hemlock known as union tan, and is sold for purposes where less strength will be demanded of it than if it were made into belting."

Peter nodded.

"Oh, there are lots of interesting things to learn about hides. Why, you wouldn't believe, now would you, that the way the animals live would make a difference in the weight of their skins? Yet it is so. Cattle raised in stalls and supplied regularly with good food have far better hides than those that range the fields and are forced to forage for the scant rations found there. Wild cattle, on the other hand, have much tougher hides than do domesticated animals."

"It's curious, isn't it?" replied Peter.

"Yes, it is," the foreman answered. "Two factors always go hand in hand in the making of a fine leather. One is the quality of the hide itself; and the other is the way in which it is tanned. For the tanning liquid, you know, reacts on the fibres of the skin in such a way that the material becomes tougher, closer grained, and more pliable. Here again you are back to the importance of the beamhouse processes."

All these items of information Peter and Nat added to their accumulating fund. Through the long summer they worked hard, classifying all they learned and collecting more as one gathers up snow by rolling a snowball.

Then came the fall, with its frosts of ever increasing heaviness. The park flowers drooped; baseball failed to drive the cold from chilled fingers; and lunching in the open had to be abandoned. It was then that notices were posted in all the tanneries saying that at noon on a certain day the president of the Coddington Company desired to meet his men in the vacant room of Factory 2.

Peter's heart beat high!

At last the secret of the reading-room was to be made public!

Would the men like their new quarters, he wondered. What an absurd speculation! Of course they would.

Yet it was not without some anxiety that, in company with Nat, Peter made his way to Factory 2 the moment the noon whistle blew on that great day. A tide of workmen moved hither with him. On every hand they poured in through the doors and streamed up the stairways. The two boys followed. Everybody was speculating as to what the president could want. Then, as the vanguard of the crowd reached the fifth floor, Peter heard a rush of sound—cheers and cries of surprise. The mystery, so long guarded, stood revealed!

A lump rose in the lad's throat. The men were pleased, and his father, who had spent so much time and money on the carrying out of this project, would consider himself more than repaid for all he had done. Poor Peter! He almost felt personally responsible that the men should appreciate his father's kindness. So anxious had he been that had those hundreds of voices not risen with just the spontaneity they did it would have broken his heart. But the cheers swelled from the scores of throats with a heartiness not to be questioned.

Silently he and Nat pushed their way into the crowded room. Far away in the glow of a blazing fire Peter could see his father, wreathed in smiles, talking with Mr. Tyler. And it was just at that moment that the boy remembered about the picture which was to have been purchased and raised his eyes curiously to the space over the fireplace. To his chagrin the spot was covered with a piece of green cambric. The picture his father had promised to buy had not come! For a fraction of a second Peter sobered with disappointment; then in the excitement of the cheering he forgot all about it.

In answer to shouts and cheers Mr. Coddington stepped forward and raised his hand.

There was instant stillness.

"It gives me great pleasure to see that you like the room," said he, simply, "and I am grateful to you for so heartily expressing your approval. But before we go further I feel it is only honest to confess to you that it is neither the Coddington Company nor myself that you should thank for this new library. Shall I tell you how you chanced to have it?"

"Yes! Yes!" came from all over the room.

Then in humorous fashion Mr. Coddington sketched the tale of two boys and an interrupted luncheon, drawing a vivid picture of how the lads had been unceremoniously tumbled to the floor out of their stronghold in the packing-boxes. Mr. Coddington had a gift for telling a story and he told this one with consummate skill.

At its conclusion there was a general laugh.

"Those boys are with us to-day," continued the president. "They are not strangers to you. One of them is Nat Jackson, whom you all know well, and the other—the lad who furnished me with the inspiration for this venture is——"

Instantly the curtain over the fireplace was withdrawn.

"Peter Strong!" cried the men.

It was indeed Peter who smiled down on the throng from out the broad gilt frame! Not Peter Coddington of the fashionable "west side,"—the son and heir of the president of the company, but Peter Strong—Peter in faded jumper and with the collar of his shirt turned away so that one could see where the firm young head rose out of it; Peter with hair tumbled, cheeks flushed from hard work, and his eyes shining as they always shone when he was happy; Peter Strong—the Peter the men knew and loved!

The boy himself looked on, bewildered. Well he knew the source of the portrait. It had evidently been copied from a snap-shot Nat had taken of him one day when the two were coming out of the beamhouse. His father's delay in finding a suitable picture was also now explained. He had had to wait for the portrait to be painted.

Nat, who was watching Peter's face with no small degree of amusement, now whispered:

"I kept one secret from you anyhow, Peter. Mr. Coddington came to see us one evening last spring and asked if I had any kodak picture of you, explaining what he wanted it for. So I let him look over what I had and he chose this one. It's fine, isn't it?"

"Why, I don't know," stammered Peter. "I—I'm so flabbergasted I——"

Nat laughed.

All this time the men were cheering and now cries of "Peter Strong!" "Peter Strong!" rent the air.

The unlucky Peter, who was vainly trying to flatten himself against the wall and hide in Nat's shadow, was dragged forth by Carmachel and made to stand upon a table, from which elevation he waved his hand to the men and then, ducking suddenly, buried himself once more in the crowd.

After waiting a little while for the tumult to subside Mr. Coddington again began to speak—this time in a low, uncertain voice:

"I see you all recognize the portrait. It is Peter Strong as you have met and known him. Yet we can never tell what the future will unfold. If it chanced that time should bring to this lad a career fraught with greater responsibilities than he now holds I want you to remember that he came into the works a boy, like many of you; that he was one with you in play as well as in work; that he toiled at the hardest tasks, never shunning what was difficult or disagreeable; that he was, is, and I hope will always be, your comrade—the product of the Coddington tanneries."

With a bow and a smile to the silent crowd before him the president withdrew. Then as the workmen turned to disperse a few clear words from some one in the throng behind caught Peter's ear:

"It's more than likely the president means to push Strong along to the top of the ladder. He is mightily interested in the boy; anybody can see that. Mayhap the lad will make up to him for his own son who, I've heard say, is a lazy little snob and a great disappointment to his father."



CHAPTER X

THE CLIMB BECOMES DIFFICULT

It would not have been strange if with all this adulation Peter had come to think himself a very clever boy—perhaps the cleverest one in the world. Fortunately for his modesty, however, his daily life did not tend to foster any such delusion. He received occasional commendation, it is true, from his superiors, but to counterbalance it he continued to have many a rebuke thrown at him during the year he and Nat toiled together tanning hides. The newness of the work combined with a score of well-meant blunders placed Peter Strong on entirely equal footing with other workmen, and quite as liable to correction. Even had these conditions been otherwise the memory of the lazy little snob who was a great disappointment to his father would have served to crush in the lad any undue sense of his own importance. Considering the popular rating of Peter Coddington it certainly was just as well that he had entered the works under some other name than his own.

But although the bitterness of this criticism rankled, its sting was removed by the thought that lazy and snobbish as Peter Coddington had been, thanks to Peter Strong he was neither lazy nor snobbish now; nor was he, the boy acknowledged, the disappointment to his father that he might have been had not prompt and heroic measures been taken. Yet even Peter Strong was obliged to admit after truthful scrutiny of his progress that there still was room for improvement. Accordingly he accepted submissively the censure that fell to his lot and, as Carmachel said, "did not consider himself the whole tannery just because one room in it was named after him."

It was not until the spring of that year that the next upward step came; then Peter and Nat were sent to the Elmwood plant for a few months' experience at the sole leather factories. The inconvenience of going seven miles and back every day was nothing to Peter because of his motorcycle; but for Nat the case was different. Poor Nat was dependent on street cars and once or twice, owing to delays, was tardy at the works. Then one morning the trolley broke down and Jackson was forced to walk three miles, arriving an hour late. In consequence his pay was docked. This injustice was too much for Peter. All day he thought about it.

"Father," he asked that evening when he arrived home, "do you think you would like to lend Peter Strong some money?"

"Lend money to Peter Strong! What for?"

Hotly, earnestly, eloquently, Peter presented his case concluding with the plea:

"Strong has some money in the bank, sir, but it is not enough. If he paid back what you lent him month by month do you think you could let him have what he needs to get a motorcycle for Nat?"

Mr. Coddington considered carefully.

"I do not at all approve of Peter Strong's borrowing money," said he. "It is a bad habit to fall into."

"But Peter Strong isn't going to make a habit of it, Father. And he isn't borrowing for himself, you know."

"Still he is borrowing."

"Yes, because if he waited until he had the cash in the bank Nat might be too old to ride a motorcycle," chuckled Peter, mischievously.

A quiet smile crept into the corners of Mr. Coddington's mouth.

"Well," admitted he deliberately, "the case does seem to be an urgent one. I might for once consent to break over my rule and furnish the sum necessary. Yet it is quite a large loan that Peter Strong is asking. I hope he will have no trouble in repaying it."

"I believe he can manage it all right," was the earnest reply. "His wages have been going up and will probably be raised still more in future. It does seem a little bit risky to loan him so much money, I confess, but I feel sure you will get it back if you are not in too much of a hurry for it."

Something in this answer evidently amused Mr. Coddington, for he bit his lip to keep back a smile and walked away to the window where he stood for some time looking out. At last he turned.

"We will close the deal, Peter," said he. "Since you vouch for Strong I will take a chance. I would advise you, though, to let me buy the motorcycle, as I can get a better price on it than you can."

"Thank you, Father."

Accordingly the dream that Peter had so long cherished really came true. The motorcycle was purchased, and the crate containing it was set down at the Jacksons' door the day before Easter.

Peter had planned not to say a word to Nat as to where it came from and therefore was not a little chagrined when both the members of the Jackson household jumped at once to the conclusion that the Coddington Company had sent it. Nat's mother, who, as Peter well knew, was a very proud woman, immediately refused to accept any more favors from that source and in consequence poor Peter was driven to confess his part in the mystery.

"But, Peter, my dear boy, you can't afford any such present as this. How have you the money to pay for so magnificent a gift to Nat? You, too, are working for your living and although you have no one dependent on you I am certain you do not possess a sufficient bank account to warrant your making such an extravagant purchase. It is like your big, kind, generous heart to want to do it, but of course Nat and I cannot let you take all your savings and give them away. How did you manage to get the motorcycle anyway?"

"I borrowed part of the money," explained Peter reluctantly.

"Oh, Peter, Peter! Borrowing is a dreadful habit! Never borrow money. You had much better go without almost anything than borrow money to get it."

"But I am paying up the loan week by week. My—the man I borrowed it from is making it very easy for me, and is in no hurry for the whole sum. You had better let me have my way, Mrs. Jackson. I am getting good wages and shall soon be earning even larger ones. I might blow in my spare cash on something dreadful—something much worse than a motorcycle," pleaded Peter, teasingly.

Nat's mother shook her head.

"I am not one bit afraid that you would."

"Oh, you never can tell," chuckled Peter. "Besides, can't you see that I shall have twice as much fun with my own motorcycle if Nat has one too? It is no earthly fun to go riding by myself."

This and many another such argument caused Mrs. Jackson to waver, and having once wavered her case was lost. Peter pursued his advantage and after a whole afternoon of reasoning succeeded in winning Nat's mother to his point of view. The motorcycle therefore was accepted in the spirit in which it was proffered and became Nat's most treasured possession.

What sport the two lads had going and coming from work! What wonderful Saturday afternoon rides they took through the surrounding country!

Their work at the sole leather tanneries was interesting, too. Here many new phases of leather making confronted them. First there was the tremendous weight of the great skins, which were so unwieldy that they could not easily be handled and, like cowhides, had to be cut into halves, or "sidees." In addition to this they were usually split—sometimes before tanning, sometimes after. The grain, or the side next the hair, was the more valuable leather. After being split once the splits could be split again, if desired, just as cowhides were. Some of the hides were tanned in oak bark, some in hemlock, and some in a mixture of both called union tannage.

Oak sole leather, the foreman said, was often considered preferable for soling shoes because its close fibre rendered it waterproof, and it seldom cracked. Much of the fine English leather imported into this country was, Peter learned, oak tanned. Since oaks grew so plentifully in Great Britain the bark was much less expensive there than here.

Hemlock leather—so deep red in color—was, on the other hand, used largely for heavy, stiff soles to common shoes for men and boys, since it made up in wear what it lacked in flexibility.

Union leather, being a combination of both oak and hemlock tannage, possessed the virtues as well as the faults of each; it had not the deep red of hemlock, nor the fine fibre of oak tanned leather. Still it was a flexible material and was used, the foreman told Peter, for soling women's shoes.

Sole leather seemed to the boys a very stiff and solid stuff after the calf and sheep skins which they had previously handled.

Perhaps they did not enjoy the Elmwood tanneries quite as much as the home works at Milburn, and perhaps they longed a little for their term of service there to be completed. Nevertheless they made friends, learned much that they were anxious to know, and had their motor rides over and back each day together.

With so many of his ambitions reaching fulfilment it began to seem to Peter as if life were a very smooth sea, and it was not until June when he and Nat were transferred to the patent leather factory that he had his first experience in navigating rough waters. This storminess came about through Tolman, a sharp-tongued foreman who did not hesitate to announce that too much favoritism had been shown Peter Strong in the past.

"I bet if he ever comes to the patent leather factory and I get the chance I will take some of the starch out of him," Tolman had been heard to declare.

Unluckily he held just enough authority to be able to carry out his threat. Power had hitherto been to him an unknown weapon. He had been given the position of acting foreman of the new patent leather factory only because of his long term of service with the company. It was understood that he was to hold the post until a skilled and competent foreman could be found; but while he enjoyed the distinction of "boss" he made as arrogant use of his sovereignty as he could.

From the first he blocked the way for Peter and Nat, not only by refusing to pass on to them any information, but by influencing the other men to follow his example. Whether he feared Peter Strong might usurp the vacant foremanship, or whether he simply cherished a grudge toward the lad because of his previous good fortune, it was impossible to discover. Whichever the case, his attitude was, from the moment the boys set foot in the new tannery, one of complete antagonism. Had it not been for Peter's agreement not to intrude his personal grievances at home it would have been easy to appeal to his father to straighten out the difficulty. But Peter would not for a moment consider this means of escape. Therefore he and Nat struggled on by themselves, picking up what scraps of information they were able. Try as they would they could wring from the workmen only the most meager facts about making patent leather.

They did succeed in finding out that the shiny varnish which gave it its finish was compounded in an isolated brick house in the factory yard where, after the ingredients had been carefully measured out, the mixture was boiled at a tremendous heat in great kettles. The formula for this dressing was a secret and was the result of many chemical experiments. All Peter and Nat could learn was that there was oil and Prussian blue in it, and something else with a stifling odor which caused it to dry quickly. No one was allowed in the room where, in the intense heat, the mixers—almost naked—toiled amid the clouds of steam which rose from the bubbling kettles. After the liquid had reached the necessary degree of temperature it was poured out into tanks where it was prevented from settling by being constantly agitated by the gentle motion of revolving paddles. Here it was kept until taken to the "slickers" to be used.

"And the reason that the building stands off by itself," declared Nat to Peter one day, "is because there is danger of the oil and stuff in the varnish taking fire or blowing up; I found that out from one of the men to-day. In that other low building off by itself are stored the supplies for making the varnish and that place has to be isolated too for the same reason."

"Good for you, Nat! We've gained one point anyhow. Did you find out anything else?"

"No. When the man saw that I was really interested he wouldn't tell me anything more. There is, though, a nice old Irishman—a friend of Carmachel's—here somewhere. I met him once at noon time over at the park. Maybe he will help us."

"There are plenty of things that I want to ask him if he ever turns up," Peter replied. "I only hope he will be decent to us. I am sure he would if he knew how hard we are trying to learn. One thing I am anxious to know is why on earth they don't dry the freshly varnished patent leather in the factory. Look at the work it makes for the men to bring it out here in the yard and stand it up against these hundreds of wooden racks. I should think by this time it would have dawned on somebody that it would be lots less trouble to dry it indoors in a hot room; shouldn't you?"

But it wasn't Nat who answered. Instead a voice with a decided Irish brogue replied kindly:

"Well, you see, my lad, no way has ever been found to dry patent leather except by the sun's rays. If somebody could invent a kind of japan that would dry in the house his fortune would be made. But nobody ever has. Every fine day the hundreds of frames have to be brought out and propped up in the sun—a jolly bit of work, I can tell you!"

"But suppose it should rain?" questioned Peter, eager to get all the information he could out of the friendly workman.

"If the weather is bad of course we do not put out the leather; in case a sudden storm comes up while it is out the factory whistle sounds and every man understands that he is to drop whatever he is doing, no matter what it is, and rush to the yard to help rescue the stock before it is spoiled."

"I never heard of anything so funny!" cried Peter.

"Funny, is it? You'll not be thinking so when you have to take your turn at it," protested the Irishman, grimly. "Just you be busy at doing some fussy thing you can't leave and wait till you hear the blast of the whistle! Out you'll have to cut and run like as if you were a schoolboy going through a fire drill. Then, you see, there are all those frames of wet leather to be set up somewhere indoors where they won't be injured until the storm is over and they can be carried out again."

"And suppose the stormy weather lasts several days?"

"No leather can be dried. Nor can you put it out on very dusty days lest the particles in the air stick on the moist surface and dry there. A strong wind is another bad thing, because it catches the frames as if they were sails and often smashes them all to pieces, spoiling the leather stretched on them."

"Well, it does seem as if somebody might be smart enough to think of some plan to prevent all this. Have people tried—lots of people, I mean—to make a gloss that will not need the sun to dry it?"

"Many and many a man has experimented and failed," replied the workman. "For years chemists have been working at the puzzle, but so far they never have got anywhere."

"If I only knew more about chemistry I'd try," cried Peter.

The old man looked amused at the boy's enthusiasm.

"Would you, indeed!" grinned he. "Well, if you succeeded you would be the first. But I'm not discouraging you, sonny. Sure if none of us were young and hopeful nothing great would be done in the world. You sound as if you might be Peter Strong—the lad they talk so much of in the other factories."

"I am Peter Strong."

"I might have guessed it! Carmachel said I'd know you because you had the strength of a tiger cub, the smile of the sun across the lake of Killarney, and the courage of a fighting cock. It's good to see you, laddie, starting out to move the world. I was going to do it once myself, but somehow I never did. It does no harm, though, to set out thinking you're going to budge the universe. Now listen to me. There is no kindly feeling toward you two boys in this place. Tolman is scared that you'll get his job away from him, so he's sore on your being sent here; the men are afraid of him so they side with him. Let me give you a bit of advice: work the best you can and have little to say to those around you. If you want to find out things keep your questions until you see me outside and I'll tell you all you want to know. I have been here twenty years, and what I can't answer I can ask. We'll beat Tolman yet, the three of us!"

And so to the kindly old McCarthy Peter and Nat entrusted their fortunes.

"I do believe we are going to like it at this factory, after all," announced Peter to Nat. "Certainly we shall not want for excitement. There is the chance to invent a better patent leather varnish which will dry indoors; there is the chance to learn the mystery of making patent leather despite Tolman; and there is the daily liability of having to tear out into the yard and rescue the stock from a sudden shower. It is going to be great sport, Nat!"

But Nat was not so sanguine.

Being a toggle-boy was far from easy work.

"And what is a toggle-boy?" inquired Mrs. Jackson at the end of their first day.

Peter and Nat only laughed.

They enjoyed using big words that mystified her.

"Why, you see, Mother, toggle-boys are what we are at present," said Nat, teasingly.

"But what does one have to do to be a toggle-boy?" persisted she.

"I am afraid a toggle-boy is not as grand a person as he sounds, Mrs. Jackson," interrupted Peter. "Nat and I are down at the lowest rung of the ladder again. We couldn't get much lower unless they set us to making the wooden frames the leather is stretched on before it is japanned. Somebody has to do that. The frames are about three yards long and two yards wide, roughly speaking; it isn't much work to make them, though, because the light thin boards come cut just the right size and simply have to be nailed together at the corners. Still I should not want to be set to doing carpentry. Even a toggle-boy's work is better than that—eh, Nat?"

"He is at least an inch nearer making leather," admitted Nat grudgingly.

"Of course he is! You see, Mrs. Jackson, Nat isn't stuck on his present job. I shouldn't be either if I expected to do it for life. It is not a position that inspires you with the feeling that you are well on your way toward being a captain of industry," Peter chuckled. "No, I'm afraid there is more than one step between being a toggle-boy and being president of the company."

Nat smiled in spite of himself.

"Now, Mrs. Jackson, to make our career a little clearer to you I'll tell you more about the toggle-boys," Peter continued. "When the dyed leather is sent over from the other factories to be made into patent leather it is first stretched on the wooden frames, as I told you, so that the gloss can be put on. The reason why they stretch the leather on frames instead of boards is because a frame, being open, allows the wet japan to run off the edges of the material and drip through to the floor as it could not do if it were stretched to a solid surface. They have found that for many reasons it is much better not to nail the leather to the frames. Nails make holes in the stock and waste it; besides the tacks might catch in the brushes as the men work and cause the dressing to spatter. Then, too, the leather is irregular in shape and some of it does not reach to the edges of the frame anyway. So steel nippers, or toggles, are snapped at intervals around the edge of the material and by means of strings knotted to the nippers the leather can be pulled out tightly and tied to the frame. Do you understand?"

Mrs. Jackson nodded.

"And you boys are the ones who put on the toggles?"

"Well, no, we're not," replied Peter, a little apologetically. "But we shall be some day. Just now we are employed in taking from the toggles that have already been used the strings that have been cut or knotted, and substituting instead new, long strings so that the nippers will be ready for the men."

"It isn't much of a job, Mother," put in Nat, ruefully.

"I admitted it was not next to the presidency," declared Peter, laughing. "But just keep in mind that we are not going to do it always."

And Peter's prediction was true, for in a few days notice came that the boys were to be promoted to a more difficult task.

Strangely enough, and fortunately too for the beginners, it was their cheery old friend McCarthy who gave them their first lesson in trimming off the stock to fit the frames; attaching the toggles, or nippers; and tying the leather so that every part of it could be drawn out taut.

"The finishers, or slickers as we call them, cannot put any gloss on unless the leather is perfectly tight," insisted McCarthy.

Peter tugged at his twine.

"What kind of stock do they use for patent leather?" he puffed. "Let me see! This must be——"

"Colt. Colt, calf, or kid is used. Colt, as you already know from your experience in the tanneries, is either the skin of a young horse or the split skin of a full-grown one. It works up into a light weight, fine grade patent leather. Calfskins you know all about too; they run light in weight anyway and, you remember, only need to be trimmed down to uniform thickness before tanning and dyeing. Patent calf is a heavy, air-tight leather which has been known to crack," whispered McCarthy with a wink, "but if it doesn't it wears well. Our best patent leather, though, is made from kid——"