"Which in reality is goat," interrupted Peter.

"True enough. So it is. Well, patent kid, as we call it, is not only light weight and elastic, but it is also porous. In fact, it is the only patent leather made that is not air-tight. It is the air-tightness of patent leather, you know, which makes it so hot to wear."

"Why, I always thought the trouble was with my feet!" ejaculated Peter.

McCarthy shook his head.

"Well, I never!" said Peter. "So it is the fault of the leather itself."

"I'm afraid it is, young one."

"Well, that settles it! I never shall buy another pair of patent leather shoes as long——"

"Go easy," retorted McCarthy dryly. "I guess you are safe, though, to make that vow. Your toggle-boy wages won't furnish you with endless numbers of patent leathers, I reckon. But cheer up! You won't be needing pumps here at the works, for while the richest of us always wear Tuxedos every day we excuse the small salary people from appearing in full dress."

Peter answered the jest with one of his well-known chuckles.

He was in high spirits, for although there was, as he himself was forced to own, many a step between him and the presidency of the Coddington Company he felt he had at least made one loyal friend in the patent leather factory—McCarthy from the County of Cork!

When Saturday night came, however, and Peter received his pay envelope he peered anxiously inside it; then he drew a sigh of satisfaction.

"It is a lucky thing," he remarked to himself, "that Peter Strong is not on real toggle-boy wages. If he was he never would be able to pay the president another cent toward Nat's motorcycle!"



CHAPTER XI

TOLMAN EXPERIENCES A SHOCK

During the next few months Peter and Nat talked little and learned much. An occasional question was all they dared to ask, and that only when the men with whom they were associated seemed amiably disposed. Far from pushing their way to the front they took orders obediently from their superiors, slighting no task to which they were assigned, no matter how trivial it appeared. In consequence sentiment throughout the factory slowly turned in their favor. The chill silence of the workmen melted to gradual friendliness. Two such modest boys as these could not be coming to usurp anybody's position. No, indeed! First one and then another of the employees advanced bits of information which were accepted so gratefully that it became a pleasure to follow them with more. Before two months had passed the general opinion prevailed that Tolman had been grossly unjust to the newcomers, and with the reaction a strong desire arose among the men to atone for any previous unfairness.

This change in the atmosphere caused the good spirits which Peter and Nat had found it difficult to sustain through the ordeal of censure and misrepresentation to well up in a great happiness. Their daily work became a joy instead of a matter for dread. Making patent leather certainly was absorbingly interesting.

They had now reached the department where the varnish was put on the leather, and although not skilful enough to share in the actual doing the boys gained much knowledge simply by watching the process and asking questions. They learned that it was necessary to apply three coats of varnish to the material, and when the slickers put them on it was a fascinating operation. Sometimes the men used a rotary sweep of the arm, swirling the varnish round and round over the surface of the leather; sometimes they took quick backward and forward strokes. Usually four men worked together enameling a single skin. Amateurs would have spread the japan too thickly in some spots, too thinly in others; but not so these veterans at their trade. Deftly the blue-black liquid—so elastic and so oily—was coated over the leather, and the glistening finish put out in the sun to dry. After the second coat had hardened it was rubbed down with pumice that the surface might be perfectly smooth before the final layer of japan was applied. The last coat was then put on evenly with the spreaders of thin wood, and before the material was put out for its last sunning it was baked in an oven heated to a temperature of about a hundred and sixty degrees.

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

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

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

"Strange, and almighty inconvenient," his companion assented.

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

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

Nat grinned.

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

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

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

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

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

Even now the warning whistle should be sounding.

Peter stood still and listened.

But no discordant blast broke the stillness.

He quickened his steps.

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

There must be some mistake.

Tolman couldn't have seen the storm coming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His face was flushed with rage.

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

Every one stopped.

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

Peter Strong stepped forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuming with anger Tolman sprang forward, his arm upraised.

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

It was McCarthy.

But the man was too enraged to heed the warning.

With a quick thrust he struck out toward the lad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An awed silence fell upon the group of men.



No one doubted the truth of the lad's assertion. It spoke in the dignity of his whole figure; in the proud poise of his head; in the unflinching gaze with which he met their eyes.

Of course he was Peter Coddington!

Why had they never guessed it before?

More than one man, as the work of carrying in the skins was completed, reviewed in his mind Peter's career at the tanneries and marveled that he had not suspected the secret from the first.

Tolman, astounded at the shock of the discovery, paused, then shuffled shamefacedly forward as if to offer an apology, but no word came to his lips.

The awkwardness of the stillness was dispelled by Peter himself, who, turning at last to the men, said simply: "We made good time getting the leather under cover, and we were none too soon. See—here comes the rain!"

* * * * *

How the news sped through the vast tanneries! It seemed fairly to leap from one building to another. On every hand the men took up the tale and discussed it.

Peter Strong—their Peter—was the president's son! He was Peter Coddington!

It was all too wonderful to believe; and yet, after all, it was so simple!

Why hadn't they known it all along, the workmen asked each other.

"He was a thoroughbred from the minute he began pitching calfskins!" ejaculated Carmachel. "Think of it! Think of his pitching calfskins in my old brown overalls—him as could have picked out any job in the tannery that he chose!"

"And think of the months he put in working in the beamhouses too! Slaving away there in the smell and heat just like any of the rest of us!" said another man.

"And how he duffed in in the other department! He wasn't afraid of getting his hands dirty! And what a worker he was!"

"And mind how he stood by us men and got the park for us—stood up and faced his father man to man. The Little Giant!"

"Aye! Don't forget the ball playing!"

"And how he brought his lunch every day like the rest of us!"

On every hand the men admitted that their idol, Peter, was indeed worthy to be the son of the president of the great Coddington tanneries.

"And yet I can't help thinking," reflected Carmachel, "that in spite of his parentage, and his money, and everything else he really is our Peter—a product of the works, just as his father said."

There was little work done in the factories that afternoon. Excitement ran too high. Over and over the men talked in undertones of the wonderful story. Of course no one questioned its veracity and yet there was no rest until the tale was taken to Mr. Coddington for confirmation. It was Tyler who first ventured to broach the matter to the president. He related the chain of events leading up to Peter's avowal and then, receiving no reply, fumbled uncomfortably at his scarf-pin and wished he had not spoken.

Finally Mr. Coddington glanced up, answering with characteristic terseness:

"Yes, it is true that Peter is my boy, Tyler," he said. "Not a bad sort either, as boys go."

"Why, he is one boy in a hundred, Mr. Coddington—a son to be proud of!" burst out Tyler.

"Oh, Peter has possibilities," admitted the president with a smile.

But he would say nothing more. Instead he shut himself up in his office where he went determinedly to work. But those who peeped through the glass door could see that throughout the whole afternoon the smile that had lighted his face still lingered there faintly.

He smiled as he rode home in his big limousine too, and he continued to smile during dinner, but he said nothing.

Peter, who was watching him closely, thought every instant he would either make some allusion to the events of the day or make some opening so that he could do so.

Now that all was over the boy was not a little chagrined that in a moment of anger he should have let his secret pass his lips. Henceforth the game was spoiled. Probably his father thought he should not have lost his temper and blurted out the truth. It was a foolish thing to do and now that he thought it over coolly Peter regretted that he had done it. He longed to talk with his father, but he did not just know how to begin.

He was finally spared the embarrassment of confession or explanation, for as the president pushed back his chair from the table he remarked casually:

"So your secret is out, son."

"Yes, sir. I didn't mean to tell, but I got so angry at Tolman, Father."

"Well, perhaps it is just as well to travel under your own name from now on. It's a rather good name. And by the by, Peter, here is a receipt for the money Strong owes me on that motorcycle. We'll cancel that debt. The company was saved several times the amount by getting that lot of patent leather in out of the rain to-day."

"But I can't take money for that, Father," stammered Peter.

"Strong can. That will close my dealings with him. To me it is worth a far bigger sum than that to get my own boy back again."



CHAPTER XII

MR. CODDINGTON TELLS A STORY

One of the first things Peter did the next afternoon was to go with his father and mother to Mrs. Jackson's and relate to her himself all the happenings of the previous day. The story was, to be sure, no surprise to her, for had not Nat rushed home and incoherently rattled it off? But how much nicer it was to hear it from Peter! The boy spared no detail of the truth; he told of his school, his failures there, of his disgust at being put into the tanneries, of his desire to conceal his identity. During the tale no one interrupted him. Mr. and Mrs. Coddington, Mrs. Jackson, and Nat all listened intently to the end. Then when the story was at last finished Peter looked up and smiled at Nat's mother.

"So one of your sons, you see, has been sailing under a false name, Mrs. Jackson," he concluded whimsically. "Do you think you can forgive him?"

"You must try," pleaded Mr. Coddington, putting in a laughing word. "My son has been doing the same thing and yet I've overlooked it."

Everybody smiled and the tension was instantly broken.

"But to think neither Nat nor I ever suspected you, Peter!" mused Mrs. Jackson. "We must have been very stupid. Why, I don't see how we could have helped guessing the truth long ago. As I look back on it all it seems as if a score of incidents might have told us. Either you kept your secret marvelously well or Nat and I are not very keen."

"And even though you fooled every one else, Peter, I can't quite understand how you fooled me," murmured Nat.

"Peter certainly carried his scheme through well," declared Mrs. Coddington. "Yet for our part we are very glad that the time for dissembling is past."

"Indeed we are," Mr. Coddington echoed. "This game of Peter's has complicated our plans to no small extent."

"Why, Father, I did not know it made any difference to anybody except myself," Peter answered, looking at his parents in surprise.

"Nevertheless it has made a difference, my son," returned the president of the company kindly. "Strong was assuredly a good fellow; indeed he was a lad to whom I always shall feel grateful, for he has taught me several lessons that I needed to learn."

Peter opened his eyes very wide.

To think of his father's learning lessons!

"Still," continued Mr. Coddington, "so long as Peter Strong and not Peter Coddington formed a part of our household many plans which we had hoped to make realities had to be abandoned. Now, however, we shall try to carry through some of them; one in particular we are eager to see fulfilled, and that is why Mrs. Coddington and I have come here to-day."

Peter wondered what was coming.

His mother answered the question that trembled on his lips.

"Your father and I thought best not to tell you beforehand, Peter," she said softly.

"I'll do it, whatever it is, Father," cried Peter. "Only please do not say that you want me to go back to school. I'd even do that, though, if you really thought I had better," he added bravely.

Mr. Coddington dropped his hand on the boy's shoulder and smiled down into the anxious face.

"There will be no more school for you, son," he answered slowly. "At least not the sort of school that you dread so much. No, in future you must find your books in the great world about you—in men, and in the things they are doing; and this education of yours is precisely the subject I came here to talk about."

Leaning forward the president began slowly:

"Mrs. Jackson, on the fifteenth of next month, Mrs. Coddington and I are to sail for England."

"What!" gasped Peter, forgetting for the moment that he should not interrupt.

"We are to take Peter with us," went on Mr. Coddington ignoring the interruption and proceeding in the same earnest, deliberate tone. "He has worked hard and faithfully, and needs a good rest. The trip, however, is not to be an entirely profitless one, for while in England I shall take him to visit some of the finest tanneries, that he may observe other methods for doing the same things that we are doing here."

An exclamation of pleasure escaped Peter's lips.

His father smiled.

"After we have collected in England all the information possible and have seen something of the sheep country there, and the great houses from which hides are shipped, we shall go to Paris and place orders for several large consignments of skins. I want my son to see for himself, Mrs. Jackson, just how this end of the business is conducted, for I hope and expect that some day these duties will be his, and I want him equipped to meet them with wisdom and intelligence."

"You mean that you are going to fit Peter to manage the tanneries," nodded Mrs. Jackson.

"Precisely."

There was a pause.

No one spoke.

It was evident that Mr. Coddington had more to say, and that he was finding it a little difficult to continue.

"In this great business, however," he went on at last, "Peter will need help. He will not be able to carry so much care all alone."

"But you will——" burst out Peter.

"Oh, I shall be around here for some time yet, God willing," replied his father cheerily. "Still we old fellows cannot expect to stay here forever. We must consider the future, dear boy. Therefore I wish to train up another lad to share Peter's burdens with him—a fellow with good stuff in him; some one whom Peter likes and can trust. It is with this end in view, Mrs. Jackson, that when we sail for England we wish to take your son with us."

"Me!"

Nat sprang from his chair.

"Would you like to go, Nat?" asked Mrs. Coddington, watching the light leap into the boy's eyes.

"Would I like to go! Why, it is the thing I have dreamed of all my life—dreamed of, and never expected to be able to do. To go to Europe! To see all those places I've read about and seen pictures of! Think of it! Do you really mean it, Mr. Coddington?"

"I certainly do, my boy," answered the president, heartily enjoying his delight. "I cannot promise to take you to all your dream-countries but you shall see some of them. It all rests with your mother. If she gives her consent you shall go."

Mrs. Jackson's answer was ready. While Mr. Coddington had been speaking she, with woman's intuition, had leaped forward to the coming question and had decided upon her reply. Her one thought was for her boy. She did not permit a consideration of self to bar his way.

"I am only too glad to give my consent, Mr. Coddington," she said firmly. "It is a great opportunity for Nat, and his mother would be the last person to allow him to refuse it. Of course he shall go."

Then the significance of her words broke upon Nat.

He flushed.

He was mortified to realize that in his enthusiasm his thought had been only for himself and his own pleasure. For an instant his face fell. Then he sprang to his mother's side and throwing his arms about her exclaimed:

"Of course I shall not go, mother. Go, and leave you here all by yourself! I guess not! I did not think at first that my going would mean that. It was very good of you, Mr. Coddington, to ask me, but nothing would hire me, sir, to leave my mother."

"Oh, you would not be leaving me for long, dear," argued his mother, crushing the boy's cheek against her own and hurriedly dashing away a tear. "Why, people go back and forth across the ocean every day. It is not—not far—very far. You could write to me often and before you or I knew it you would be back at home again." The trembling voice gained steadiness. "Why, it would be nothing at all, Nat! And think of all the stories you would have to tell me! While you were away I could get books and read about the places you were seeing and——"

"I never shall leave you here alone, mother, never!" repeated Nat.

"But we do not mean to have you leave your mother, Nat dear," Mrs. Coddington said. "You have not waited to hear the end of our plan. Your mother is to go too. She is to be my guest on the trip. Oh, yes, Mrs. Jackson. That is the other part of our plan. I shall be very forlorn while these three leather makers are rushing about among the tanneries and warehouses. They won't want to take me with them—nor am I at all sure I should care to go if they did. So I am depending for my pleasure on your companionship, you see."

With charming grace she bent forward and put her hand pleadingly on Mrs. Jackson's.

"You won't refuse Peter's mother this favor, will you?" she begged.

Mrs. Jackson covered the hand with her own slender one and when she answered her voice quivered with emotion.

"You are very, very kind, both you and Mr. Coddington," she answered. "I have no words to thank you; but believe me, while I heartily appreciate your generosity, I feel that too much has already been done for Nat and me—far more than I should have accepted had I realized that it was Mr. Coddington himself and not the company who was doing it. Do not consider me ungracious in being unwilling to add this favor to the others. I would rather be under obligations to you and Mr. Coddington than to any one else in the world if it were possible. Nat shall go. The trip will be a wonderful education for him and he will, I am sure, work hard in the future to repay you for your kindness; but I could not accept such a gift."

Unconsciously Mrs. Jackson's chin lifted, and her figure drew itself up.

"Oh, but I want you to go," broke in Peter.

Smiling, she shook her head.

"I think, if you will pardon my frankness, you are making too much of a very slight thing, Mrs. Jackson," declared Mr. Coddington. "Come, be honest. You are too proud to accept this trip from Mrs. Coddington and me. Isn't that it? You doubt her wanting you as a traveling companion. But there you wrong her. She really does want you. It would be a genuine favor to her, and the obligation would be entirely on our side, you see."

"I think your kindness blinds you to your real motive, Mr. Coddington," Mrs. Jackson returned.

"Then listen. I will tell you a story. Long ago, at the time of the Civil War, my father——" Mrs. Jackson started, then recovered herself; but there was no question that his words had caught her keenest attention.

Imperturbably he went on with his tale.

"My father, who was a fearless young Northerner, was sent forward to carry a dispatch through the Southern lines. It was a dangerous mission and on the delivery of that message depended not alone his honor but a large measure of the success of the Northern cause. He pledged his life to carry that word. All went well until quite without warning he found himself in a rebel ambush. He made his escape but in so doing was seriously wounded and nothing but the speed of his horse prevented his recapture. His enemies were still hot in pursuit when he found he could go no further. Then when he saw his strength failing and knew the struggle was useless he took a desperate chance. A plantation stood in his path and he rode up to the house and begged for aid. Now it happened that the owners of that plantation, although Southerners, were in sympathy with the Northern cause; not only did they take in the wounded man and nurse him back to life, but the son of the family, a daring lad, ventured to continue the ride through the lines and deliver the stranger's message."

Mr. Coddington paused a moment.

"And did he succeed?" cried Peter breathlessly.

"Yes."

"Oh, it was splendid! Think of a boy's doing a thing like that for his country!"

"And a boy not much older than you either, Peter," added Mrs. Jackson eagerly.

"Why—why—how did you know?" queried Peter, bewildered.

Instantly Mrs. Jackson was all confusion; but she did not explain her impulsive words.

"That Northern soldier, Peter, was your grandfather," declared Mr. Coddington quickly. "He all but died in the fulfilment of his task and had it not been for the nursing he received in that Southern home he undoubtedly would have done so. His family owed his life, his honor, and the success of the cause they prized so dearly to those brave friends who risked everything they possessed to serve their country and a fellow creature. And now if you will ask Mrs. Jackson perhaps she can tell you who the boy was who carried the dispatch through the Southern lines."

"It was my brother—Nat's uncle, Peter," whispered Mrs. Jackson.

"Why, mother," Nat ejaculated, "you never told me it was these Coddingtons!"

"And not until the day I came to see you at the hospital, Nat, did I find out that it was these Jacksons," said Mr. Coddington. Then turning to Nat's mother he said: "Now you must certainly admit that the Coddingtons, Mrs. Jackson, owe a good deal to the Jacksons—life, honor, their country's success. Between your family and mine on which side lies the obligation?"

"It was a service gladly rendered."

"But one that cost your family dear. Oh, I have discovered, you see, how the incident came to the knowledge of your Southern neighbors and how, in rage, they burned your father's plantation driving you all from it. I have looked up all the facts. Your father came North in the hope of recovering his fortunes; he died; you married, strangely enough, another Jackson; your husband was unfortunate and before he won a place in life he, too, was taken from you and you were left with this boy. You strayed into Milburn—it is needless to go on; you see I know all your story. I wished, my dear madam, to verify my suspicions. I have verified them. You and Nat unconsciously came to a haven where you never again shall have cause to worry. Your son shall be trained to share my son's fortunes. The Coddingtons can never cancel their debt to the Jacksons, but at least they shall repay a part of it. You who know so well what pride is will not, I am sure, deny me this pleasure and satisfaction."

For a few moments there was silence.

Then Mrs. Jackson extended her hand toward Mr. Coddington.

"Let us not consider it a debt between strangers," she said. "Rather let it be a bond between friends. I will gladly accept your kindness and go to England with you all."

* * * * *

And so two weeks later Peter, amid the cheers of the workmen, bade good-bye to the tanneries.

As he and his father stood alone on the deck of the great liner and watched her make her way out of the harbor Mr. Coddington said:

"Do you recall, Peter, the evening of your failure at school, and how I told you that although it was hard for me to be so severe I felt I must make a man of you?"

"Yes, sir."

"I was very confident in my own strength that night; but I see now I was not so powerful as I thought, and it is you who have shown me my folly. No one in this world can build the character of another; each of us must rear his own. You have made a far better man of yourself, my boy, than I ever could have made of you. I am proud of my son, Peter!"

* * * * *



The stories in this series are:

THE STORY OF COTTON THE STORY OF GOLD AND SILVER THE STORY OF LUMBER THE STORY OF WOOL THE STORY OF IRON THE STORY OF LEATHER THE STORY OF GLASS THE STORY OF SUGAR THE STORY OF SILK THE STORY OF PORCELAIN

THE END