PETER’S MAIDEN SPEECH

ETER had been three weeks in the beamhouse and had in that time proved himself so useful that his pay had been raised from six to six dollars and a half a week. Very proud he was of his financial good fortune. With few demands in the way of clothing he was now able to lay aside quite a little sum toward the motorcycle he so much desired. The days at the tannery passed more quickly. Nat Jackson became his chum and the two lads were almost inseparable; they lunched together, played on the ball team, and often spent their Saturday afternoons in taking long walks or going to Nat’s house. Peter, however, took great good care that Nat should not visit him.

The omission of this hospitality was not entirely unnoticed by young Jackson, and the conclusion he drew was that Peter lived humbly—perhaps poorly—in lodgings to which he did not consider it suitable to invite a guest. Nat thought this foolish pride on Peter’s part and he meant to tell him so some time when they became better acquainted. It was a mistake, argued Nat, to be over-sensitive about one’s poverty. If Peter was saving his money surely that was excuse enough. He had a right to live as he pleased. Furthermore what possible difference could it make in their friendship? Nat himself lived simply but very nicely on the meager salary that he earned. He and his mother rented two tiny bedrooms, a sunny little living-room, and a microscopic kitchen in a part of the town which, to be sure, was cheap and ugly; but Mrs. Jackson, Peter soon found, was one of the rare women who could make a home—a real home—almost anywhere. She often laughingly remarked that if she were to dwell in a snow hovel at the North Pole she believed she should cut a window in the side of it and set a pot of flowers there, and Peter could well imagine her doing it.

She was a short, bright-eyed, motherly little person, with a quick appreciation of a joke, and a wonderful knack at cooking. Incidentally she had a quiet voice and chose soft colors in preference to crude ones. Peter gathered from her manner of speech and from the delicate modeling of her hands that at some time in her life she had occupied a very different position from the one she was now filling. But whatever that past might have been he gained no inkling of it either from her or from her son. Bravely, patiently, happily, she made a home for her boy—such a home that Peter Coddington visited it with the keenest pleasure and came away with a vague wonder what it was that those three wee rooms possessed which was lacking in his own richly furnished mansion.

Perhaps if it had not been for the encouragement of Nat and his mother Peter might not have had the grit to master his work at the beamhouse. A wholesome spur these two friends were to his flagging spirits. There was some subtle quality in Nat’s mother that made a fellow want to do his very best—to be as much of a man as he could. And yet she said little to urge either of the lads to their task. It was just that she was so proud and so pleased when they did win any good fortune through their own endeavors. And so Peter forged bravely on, prodded by an unformulated desire to do well not only for the sake of his own parents, but that he might not disappoint the faith that Nat and Nat’s mother had in him.

Even Mr. Coddington remarked one evening at dinner (and there was a twinkle in his eye when he said it) that he was highly gratified by the reports he heard of “young Strong.”

But as the summer advanced and the days grew hotter Mrs. Coddington watched her boy with anxious care and dropped more than one suggestion that it was time they all were off to the shore. None of her suggestions bore fruit, however, and by and by when she saw that Mr. Coddington had no intention of leaving Milburn she ceased to remonstrate further and Peter settled down to work and to keep as comfortable as he could during the hot weather. What a haven his home, with its green lawns and wide verandas, became, after those long, breathless hours in the tannery! Never before had he half appreciated his surroundings. Most of the houses where the men at the factory lived were huddled closely in that dingy part of the town where Nat Jackson’s rooms were, and Peter soon discovered that after supper many of the workmen and their families came and sat in the ball field opposite Factory 1 where there was more air, and where some of the men actually slept when the nights were very hot. It was a blessing—that great open space! Peter wondered what they would have done without it.

He had been raising the query mentally one July morning on his way to work after a close, restless night in his big room on the hill. The day was a sultry one; no air stirred, and it was with a sigh that Peter entered the beamhouse. No sooner was he inside, however, than he at once saw that something was wrong. Knots of men were speaking together in undertones and seemed to be far more eager to talk than to take up their daily tasks. Only Bryant, who moved from one group to another, urging, coaxing, commanding, succeeded in compelling them to attend to what they had to do.

“You fellows can do all the talking you want to at noon,” he said. “There will be no builders around to-day, I guess.”

“They’ll do well to keep away!” muttered an angry Swede, threateningly.

“You go to unhairing skins, Olsen,” Bryant commanded, putting his hand firmly but kindly on the broad shoulder of the man. “You can scold your wrath all out this noon. Go on.”

Sullenly the man obeyed.

“What is the matter?” Peter managed to whisper to Nat Jackson.

“The men are furious; they are threatening to strike,” returned Nat in an undertone.

“To strike!” exclaimed Peter. His thoughts flew to his father. “What has happened?” he questioned insistently. “Didn’t you see last night’s paper? Haven’t you heard? Mr. Coddington is going to put up another tannery. He’s going to build it on the ball field!”

“On the ball field! Our field!”

“So the paper says. Of course the land is his. But it does seem pretty tough!”

Peter moved on, dazed.

To take away the field—the one out-of-door spot for luncheon and exercise! To deprive hundreds of stifled creatures of fresh air and sunlight! It was monstrous! Why hadn’t his father mentioned the plan? Of course he did not realize what it would mean to the men or he never would have considered it. What would become of all those tired people who nightly left their bare little dwellings and sought a cool evening breeze in the field? Peter knew Nat and his mother always sat there until bedtime and many of the other workmen brought their wives and children. Once the boy had sat there himself. It was an orderly crowd that he had seen—children tumbling over each other on the grass; women seated on the benches and exchanging a bit of gossip; tired men stretched full-length on the turf resting in the quiet of the place.

Why, it was a crime to take the field away!

All the morning while he worked Peter’s mind seethed with arguments against the building of the new factory. He longed to see his father and talk it out. Surely Mr. Coddington would listen if he realized the conditions. He was a kind man—not an inhuman brute. It seemed as if the noon whistle would never blow.

With Nat Jackson and a score of agitated workmen Peter went out into the shade opposite. Luncheon was forgotten, and ball, too. Instead a crowd gathered and on every hand there were mutterings and angry protests.

“Of course Coddington can take the land. It’s his. There is no law to prevent him from doing anything he wants to with it. What does he care for us?” remarked an old, gray-haired tanner.

“The working man is nothing to the rich man,” grumbled another. “All the millionaire wants is more money. Another factory means just that —more money! It’s money, money, money—always money with the rich. The more they have the more they want.”

Sick at heart, Peter listened.

“Why don’t you fellows do something about it?” blustered a red-faced Italian. “I’ll bet you if we called a strike it would bring Coddington to terms. He’d a good sight rather give up building that factory than have us all walk out—’specially now when there’s more work ahead than the firm can handle. I’ve been in five strikes in other places and we never failed yet to get what we started for.”

“Do you think you could drive a man like Mr. Coddington that way?” It was Carmachel who spoke. “You can walk out, all of you, if you choose. It would make no difference to him. If he has decided it is best to put up that tannery he’ll put it up. A strike would do you no good and as a result your families would be without food and a roof over their heads all winter. You’re a fine man, Ristori! Coddington pays you well. You take his money and are glad to get a job from him; then the first minute anything does not go to suit you you turn against him and cry: Strike! You don’t know what loyalty means. Hasn’t Coddington always been square with you? Hasn’t he paid you good wages? Hasn’t he added an extra bit to your envelope at Christmas? I’ll not strike!”

“What would you have us do?” was Ristori’s hot retort. “Would you have us sit by like dumb things and let him do anything to us he pleases?”

“Coddington is a reasonable man,” Carmachel replied. “Why don’t some of you talk decently with him about all this?”

“Aye! And lose our jobs for our pains!” sneered a swarthy Armenian.

A shout went up.

“A strike! A strike!” yelled a hundred voices.

“Would you strike and see your families starve?” cried Nat Jackson. “I have a mother to support. I care more for her than for the field and everything on it. I shall not strike.”

“You white-livered young idiot!” roared some one in the crowd. “I tell you, men,” went on Carmachel, “there is nothing to be gained by striking. Get together some of your best speakers from each factory and let them ask an interview of Mr. Coddington—now—this afternoon—before anything more is done about the new factory.”

“He’ll not grant it!”

“Hasn’t he always been fair with you?”

“Yes!”

“Aye!”

“So he has!”

“He has that!”

Grudgingly the workmen admitted it, even the most rabid of them.

Drawn by an irresistible impulse Peter elbowed his way into the midst of the workmen.

“I am sure Mr. Coddington will listen to you,” he ejaculated earnestly. “Choose your men and let them go to him. Give him a chance to see your side of it. He will be reasonable—I know he will.”

“It’s the Little Giant,” said one man to another.

“Put it to vote,” urged Peter. “Come! How many are for going to Mr. Coddington? You fellows do not want a strike. Think what it would mean!”

“The lad’s right. Up with the hands!”

It was a crisis.

Peter trembled from head to foot.

A few hands were raised, then slowly a few more; more came. All over the field they shot into the air.

“And now choose your representatives,” called Peter quickly, dreading lest the tide of sentiment should turn.

“Carmachel! He doesn’t seem to fear losing his job,” piped a voice. “Put on Carmachel!”

“And Jackson; he said he would not strike anyway,” called somebody else.

“Bryant is a good fellow! Put Bryant on.”

“Put on some men from the other factories, too,” demanded a Pole aggressively.

A committee of twelve were chosen.

“Add the Little Giant as the thirteenth—just for luck!” laughed a knee-staker.

There was a cry of approval. “The Little Giant! The Little Giant!” rose in a chorus.

“No! No, indeed! I couldn’t!” Peter protested violently.

“Of course you could!” contradicted Carmachel. “Come, come! You mustn’t be so modest, Strong. You are with us for keeping the field, aren’t you?”

“Yes. But there are reasons that you don’t understand why I couldn’t——”

“Pooh! What reasons?”

“I can’t tell you. But I couldn’t possibly go to Mr. Coddington with the men—I couldn’t, really, Carmachel,” reiterated Peter miserably.

“Nonsense! The only question is this—is your sympathy with us or isn’t it?”

“Of course it is!” There was no doubting the fervor of the avowal.

“Then that settles it. Although you have come here but recently, Strong, we all consider you a friend and count you as one of ourselves. You’ll stand by the bunch, won’t you?” Carmachel scrutinized Peter sharply. “Yes, I will. But you don’t understand the circumstances or you would never urge me to——”

Carmachel interrupted him.

“I guess I understand the circumstances better than you think,” returned he, dryly. “Mr. Coddington got you your place, I’ve heard. Naturally you feel under obligations to him for his kindness. That’s all very well. But has he ever been near you since he put you into the tannery? No! He sits in his office and opens his mail and you are just a boy in the works. Isn’t that so? What’s to hinder you from going respectfully to him with the rest of us and calling to his attention something which seems to us an injustice? You said yourself it was the best plan. You pleaded with us to do it.”

“I know.”

“Then why won’t you go yourself? You’re not a coward, Strong, nor, unless I greatly mistake, are you the sort of chap who would point out to others a path he wouldn’t dare follow himself.”

“I’ll go!” cried Peter suddenly. “I’ll go, but I will not do any speaking.” “Nobody wants you to speak,” growled an Italian who had been standing near and who had overheard the conversation. “Bryant, Carmachel, and the older men will do the speaking. It’s their place.”

So it was agreed.

Events shaped themselves rapidly. Within an hour Mr. Coddington, seated in his perfectly appointed office, received word that a deputation of his men respectfully requested an interview with him that afternoon.

He was thunderstruck.

What did the demand foreshadow? Was a strike brewing? The men had appeared perfectly satisfied with the working conditions at the tanneries. Wages were fairly high and the factories conformed to every requirement of the Health and Labor Laws.

He touched a bell.

“Ask Tyler to step here,” said he, frowning.

Mr. Tyler entered hastily.

“What’s all this, Tyler?” demanded his chief. “I hear the men want to see me.” “I know nothing about it, sir. They’ve kept their own council. If they have a grievance they have not told me.”

“No labor agitators have been in town recently?”

“Not to my knowledge, Mr. Coddington.”

“That will do.”

Tyler went out.

Again Mr. Coddington rang.

“I will see the men at three o’clock,” he said to a messenger.

Left alone the president paced the floor. Business was good. The books showed a quantity of unfilled orders. It would be an awkward time for a strike.

“Undoubtedly I could get strike-breakers from Chicago,” he murmured aloud, “but it would take time. Besides, I do not want my men to walk out. Think of the years many of them have worked here! The town will be full of idle persons and suffering families. I have never had a strike in all the history of my business. I’ve always tried to do what was fair toward those who were in my employ. That is what cuts—to be square with your men and then have them meet you with ingratitude. Why, I would have staked my oath that they would have stood by me. I’m disappointed—disappointed!”

With such unpleasant reflections as companions three o’clock came none too speedily for Mr. Coddington. The men were ushered promptly into the office and the door closed. Then an awkward silence ensued. Nobody knew exactly whose place it was to speak first.

But if the tanners had expected the president of the company to break the ice and open the interview they had missed their calculations, for he did no such thing. He met their gaze firmly, courteously, but silently.

Peter, who stood at the back of the room behind the older workmen, saw in his father’s face an unaccustomed sternness and felt instinctively that their mission was destined to failure.

It was Bryant who at last summoned courage to begin the conference.

“Mr. Coddington,” he said, “we men have come to you because we wish to hear the truth concerning a rumor that has reached us. We come respectfully. You are our chief—the one who, in the past, has always been fair and square with us. It is because of your justice that we address you now. Is it true that you propose to take the vacant field opposite Factory 1 for the site of a new building?”

As Mr. Coddington drew a sigh of relief he inclined his head.

“You have been correctly informed,” he assented. “We need more room. The land is lying idle with a tax to be paid yearly upon it. It seems to me an economic plan to utilize the space for a new factory in which the patent leather department may be housed.”

“Did you realize, in deciding, that the field you intend to take is the recreation ground of the men in your mills?” asked Bryant.

“I know that some of the men play ball there,” replied Mr. Coddington, smiling.

“And yet you have decided to take it in spite of that fact?” The president stiffened.

“The land,” said he, “is mine, and the taxes I annually pay on it render it rather a costly spot for a ball field. For years the lot has been nothing but an expense to me. If the case were yours and you could derive an income from property where previously all had been outgo wouldn’t you do it?”

“But do you need that income, Mr. Coddington?” cut in one of the men. “Isn’t the Coddington Company rich? Must rich men go on getting more and more, and never think of those who coin their money for them?”

It was an unwise speech, and its effect was electrical.

“I will try and believe that you men came here with the intention of being courteous,” observed Mr. Coddington with frigid politeness. “My affairs, however, are mine and not yours. I must deal with them in the way that I consider wisest. You hardly realize, I think, that you are over-stepping the bounds of propriety when you attempt to dictate to me what I shall do with my land, or how I shall manage my tanneries.” The sternness of the answer blocked any possible reply.

Amid the silence of the room one could almost hear the heart-beats of the waiting throng.

Then some one in the crowd made his way to the front of the room and faced the president.

It was Peter Strong.

As Mr. Coddington’s gaze fell on his son he started.

The boy stood erect and looked his father squarely in the eye.

“May I speak, sir?”

Mr. Coddington bowed.

Peter began gently, respectfully, and his words were without defiance.

“I hardly think you know what the field you are going to take from the men—from us all—means, sir. Not only do we play ball and go there to eat our luncheon but each noon time we have a chance to get a breath of fresh air and go back to work better in consequence. The field, moreover, is the only open lot in this part of the town. At night hundreds of men who have worked hard all day congregate there to get sight of the green grass and enjoy a little interval of quiet. They bring their families from the huddled districts where there is neither sky, tree, nor breathing space. Suppose you lived as they do? Suppose when you went home at night it was to a tenement in a crowded part of the city? You return to a big house on the top of a hill where the trees catch every breeze that passes; where there are shrubs, gardens, flowers. Who needs this space more—you or your employees?”

When he began to speak, Peter had had no clear idea of what he should say; but as he went on words came to him. Was not he himself one of these working men who knew what the heat, the odor, the noise of the tanneries meant? As he went on his voice vibrated with earnestness. There was no doubting his sincerity. It was in truth Peter Strong and not Peter Coddington who made the appeal.

As Mr. Coddington listened without comment to the speech his wordlessness was an enigma to the men. It seemed as if it was a silence of suppressed anger and in consternation Carmachel plucked Peter’s sleeve.

“Say no more, lad,” he whispered. “You’ve gone too far. You forget that it is the president himself you’re talking to. You shouldn’t have said what you did, even though it’s true.”

But Peter scarcely heard.

He was watching his father—watching his face for the gleam that did not come.

“I will consider what you have said, Strong,” replied Mr. Coddington after a pause. “I will acknowledge that I was ignorant of the fact that the spot meant anything to the people of the community. If the conditions are as you say we may be able to find a solution for the problem. May we consider this interview at an end?”

Although the remark was in the form of a question the committee felt itself dismissed and uncomfortably the men filed into the corridor.

“We’ve gained nothing!” was Bryant’s first word when they found themselves alone. “We’ve only succeeded in antagonizing Mr. Coddington and solidified his intention of taking the field. We might have got somewhere if Strong had not put his foot in it. What possessed you to pitch into the president like that, young fellow?”

“What made you speak at all?” put in Carmachel. “Don’t you know your place better than to think a rich man like Mr. Coddington is going to stand for having a kid like you lay down the law to him? How ever did you dare? Your job is gone—that’s certain. I’m sorry, too, for we all like you here at the works.”

“Oh, Peter! Peter! Why did you say it?” wailed Nat Jackson. “I know you had the best of intentions, but don’t you see that you’ve upset the whole thing?”

There was something very like a sob in Nat’s tone.

Poor Peter! From every hand came reproaches. If only he had not spoken! His impulse, good at heart, had been one of mistaken zeal. It was not that he himself had lost his cause—he had lost it for hundreds of men in whom he had become interested, and whom he had struggled to serve. Very wretched the boy was for the remainder of the day; when night came he dreaded to go home. What would his father say to him?

Peter might have saved himself this worry, for when he entered the dining-room and sat down to dinner he found the good-humor of his father quite undisturbed and no allusion was made to the day’s occurrence. Surely this was carrying out to the letter the agreement they had made. Peter Coddington was his son and he treated him as such; but to Peter Strong, the boy of the tannery, he had nothing to say. Miserably Peter waited for the opportunity to offer explanation or apology. It did not come and all chance for securing it vanished when, directly after the coffee was served, Mr. Coddington rose, announced that he had an engagement, and was whirled off in the motor-car. He did not return until long after his son was asleep.

Had Peter known what this mysterious engagement was his slumbers would have been happier, for the president of the company had gone on no idle errand. Screened from view in the far corner of the big touring-car he had ridden past the tanneries and with his own eyes had seen the benches in the ball field thronged with sweltering humanity. Twice, three times he passed. He saw the boys at their games; the tired mothers resting in the twilight; the babies that toddled at their feet; and the men—his men—lying full-length on the grass drinking in the cool air. This was what he had come out to see.

The result of it was that the next morning, in the doorway of every factory of the Coddington Company, the following notice was posted:

What an ovation the men gave Peter that day! And how grateful Peter was to his father! So grateful that before going to bed he felt compelled to break their compact of silence and exclaim:

“Father, it’s splendid of you to keep the field for the men! I can’t thank you half enough, sir. But you ought not to name it after me.”

“I’m not naming it after you,” was his father’s laconic reply. “I’m naming it after Peter Strong.”