TWO PETERS AND WHICH WON

FLUTTER 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.”