A NARROW ESCAPE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES

LL 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.