THE CLIMB BECOMES DIFFICULT

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

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

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

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

“Lend money to Peter Strong! What for?”

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

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

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

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

“Still he is borrowing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Father.”

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

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

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

“I borrowed part of the money,” explained Peter reluctantly.

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

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

Nat’s mother shook her head.

“I am not one bit afraid that you would.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good for you, Nat! We’ve gained one point anyhow. Did you find out anything else?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I never heard of anything so funny!” cried Peter.

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

“And suppose the stormy weather lasts several days?”

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

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

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

“If I only knew more about chemistry I’d try,” cried Peter.

The old man looked amused at the boy’s enthusiasm. “Would you, indeed!” grinned he. “Well, if you succeeded you would be the first. But I’m not discouraging you, sonny. Sure if none of us were young and hopeful nothing great would be done in the world. You sound as if you might be Peter Strong—the lad they talk so much of in the other factories.”

“I am Peter Strong.”

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

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

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

But Nat was not so sanguine.

Being a toggle-boy was far from easy work.

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

Peter and Nat only laughed.

They enjoyed using big words that mystified her. “Why, you see, Mother, toggle-boys are what we are at present,” said Nat, teasingly.

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

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

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

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

Nat smiled in spite of himself.

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

Mrs. Jackson nodded.

“And you boys are the ones who put on the toggles?”

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

“It isn’t much of a job, Mother,” put in Nat, ruefully.

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

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

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

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

Peter tugged at his twine.

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

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

“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!”