fer 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."