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 hea