The Story of Leather Part 11

"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 suns.h.i.+ne, 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 b.u.t.ton, too.

Already he has caught on to the various finis.h.i.+ng 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 Sat.u.r.days 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 G.o.dmother 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 pa.s.sed on to anybody else. No, he must keep that trust sacred. He must tell no one.