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.