“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.”
“Why, he is one boy in a hundred, Mr. Coddington—a son to be proud of!” burst out Tyler.
“Oh, Peter has possibilities,” admitted the president with a smile.
But he would say nothing more. Instead he shut himself up in his office where he went determinedly to work. But those who peeped through the glass door could see that throughout the whole afternoon the smile that had lighted his face still lingered there faintly.
He smiled as he rode home in his big limousine too, and he continued to smile during dinner, but he said nothing.
Peter, who was watching him closely, thought every instant he would either make some allusion to the events of the day or make some opening so that he could do so.
Now that all was over the boy was not a little chagrined that in a moment of anger he should have let his secret pass his lips. Henceforth the game was spoiled. Probably his father thought he should not have lost his temper and blurted out the truth. It was a foolish thing to do and now that he thought it over coolly Peter regretted that he had done it. He longed to talk with his father, but he did not just know how to begin.