“I suppose I ought to consider myself lucky,” replied he.
“Well, aren’t you? To be young, and well, and to know that if you do your best you have a chance to work up to something better? I think it’s great! I intend to work up. Some day I may be a partner in Coddingtons’—who knows! Then I’ll dress my mother in silk every day in the week and I’ll buy an automobile. I’d like to ride in one of those things just once. Did you ever?”
“Yes,” admitted Peter cautiously.
“Honest? Wasn’t it bully? Where did you go?”
But Peter was spared the difficult task of replying. Instead, Bryant summoned him, and he was given a wheel-barrow filled with wet skins which were to be carried from the soaking vats to the lime pits. All the rest of the morning back and forth he trudged wheeling load after load. It was stupid, dirty work, and he was glad when the noon whistle blew.
“Let’s eat our luncheon together, Strong,” said Jackson, “that is—unless you have somebody else you want to lunch with.”
Peter assented only too gladly. It was far pleasanter to have a boy his own age to speak to than to eat by himself. Besides he liked Jackson.
But even in the fresh breeze that swept the open field, even while playing ball, even at home after a hot bath and clean clothing, Peter could still scent the odor of the beamhouse. It was days before he became accustomed to it and could feel, with Nat Jackson, that he was a lucky boy to have a “job.”