“Are you trying to pay up something?” inquired his father, an inspiration seizing him.
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Coddington realized that further attempts to get at the truth were useless, and not a little perturbed he left the room.
All the next day Peter was haunted by reproaches. It took no very keen vision to detect that his father was worried, and this worry the boy felt he must relieve. His course lay clearly outlined before him; he would go to the hospital and ask Nat’s permission to tell the entire story. Much as Peter disliked to speak of what he had done to help the Jacksons it was far preferable to having his father suffer the present anxiety.
Accordingly when Saturday afternoon came Peter set forth to make his appeal to Nat. It was not until he almost reached the hospital that a new and disconcerting thought complicated the action which but a few moments before had appeared so simple. How was he to explain to Nat this intimacy with Mr. Coddington? The president of the company, Nat knew as well as he, had not been near Peter since he entered the tannery. Why should young Strong suddenly be venturing to approach this august personage with his petty troubles? Of course Nat wouldn’t understand—no, nor anybody else for that matter who was unacquainted with the true situation. Here was a fresh obstacle in Peter’s path. What should he do?
When he entered the ward he struggled bravely to bring his usual buoyancy to his command; but if the attempt was a sad failure it passed unnoticed, for the instant he came within sight Nat beckoned to him excitedly.
“Guess who’s been to see me!” cried he, his eyes shining with the wonder of his tidings. “Guess, Peter! Oh, you never can guess—Mr. Coddington, the boss himself! Yes, he did,” he repeated as he observed Peter’s amazement. “He came this morning and he sat right in that chair—that very chair where you are sitting now. He wanted to know everything about the accident, and about you; I had to tell him about Mother and the rent, and how you were taking my place at home and paying for things while I was sick. He screwed it all out of me! He inquired just how much we paid for our rooms, and what I earned, and how long I had been in the beamhouse. Then he asked what Father’s name was, and what Mother’s family name was before she was married; and strangest of all, he wanted to know if we came from Orinville, Tennessee. That was my mother’s old home, but I don’t see how Mr. Coddington knew it, do you? Goodness, Peter! He shot off questions as if they were coming out of a gun. Then he began to ask about you and where you lived, and who your people were. Doesn’t it seem funny, Pete—well as I know you I couldn’t tell him one of those things? So I just said that I didn’t know, but that Peter Strong was the finest fellow in the world, and he seemed to agree with me. Afterward he went away. What ever do you suppose made him come?”
“I don’t know,” Peter replied thoughtfully.
All the way home Peter pondered on the marvel. How had his father found out about his friendship for Nat? It must have been Bryant who had told; nobody else knew. Bryant had overheard Nat’s conversation the day he had been taken to the hospital, and Bryant must have acquainted Mr. Coddington with the whole affair. Well, it was better so. His father now had the facts, and had them direct from Nat himself. Peter would be divulging no confidence if he mentioned them.
During the next few days many a surprise awaited Peter Strong. When he went to pay Mrs. Jackson’s weekly rent he was told by the landlord that the account had already been settled, and the rent paid three months in advance. A gentleman had paid it. No, the landlord did not know who it was. In addition to this good fortune Mrs. Jackson astonished the boy still further by dangling before his gaze a substantial check which she said had come from the Coddington Company with a kind note of sympathy. The check was to be used for defraying expenses during the illness of her son.