This rough kindliness of the workmen robbed labor of much of its hardship. The two lads pushed eagerly ahead and were delighted when, toward spring, they were again promoted—this time to the department which turned out the tooled and embossed leathers.
This was one of the most fascinating phases of leather making and for a long time it had interested both Peter and Nat. It seemed too good to be true that they should now win positions in that factory.
“It’s like the stories of the Arabian Nights, the way we’ve gone on and all the time kept together, Peter,” Nat said one day. “Think of it! We have been given more money and better jobs all the time. I do not just see why, either. Lots of the men who started long ago in the beamhouse of Factory 1 are still there and haven’t had a cent added to their pay envelope; and look at us! It’s just luck—that’s what it is.”
“Not entirely luck, Nat,” objected Peter, shaking his head. “Some of it, to be sure, is sheer good fortune; but some of it is hard work. If we had not made good every step of the way I doubt if we should have been sent on up the ladder.”
“I wonder!” was Nat’s thoughtful answer. “Do you know, Pete, I’ve sometimes thought that perhaps Mr. Coddington was keeping an eye on us and giving orders that we be shoved along. He could do it, I suppose, if he wanted to.”
“I suppose he could,” agreed Peter, uneasily, “but he is pretty busy, and is it likely——”
“No, of course it isn’t. He did a lot for me when I was sick and it isn’t reasonable to think he would do anything more. He wouldn’t be called upon to. It is just that we are under a lucky star.”
“I wish the star was a lucky enough one to send you a motorcycle then, Nat,” laughed Peter. “You know this going off riding by myself is no sort of a stunt. I don’t have any fun at all. Why, I would rather tramp the country on my two feet with you than to ride all over it without you. Somehow you’ve got to get a motorcycle, Nat—you’ve simply got to.”
“And just how do you expect me to carry out such a crazy scheme?” was the derisive retort. “Maybe you’ve a plan to suggest whereby, entirely without a cent, I am to purchase a toy like that. It can’t be done without Aladdin’s lamp—at least I can’t do it any other way. A motorcycle indeed! Why, I have not a cent to spend for such a thing. I couldn’t even buy one of the pedals, let alone anything more. Forget it, Peter, and let’s talk sense.”
“I shan’t forget it,” Peter answered earnestly. “You are going to have a motorcycle if I have to—to—pawn my rubber boots to get you one.”