Nat laughed.
All this time the men were cheering and now cries of “Peter Strong!” “Peter Strong!” rent the air.
The unlucky Peter, who was vainly trying to flatten himself against the wall and hide in Nat’s shadow, was dragged forth by Carmachel and made to stand upon a table, from which elevation he waved his hand to the men and then, ducking suddenly, buried himself once more in the crowd.
After waiting a little while for the tumult to subside Mr. Coddington again began to speak—this time in a low, uncertain voice:
“I see you all recognize the portrait. It is Peter Strong as you have met and known him. Yet we can never tell what the future will unfold. If it chanced that time should bring to this lad a career fraught with greater responsibilities than he now holds I want you to remember that he came into the works a boy, like many of you; that he was one with you in play as well as in work; that he toiled at the hardest tasks, never shunning what was difficult or disagreeable; that he was, is, and I hope will always be, your comrade—the product of the Coddington tanneries.”
With a bow and a smile to the silent crowd before him the president withdrew. Then as the workmen turned to disperse a few clear words from some one in the throng behind caught Peter’s ear:
“It’s more than likely the president means to push Strong along to the top of the ladder. He is mightily interested in the boy; anybody can see that. Mayhap the lad will make up to him for his own son who, I’ve heard say, is a lazy little snob and a great disappointment to his father.”
