McCarthy shook his head.
“Well, I never!” said Peter. “So it is the fault of the leather itself.”
“I’m afraid it is, young one.”
“Well, that settles it! I never shall buy another pair of patent leather shoes as long——”
“Go easy,” retorted McCarthy dryly. “I guess you are safe, though, to make that vow. Your toggle-boy wages won’t furnish you with endless numbers of patent leathers, I reckon. But cheer up! You won’t be needing pumps here at the works, for while the richest of us always wear Tuxedos every day we excuse the small salary people from appearing in full dress.”
Peter answered the jest with one of his well-known chuckles.
He was in high spirits, for although there was, as he himself was forced to own, many a step between him and the presidency of the Coddington Company he felt he had at least made one loyal friend in the patent leather factory—McCarthy from the County of Cork!
When Saturday night came, however, and Peter received his pay envelope he peered anxiously inside it; then he drew a sigh of satisfaction.
“It is a lucky thing,” he remarked to himself, “that Peter Strong is not on real toggle-boy wages. If he was he never would be able to pay the president another cent toward Nat’s motorcycle!”