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THE THUNDERBOLT

ETER CODDINGTON sat in the afternoon sunshine on the steps of his big colonial home looking absently out over the circular drive, and the quaint terraced garden, to the red-tiled roof of the garage beyond. But he was not thinking of the garage; he could not, in fact, even have told you the color of its vivid tiling. No! He had far more important things to think of than that—disquieting things which worried him and made him very unhappy. For about the twentieth time he took from his pocket his school report and ran his eye down the column of figures written upon the white card. He did not read because the reading gave him pleasure. Neither was the bit of pasteboard white any more. Instead it was thumbed and worn at the corners until it had gradually assumed a dismal grayish hue—a color quite in harmony with Peter’s own mood.

Peter really did not need to look at the report at all, for already he could close his eyes and see before him in glaring type:

Algebra	. … .	40
History	. … .	20
Latin	. … .	30
French	. … .	30
Drawing	. … .	25

What a horrible fascination there was in those marks! He found himself repeating them aloud to impress upon his mind the fact that they actually were true. But what was far more tragic than these testimonials of defeat was a foot-note written in red ink in the well-known hand of Mr. Christopher, the principal of the school. It read:

“In consequence of Peter Coddington’s poor scholarship and unsatisfactory deportment it is against the rules of the Milburn High School that he retain any position in school athletics until such time as both his studies and his conduct reach the standard required by the school authorities.”

It was that single sentence that made Peter’s face so grave. The marks alone were bad enough. He was heartily ashamed of them because he knew that if he had studied even a reasonable amount of time he could easily have passed in every subject. It was by no means difficult work for a boy of his ability. But to be put off the ball team! Why, it was on his pitching that the whole Milburn school was pinning its faith in the coming game against Leighton Academy. “Peter will save the day!” the fellows had declared. What would they say when they discovered that their hero was to be dropped from the team—that he had not passed one of the freshman examinations?

Half the pride and glory of the freshman class centered about Peter. Throughout the grammar school he had made a wonderful record in athletics; his unerring drop kick had won him fame at football long before he was out of the sixth grade, and he could pitch a ball with a speed and curve almost professional in its nicety. “Wait until Peter Coddington gets into the high school!” had been the cry. “Milburn can then wipe up the ground with every school within reach.” As Peter had never been much of a student the gate of this temple of learning had been difficult to reach; but at last the day came when he managed to squeak inside the coveted portals where all the honors promised him were at once laid at his feet. He became a member of the football eleven, pitcher on the freshman nine, president of his class. Friends swarmed about him, for he had a pleasant way of greeting everybody, he treated generously, and he had a winsome little chuckle that spread merriment wherever he went.

None of these qualities, however, helped his poor scholarship, which he jauntily excused by explaining to his father at the end of the first quarter that he had not really got into the game yet. In consequence Mr. Coddington listened and was patient. When the mid-year record dropped even lower Peter’s argument was that it took time to adjust one’s self to novel conditions. But as spring brought no improvement Mr. Coddington, a man of few words, remarked severely: “I will give you one more chance, son.”

The list of figures in Peter’s hand were the fruit of that chance.

Peter had a wholesome awe of his father. He was not a man to be bamboozled. On the contrary Mr. Coddington was a keen, direct person who came straight to a point in a few terse sentences; predominant in his character was an unflinching sense of justice which was, however, fortunately tempered with enough kindness to make a misdoer mortified but never afraid in his presence. Peter admired his father tremendously and if for one reason more than another because he was so “square.” Never during all the span of the lad’s fifteen years could he recall a single instance when Mr. Coddington had broken his word. It was this knowledge that made Peter so uncomfortable as he glanced once more at the bedraggled report card. What had his father meant by saying he would grant him one more chance?

The boy wished now that he had considered the matter in a more serious light. He had known all along that his marks were dropping behind, and every morning he had vaguely resolved to make a spurt that day so that when examination time came he might cross the tape neck and neck with if not in advance of the other fellows. The promised spurt, however, had not been made. Instead he had drifted along, studying only enough to keep his head above water and putting all his zeal into tennis or baseball until the present climax with its direful calamity had been reached.

Unquestionably it was perfectly fair that he should forfeit his place on the team. All the boys knew the rule of the school. But somehow it did not seem real. When a fellow could kick a goal and pitch a ball as he could something must surely intervene to prevent such a fate. Nothing dreadful had ever happened to Peter before. It was not likely, he argued optimistically, that it could happen now. Considerably cheered by this logic he slipped his grimy report into its still more grimy envelope and began to whistle. Buoyed up by comfortable reveries he whistled fully five minutes, when the tune came to an abrupt end. A step on the gravel had arrested it. Looking around Peter saw his father coming along the drive toward him.

“Not at the game to-day, Peter?” exclaimed the elder man in surprise.

“No, sir.”

“How is that?”

“I did not feel like going, Father.”

“Not feel like going! Why, that’s something new for you. You’re not sick?”

Peter was conscious of a swift scrutiny.

“I’m worried about something,” he blurted out.

“I’m sorry to hear that, my boy. What is the trouble? Grass stains on your new white tennis flannels?”

Peter shook his head in reply to the smiling question.

“It is a real trouble this time,” he answered.

Silently he drew from his pocket the crumpled envelope which he handed to his father. As Mr. Coddington took out the card and scanned it rapidly the quizzical expression that had lighted his face gave way to a frown of displeasure.

“Well?” he questioned.

“I’m mighty sorry, Father,” began Peter. “You see I kept thinking I would make up my work before the exams came; but somehow I have been hustling more for the baseball championship than——”

A curt question cut short further apologies:

“Your studies have not been too difficult for you, then?”

“Oh, no. I can easily make them up with a tutor,” was the eager response. “I guess if you ask Mr. Christopher he will let me take the examinations over again before school closes and the next time——”

“There is to be no next time,” put in his father quietly.

Peter stared.

“Wh-a-t—do—you mean, sir?”

“You will see.”

Without another word the older man turned away. Peter saw him walk to the garage, and a few moments later the motor-car shot past, spun down the drive, and the music of its siren horn announced that it was turning into the street. Where had his father gone so suddenly?

He had but just come home, and it was never his custom to dash off in such an abrupt fashion. It was easy to see that he was annoyed about the school report. That was not strange—of course he would be. Peter was himself. But at least Mr. Coddington had not lost his place as pitcher of a ball team, and since he hadn’t there seemed to be no reason why he should be so cut up. Then an inspiration came to the boy. Perhaps his father had gone to demand that Mr. Christopher take his son back on the nine. Ah, that must be it! His father was much interested in athletics Peter knew, and when in college had pulled the winning shell to a spectacular victory for his Alma Mater. His father would never stand by and see the star pitcher of the Milburn High School swept off the team just because of a few failures in Latin, algebra, and other such rubbish.

Peter drew a sigh of relief.

Yes, his fortunate star would rise again; he was confident of it. All would yet be well. He would tutor up for the examinations, pass them gloriously, and win back his place on the team. None of the fellows need be the wiser. His father would fix it up—nay, he probably was fixing it up at this very moment.

Until dusk Peter waited anxiously for the sound of the motor’s return.

It was nearly seven when over the gravel rolled the heavy rubber-tired wheels that announced Mr. Coddington’s arrival. The boy sat in precisely the spot where his father had left him and after alighting from the car the elder man made his way toward the motionless figure sitting so still in the June twilight.

“I have been to see Mr. Christopher,” began Mr. Coddington when he came within speaking distance, “and have made all the arrangements for your future career.”

Eagerly Peter looked up.

“I’m going back on the team?” he cried joyously.

“You are going to work!” was the sharp retort.

“What!”

“I have been very busy during the last two hours,” continued Mr. Coddington. “I have got for you the first, last, and only job I shall ever get. It is up to you now.”

“But I don’t understand,” protested Peter, aghast.

“Why not? It is not a difficult thing to comprehend. You have fooled away your days and my money long enough. Life is a serious business—not a game. It is time you took it in earnest. To-morrow morning at eight o’clock you are going to work, and you must make good at the position I’ve found for you, or you will lose your place. If you do I shall not lift a finger to help you to find another.”

A great lump rose in Peter’s throat but he managed to choke it back.

“Where am I going?” he gasped when he was able to speak.

“To the tannery,” was the laconic reply.

If the clouds had fallen or the earth opened Peter could not have been more astounded.

The tannery!

Of course he knew his father owned the vast tanneries to the west of the town, for that was the reason the Coddingtons lived at Milburn instead of migrating to the near-by city, as had so many of their prosperous neighbors; but beyond the fact that it was the tanneries which indirectly provided him with tennis racquets, skates, bicycles, motor-cars, and spending money Peter knew nothing about them. They were red brick buildings covering a wide area, and from their doors at noon and night hundreds of workmen with lunch-boxes and newspaper bundles poured out into the streets. Peter never spoke of the tanneries. Even when, on the highway, he encountered the heavy carts laden with hides and marked “H. M. Coddington, Leather,” he always looked the other way and hurried past as fast as he could. Occasionally in hot weather when the wind was in a certain quarter and brought a faint odor from the beamhouses into the fashionable part of the town where Peter lived their neighbors complained, and the boy always felt with a vague sense of mortification that everybody blamed him and his family for the annoyance. Sometimes this breath of damp, steamy leather even forced itself in at the windows of the Coddington library and mingled shamelessly with the rich hangings and paintings that furnished it. Peter always resented the intrusion. How dare it follow them there!

Mr. Coddington, on the other hand, although not reveling in the unpleasant tannery smells, had a sincere respect for the industry which furnished him his living, not only because it enabled him to provide his family with a luxurious home, but also because he regarded it as a life-work that was well worth the doing. Was he not giving to the world a necessity which it could not do without? It was a self-respecting trade. Therefore why should he not feel there was dignity in the long buildings with their whirring wheels, their hundreds of busy workmen, and their ponderous green trucks which, loaded with skins, ever rumbled back and forth through the main street? His pride was the more justifiable since alone, and aided only by his brain and his perseverance, he himself had built up this mighty industry which had become the chief support of the flourishing little New England town. Milburn, in fact, had grown up around the business that he had founded. From the lowest rung of the ladder he had worked his way up to the highest. The climb had been no easy one. On the contrary it had been hard work. How could he help but feel a pride—nay, an affection, even, for the great throbbing world of labor which he had created, and which furnished thousands of people with homes, food and clothing!

Since this was his point of view it naturally was impossible for him to appreciate the horror that his words brought to the boy who sat on the steps beside him. Peter knew his father too well to offer protest at the judgment that his own misdeeds had brought. It was a perfectly fair retribution. Moreover, he had been warned—Peter clearly recalled the fact now. But he had rushed blindly on, not heeding the warning.

“The tannery?” he at last repeated aloud.

“Yes. That is where I began, Peter, and it won’t hurt you to do the same.”

“Shan’t I go back to school at all?”

“Not for the present.”

“And the school team——”

“It must get on without you as best it may.”

Peter fought to keep back the tears.

“Will everybody know?” he faltered after a pause.

“No. I simply told Mr. Christopher that I had decided to take you out of school. He knows nothing more, nor does any one else. Now, Peter, I do not wish you to take this as a punishment.” Stooping, Mr. Coddington put his hand kindly on the lad’s shoulder. “In so far as it is the consequence of misspent, wasted time it is, to be sure, a punishment; none of us can escape the direct results of our own actions. In another sense, however, it is merely a fresh opportunity—a chance to substitute success for failure, to make good at a different kind of work. It is in this light that you must try and regard it, son. I want to make a man of you if I can. I must make a man of you. You are the only child I have, and if I stand by and allow you to make a fizzle of your life I shall be quite as much to blame as you. Remember that unhappy as you are this affair is costing me something, too.”

There was a break in Mr. Coddington’s voice.

As the boy raised his head and looked into the face bending over him he read in it an expression quite new—a softness and sympathy that he had never before caught in the gray eyes which, but a moment previous, had regarded him so sternly.

As a result when Peter answered much of the bitterness had crept out of his tone.

“I suppose all the men at the factory will have to know who I am,” he reflected.

“I’m afraid so. I see no way that that can be avoided,” assented his father.

“I hate to have them. They will all be grinning over the knowledge that I was put into the factories because I flunked at school. Isn’t there any way to prevent their knowing? Couldn’t I take another name when I go into the tannery and let them think I am somebody else?”

Mr. Coddington mused a few seconds before answering.

“Why, yes,” he replied meditatively, “I suppose it could be done. Nobody knows you at the works, so there would be no danger of your being recognized. My plan to send you there I have kept to myself. You could easily enter under some other name if you chose. You must consider, however, that if you decide to go in simply as an ordinary boy I shall not be able to help you much; nor can you expect to be favored in any way by the men. You would have to stand on your own feet and take your own chances.” Again Mr. Coddington ruminated. “That might not be a bad idea, either,” he observed, half aloud.

“Oh, I would so much rather take another name, Father,” pleaded Peter.

But Mr. Coddington did not heed the interruption; he was still thinking.

“I do not mean to stand behind you after you are in the tannery, anyway,” he went on. “In every department there is a foreman to whom you will be accountable—not to me. Nor must you come running home and here report every real or fancied injustice. So far as business goes I am the president of the company and you are simply a boy in my employ. Out of working hours we will be father and son and will enjoy our drives, walks, and reading together just as we have in the past. One rule, however, must be strictly adhered to—we will not talk shop.”

“I understand, sir,” nodded Peter.

“Now just a last word,” concluded Mr. Coddington. “To-morrow morning you must be prompt at the works. Eight o’clock is the hour you are to present yourself and that does not mean before eight or after eight; it means on the stroke of eight. You will carry a luncheon which your mother will see is put up for you. You are to hand to Mr. Tyler, the superintendent of Factory 1, a card bearing my signature and you are to say to him that you are the boy I telephoned him about. He does not know who you are, but he understands that I am interested in you and he will start you in wherever he thinks best. On the card I shall write your name—and by the by”—a smile flitted over Mr. Coddington’s face—“what is your name to be?”

Peter hesitated; then his lips curved into a faint reflection of his father’s merriment.

“I think I will enter the tannery as Peter Strong,” he answered.