"But do you need that income, Mr. Coddington?" cut in one of the men. "Isn't the Coddington Company rich? Must rich men go on getting more and more, and never think of those who coin their money for them?" It was an unwise speech, and its effect was electrical. "I will try and believe that you men came here with the intention of being courteous," observed Mr. Coddington with frigid politeness. "My affairs, however, are mine and not yours. I must deal with them in the way that I consider wisest. You hardly realize, I think, that you are over-stepping the bounds of propriety when you attempt to dictate to me what I shall do with my land, or how I shall manage my tanneries." The sternness of the answer blocked any possible reply. Amid the silence of the room one could almost hear the heart-beats of the waiting throng. Then some one in the crowd made his way to the front of the room and faced the president. It was Peter Strong. As Mr. Coddington's gaze fell on his son he started. The boy stood erect and looked his father squarely in the eye. "May I speak, sir?" Mr. Coddington bowed. Peter began gently, respectfully, and his words were without defiance. [Illustration: "MAY I SPEAK, SIR?"] "I hardly think you know what the field you are going to take from the men--from us all--means, sir. Not only do we play ball and go there to eat our luncheon but each noon time we have a chance to get a breath of fresh air and go back to work better in consequence. The field, moreover, is the only open lot in this part of the town. At night hundreds of men who have worked hard all day congregate there to get sight of the green grass and enjoy a little interval of quiet. They bring their families from the huddled districts where there is neither sky, tree, nor breathing space. Suppose you lived as they do? Suppose when you went home at night it was to a tenement in a crowded part of the city? You return to a big house on the top of a hill where the trees catch every breeze that passes; where there are shrubs, gardens, flowers. Who needs this space more--you or your employees?" When he began to speak, Peter had had no clear idea of what he should say; but as he went on words came to him. Was not he himself one of these working men who knew what the heat, the odor, the noise of the tanneries meant? As he went on his voice vibrated with earnestness. There was no doubting his sincerity. It was in truth Peter Strong and not Peter Coddington who made the appeal. As Mr. Coddington listened without comment to the speech his wordlessness was an enigma to the men. It seemed as if it was a silence of suppressed anger and in consternation Carmachel plucked Peter's sleeve. "Say no more, lad," he whispered. "You've gone too far. You forget that it is the president himself you're talking to. You shouldn't have said what you did, even though it's true." But Peter scarcely heard. He was watching his father--watching his face for the gleam that did not come.