Then in humorous fashion Mr. Coddington sketched the tale of two boys and an interrupted luncheon, drawing a vivid picture of how the lads had been unceremoniously tumbled to the floor out of their stronghold in the packing-boxes. Mr. Coddington had a gift for telling a story and he told this one with consummate skill. At its conclusion there was a general laugh. "Those boys are with us to-day," continued the president. "They are not strangers to you. One of them is Nat Jackson, whom you all know well, and the other--the lad who furnished me with the inspiration for this venture is----" Instantly the curtain over the fireplace was withdrawn. "Peter Strong!" cried the men. It was indeed Peter who smiled down on the throng from out the broad gilt frame! Not Peter Coddington of the fashionable "west side,"--the son and heir of the president of the company, but Peter Strong--Peter in faded jumper and with the collar of his shirt turned away so that one could see where the firm young head rose out of it; Peter with hair tumbled, cheeks flushed from hard work, and his eyes shining as they always shone when he was happy; Peter Strong--the Peter the men knew and loved! The boy himself looked on, bewildered. Well he knew the source of the portrait. It had evidently been copied from a snap-shot Nat had taken of him one day when the two were coming out of the beamhouse. His father's delay in finding a suitable picture was also now explained. He had had to wait for the portrait to be painted. Nat, who was watching Peter's face with no small degree of amusement, now whispered: "I kept one secret from you anyhow, Peter. Mr. Coddington came to see us one evening last spring and asked if I had any kodak picture of you, explaining what he wanted it for. So I let him look over what I had and he chose this one. It's fine, isn't it?" "Why, I don't know," stammered Peter. "I--I'm so flabbergasted I----" 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: