"You let me go this minute, you young cub, or you'll regret it," yelled Tolman in a fury. "Who are you that you think you can come here and give orders to me and my men?" Fearlessly Peter met his eye. Then he sent the man spinning into the crowd. "Who am I, Mr. Tolman? Who am I? I'll answer that question. I am Peter Coddington, and I have the right to protect my father's property whenever I think it is necessary." An awed silence fell upon the group of men. [Illustration: HE SENT THE MAN SPINNING INTO THE CROWD] No one doubted the truth of the lad's assertion. It spoke in the dignity of his whole figure; in the proud poise of his head; in the unflinching gaze with which he met their eyes. Of course he was Peter Coddington! Why had they never guessed it before? More than one man, as the work of carrying in the skins was completed, reviewed in his mind Peter's career at the tanneries and marveled that he had not suspected the secret from the first. Tolman, astounded at the shock of the discovery, paused, then shuffled shamefacedly forward as if to offer an apology, but no word came to his lips. The awkwardness of the stillness was dispelled by Peter himself, who, turning at last to the men, said simply: "We made good time getting the leather under cover, and we were none too soon. See--here comes the rain!" * * * * * How the news sped through the vast tanneries! It seemed fairly to leap from one building to another. On every hand the men took up the tale and discussed it. Peter Strong--their Peter--was the president's son! He was Peter Coddington! It was all too wonderful to believe; and yet, after all, it was so simple! Why hadn't they known it all along, the workmen asked each other. "He was a thoroughbred from the minute he began pitching calfskins!" ejaculated Carmachel. "Think of it! Think of his pitching calfskins in my old brown overalls--him as could have picked out any job in the tannery that he chose!" "And think of the months he put in working in the beamhouses too! Slaving away there in the smell and heat just like any of the rest of us!" said another man. "And how he duffed in in the other department! He wasn't afraid of getting his hands dirty! And what a worker he was!" "And mind how he stood by us men and got the park for us--stood up and faced his father man to man. The Little Giant!" "Aye! Don't forget the ball playing!" "And how he brought his lunch every day like the rest of us!" On every hand the men admitted that their idol, Peter, was indeed worthy to be the son of the president of the great Coddington tanneries. "And yet I can't help thinking," reflected Carmachel, "that in spite of his parentage, and his money, and everything else he really is our Peter--a product of the works, just as his father said."