Suppose we
leave it now for a while."

Still Peter did not speak.

"Perhaps you are disappointed to stop short of earning money enough for
your motorcycle," suggested Mr. Coddington, puzzled by the lad's
silence. "Is that it? Tell me now, how much would you need to put with
what you have already saved? Do you recall the sum you have in the
bank?"

"I haven't any money in the bank, Father," was Peter's unwilling reply.

"What! Not a cent?"

Peter shook his head.

"Have you drawn it out and spent it all?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm sorry to hear that--sorry, and a little disappointed. However, we
mustn't expect too much of you. Come now, what do you say to my
proposition of returning to school?"

"I can't do it, sir."

"What!"

"I'm afraid you can't quite understand, sir. You see Peter Coddington
would like to go back, but Peter Strong won't let him. Peter Strong must
stay at the tannery, Father. He can't leave. There are reasons why it
isn't possible," Peter blurted out incoherently.

"What reasons?" demanded his father. "You've not been getting into
trouble, Peter?"

"No, sir."

Mr. Coddington looked baffled--baffled, and displeased.

Poor Peter! He longed to explain, but a strange reticence held him back.
He had never mentioned at home either Strong's affairs or his friends
and it now seemed well-nigh impossible to make any one--even his own
father--understand how much he cared for Nat, and what this disaster had
meant to them both; besides, it was too much like blowing his own
trumpet to sit up and tell his father how he had played fairy godmother
to the Jacksons. It would sound as if he wanted praise, and Peter, who
was naturally a modest lad, shrank from anything of the sort.
Accordingly he said never a word.

Mr. Coddington wandered to the window and drummed nervously on the pane.

"You have no more explanations to make to me, Peter?" he asked at last,
turning and facing his son.

"I--I'm afraid not, sir. You see it is hard to explain things. No one
would understand," faltered the boy.

Chagrined as he was, Mr. Coddington strove to be patient.

"Come now, Peter," he urged, "no matter what you've done let's out with
it. Maybe I've made a mistake in not allowing you to talk more freely
here at home about your affairs at the tannery. It certainly seems to
have resulted in making you less frank with me than you used to be. Let
us put all that behind us now. Just what sort of trouble have you got
i