y packed lunch-box. Now Peter detested taking a lunch. Whenever
he went with his parents on motor trips or train journeys the family
always stopped at hotels for their meals or patronized the dining-cars.
It seemed such a vulgar thing to open a box and in the gaze of lookers
on devour one's food out of it. Accordingly he eyed the lunch-box with
disdain, mentally arguing that although he must, out of gratitude to his
mother's thoughtfulness, carry it, he certainly should not open it. He
would far rather go hungry than eat a lunch from a box!

On the porch still another unpleasant feature of this going to work
greeted him. No motor-car, panting like a hound on the leash, stood
waiting to carry him to the factory. Evidently his father had made no
provision for him to get to the tannery. He must walk! So entirely
unforeseen was this development that the boy stood a moment irresolute.
It was a good mile to the tan yards; he had had no notion of walking,
and there was now but scant time in which to cover the distance. Perhaps
his father had forgotten to order the car. Peter had half a mind not to
go. After all what difference would it make whether he went to-day or
to-morrow? In fact, why wasn't it better to delay until to-morrow when
he could be sure of not being late? He vacillated uneasily. Then the
thought of what his father would say when he came down to breakfast and
found that his son had not gone decided Peter.

Down two steps at a time he dashed and set out over the gravel drive
with the even jog of a track sprinter. On he went. Running in the June
sunshine was hot work; nevertheless, hat in hand, he kept up the pace.
He must be there promptly at eight, his father had told him. He could
feel tiny streams of perspiration trickling down his back, and he sensed
that his collar was wilting into a limp band of flimsy linen. Still he
ran on. Eight was just on the stroke when he presented himself at the
office of Factory 1.

A stout man bending over a ledger at a desk near the door eyed the
panting lad with disapproval.

"What do you want?" he demanded sharply. "Boys are not admitted in this
office."

"I want to see Mr. Tyler," gasped Peter.

"Well, you can't," the bookkeeper responded acidly. "He's busy. If you
are wanting a job I can tell you right now that there are none to be
had. We have more boys already than we know what to do with. You better
not wait. It won't do any good."

"But I must see Mr. Tyler," pers