eter's mind seethed with arguments
against the building of the new factory. He longed to see his father
and talk it out. Surely Mr. Coddington would listen if he realized the
conditions. He was a kind man--not an inhuman brute. It seemed as if the
noon whistle would never blow.

With Nat Jackson and a score of agitated workmen Peter went out into the
shade opposite. Luncheon was forgotten, and ball, too. Instead a crowd
gathered and on every hand there were mutterings and angry protests.

"Of course Coddington can take the land. It's his. There is no law to
prevent him from doing anything he wants to with it. What does he care
for us?" remarked an old, gray-haired tanner.

"The working man is nothing to the rich man," grumbled another. "All the
millionaire wants is more money. Another factory means just that--more
money! It's money, money, money--always money with the rich. The more
they have the more they want."

Sick at heart, Peter listened.

"Why don't you fellows do something about it?" blustered a red-faced
Italian. "I'll bet you if we called a strike it would bring Coddington
to terms. He'd a good sight rather give up building that factory than
have us all walk out--'specially now when there's more work ahead than
the firm can handle. I've been in five strikes in other places and we
never failed yet to get what we started for."

"Do you think you could drive a man like Mr. Coddington that way?" It
was Carmachel who spoke. "You can walk out, all of you, if you choose.
It would make no difference to him. If he has decided it is best to put
up that tannery he'll put it up. A strike would do you no good and as a
result your families would be without food and a roof over their heads
all winter. You're a fine man, Ristori! Coddington pays you well. You
take his money and are glad to get a job from him; then the first
minute anything does not go to suit you you turn against him and cry:
Strike! You don't know what loyalty means. Hasn't Coddington always been
square with you? Hasn't he paid you good wages? Hasn't he added an extra
bit to your envelope at Christmas? I'll not strike!"

"What would you have us do?" was Ristori's hot retort. "Would you have
us sit by like dumb things and let him do anything to us he pleases?"

"Coddington is a reasonable man," Carmachel replied. "Why don't some of
you talk decently with him about all this?"

"Aye! And lose our jobs for our pains!" sneered a swarthy Armenian.

A sh