ur mills?" asked Bryant.

"I know that some of the men play ball there," replied Mr. Coddington,
smiling.

"And yet you have decided to take it in spite of that fact?"

The president stiffened.

"The land," said he, "is mine, and the taxes I annually pay on it render
it rather a costly spot for a ball field. For years the lot has been
nothing but an expense to me. If the case were yours and you could
derive an income from property where previously all had been outgo
wouldn't you do it?"

"But do you need that income, Mr. Coddington?" cut in one of the men.
"Isn't the Coddington Company rich? Must rich men go on getting more and
more, and never think of those who coin their money for them?"

It was an unwise speech, and its effect was electrical.

"I will try and believe that you men came here with the intention of
being courteous," observed Mr. Coddington with frigid politeness. "My
affairs, however, are mine and not yours. I must deal with them in the
way that I consider wisest. You hardly realize, I think, that you are
over-stepping the bounds of propriety when you attempt to dictate to me
what I shall do with my land, or how I shall manage my tanneries."

The sternness of the answer blocked any possible reply.

Amid the silence of the room one could almost hear the heart-beats of
the waiting throng.

Then some one in the crowd made his way to the front of the room and
faced the president.

It was Peter Strong.

As Mr. Coddington's gaze fell on his son he started.

The boy stood erect and looked his father squarely in the eye.

"May I speak, sir?"

Mr. Coddington bowed.

Peter began gently, respectfully, and his words were without defiance.

[Illustration: "MAY I SPEAK, SIR?"]

"I hardly think you know what the field you are going to take from the
men--from us all--means, sir. Not only do we play ball and go there to
eat our luncheon but each noon time we have a chance to get a breath of
fresh air and go back to work better in consequence. The field,
moreover, is the only open lot in this part of the town. At night
hundreds of men who have worked hard all day congregate there to get
sight of the green grass and enjoy a little interval of quiet. They
bring their families from the huddled districts where there is neither
sky, tree, nor breathing space. Suppose you lived as they do? Suppose
when you went home at night it was to a tenement in a crowded part of
the city? You return to a big house on