The Story of Leather Part 1

The Story of Leather.

by Sara Ware Ba.s.sett.

CHAPTER I

THE THUNDERBOLT

Peter Coddington sat in the afternoon sunshine on the steps of his big colonial home looking absently out over the circular drive, and the quaint terraced garden, to the red-tiled roof of the garage beyond. But he was not thinking of the garage; he could not, in fact, even have told you the color of its vivid tiling. No! He had far more important things to think of than that--disquieting things which worried him and made him very unhappy. For about the twentieth time he took from his pocket his school report and ran his eye down the column of figures written upon the white card. He did not read because the reading gave him pleasure.

Neither was the bit of pasteboard white any more. Instead it was thumbed and worn at the corners until it had gradually a.s.sumed a dismal grayish hue--a color quite in harmony with Peter's own mood.

Peter really did not need to look at the report at all, for already he could close his eyes and see before him in glaring type:

Algebra 40 History 20 Latin 30 French 30 Drawing 25

What a horrible fascination there was in those marks! He found himself repeating them aloud to impress upon his mind the fact that they actually were true. But what was far more tragic than these testimonials of defeat was a foot-note written in red ink in the well-known hand of Mr. Christopher, the princ.i.p.al of the school. It read:

"In consequence of Peter Coddington's poor scholarship and unsatisfactory deportment it is against the rules of the Milburn High School that he retain any position in school athletics until such time as both his studies and his conduct reach the standard required by the school authorities."

It was that single sentence that made Peter's face so grave. The marks alone were bad enough. He was heartily ashamed of them because he knew that if he had studied even a reasonable amount of time he could easily have pa.s.sed in every subject. It was by no means difficult work for a boy of his ability. But to be put off the ball team! Why, it was on his pitching that the whole Milburn school was pinning its faith in the coming game against Leighton Academy. "Peter will save the day!" the fellows had declared. What would they say when they discovered that their hero was to be dropped from the team--that he had not pa.s.sed one of the freshman examinations?

Half the pride and glory of the freshman cla.s.s centered about Peter.

Throughout the grammar school he had made a wonderful record in athletics; his unerring drop kick had won him fame at football long before he was out of the sixth grade, and he could pitch a ball with a speed and curve almost professional in its nicety. "Wait until Peter Coddington gets into the high school!" had been the cry. "Milburn can then wipe up the ground with every school within reach." As Peter had never been much of a student the gate of this temple of learning had been difficult to reach; but at last the day came when he managed to squeak inside the coveted portals where all the honors promised him were at once laid at his feet. He became a member of the football eleven, pitcher on the freshman nine, president of his cla.s.s. Friends swarmed about him, for he had a pleasant way of greeting everybody, he treated generously, and he had a winsome little chuckle that spread merriment wherever he went.

None of these qualities, however, helped his poor scholarship, which he jauntily excused by explaining to his father at the end of the first quarter that he had not really got into the game yet. In consequence Mr.

Coddington listened and was patient. When the mid-year record dropped even lower Peter's argument was that it took time to adjust one's self to novel conditions. But as spring brought no improvement Mr.

Coddington, a man of few words, remarked severely: "I will give you one more chance, son."

The list of figures in Peter's hand were the fruit of that chance.

Peter had a wholesome awe of his father. He was not a man to be bamboozled. On the contrary Mr. Coddington was a keen, direct person who came straight to a point in a few terse sentences; predominant in his character was an unflinching sense of justice which was, however, fortunately tempered with enough kindness to make a misdoer mortified but never afraid in his presence. Peter admired his father tremendously and if for one reason more than another because he was so "square."

Never during all the span of the lad's fifteen years could he recall a single instance when Mr. Coddington had broken his word. It was this knowledge that made Peter so uncomfortable as he glanced once more at the bedraggled report card. What had his father meant by saying he would grant him one more chance?

The boy wished now that he had considered the matter in a more serious light. He had known all along that his marks were dropping behind, and every morning he had vaguely resolved to make a spurt that day so that when examination time came he might cross the tape neck and neck with if not in advance of the other fellows. The promised spurt, however, had not been made. Instead he had drifted along, studying only enough to keep his head above water and putting all his zeal into tennis or baseball until the present climax with its direful calamity had been reached.

Unquestionably it was perfectly fair that he should forfeit his place on the team. All the boys knew the rule of the school. But somehow it did not seem _real_. When a fellow could kick a goal and pitch a ball as he could something must surely intervene to prevent such a fate. Nothing dreadful had ever happened to Peter before. It was not likely, he argued optimistically, that it could happen now. Considerably cheered by this logic he slipped his grimy report into its still more grimy envelope and began to whistle. Buoyed up by comfortable reveries he whistled fully five minutes, when the tune came to an abrupt end. A step on the gravel had arrested it. Looking around Peter saw his father coming along the drive toward him.

"Not at the game to-day, Peter?" exclaimed the elder man in surprise.

"No, sir."

"How is that?"

"I did not feel like going, Father."

"Not feel like going! Why, that's something new for you. You're not sick?"

Peter was conscious of a swift scrutiny.

"I'm worried about something," he blurted out.

"I'm sorry to hear that, my boy. What is the trouble? Gra.s.s stains on your new white tennis flannels?"

Peter shook his head in reply to the smiling question.

"It is a real trouble this time," he answered.

Silently he drew from his pocket the crumpled envelope which he handed to his father. As Mr. Coddington took out the card and scanned it rapidly the quizzical expression that had lighted his face gave way to a frown of displeasure.

"Well?" he questioned.

"I'm mighty sorry, Father," began Peter. "You see I kept thinking I would make up my work before the exams came; but somehow I have been hustling more for the baseball championship than----"

A curt question cut short further apologies:

"Your studies have not been too difficult for you, then?"

"Oh, no. I can easily make them up with a tutor," was the eager response. "I guess if you ask Mr. Christopher he will let me take the examinations over again before school closes and the next time----"

"There is to be no next time," put in his father quietly.

Peter stared.

"Wh-a-t--do--you mean, sir?"

"You will see."

Without another word the older man turned away. Peter saw him walk to the garage, and a few moments later the motor-car shot past, spun down the drive, and the music of its siren horn announced that it was turning into the street. Where had his father gone so suddenly?

He had but just come home, and it was never his custom to dash off in such an abrupt fashion. It was easy to see that he was annoyed about the school report. That was not strange--of course he would be. Peter was himself. But at least Mr. Coddington had not lost his place as pitcher of a ball team, and since he hadn't there seemed to be no reason why he should be so cut up. Then an inspiration came to the boy. Perhaps his father had gone to demand that Mr. Christopher take his son back on the nine. Ah, that must be it! His father was much interested in athletics Peter knew, and when in college had pulled the winning sh.e.l.l to a spectacular victory for his Alma Mater. His father would never stand by and see the star pitcher of the Milburn High School swept off the team just because of a few failures in Latin, algebra, and other such rubbish.

Peter drew a sigh of relief.

Yes, his fortunate star would rise again; he was confident of it. All would yet be well. He would tutor up for the examinations, pa.s.s them gloriously, and win back his place on the team. None of the fellows need be the wiser. His father would fix it up--nay, he probably was fixing it up at this very moment.

Until dusk Peter waited anxiously for the sound of the motor's return.

It was nearly seven when over the gravel rolled the heavy rubber-tired wheels that announced Mr. Coddington's arrival. The boy sat in precisely the spot where his father had left him and after alighting from the car the elder man made his way toward the motionless figure sitting so still in the June twilight.

"I have been to see Mr. Christopher," began Mr. Coddington when he came within speaking distance, "and have made all the arrangements for your future career."

Eagerly Peter looked up.

"I'm going back on the team?" he cried joyously.

"You are going to work!" was the sharp retort.

"What!"