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So changed was her state that the
home atmosphere became intolerable. It
was all poverty and trouble there, or seemed to be, because it was a load to
bear. It became a place to keep
away from. Still she slept
there, and did a fair amount of work, keeping it in order. It
was a sitting place for Hurstwood. He
sat and rocked, rocked and read, enveloped in the gloom of his own fate.
October went by, and November. It
was the dead of winter almost before he knew it, and there he sat.
Carrie was doing better, that he
knew. Her clothes were improved
now, even fine. He saw her
coming and going, sometimes picturing to himself her rise.
Little eating had thinned him somewhat.
He had no appetite. His
clothes, too, were a poor man's clothes. Talk about getting something had
become even too threadbare and ridiculous for him.
So he folded his hands and waited--for what, he could not anticipate.
At last, however, troubles became
too thick. The hounding of
creditors, the indifference of Carrie, the silence of the flat, and presence
of winter, all joined to produce a climax.
It was effected by the arrival of Oeslogge, personally, when Carrie
was there.
"I call about my bill,"
said Mr. Oeslogge.
Carrie was only faintly
surprised.
"How much is it?" she
asked.
"Sixteen dollars," he
replied.
"Oh, that much?" said
Carrie. "Is this
right?" she asked, turning to Hurstwood.
"Yes," he said.
"Well, I never heard
anything about it."
She looked as if she thought he
had been contracting some needless expense.
"Well, we had it all
right," he answered. Then
he went to the door. "I
can't pay you anything on that to-day," he said, mildly.
"Well, when can you?"
said the grocer.
"Not before Saturday,
anyhow," said Hurstwood.
"Huh!" returned the
grocer. "This is fine.
I must have that. I need the money."
Carrie was standing farther back
in the room, hearing it all. She was greatly distressed. It was so bad and commonplace. Hurstwood was annoyed also.
"Well," he said,
"there's no use talking about it now.
If you'll come in Saturday, I'll pay you something on it."
The grocery man went away.
"How are we going to pay
it?" asked Carrie, astonished by the bill.
"I can't do it."
"Well, you don't have
to," he said. "He
can't get what he can't get. He'll
have to wait."
"I don't see how we ran up
such a bill as that," said Carrie.
"Well, we ate it," said
Hurstwood.
"It's funny," she
replied, still doubting.
"What's the use of your
standing there and talking like that, now?" he asked. "Do you think I've had it alone? You talk as if I'd
taken something."
"Well, it's too much,
anyhow," said Carrie. "I
oughtn't to be made to pay for it. I've
got more than I can pay for now."
"All right," replied
Hurstwood, sitting down in silence. He
was sick of the grind of this thing.
Carrie went out and there he sat,
determining to do something.
There had been appearing in the
papers about this time rumours and notices of an approaching strike on the
trolley lines in Brooklyn. There
was general dissatisfaction as to the hours of labour required and the wages
paid. As usual--and for some
inexplicable reason--the men chose the winter for the forcing of the hand of
their employers and the settlement of their difficulties.
Hurstwood had been reading of
this thing, and wondering concerning the huge tie-up which would follow.
A day or two before this trouble with Carrie, it came.
On a cold afternoon, when everything was grey and it threatened to
snow, the papers announced that the men had been called out on all the
lines. Being so utterly idle, and his mind filled with the numerous
predictions which had been made concerning the scarcity of labour this
winter and the panicky state of the financial market, Hurstwood read this
with interest. He noted the
claims of the striking motormen and conductors, who said that they had been
wont to receive two dollars a day in times past, but that for a year or more
"trippers" had been introduced, which cut down their chance of
livelihood one-half, and increased their hours of servitude from ten to
twelve, and even fourteen. These
"trippers" were men put on during the busy and rush hours, to take
a car out for one trip. The
compensation paid for such a trip was only twenty-five cents. When the rush or busy hours were over, they were laid off.
Worst of all, no man might know when he was going to get a car.
He must come to the barns in the morning and wait around in fair and
foul weather until such time as he was needed.
Two trips were an average reward for so much waiting--a little over
three hours' work for fifty cents. The
work of waiting was not counted.
The men complained that this
system was extending, and that the time was not far off when but a few out
of 7,000 employees would have regular two-dollar-a-day work at all.
They demanded that the system be abolished, and that ten hours be
considered a day's work, barring unavoidable delays, with $2.25 pay.
They demanded immediate acceptance of these terms, which the various
trolley companies refused.
Hurstwood at first sympathised
with the demands of these men-- indeed, it is a question whether he did not
always sympathise with them to the end, belie him as his actions might.
Reading nearly all the news, he was attracted first by the
scare-heads with which the trouble was noted in the "World." He
read it fully--the names of the seven companies involved, the number of men.
"They're foolish to strike
in this sort of weather," he thought to himself.
"Let 'em win if they can, though."
The next day there was even a
larger notice of it. "Brooklynites
Walk," said the "World." "Knights of Labour Tie up the
Trolley Lines Across the Bridge." "About Seven Thousand Men
Out."
Hurstwood read this, formulating
to himself his own idea of what would be the outcome. He was a great believer in the strength of corporations.
"They can't win," he
said, concerning the men. "They
haven't any money. The police
will protect the companies. They've
got to. The public has to have its cars."
He didn't sympathise with the
corporations, but strength was with them.
So was property and public utility.
"Those fellows can't
win," he thought.
Among other things, he noticed a
circular issued by one of the companies, which read:
ATLANTIC AVENUE RAILROAD
SPECIAL NOTICE
The motormen and conductors and
other employees of this company having abruptly left its service, an
opportunity is now given to all loyal men who have struck against their will
to be reinstated, providing they will make their applications by twelve
o'clock noon on Wednesday, January 16th.
Such men will be given employment (with guaranteed protection) in the
order in which such applications are received, and runs and positions
assigned them accordingly. Otherwise,
they will be considered discharged, and every vacancy will be filled by a
new man as soon as his services can be secured.
(Signed)
Benjamin Norton,
President
He
also noted among the want ads. one
which read:
WANTED.--50 skilled motormen, accustomed to Westinghouse
system, to run U.S. mail cars only, in the City of Brooklyn; protection
guaranteed.
He
noted particularly in each the "protection guaranteed." It
signified to him the unassailable power of the companies.
"They've got the militia on
their side," he thought. "There
isn't anything those men can do."
While this was still in his mind,
the incident with Oeslogge and Carrie occurred.
There had been a good deal to irritate him, but this seemed much the
worst. Never before had she
accused him of stealing--or very near that.
She doubted the naturalness of so large a bill.
And he had worked so hard to make expenses seem light.
He had been "doing" butcher and baker in order not to call
on her. He had eaten very
little--almost nothing.
"Damn it all!" he said.
"I can get something. I'm
not down yet."
He thought that he really must do
something now. It was too cheap
to sit around after such an insinuation as this.
Why, after a little, he would be standing anything.
He got up and looked out the
window into the chilly street. It
came gradually into his mind, as he stood there, to go to Brooklyn.
"Why not?" his mind
said. "Any one can get
work over there. You'll get two a day."
"How about accidents?"
said a voice. "You might
get hurt."
"Oh, there won't be much of
that," he answered. "They've
called out the police. Any one
who wants to run a car will be protected all right."
"You don't know how to run a
car," rejoined the voice.
"I won't apply as a
motorman," he answered. "I
can ring up fares all right."
"They'll want motormen,
mostly."
"They'll take anybody; that
I know."
For several hours he argued pro
and con with this mental counsellor, feeling no need to act at once in a
matter so sure of profit.
In the morning he put on his best
clothes, which were poor enough, and began stirring about, putting some
bread and meat into a page of a newspaper.
Carrie watched him, interested in this new move.
"Where are you going?"
she asked.
"Over to Brooklyn," he
answered. Then, seeing her
still inquisitive, he added: "I think I can get on over there."
"On the trolley lines?"
said Carrie, astonished.
"Yes," he rejoined.
"Aren't you afraid?"
she asked.
"What of?" he answered.
"The police are protecting them."
"The paper said four men
were hurt yesterday."
"Yes," he returned;
"but you can't go by what the papers say. They'll run the cars all
right."
He looked rather determined now,
in a desolate sort of way, and Carrie felt very sorry. Something of the old Hurstwood was here-- the least shadow of
what was once shrewd and pleasant strength. Outside, it was cloudy and
blowing a few flakes of snow.
"What a day to go over
there," thought Carrie.
Now he left before she did, which
was a remarkable thing, and tramped eastward to Fourteenth Street and Sixth
Avenue, where he took the car. He
had read that scores of applicants were applying at the office of the
Brooklyn City Railroad building and were being received.
He made his way there by horse-car and ferry--a dark, silent man--to
the offices in question. It was
a long way, for no cars were running, and the day was cold; but he trudged
along grimly. Once in Brooklyn,
he could clearly see and feel that a strike was on.
People showed it in their manner. Along the routes of certain tracks
not a car was running. About
certain corners and nearby saloons small groups of men were lounging. Several spring wagons passed him, equipped with plain wooden
chairs, and labelled "Flatbush" or "Prospect Park.
Fare, Ten Cents." He noticed cold and even gloomy faces.
Labour was having its little war.
When he came near the office in
question, he saw a few men standing about, and some policemen. On the far corners were other men--whom he took to be
strikers--watching. All the
houses were small and wooden, the streets poorly paved.
After New York, Brooklyn looked actually poor and hard-up.
He made his way into the heart of
the small group, eyed by policemen and the men already there.
One of the officers addressed him.
"What are you looking
for?"
"I want to see if I can get
a place."
"The offices are up those
steps," said the bluecoat. His
face was a very neutral thing to contemplate.
In his heart of hearts, he sympathised with the strikers and hated
this "scab." In his heart of hearts, also, he felt the dignity and
use of the police force, which commanded order.
Of its true social significance, he never once dreamed.
His was not the mind for that. The
two feelings blended in him--neutralised one another and him.
He would have fought for this man as determinedly as for himself, and
yet only so far as commanded. Strip
him of his uniform, and he would have soon picked his side.
Hurstwood ascended a dusty flight
of steps and entered a small, dust-coloured office, in which were a railing,
a long desk, and several clerks.
"Well, sir?" said a
middle-aged man, looking up at him from the long desk.
"Do you want to hire any
men?" inquired Hurstwood.
"What are you--a
motorman?"
"No; I'm not anything,"
said Hurstwood.
He was not at all abashed by his
position. He knew these people
needed men. If one didn't take
him, another would. This man
could take him or leave him, just as he chose.
"Well, we prefer experienced
men, of course," said the man. He
paused, while Hurstwood smiled indifferently.
Then he added: "Still, I guess you can learn.
What is your name?"
"Wheeler," said
Hurstwood.
The man wrote an order on a small
card. "Take that to our
barns," he said, "and give it to the foreman.
He'll show you what to do."
Hurstwood went down and out.
He walked straight away in the direction indicated, while the
policemen looked after.
"There's another wants to
try it," said Officer Kiely to Officer Macey.
"I have my mind he'll get
his fill," returned the latter, quietly.
They had been in strikes before.
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