|
"Oh, they'll do that,"
returned the other. "They
always do."
"Think we're liable to have
much trouble?" said another, whom Hurstwood did not see.
"Not very."
"That Scotchman that went
out on the last car," put in a voice, "told me that they hit him
in the ear with a cinder."
A small, nervous laugh
accompanied this.
"One of those fellows on the
Fifth Avenue line must have had a hell of a time, according to the
papers," drawled another. "They
broke his car windows and pulled him off into the street 'fore the police
could stop 'em."
"Yes; but there are more
police around to-day," was added by another.
Hurstwood hearkened without much
mental comment. These talkers
seemed scared to him. Their
gabbling was feverish--things said to quiet their own minds. He looked out into the yard and waited.
Two of the men got around quite
near him, but behind his back. They were rather social, and he listened to
what they said.
"Are you a railroad
man?" said one.
"Me? No. I've always worked in a paper factory."
"I had a job in Newark until
last October," returned the other, with reciprocal feeling.
There were some words which
passed too low to hear. Then
the conversation became strong again.
"I don't blame these fellers
for striking," said one. "They've
got the right of it, all right, but I had to get something to do."
"Same here," said the
other. "If I had any job
in Newark I wouldn't be over here takin' chances like these."
"It's hell these days, ain't
it?" said the man. "A
poor man ain't nowhere. You
could starve, by God, right in the streets, and there ain't most no one
would help you."
"Right you are," said
the other. "The job I had
I lost 'cause they shut down. They
run all summer and lay up a big stock, and then shut down."
Hurstwood paid some little
attention to this. Somehow, he
felt a little superior to these two--a little better off.
To him these were ignorant and commonplace, poor sheep in a driver's
hand.
"Poor devils," he
thought, speaking out of the thoughts and feelings of a bygone period of
success. "Next," said one of the instructors.
"You're next," said a
neighbour, touching him.
He went out and climbed on the
platform. The instructor took
it for granted that no preliminaries were needed.
"You see this handle,"
he said, reaching up to an electric cut- off, which was fastened to the
roof. "This throws the
current off or on. If you want
to reverse the car you turn it over here. If you want to send it forward,
you put it over here. If you
want to cut off the power, you keep it in the middle."
Hurstwood smiled at the simple
information.
"Now, this handle here
regulates your speed. To
here," he said, pointing with his finger, "gives you about four
miles an hour. This is eight. When
it's full on, you make about fourteen miles an hour."
Hurstwood watched him calmly.
He had seen motormen work before. He knew just about how they did it,
and was sure he could do as well, with a very little practice.
The instructor explained a few
more details, and then said:
"Now, we'll back her
up."
Hurstwood stood placidly by,
while the car rolled back into the yard.
"One thing you want to be
careful about, and that is to start easy.
Give one degree time to act before you start another. The one fault of most men is that they always want to throw
her wide open. That's bad.
It's dangerous, too. Wears
out the motor. You don't want to do that."
"I see," said Hurstwood.
He waited and waited, while the
man talked on.
"Now you take it," he
said, finally.
The ex-manager laid hand to the
lever and pushed it gently, as he thought.
It worked much easier than he imagined, however, with the result that
the car jerked quickly forward, throwing him back against the door.
He straightened up sheepishly, while the instructor stopped the car
with the brake.
"You want to be careful
about that," was all he said.
Hurstwood found, however, that
handling a brake and regulating speed were not so instantly mastered as he
had imagined. Once or twice he
would have ploughed through the rear fence if it had not been for the hand
and word of his companion. The
latter was rather patient with him, but he never smiled.
"You've got to get the knack
of working both arms at once," he said.
"It takes a little practice."
One o'clock came while he was
still on the car practising, and he began to feel hungry.
The day set in snowing, and he was cold. He grew weary of running to
and fro on the short track.
They ran the car to the end and
both got off. Hurstwood went
into the barn and sought a car step, pulling out his paper- wrapped lunch
from his pocket. There was no
water and the bread was dry, but he enjoyed it.
There was no ceremony about dining. He swallowed and looked about,
contemplating the dull, homely labour of the thing.
It was disagreeable--miserably disagreeable--in all its phases.
Not because it was bitter, but because it was hard.
It would be hard to any one, he thought.
After eating, he stood about as
before, waiting until his turn came.
The intention was to give him an
afternoon of practice, but the greater part of the time was spent in waiting
about.
At last evening came, and with it
hunger and a debate with himself as to how he should spend the night. It
was half-past five. He must
soon eat. If he tried to go home, it would take him two hours and a
half of cold walking and riding. Besides
he had orders to report at seven the next morning, and going home would
necessitate his rising at an unholy and disagreeable hour. He had only
something like a dollar and fifteen cents of Carrie's money, with which he
had intended to pay the two weeks' coal bill before the present idea struck
him.
"They must have some place
around here," he thought. "Where
does that fellow from Newark stay?"
Finally he decided to ask.
There was a young fellow standing near one of the doors in the cold,
waiting a last turn. He was a
mere boy in years--twenty-one about--but with a body lank and long, because
of privation. A little good
living would have made this youth plump and swaggering.
"How do they arrange this,
if a man hasn't any money?" inquired Hurstwood, discreetly.
The fellow turned a keen,
watchful face on the inquirer.
"You mean eat?" he
replied.
"Yes, and sleep. I
can't go back to New York to-night."
"The foreman 'll fix that if
you ask him, I guess. He did
me."
"That so?"
"Yes. I just told him I didn't have anything. Gee, I couldn't go home.
I live way over in Hoboken."
Hurstwood only cleared his throat
by way of acknowledgment.
"They've got a place
upstairs here, I understand. I
don't know what sort of a thing it is.
Purty tough, I guess. He
gave me a meal ticket this noon. I
know that wasn't much."
Hurstwood smiled grimly, and the
boy laughed.
"It ain't no fun, is
it?" he inquired, wishing vainly for a cheery reply.
"Not much," answered
Hurstwood.
"I'd tackle him now,"
volunteered the youth. "He
may go 'way."
Hurstwood did so.
"Isn't there some place I
can stay around here to-night?" he inquired.
"If I have to go back to New York, I'm afraid I won't"
"There're some cots
upstairs," interrupted the man, "if you want one of them."
"That'll do," he
assented.
He meant to ask for a meal
ticket, but the seemingly proper moment never came, and he decided to pay
himself that night.
"I'll ask him in the
morning."
He ate in a cheap restaurant in
the vicinity, and, being cold and lonely, went straight off to seek the loft
in question. The company was
not attempting to run cars after nightfall.
It was so advised by the police.
The room seemed to have been a
lounging place for night workers. There were some nine cots in the place,
two or three wooden chairs, a soap box, and a small, round-bellied stove, in
which a fire was blazing. Early
as he was, another man was there before him.
The latter was sitting beside the stove warming his hands.
Hurstwood approached and held out
his own toward the fire. He was
sick of the bareness and privation of all things connected with his venture,
but was steeling himself to hold out. He
fancied he could for a while.
"Cold, isn't it?" said
the early guest.
"Rather."
A long silence.
"Not much of a place to
sleep in, is it?" said the man.
"Better than nothing,"
replied Hurstwood.
Another silence.
"I believe I'll turn
in," said the man.
Rising, he went to one of the
cots and stretched himself, removing only his shoes, and pulling the one
blanket and dirty old comforter over him in a sort of bundle. The sight disgusted Hurstwood, but he did not dwell on it,
choosing to gaze into the stove and think of something else. Presently he decided to retire, and picked a cot, also
removing his shoes.
While he was doing so, the youth
who had advised him to come here entered, and, seeing Hurstwood, tried to be
genial.
"Better'n nothin'," he
observed, looking around.
Hurstwood did not take this to
himself. He thought it to be an
expression of individual satisfaction, and so did not answer. The youth
imagined he was out of sorts, and set to whistling softly.
Seeing another man asleep, he quit that and lapsed into silence.
Hurstwood made the best of a bad
lot by keeping on his clothes and pushing away the dirty covering from his
head, but at last he dozed in sheer weariness.
The covering became more and more comfortable, its character was
forgotten, and he pulled it about his neck and slept. In the morning he was
aroused out of a pleasant dream by several men stirring about in the cold,
cheerless room. He had been
back in Chicago in fancy, in his own comfortable home.
Jessica had been arranging to go somewhere, and he had been talking
with her about it. This was so
clear in his mind, that he was startled now by the contrast of this room.
He raised his head, and the cold, bitter reality jarred him into
wakefulness.
"Guess I'd better get
up," he said.
There was no water on this floor.
He put on his shoes in the cold and stood up, shaking himself in his
stiffness. His clothes felt
disagreeable, his hair bad.
"Hell!" he muttered, as
he put on his hat.
Downstairs things were stirring
again.
He found a hydrant, with a trough
which had once been used for horses, but there was no towel here, and his
handkerchief was soiled from yesterday.
He contented himself with wetting his eyes with the ice-cold water.
Then he sought the foreman, who was already on the ground.
"Had your breakfast
yet?" inquired that worthy.
"No," said Hurstwood.
"Better get it, then; your
car won't be ready for a little while."
Hurstwood hesitated.
"Could you let me have a
meal ticket?" he asked with an effort.
"Here you are," said
the man, handing him one.
He breakfasted as poorly as the
night before on some fried steak and bad coffee.
Then he went back.
"Here," said the
foreman, motioning him, when he came in.
"You take this car out in a few minutes."
Hurstwood climbed up on the
platform in the gloomy barn and waited for a signal.
He was nervous, and yet the thing was a relief.
Anything was better than the barn.
On this the fourth day of the
strike, the situation had taken a turn for the worse.
The strikers, following the counsel of their leaders and the
newspapers, had struggled peaceably enough. There had been no great violence
done. Cars had been stopped, it
is true, and the men argued with. Some
crews had been won over and led away, some windows broken, some jeering and
yelling done; but in no more than five or six instances had men been
seriously injured. These by
crowds whose acts the leaders disclaimed.
Idleness, however, and the sight
of the company, backed by the police, triumphing, angered the men.
They saw that each day more cars were going on, each day more
declarations were being made by the company officials that the effective
opposition of the strikers was broken. This put desperate thoughts in the minds of the men.
Peaceful methods meant, they saw, that the companies would soon run
all their cars and those who had complained would be forgotten.
There was nothing so helpful to the companies as peaceful methods.
All at once they blazed forth, and for a week there was storm and stress.
Cars were assailed, men attacked, policemen struggled with, tracks
torn up, and shots fired, until at last street fights and mob movements
became frequent, and the city was invested with militia.
Hurstwood knew nothing of the
change of temper.
"Run your car out,"
called the foreman, waving a vigorous hand at him.
A green conductor jumped up behind and rang the bell twice as a
signal to start. Hurstwood
turned the lever and ran the car out through the door into the street in
front of the barn. Here two
brawny policemen got up beside him on the platform--one on either hand.
At the sound of a gong near the
barn door, two bells were given by the conductor and Hurstwood opened his
lever.
The two policemen looked about
them calmly.
"'Tis cold, all right, this
morning," said the one on the left, who possessed a rich brogue.
"I had enough of it
yesterday," said the other. "I
wouldn't want a steady job of this."
"Nor I."
Neither paid the slightest
attention to Hurstwood, who stood facing the cold wind, which was chilling
him completely, and thinking of his orders.
"Keep a steady gait,"
the foreman had said. "Don't
stop for any one who doesn't look like a real passenger. Whatever you do, don't stop for a crowd."
The two officers kept silent for
a few moments.
"The last man must have gone
through all right," said the officer on the left.
"I don't see his car anywhere."
"Who's on there?" asked
the second officer, referring, of course, to its complement of policemen.
"Schaeffer and Ryan."
There was another silence, in
which the car ran smoothly along. There were not so many houses along this
part of the way. Hurstwood did not see many people either.
The situation was not wholly disagreeable to him.
If he were not so cold, he thought he would do well enough.
He was brought out of this
feeling by the sudden appearance of a curve ahead, which he had not
expected. He shut off the
current and did an energetic turn at the brake, but not in time to avoid an
unnaturally quick turn. It
shook him up and made him feel like making some apologetic remarks, but he
refrained.
"You want to look out for
them things," said the officer on the left, condescendingly.
"That's right," agreed
Hurstwood, shamefacedly. "There's
lots of them on this line," said the officer on the right. Around the
corner a more populated way appeared. One
or two pedestrians were in view ahead. A boy coming out of a gate with a tin milk bucket gave
Hurstwood his first objectionable greeting.
"Scab!" he yelled.
"Scab!"
Hurstwood heard it, but tried to
make no comment, even to himself. He
knew he would get that, and much more of the same sort, probably.
At a corner farther up a man
stood by the track and signalled the car to stop.
"Never mind him," said
one of the officers. "He's
up to some game."
Hurstwood obeyed.
At the corner he saw the wisdom of it.
No sooner did the man perceive the intention to ignore him, than he
shook his fist.
"Ah, you bloody
coward!" he yelled.
Some half dozen men, standing on
the corner, flung taunts and jeers after the speeding car.
Hurstwood winced the least bit.
The real thing was slightly worse than the thoughts of it had been.
Now came in sight, three or four
blocks farther on, a heap of something on the track.
"They've been at work, here,
all right," said one of the policemen.
"We'll have an argument,
maybe," said the other.
Hurstwood ran the car close and
stopped. He had not done so
wholly, however, before a crowd gathered about.
It was composed of ex-motormen and conductors in part, with a
sprinkling of friends and sympathisers.
"Come off the car, pardner,"
said one of the men in a voice meant to be conciliatory.
"You don't want to take the bread out of another man's mouth, do
you?"
Hurstwood held to his brake and
lever, pale and very uncertain what to do.
"Stand back," yelled
one of the officers, leaning over the platform railing.
"Clear out of this, now. Give
the man a chance to do his work."
"Listen, pardner," said
the leader, ignoring the policeman and addressing Hurstwood.
"We're all working men, like yourself.
If you were a regular motorman, and had been treated as we've been,
you wouldn't want any one to come in and take your place, would you? You
wouldn't want any one to do you out of your chance to get your rights, would
you?"
"Shut her off! shut her
off!" urged the other of the policemen, roughly.
"Get out of this, now," and he jumped the railing and
landed before the crowd and began shoving.
Instantly the other officer was down beside him.
"Stand back, now," they
yelled. "Get out of this.
What the hell do you mean? Out, now."
It was like a small swarm of
bees.
"Don't shove me," said
one of the strikers, determinedly. "I'm
not doing anything."
"Get out of this!"
cried the officer, swinging his club. "I'll
give ye a bat on the sconce. Back,
now."
"What the hell!" cried
another of the strikers, pushing the other way, adding at the same time some
lusty oaths.
Crack came an officer's club on
his forehead. He blinked his
eyes blindly a few times, wabbled on his legs, threw up his hands, and
staggered back. In return, a
swift fist landed on the officer's neck.
Infuriated by this, the latter
plunged left and right, laying about madly with his club. He was ably assisted by his brother of the blue, who poured
ponderous oaths upon the troubled waters. No severe damage was done, owing
to the agility of the strikers in keeping out of reach. They stood about the sidewalk now and jeered.
"Where is the
conductor?" yelled one of the officers, getting his eye on that
individual, who had come nervously forward to stand by Hurstwood.
The latter had stood gazing upon the scene with more astonishment
than fear.
"Why don't you come down
here and get these stones off the track?" inquired the officer.
"What you standing there for? Do you want to stay here all day?
Get down."
Hurstwood breathed heavily in
excitement and jumped down with the nervous conductor as if he had been
called.
"Hurry up, now," said
the other policeman.
Cold as it was, these officers
were hot and mad. Hurstwood
worked with the conductor, lifting stone after stone and warming himself by
the work. "Ah, you scab,
you!" yelled the crowd. "You
coward! Steal a man's job, will you? Rob the poor, will you, you thief?
We'll get you yet, now. Wait."
Not all of this was delivered by
one man. It came from here and
there, incorporated with much more of the same sort and curses.
"Work, you
blackguards," yelled a voice. "Do
the dirty work. You're the suckers that keep the poor people down!"
"May God starve ye
yet," yelled an old Irish woman, who now threw open a nearby window and
stuck out her head.
"Yes, and you," she
added, catching the eye of one of the policemen.
"You bloody, murtherin' thafe! Crack my son over the head, will
you, you hardhearted, murtherin' divil? Ah, ye----"
But the officer turned a deaf
ear.
"Go to the devil, you old
hag," he half muttered as he stared round upon the scattered company.
Now the stones were off, and
Hurstwood took his place again amid a continued chorus of epithets.
Both officers got up beside him and the conductor rang the bell,
when, bang! bang! through window and door came rocks and stones.
One narrowly grazed Hurstwood's head.
Another shattered the window behind.
"Throw open your
lever," yelled one of the officers, grabbing at the handle himself.
Hurstwood complied and the car
shot away, followed by a rattle of stones and a rain of curses.
"That --- --- --- ---- hit
me in the neck," said one of the officers.
"I gave him a good crack for it, though."
"I think I must have left
spots on some of them," said the other.
"I know that big guy that
called us a --- --- --- ----" said the first.
"I'll get him yet for that."
"I thought we were in for it
sure, once there," said the second.
Hurstwood, warmed and excited,
gazed steadily ahead. It was an
astonishing experience for him. He
had read of these things, but the reality seemed something altogether new.
He was no coward in spirit. The
fact that he had suffered this much now rather operated to arouse a stolid
determination to stick it out. He
did not recur in thought to New York or the flat.
This one trip seemed a consuming thing.
They now ran into the business
heart of Brooklyn uninterrupted. People gazed at the broken windows of the
car and at Hurstwood in his plain clothes.
Voices called "scab" now and then, as well as other
epithets, but no crowd attacked the car.
At the downtown end of the line, one of the officers went to call up
his station and report the trouble.
"There's a gang out
there," he said, "laying for us yet.
Better send some one over there and clean them out."
The car ran back more
quietly--hooted, watched, flung at, but not attacked.
Hurstwood breathed freely when he saw the barns.
"Well," he observed to
himself, "I came out of that all right."
The car was turned in and he was
allowed to loaf a while, but later he was again called. This time a new team of officers was aboard.
Slightly more confident, he sped the car along the commonplace
streets and felt somewhat less fearful.
On one side, however, he suffered intensely.
The day was raw, with a sprinkling of snow and a gusty wind, made all
the more intolerable by the speed of the car.
His clothing was not intended for this sort of work.
He shivered, stamped his feet, and beat his arms as he had seen other
motormen do in the past, but said nothing.
The novelty and danger of the situation modified in a way his disgust
and distress at being compelled to be here, but not enough to prevent him
from feeling grim and sour. This
was a dog's life, he thought. It
was a tough thing to have to come to.
The one thought that strengthened
him was the insult offered by Carrie. He
was not down so low as to take all that, he thought. He could do
something--this, even--for a while. It
would get better. He would save
a little.
A boy threw a clod of mud while
he was thus reflecting and hit him upon the arm.
It hurt sharply and angered him more than he had been any time since
morning.
"The little cur!" he
muttered.
"Hurt you?" asked one
of the policemen.
"No," he answered.
At one of the corners, where the
car slowed up because of a turn, an ex-motorman, standing on the sidewalk,
called to him:
"Won't you come out, pardner,
and be a man? Remember we're fighting for decent day's wages, that's all.
We've got families to support." The man seemed most peaceably
inclined.
Hurstwood pretended not to see
him. He kept his eyes straight
on before and opened the lever wide. The
voice had something appealing in it.
All morning this went on and long
into the afternoon. He made
three such trips. The dinner he
had was no stay for such work and the cold was telling on him.
At each end of the line he stopped to thaw out, but he could have
groaned at the anguish of it. One
of the barnmen, out of pity, loaned him a heavy cap and a pair of sheepskin
gloves, and for once he was extremely thankful.
On the second trip of the
afternoon he ran into a crowd about half way along the line, that had
blocked the car's progress with an old telegraph pole.
"Get that thing off the
track," shouted the two policemen.
"Yah, yah, yah!" yelled
the crowd. "Get it off
yourself."
The two policemen got down and
Hurstwood started to follow.
"You stay there," one
called. "Some one will run
away with your car."
Amid the babel of voices,
Hurstwood heard one close beside him.
"Come down, pardner, and be
a man. Don't fight the poor.
Leave that to the corporations."
He saw the same fellow who had
called to him from the corner. Now, as before, he pretended not to hear him.
"Come down," the man
repeated gently. "You
don't want to fight poor men. Don't
fight at all." It was a most philosophic and jesuitical motorman.
A third policeman joined the
other two from somewhere and some one ran to telephone for more officers.
Hurstwood gazed about, determined but fearful.
A man grabbed him by the coat.
"Come off of that," he
exclaimed, jerking at him and trying to pull him over the railing.
"Let go," said
Hurstwood, savagely.
"I'll show you--you
scab!" cried a young Irishman, jumping up on the car and aiming a blow
at Hurstwood. The latter ducked
and caught it on the shoulder instead of the jaw.
"Away from here,"
shouted an officer, hastening to the rescue, and adding, of course, the
usual oaths.
Hurstwood recovered himself, pale
and trembling. It was becoming
serious with him now. People
were looking up and jeering at him. One girl was making faces.
He began to waver in his
resolution, when a patrol wagon rolled up and more officers dismounted.
Now the track was quickly cleared and the release effected.
"Let her go now,
quick," said the officer, and again he was off.
The end came with a real mob,
which met the car on its return trip a mile or two from the barns.
It was an exceedingly poor- looking neighbourhood.
He wanted to run fast through it, but again the track was blocked.
He saw men carrying something out to it when he was yet a half-dozen
blocks away.
"There they are again!"
exclaimed one policeman.
"I'll give them something
this time," said the second officer, whose patience was becoming worn.
Hurstwood suffered a qualm of body as the car rolled up.
As before, the crowd began hooting, but now, rather than come near,
they threw things. One or two
windows were smashed and Hurstwood dodged a stone.
Both policemen ran out toward the
crowd, but the latter replied by running toward the car. A woman--a mere girl in appearance-- was among these, bearing
a rough stick. She was
exceedingly wrathful and struck at Hurstwood, who dodged.
Thereupon, her companions, duly encouraged, jumped on the car and
pulled Hurstwood over. He had
hardly time to speak or shout before he fell.
"Let go of me," he
said, falling on his side.
"Ah, you sucker," he
heard some one say. Kicks and
blows rained on him. He seemed
to be suffocating. Then two men
seemed to be dragging him off and he wrestled for freedom.
"Let up," said a voice,
"you're all right. Stand
up."
He was let loose and recovered
himself. Now he recognised two
officers. He felt as if he
would faint from exhaustion. Something was wet on his chin. He put up his hand and felt, then looked.
It was red.
"They cut me," he said,
foolishly, fishing for his handkerchief.
"Now, now," said one of
the officers. "It's only a
scratch."
His senses became cleared now and
he looked around. He was
standing in a little store, where they left him for the moment. Outside, he
could see, as he stood wiping his chin, the car and the excited crowd. A patrol wagon was there, and another.
He walked over and looked out.
It was an ambulance, backing in.
He saw some energetic charging by
the police and arrests being made.
"Come on, now, if you want
to take your car," said an officer, opening the door and looking in. He
walked out, feeling rather uncertain of himself.
He was very cold and frightened.
"Where's the
conductor?" he asked.
"Oh, he's not here
now," said the policeman.
Hurstwood went toward the car and
stepped nervously on. As he did
so there was a pistol shot. Something
stung his shoulder.
"Who fired that?" he
heard an officer exclaim. "By
God! who did that?" Both left him, running toward a certain building.
He paused a moment and then got down.
"George!" exclaimed
Hurstwood, weakly, "this is too much for me."
He walked nervously to the corner
and hurried down a side street.
"Whew!" he said,
drawing in his breath.
A half block away, a small girl
gazed at him.
"You'd better sneak,"
she called.
He walked homeward in a blinding
snowstorm, reaching the ferry by dusk.
The cabins were filled with comfortable souls, who studied him
curiously. His head was still
in such a whirl that he felt confused.
All the wonder of the twinkling lights of the river in a white storm
passed for nothing. He trudged
doggedly on until he reached the flat.
There he entered and found the room warm. Carrie was gone.
A couple of evening papers were lying on the table where she left
them. He lit the gas and sat
down. Then he got up and
stripped to examine his shoulder. It
was a mere scratch. He washed
his hands and face, still in a brown study, apparently, and combed his hair.
Then he looked for something to eat, and finally, his hunger gone,
sat down in his comfortable rocking-chair.
It was a wonderful relief.
He put his hand to his chin,
forgetting, for the moment, the papers.
"Well," he said, after
a time, his nature recovering itself, "that's a pretty tough game over
there."
Then he turned and saw the
papers. With half a sigh he
picked up the "World."
"Strike Spreading in
Brooklyn," he read. "Rioting
Breaks Out in all Parts of the City."
He adjusted his paper very
comfortably and continued. It
was the one thing he read with absorbing interest.
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