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Richard Harding Davis - "Miss Civilization"

Edwin L. Arnold - "Gulliver of Mars"

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - "Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre Buch 4"

John Buchan - "Greenmantle"

Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser

T >> Theodore Dreiser >> Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser




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.



Chapter XLI

THE STRIKE


The barn at which Hurstwood applied was exceedingly short-handed,
and was being operated practically by three men as directors.
There were a lot of green hands around--queer, hungry-looking
men, who looked as if want had driven them to desperate means.
They tried to be lively and willing, but there was an air of
hang-dog diffidence about the place.

Hurstwood went back through the barns and out into a large,
enclosed lot, where were a series of tracks and loops. A half-
dozen cars were there, manned by instructors, each with a pupil
at the lever. More pupils were waiting at one of the rear doors
of the barn.

In silence Hurstwood viewed this scene, and waited. His
companions took his eye for a while, though they did not interest
him much more than the cars. They were an uncomfortable-looking
gang, however. One or two were very thin and lean. Several were
quite stout. Several others were rawboned and sallow, as if they
had been beaten upon by all sorts of rough weather.

"Did you see by the paper they are going to call out the
militia?" Hurstwood heard one of them remark.

"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.

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