________________________________________________
_ There was no after-theatre lark, however, so far as Carrie was
concerned. She made her way homeward, thinking about her
absence. Hurstwood was asleep, but roused up to look as she
passed through to her own bed.
"Is that you?" he said.
"Yes," she answered.
The next morning at breakfast she felt like apologising.
"I couldn't get home last evening," she said.
"Ah, Carrie," he answered, "what's the use saying that? I don't
care. You needn't tell me that, though."
"I couldn't," said Carrie, her colour rising. Then, seeing that
he looked as if he said "I know," she exclaimed: "Oh, all right.
I don't care."
From now on, her indifference to the flat was even greater.
There seemed no common ground on which they could talk to one
another. She let herself be asked for expenses. It became so
with him that he hated to do it. He preferred standing off the
butcher and baker. He ran up a grocery bill of sixteen dollars
with Oeslogge, laying in a supply of staple articles, so that
they would not have to buy any of those things for some time to
come. Then he changed his grocery. It was the same with the
butcher and several others. Carrie never heard anything of this
directly from him.
He asked for such as he could expect, drifting farther and
farther into a situation which could have but one ending.
In this fashion, September went by.
"Isn't Mr. Drake going to open his hotel?" Carrie asked several
times.
"Yes. He won't do it before October, though, now."
Carrie became disgusted. "Such a man," she said to herself
frequently. More and more she visited. She put most of her
spare money in clothes, which, after all, was not an astonishing
amount. At last the opera she was with announced its departure
within four weeks. "Last two weeks of the Great Comic Opera
success ----The--------," etc., was upon all billboards and in
the newspapers, before she acted.
"I'm not going out on the road," said Miss Osborne.
Carrie went with her to apply to another manager.
"Ever had any experience?" was one of his questions.
"I'm with the company at the Casino now."
"Oh, you are?" he said.
The end of this was another engagement at twenty per week.
Carrie was delighted. She began to feel that she had a place in
the world. People recognised ability.
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. _
Read next: CHAPTER XLI THE STRIKE
Read previous: CHAPTER XXXIX OF LIGHTS AND OF SHADOWS--THE PARTING OF WORLDS
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