________________________________________________
_ The gloomy Hurstwood, sitting in his cheap hotel, where he had
taken refuge with seventy dollars--the price of his furniture--
between him and nothing, saw a hot summer out and a cool fall in,
reading. He was not wholly indifferent to the fact that his
money was slipping away. As fifty cents after fifty cents were
paid out for a day's lodging he became uneasy, and finally took a
cheaper room--thirty-five cents a day--to make his money last
longer. Frequently he saw notices of Carrie. Her picture was in
the "World" once or twice, and an old "Herald" he found in a
chair informed him that she had recently appeared with some
others at a benefit for something or other. He read these things
with mingled feelings. Each one seemed to put her farther and
farther away into a realm which became more imposing as it
receded from him. On the billboards, too, he saw a pretty
poster, showing her as the Quaker Maid, demure and dainty. More
than once he stopped and looked at these, gazing at the pretty
face in a sullen sort of way. His clothes were shabby, and he
presented a marked contrast to all that she now seemed to be.
Somehow, so long as he knew she was at the Casino, though he had
never any intention of going near her, there was a subconscious
comfort for him--he was not quite alone. The show seemed such a
fixture that, after a month or two, he began to take it for
granted that it was still running. In September it went on the
road and he did not notice it. When all but twenty dollars of
his money was gone, he moved to a fifteen-cent lodging-house in
the Bowery, where there was a bare lounging-room filled with
tables and benches as well as some chairs. Here his preference
was to close his eyes and dream of other days, a habit which grew
upon him. It was not sleep at first, but a mental hearkening
back to scenes and incidents in his Chicago life. As the present
became darker, the past grew brighter, and all that concerned it
stood in relief.
He was unconscious of just how much this habit had hold of him
until one day he found his lips repeating an old answer he had
made to one of his friends. They were in Fitzgerald and Moy's.
It was as if he stood in the door of his elegant little office,
comfortably dressed, talking to Sagar Morrison about the value of
South Chicago real estate in which the latter was about to
invest.
"How would you like to come in on that with me?" he heard
Morrison say.
"Not me," he answered, just as he had years before. "I have my
hands full now."
The movement of his lips aroused him. He wondered whether he had
really spoken. The next time he noticed anything of the sort he
really did talk.
"Why don't you jump, you bloody fool?" he was saying. "Jump!"
It was a funny English story he was telling to a company of
actors. Even as his voice recalled him, he was smiling. A
crusty old codger, sitting near by, seemed disturbed; at least,
he stared in a most pointed way. Hurstwood straightened up. The
humour of the memory fled in an instant and he felt ashamed. For
relief, he left his chair and strolled out into the streets.
One day, looking down the ad. columns of the "Evening World," he
saw where a new play was at the Casino. Instantly, he came to a
mental halt. Carrie had gone! He remembered seeing a poster of
her only yesterday, but no doubt it was one left uncovered by the
new signs. Curiously, this fact shook him up. He had almost to
admit that somehow he was depending upon her being in the city.
Now she was gone. He wondered how this important fact had
skipped him. Goodness knows when she would be back now.
Impelled by a nervous fear, he rose and went into the dingy hall,
where he counted his remaining money, unseen. There were but ten
dollars in all.
He wondered how all these other lodging-house people around him
got along. They didn't seem to do anything. Perhaps they
begged--unquestionably they did. Many was the dime he had given
to such as they in his day. He had seen other men asking for
money on the streets. Maybe he could get some that way. There
was horror in this thought.
Sitting in the lodging-house room, he came to his last fifty
cents. He had saved and counted until his health was affected.
His stoutness had gone. With it, even the semblance of a fit in
his clothes. Now he decided he must do something, and, walking
about, saw another day go by, bringing him down to his last
twenty cents--not enough to eat for the morrow.
Summoning all his courage, he crossed to Broadway and up to the
Broadway Central hotel. Within a block he halted, undecided. A
big, heavy-faced porter was standing at one of the side
entrances, looking out. Hurstwood purposed to appeal to him.
Walking straight up, he was upon him before he could turn away.
"My friend," he said, recognising even in his plight the man's
inferiority, "is there anything about this hotel that I could get
to do?"
The porter stared at him the while he continued to talk.
"I'm out of work and out of money and I've got to get something,--
it doesn't matter what. I don't care to talk about what I've
been, but if you'd tell me how to get something to do, I'd be
much obliged to you. It wouldn't matter if it only lasted a few
days just now. I've got to have something."
The porter still gazed, trying to look indifferent. Then, seeing
that Hurstwood was about to go on, he said:
"I've nothing to do with it. You'll have to ask inside."
Curiously, this stirred Hurstwood to further effort.
"I thought you might tell me."
The fellow shook his head irritably.
Inside went the ex-manager and straight to an office off the
clerk's desk. One of the managers of the hotel happened to be
there. Hurstwood looked him straight in the eye.
"Could you give me something to do for a few days?" he said.
"I'm in a position where I have to get something at once."
The comfortable manager looked at him, as much as to say: "Well,
I should judge so."
"I came here," explained Hurstwood, nervously, "because I've been
a manager myself in my day. I've had bad luck in a way but I'm
not here to tell you that. I want something to do, if only for a
week."
The man imagined he saw a feverish gleam in the applicant's eye.
"What hotel did you manage?" he inquired.
"It wasn't a hotel," said Hurstwood. "I was manager of
Fitzgerald and Moy's place in Chicago for fifteen years."
"Is that so?" said the hotel man. "How did you come to get out
of that?"
The figure of Hurstwood was rather surprising in contrast to the
fact.
"Well, by foolishness of my own. It isn't anything to talk about
now. You could find out if you wanted to. I'm 'broke' now and,
if you will believe me, I haven't eaten anything to-day."
The hotel man was slightly interested in this story. He could
hardly tell what to do with such a figure, and yet Hurstwood's
earnestness made him wish to do something.
"Call Olsen," he said, turning to the clerk.
In reply to a bell and a disappearing hall-boy, Olsen, the head
porter, appeared.
"Olsen," said the manager, "is there anything downstairs you
could find for this man to do? I'd like to give him something."
"I don't know, sir," said Olsen. "We have about all the help we
need. I think I could find something, sir, though, if you like."
"Do. Take him to the kitchen and tell Wilson to give him
something to eat."
"All right, sir," said Olsen.
Hurstwood followed. Out of the manager's sight, the head
porter's manner changed.
"I don't know what the devil there is to do," he observed.
Hurstwood said nothing. To him the big trunk hustler was a
subject for private contempt.
"You're to give this man something to eat," he observed to the
cook.
The latter looked Hurstwood over, and seeing something keen and
intellectual in his eyes, said:
"Well, sit down over there."
Thus was Hurstwood installed in the Broadway Central, but not for
long. He was in no shape or mood to do the scrub work that
exists about the foundation of every hotel. Nothing better
offering, he was set to aid the fireman, to work about the
basement, to do anything and everything that might offer.
Porters, cooks, firemen, clerks--all were over him. Moreover his
appearance did not please these individuals--his temper was too
lonely--and they made it disagreeable for him.
With the stolidity and indifference of despair, however, he
endured it all, sleeping in an attic at the roof of the house,
eating what the cook gave him, accepting a few dollars a week,
which he tried to save. His constitution was in no shape to
endure.
One day the following February he was sent on an errand to a
large coal company's office. It had been snowing and thawing and
the streets were sloppy. He soaked his shoes in his progress and
came back feeling dull and weary. All the next day he felt
unusually depressed and sat about as much as possible, to the
irritation of those who admired energy in others.
In the afternoon some boxes were to be moved to make room for new
culinary supplies. He was ordered to handle a truck.
Encountering a big box, he could not lift it.
"What's the matter there?" said the head porter. "Can't you
handle it?"
He was straining to lift it, but now he quit.
"No," he said, weakly.
The man looked at him and saw that he was deathly pale.
"Not sick, are you?" he asked.
"I think I am," returned Hurstwood.
"Well, you'd better go sit down, then."
This he did, but soon grew rapidly worse. It seemed all he could
do to crawl to his room, where he remained for a day.
"That man Wheeler's sick," reported one of the lackeys to the
night clerk.
"What's the matter with him?"
"I don't know. He's got a high fever."
The hotel physician looked at him.
"Better send him to Bellevue," he recommended. "He's got
pneumonia."
Accordingly, he was carted away.
In three weeks the worst was over, but it was nearly the first of
May before his strength permitted him to be turned out. Then he
was discharged.
No more weakly looking object ever strolled out into the spring
sunshine than the once hale, lusty manager. All his corpulency
had fled. His face was thin and pale, his hands white, his body
flabby. Clothes and all, he weighed but one hundred and thirty-
five pounds. Some old garments had been given him--a cheap brown
coat and misfit pair of trousers. Also some change and advice.
He was told to apply to the charities.
Again he resorted to the Bowery lodging-house, brooding over
where to look. From this it was but a step to beggary.
"What can a man do?" he said. "I can't starve."
His first application was in sunny Second Avenue. A well-dressed
man came leisurely strolling toward him out of Stuyvesant Park.
Hurstwood nerved himself and sidled near.
"Would you mind giving me ten cents?" he said, directly. "I'm in
a position where I must ask some one."
The man scarcely looked at him, fished in his vest pocket and
took out a dime.
"There you are," he said.
"Much obliged," said Hurstwood, softly, but the other paid no
more attention to him.
Satisfied with his success and yet ashamed of his situation, he
decided that he would only ask for twenty-five cents more, since
that would be sufficient. He strolled about sizing up people,
but it was long before just the right face and situation arrived.
When he asked, he was refused. Shocked by this result, he took
an hour to recover and then asked again. This time a nickel was
given him. By the most watchful effort he did get twenty cents
more, but it was painful.
The next day he resorted to the same effort, experiencing a
variety of rebuffs and one or two generous receptions. At last
it crossed his mind that there was a science of faces, and that a
man could pick the liberal countenance if he tried.
It was no pleasure to him, however, this stopping of passers-by.
He saw one man taken up for it and now troubled lest he should be
arrested. Nevertheless, he went on, vaguely anticipating that
indefinite something which is always better.
It was with a sense of satisfaction, then, that he saw announced
one morning the return of the Casino Company, "with Miss Carrie
Madenda." He had thought of her often enough in days past. How
successful she was--how much money she must have! Even now,
however, it took a severe run of ill luck to decide him to appeal
to her. He was truly hungry before he said:
"I'll ask her. She won't refuse me a few dollars."
Accordingly, he headed for the Casino one afternoon, passing it
several times in an effort to locate the stage entrance. Then he
sat in Bryant Park, a block away, waiting. "She can't refuse to
help me a little," he kept saying to himself.
Beginning with half-past six, he hovered like a shadow about the
Thirty-ninth Street entrance, pretending always to be a hurrying
pedestrian and yet fearful lest he should miss his object. He
was slightly nervous, too, now that the eventful hour had
arrived; but being weak and hungry, his ability to suffer was
modified. At last he saw that the actors were beginning to
arrive, and his nervous tension increased, until it seemed as if
he could not stand much more.
Once he thought he saw Carrie coming and moved forward, only to
see that he was mistaken.
"She can't be long, now," he said to himself, half fearing to
encounter her and equally depressed at the thought that she might
have gone in by another way. His stomach was so empty that it
ached.
Individual after individual passed him, nearly all well dressed,
almost all indifferent. He saw coaches rolling by, gentlemen
passing with ladies--the evening's merriment was beginning in
this region of theatres and hotels.
Suddenly a coach rolled up and the driver jumped down to open the
door. Before Hurstwood could act, two ladies flounced across the
broad walk and disappeared in the stage door. He thought he saw
Carrie, but it was so unexpected, so elegant and far away, he
could hardly tell. He waited a while longer, growing feverish
with want, and then seeing that the stage door no longer opened,
and that a merry audience was arriving, he concluded it must have
been Carrie and turned away.
"Lord," he said, hastening out of the street into which the more
fortunate were pouring, "I've got to get something."
At that hour, when Broadway is wont to assume its most
interesting aspect, a peculiar individual invariably took his
stand at the corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Broadway--a spot
which is also intersected by Fifth Avenue. This was the hour
when the theatres were just beginning to receive their patrons.
Fire signs announcing the night's amusements blazed on every
hand. Cabs and carriages, their lamps gleaming like yellow eyes,
pattered by. Couples and parties of three and four freely
mingled in the common crowd, which poured by in a thick stream,
laughing and jesting. On Fifth Avenue were loungers--a few
wealthy strollers, a gentleman in evening dress with his lady on
his arm, some club-men passing from one smoking-room to another.
Across the way the great hotels showed a hundred gleaming
windows, their cafes and billiard-rooms filled with a
comfortable, well-dressed, and pleasure-loving throng. All about
was the night, pulsating with the thoughts of pleasure and
exhilaration--the curious enthusiasm of a great city bent upon
finding joy in a thousand different ways.
This unique individual was no less than an ex-soldier turned
religionist, who, having suffered the whips and privations of our
peculiar social system, had concluded that his duty to the God
which he conceived lay in aiding his fellow-man. The form of aid
which he chose to administer was entirely original with himself.
It consisted of securing a bed for all such homeless wayfarers as
should apply to him at this particular spot, though he had
scarcely the wherewithal to provide a comfortable habitation for
himself. Taking his place amid this lightsome atmosphere, he
would stand, his stocky figure cloaked in a great cape overcoat,
his head protected by a broad slouch hat, awaiting the applicants
who had in various ways learned the nature of his charity. For a
while he would stand alone, gazing like any idler upon an ever-
fascinating scene. On the evening in question, a policeman
passing saluted him as "captain," in a friendly way. An urchin
who had frequently seen him before, stopped to gaze. All others
took him for nothing out of the ordinary, save in the matter of
dress, and conceived of him as a stranger whistling and idling
for his own amusement.
As the first half-hour waned, certain characters appeared. Here
and there in the passing crowds one might see, now and then, a
loiterer edging interestedly near. A slouchy figure crossed the
opposite corner and glanced furtively in his direction. Another
came down Fifth Avenue to the corner of Twenty-sixth Street, took
a general survey, and hobbled off again. Two or three noticeable
Bowery types edged along the Fifth Avenue side of Madison Square,
but did not venture over. The soldier, in his cape overcoat,
walked a short line of ten feet at his corner, to and fro,
indifferently whistling.
As nine o'clock approached, some of the hubbub of the earlier
hour passed. The atmosphere of the hotels was not so youthful.
The air, too, was colder. On every hand curious figures were
moving--watchers and peepers, without an imaginary circle, which
they seemed afraid to enter--a dozen in all. Presently, with the
arrival of a keener sense of cold, one figure came forward. It
crossed Broadway from out the shadow of Twenty-sixth Street, and,
in a halting, circuitous way, arrived close to the waiting
figure. There was something shamefaced or diffident about the
movement, as if the intention were to conceal any idea of
stopping until the very last moment. Then suddenly, close to the
soldier, came the halt.
The captain looked in recognition, but there was no especial
greeting. The newcomer nodded slightly and murmured something
like one who waits for gifts. The other simply motioned to-ward
the edge of the walk.
"Stand over there," he said.
By this the spell was broken. Even while the soldier resumed his
short, solemn walk, other figures shuffled forward. They did not
so much as greet the leader, but joined the one, sniffling and
hitching and scraping their feet.
"Gold, ain't it?"
"I'm glad winter's over."
"Looks as though it might rain."
The motley company had increased to ten. One or two knew each
other and conversed. Others stood off a few feet, not wishing to
be in the crowd and yet not counted out. They were peevish,
crusty, silent, eying nothing in particular and moving their
feet.
There would have been talking soon, but the soldier gave them no
chance. Counting sufficient to begin, he came forward.
"Beds, eh, all of you?"
There was a general shuffle and murmur of approval.
"Well, line up here. I'll see what I can do. I haven't a cent
myself."
They fell into a sort of broken, ragged line. One might see,
now, some of the chief characteristics by contrast. There was a
wooden leg in the line. Hats were all drooping, a group that
would ill become a second-hand Hester Street basement collection.
Trousers were all warped and frayed at the bottom and coats worn
and faded. In the glare of the store lights, some of the faces
looked dry and chalky; others were red with blotches and puffed
in the cheeks and under the eyes; one or two were rawboned and
reminded one of railroad hands. A few spectators came near,
drawn by the seemingly conferring group, then more and more, and
quickly there was a pushing, gaping crowd. Some one in the line
began to talk.
"Silence!" exclaimed the captain. "Now, then, gentlemen, these
men are without beds. They have to have some place to sleep to-
night. They can't lie out in the streets. I need twelve cents
to put one of them to bed. Who will give it to me?"
No reply.
"Well, we'll have to wait here, boys, until some one does.
Twelve cents isn't so very much for one man."
"Here's fifteen," exclaimed a young man, peering forward with
strained eyes. "It's all I can afford."
"All right. Now I have fifteen. Step out of the line," and
seizing one by the shoulder, the captain marched him off a little
way and stood him up alone.
Coming back, he resumed his place and began again.
"I have three cents left. These men must be put to bed somehow.
There are"--counting--"one, two, three, four, five, six, seven,
eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve men. Nine cents more will put
the next man to bed; give him a good, comfortable bed for the
night. I go right along and look after that myself. Who will
give me nine cents?"
One of the watchers, this time a middle-aged man, handed him a
five-cent piece.
"Now, I have eight cents. Four more will give this man a bed.
Come, gentlemen. We are going very slow this evening. You all
have good beds. How about these?"
"Here you are," remarked a bystander, putting a coin into his
hand.
"That," said the captain, looking at the coin, "pays for two beds
for two men and gives me five on the next one. Who will give me
seven cents more?"
"I will," said a voice.
Coming down Sixth Avenue this evening, Hurstwood chanced to cross
east through Twenty-sixth Street toward Third Avenue. He was
wholly disconsolate in spirit, hungry to what he deemed an almost
mortal extent, weary, and defeated. How should he get at Carrie
now? It would be eleven before the show was over. If she came in
a coach, she would go away in one. He would need to interrupt
under most trying circumstances. Worst of all, he was hungry and
weary, and at best a whole day must intervene, for he had not
heart to try again to-night. He had no food and no bed.
When he neared Broadway, he noticed the captain's gathering of
wanderers, but thinking it to be the result of a street preacher
or some patent medicine fakir, was about to pass on. However, in
crossing the street toward Madison Square Park, he noticed the
line of men whose beds were already secured, stretching out from
the main body of the crowd. In the glare of the neighbouring
electric light he recognised a type of his own kind--the figures
whom he saw about the streets and in the lodging-houses, drifting
in mind and body like himself. He wondered what it could be and
turned back.
There was the captain curtly pleading as before. He heard with
astonishment and a sense of relief the oft-repeated words: "These
men must have a bed." Before him was the line of unfortunates
whose beds were yet to be had, and seeing a newcomer quietly edge
up and take a position at the end of the line, he decided to do
likewise. What use to contend? He was weary to-night. It was a
simple way out of one difficulty, at least. To-morrow, maybe, he
would do better.
Back of him, where some of those were whose beds were safe, a
relaxed air was apparent. The strain of uncertainty being
removed, he heard them talking with moderate freedom and some
leaning toward sociability. Politics, religion, the state of the
government, some newspaper sensations, and the more notorious
facts the world over, found mouthpieces and auditors there.
Cracked and husky voices pronounced forcibly upon odd matters.
Vague and rambling observations were made in reply.
There were squints, and leers, and some dull, ox-like stares from
those who were too dull or too weary to converse.
Standing tells. Hurstwood became more weary waiting. He thought
he should drop soon and shifted restlessly from one foot to the
other. At last his turn came. The man ahead had been paid for
and gone to the blessed line of success. He was now first, and
already the captain was talking for him.
"Twelve cents, gentlemen--twelve cents puts this man to bed. He
wouldn't stand here in the cold if he had any place to go."
Hurstwood swallowed something that rose to his throat. Hunger
and weakness had made a coward of him.
"Here you are," said a stranger, handing money to the captain.
Now the latter put a kindly hand on the ex-manager's shoulder.
"Line up over there," he said.
Once there, Hurstwood breathed easier. He felt as if the world
were not quite so bad with such a good man in it. Others seemed
to feel like himself about this.
"Captain's a great feller, ain't he?" said the man ahead--a
little, woebegone, helpless-looking sort of individual, who
looked as though he had ever been the sport and care of fortune.
"Yes," said Hurstwood, indifferently.
"Huh! there's a lot back there yet," said a man farther up,
leaning out and looking back at the applicants for whom the
captain was pleading.
"Yes. Must be over a hundred to-night," said another.
"Look at the guy in the cab," observed a third.
A cab had stopped. Some gentleman in evening dress reached out a
bill to the captain, who took it with simple thanks and turned
away to his line. There was a general craning of necks as the
jewel in the white shirt front sparkled and the cab moved off.
Even the crowd gaped in awe.
"That fixes up nine men for the night," said the captain,
counting out as many of the line near him. "Line up over there.
Now, then, there are only seven. I need twelve cents."
Money came slowly. In the course of time the crowd thinned out
to a meagre handful. Fifth Avenue, save for an occasional cab or
foot passenger, was bare. Broadway was thinly peopled with
pedestrians. Only now and then a stranger passing noticed the
small group, handed out a coin, and went away, unheeding.
The captain remained stolid and determined. He talked on, very
slowly, uttering the fewest words and with a certain assurance,
as though he could not fail.
"Come; I can't stay out here all night. These men are getting
tired and cold. Some one give me four cents."
There came a time when he said nothing at all. Money was handed
him, and for each twelve cents he singled out a man and put him
in the other line. Then he walked up and down as before, looking
at the ground.
The theatres let out. Fire signs disappeared. A clock struck
eleven. Another half-hour and he was down to the last two men.
"Come, now," he exclaimed to several curious observers; "eighteen
cents will fix us all up for the night. Eighteen cents. I have
six. Somebody give me the money. Remember, I have to go over to
Brooklyn yet to-night. Before that I have to take these men down
and put them to bed. Eighteen cents."
No one responded. He walked to and fro, looking down for several
minutes, occasionally saying softly: "Eighteen cents." It seemed
as if this paltry sum would delay the desired culmination longer
than all the rest had. Hurstwood, buoyed up slightly by the long
line of which he was a part, refrained with an effort from
groaning, he was so weak.
At last a lady in opera cape and rustling skirts came down Fifth
Avenue, accompanied by her escort. Hurstwood gazed wearily,
reminded by her both of Carrie in her new world and of the time
when he had escorted his own wife in like manner.
While he was gazing, she turned and, looking at the remarkable
company, sent her escort over. He came, holding a bill in his
fingers, all elegant and graceful.
"Here you are," he said.
"Thanks," said the captain, turning to the two remaining
applicants. "Now we have some for to-morrow night," he added.
Therewith he lined up the last two and proceeded to the head,
counting as he went.
"One hundred and thirty-seven," he announced. "Now, boys, line
up. Right dress there. We won't be much longer about this.
Steady, now."
He placed himself at the head and called out "Forward." Hurstwood
moved with the line. Across Fifth Avenue, through Madison Square
by the winding paths, east on Twenty-third Street, and down Third
Avenue wound the long, serpentine company. Midnight pedestrians
and loiterers stopped and stared as the company passed. Chatting
policemen, at various corners, stared indifferently or nodded to
the leader, whom they had seen before. On Third Avenue they
marched, a seemingly weary way, to Eighth Street, where there was
a lodginghouse, closed, apparently, for the night. They were
expected, however.
Outside in the gloom they stood, while the leader parleyed
within. Then doors swung open and they were invited in with a
"Steady, now."
Some one was at the head showing rooms, so that there was no
delay for keys. Toiling up the creaky stairs, Hurstwood looked
back and saw the captain, watching; the last one of the line
being included in his broad solicitude. Then he gathered his
cloak about him and strolled out into the night.
"I can't stand much of this," said Hurstwood, whose legs ached
him painfully, as he sat down upon the miserable bunk in the
small, lightless chamber allotted to him. "I've got to eat, or
I'll die." _
Read next: CHAPTER XLVI STIRRING TROUBLED WATERS
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