Chapter XL

by Theodore Dreiser

　　A PUBLIC DISSENSION--A FINAL APPEALThere was no after-theatre lark, however, so far as Carrie wasconcerned. She made her way homeward, thinking about herabsence. Hurstwood was asleep, but roused up to look as shepassed 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'tcare. You needn't tell me that, though.""I couldn't," said Carrie, her colour rising. Then, seeing thathe 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 oneanother. She let herself be asked for expenses. It became sowith him that he hated to do it. He preferred standing off thebutcher and baker. He ran up a grocery bill of sixteen dollarswith Oeslogge, laying in a supply of staple articles, so thatthey would not have to buy any of those things for some time tocome. Then he changed his grocery. It was the same with thebutcher and several others. Carrie never heard anything of thisdirectly from him.He asked for such as he could expect, drifting farther andfarther 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 severaltimes."Yes. He won't do it before October, though, now."Carrie became disgusted. "Such a man," she said to herselffrequently. More and more she visited. She put most of herspare money in clothes, which, after all, was not an astonishingamount. At last the opera she was with announced its departurewithin four weeks. "Last two weeks of the Great Comic Operasuccess ----The--------," etc., was upon all billboards and inthe 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 inthe world. People recognised ability.So changed was her state that the home atmosphere becameintolerable. It was all poverty and trouble there, or seemed tobe, because it was a load to bear. It became a place to keepaway from. Still she slept there, and did a fair amount of work,keeping it in order. It was a sitting place for Hurstwood. Hesat and rocked, rocked and read, enveloped in the gloom of hisown fate. October went by, and November. It was the dead ofwinter almost before he knew it, and there he sat.Carrie was doing better, that he knew. Her clothes were improvednow, even fine. He saw her coming and going, sometimes picturingto himself her rise. Little eating had thinned him somewhat. Hehad no appetite. His clothes, too, were a poor man's clothes.Talk about getting something had become even too threadbare andridiculous for him. So he folded his hands and waited--for what,he could not anticipate.At last, however, troubles became too thick. The hounding ofcreditors, the indifference of Carrie, the silence of the flat,and presence of winter, all joined to produce a climax. It waseffected by the arrival of Oeslogge, personally, when Carrie wasthere."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 someneedless expense."Well, we had it all right," he answered. Then he went to thedoor. "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. Ineed 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'llcome 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 thebill. "I can't do it.""Well, you don't have to," he said. "He can't get what he can'tget. 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 ifI'd taken something.""Well, it's too much, anyhow," said Carrie. "I oughtn't to bemade to pay for it. I've got more than I can pay for now.""All right," replied Hurstwood, sitting down in silence. He wassick 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 rumoursand notices of an approaching strike on the trolley lines inBrooklyn. There was general dissatisfaction as to the hours oflabour required and the wages paid. As usual--and for someinexplicable reason--the men chose the winter for the forcing ofthe hand of their employers and the settlement of theirdifficulties.Hurstwood had been reading of this thing, and wonderingconcerning the huge tie-up which would follow. A day or twobefore this trouble with Carrie, it came. On a cold afternoon,when everything was grey and it threatened to snow, the papersannounced that the men had been called out on all the lines.Being so utterly idle, and his mind filled with the numerouspredictions which had been made concerning the scarcity of labourthis winter and the panicky state of the financial market,Hurstwood read this with interest. He noted the claims of thestriking motormen and conductors, who said that they had beenwont to receive two dollars a day in times past, but that for ayear or more "trippers" had been introduced, which cut down theirchance of livelihood one-half, and increased their hours ofservitude from ten to twelve, and even fourteen. These"trippers" were men put on during the busy and rush hours, totake a car out for one trip. The compensation paid for such atrip was only twenty-five cents. When the rush or busy hourswere over, they were laid off. Worst of all, no man might knowwhen he was going to get a car. He must come to the barns in themorning and wait around in fair and foul weather until such timeas he was needed. Two trips were an average reward for so muchwaiting--a little over three hours' work for fifty cents. Thework of waiting was not counted.The men complained that this system was extending, and that thetime was not far off when but a few out of 7,000 employees wouldhave regular two-dollar-a-day work at all. They demanded thatthe system be abolished, and that ten hours be considered a day'swork, barring unavoidable delays, with $2.25 pay. They demandedimmediate acceptance of these terms, which the various trolleycompanies refused.Hurstwood at first sympathised with the demands of these men--indeed, it is a question whether he did not always sympathisewith them to the end, belie him as his actions might. Readingnearly all the news, he was attracted first by the scare-headswith which the trouble was noted in the "World." He read itfully--the names of the seven companies involved, the number ofmen."They're foolish to strike in this sort of weather," he thoughtto himself. "Let 'em win if they can, though."The next day there was even a larger notice of it. "BrooklynitesWalk," said the "World." "Knights of Labour Tie up the TrolleyLines Across the Bridge." "About Seven Thousand Men Out."Hurstwood read this, formulating to himself his own idea of whatwould be the outcome. He was a great believer in the strength ofcorporations."They can't win," he said, concerning the men. "They haven't anymoney. 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 withthem. So was property and public utility."Those fellows can't win," he thought.Among other things, he noticed a circular issued by one of thecompanies, which read:ATLANTIC AVENUE RAILROADSPECIAL NOTICEThe motormen and conductors and other employees of this companyhaving abruptly left its service, an opportunity is now given toall loyal men who have struck against their will to bereinstated, providing they will make their applications by twelveo'clock noon on Wednesday, January 16th. Such men will be givenemployment (with guaranteed protection) in the order in whichsuch applications are received, and runs and positions assignedthem accordingly. Otherwise, they will be considered discharged,and every vacancy will be filled by a new man as soon as hisservices can be secured.(Signed)Benjamin Norton,PresidentHe 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; protectionguaranteed.He noted particularly in each the "protection guaranteed." Itsignified to him the unassailable power of the companies."They've got the militia on their side," he thought. "Thereisn't anything those men can do."While this was still in his mind, the incident with Oeslogge andCarrie occurred. There had been a good deal to irritate him, butthis seemed much the worst. Never before had she accused him ofstealing--or very near that. She doubted the naturalness of solarge a bill. And he had worked so hard to make expenses seemlight. He had been "doing" butcher and baker in order not tocall on her. He had eaten very little--almost nothing."Damn it all!" he said. "I can get something. I'm not downyet."He thought that he really must do something now. It was toocheap 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. Itcame gradually into his mind, as he stood there, to go toBrooklyn."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 calledout the police. Any one who wants to run a car will be protectedall 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 faresall right.""They'll want motormen, mostly.""They'll take anybody; that I know."For several hours he argued pro and con with this mentalcounsellor, feeling no need to act at once in a matter so sure ofprofit.In the morning he put on his best clothes, which were poorenough, and began stirring about, putting some bread and meatinto a page of a newspaper. Carrie watched him, interested inthis new move."Where are you going?" she asked."Over to Brooklyn," he answered. Then, seeing her stillinquisitive, 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, andCarrie 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, andtramped eastward to Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, where hetook the car. He had read that scores of applicants wereapplying at the office of the Brooklyn City Railroad building andwere being received. He made his way there by horse-car andferry--a dark, silent man--to the offices in question. It was along way, for no cars were running, and the day was cold; but hetrudged along grimly. Once in Brooklyn, he could clearly see andfeel that a strike was on. People showed it in their manner.Along the routes of certain tracks not a car was running. Aboutcertain corners and nearby saloons small groups of men werelounging. Several spring wagons passed him, equipped with plainwooden chairs, and labelled "Flatbush" or "Prospect Park. Fare,Ten Cents." He noticed cold and even gloomy faces. Labour washaving its little war.When he came near the office in question, he saw a few menstanding about, and some policemen. On the far corners wereother men--whom he took to be strikers--watching. All the houseswere 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 bypolicemen and the men already there. One of the officersaddressed 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 facewas a very neutral thing to contemplate. In his heart of hearts,he sympathised with the strikers and hated this "scab." In hisheart of hearts, also, he felt the dignity and use of the policeforce, which commanded order. Of its true social significance,he never once dreamed. His was not the mind for that. The twofeelings blended in him--neutralised one another and him. Hewould have fought for this man as determinedly as for himself,and yet only so far as commanded. Strip him of his uniform, andhe 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, andseveral clerks."Well, sir?" said a middle-aged man, looking up at him from thelong 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 peopleneeded men. If one didn't take him, another would. This mancould take him or leave him, just as he chose."Well, we prefer experienced men, of course," said the man. Hepaused, 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 ourbarns," he said, "and give it to the foreman. He'll show youwhat to do."Hurstwood went down and out. He walked straight away in thedirection indicated, while the policemen looked after."There's another wants to try it," said Officer Kiely to OfficerMacey."I have my mind he'll get his fill," returned the latter,quietly. They had been in strikes before.