Chapter XVIII

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

　　Monday morning, Joe groaned over the first truck load of clothes tothe washer."I say," he began."Don't talk to me," Martin snarled."I'm sorry, Joe," he said at noon, when they knocked off fordinner.Tears came into the other's eyes."That's all right, old man," he said. "We're in hell, an' we can'thelp ourselves. An', you know, I kind of like you a whole lot.That's what made it - hurt. I cottoned to you from the first."Martin shook his hand."Let's quit," Joe suggested. "Let's chuck it, an' go hoboin'. Iain't never tried it, but it must be dead easy. An' nothin' to do.Just think of it, nothin' to do. I was sick once, typhoid, in thehospital, an' it was beautiful. I wish I'd get sick again."The week dragged on. The hotel was full, and extra "fancy starch"poured in upon them. They performed prodigies of valor. Theyfought late each night under the electric lights, bolted theirmeals, and even got in a half hour's work before breakfast. Martinno longer took his cold baths. Every moment was drive, drive,drive, and Joe was the masterful shepherd of moments, herding themcarefully, never losing one, counting them over like a misercounting gold, working on in a frenzy, toil-mad, a feverishmachine, aided ably by that other machine that thought of itself asonce having been one Martin Eden, a man.But it was only at rare moments that Martin was able to think. Thehouse of thought was closed, its windows boarded up, and he was itsshadowy caretaker. He was a shadow. Joe was right. They wereboth shadows, and this was the unending limbo of toil. Or was it adream? Sometimes, in the steaming, sizzling heat, as he swung theheavy irons back and forth over the white garments, it came to himthat it was a dream. In a short while, or maybe after a thousandyears or so, he would awake, in his little room with the ink-stained table, and take up his writing where he had left off theday before. Or maybe that was a dream, too, and the awakeningwould be the changing of the watches, when he would drop down outof his bunk in the lurching forecastle and go up on deck, under thetropic stars, and take the wheel and feel the cool tradewindblowing through his flesh.Came Saturday and its hollow victory at three o'clock."Guess I'll go down an' get a glass of beer," Joe said, in thequeer, monotonous tones that marked his week-end collapse.Martin seemed suddenly to wake up. He opened the kit bag and oiledhis wheel, putting graphite on the chain and adjusting thebearings. Joe was halfway down to the saloon when Martin passedby, bending low over the handle-bars, his legs driving the ninety-six gear with rhythmic strength, his face set for seventy miles ofroad and grade and dust. He slept in Oakland that night, and onSunday covered the seventy miles back. And on Monday morning,weary, he began the new week's work, but he had kept sober.A fifth week passed, and a sixth, during which he lived and toiledas a machine, with just a spark of something more in him, just aglimmering bit of soul, that compelled him, at each week-end, toscorch off the hundred and forty miles. But this was not rest. Itwas super-machinelike, and it helped to crush out the glimmeringbit of soul that was all that was left him from former life. Atthe end of the seventh week, without intending it, too weak toresist, he drifted down to the village with Joe and drowned lifeand found life until Monday morning.Again, at the week-ends, he ground out the one hundred and fortymiles, obliterating the numbness of too great exertion by thenumbness of still greater exertion. At the end of three months hewent down a third time to the village with Joe. He forgot, andlived again, and, living, he saw, in clear illumination, the beasthe was making of himself - not by the drink, but by the work. Thedrink was an effect, not a cause. It followed inevitably upon thework, as the night follows upon the day. Not by becoming a toil-beast could he win to the heights, was the message the whiskeywhispered to him, and he nodded approbation. The whiskey was wise.It told secrets on itself.He called for paper and pencil, and for drinks all around, andwhile they drank his very good health, he clung to the bar andscribbled."A telegram, Joe," he said. "Read it."Joe read it with a drunken, quizzical leer. But what he readseemed to sober him. He looked at the other reproachfully, tearsoozing into his eyes and down his cheeks."You ain't goin' back on me, Mart?" he queried hopelessly.Martin nodded, and called one of the loungers to him to take themessage to the telegraph office."Hold on," Joe muttered thickly. "Lemme think."He held on to the bar, his legs wobbling under him, Martin's armaround him and supporting him, while he thought."Make that two laundrymen," he said abruptly. "Here, lemme fixit.""What are you quitting for?" Martin demanded."Same reason as you.""But I'm going to sea. You can't do that.""Nope," was the answer, "but I can hobo all right, all right."Martin looked at him searchingly for a moment, then cried:-"By God, I think you're right! Better a hobo than a beast of toil.Why, man, you'll live. And that's more than you ever did before.""I was in hospital, once," Joe corrected. "It was beautiful.Typhoid - did I tell you?"While Martin changed the telegram to "two laundrymen," Joe wenton:-"I never wanted to drink when I was in hospital. Funny, ain't it?But when I've ben workin' like a slave all week, I just got to bowlup. Ever noticed that cooks drink like hell? - an' bakers, too?It's the work. They've sure got to. Here, lemme pay half of thattelegram.""I'll shake you for it," Martin offered."Come on, everybody drink," Joe called, as they rattled the diceand rolled them out on the damp bar.Monday morning Joe was wild with anticipation. He did not mind hisaching head, nor did he take interest in his work. Whole herds ofmoments stole away and were lost while their careless shepherdgazed out of the window at the sunshine and the trees."Just look at it!" he cried. "An' it's all mine! It's free. Ican lie down under them trees an' sleep for a thousan' years if Iwant to. Aw, come on, Mart, let's chuck it. What's the good ofwaitin' another moment. That's the land of nothin' to do outthere, an' I got a ticket for it - an' it ain't no return ticket,b'gosh!"A few minutes later, filling the truck with soiled clothes for thewasher, Joe spied the hotel manager's shirt. He knew its mark, andwith a sudden glorious consciousness of freedom he threw it on thefloor and stamped on it."I wish you was in it, you pig-headed Dutchman!" he shouted. "Init, an' right there where I've got you! Take that! an' that! an'that! damn you! Hold me back, somebody! Hold me back!"Martin laughed and held him to his work. On Tuesday night the newlaundrymen arrived, and the rest of the week was spent breakingthem into the routine. Joe sat around and explained his system,but he did no more work."Not a tap," he announced. "Not a tap. They can fire me if theywant to, but if they do, I'll quit. No more work in mine, thankyou kindly. Me for the freight cars an' the shade under the trees.Go to it, you slaves! That's right. Slave an' sweat! Slave an'sweat! An' when you're dead, you'll rot the same as me, an' what'sit matter how you live? - eh? Tell me that - what's it matter inthe long run?"On Saturday they drew their pay and came to the parting of theways."They ain't no use in me askin' you to change your mind an' hit theroad with me?" Joe asked hopelessly:Martin shook his head. He was standing by his wheel, ready tostart. They shook hands, and Joe held on to his for a moment, ashe said:-"I'm goin' to see you again, Mart, before you an' me die. That'sstraight dope. I feel it in my bones. Good-by, Mart, an' be good.I like you like hell, you know."He stood, a forlorn figure, in the middle of the road, watchinguntil Martin turned a bend and was gone from sight."He's a good Indian, that boy," he muttered. "A good Indian."Then he plodded down the road himself, to the water tank, wherehalf a dozen empties lay on a side-track waiting for the upfreight.