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.
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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.
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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.
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"Did you see by the paper they are going to call out the militia?" Hurstwood heard one of them remark.
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"Me? No. I've always worked in a paper factory."
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"Not very."
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A small, nervous laugh accompanied this.
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"Yes; but there are more police around to-day," was added by another.
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"Are you a railroad man?" said one.
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Two of the men got around quite near him, but behind his back. They were rather social, and he listened to what they said.
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"Oh, they'll do that," returned the other. "They always do."
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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.
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"Think we're liable to have much trouble?" said another, whom Hurstwood did not see.
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"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."
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"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."
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"I had a job in Newark until last October," returned the other, with reciprocal feeling.
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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.
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"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."
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"Same here," said the other. "If I had any job in Newark I wouldn't be over here takin' chances like these."
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"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."
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There were some words which passed too low to hear. Then the conversation became strong again.
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"Poor devils," he thought, speaking out of the thoughts and feelings of a bygone period of success.
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"Next," said one of the instructors.
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"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."
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"You're next," said a neighbour, touching him.
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Hurstwood smiled at the simple information.
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He went out and climbed on the platform. The instructor took it for granted that no preliminaries were needed.
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"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."
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"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."
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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.
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Hurstwood stood placidly by, while the car rolled back into the yard.
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The instructor explained a few more details, and then said: "Now, we'll back her up."
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"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."
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"Now you take it," he said, finally.
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He waited and waited, while the man talked on.
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"You want to be careful about that," was all he said.
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"I see," said Hurstwood.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"You've got to get the knack of working both arms at once," he said. "It takes a little practice."
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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.
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The intention was to give him an afternoon of practice, but the greater part of the time was spent in waiting about.
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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.
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After eating, he stood about as before, waiting until his turn came.
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"They must have some place around here," he thought. "Where does that fellow from Newark stay?"
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"How do they arrange this, if a man hasn't any money?" inquired Hurstwood, discreetly.
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Hurstwood only cleared his throat by way of acknowledgment.
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"You mean eat?" he replied.
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"The foreman 'll fix that if you ask him, I guess. He did me."
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"That so?"
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The fellow turned a keen, watchful face on the inquirer.
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"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."
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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.
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"Yes. I just told him I didn't have anything. Gee, I couldn't go home. I live way over in Hoboken."
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"Yes, and sleep. I can't go back to New York to-night."
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"I'll ask him in the morning."
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"There're some cots upstairs," interrupted the man, "if you want one of them."
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Hurstwood did so.
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He meant to ask for a meal ticket, but the seemingly proper moment never came, and he decided to pay himself that night.
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"I'd tackle him now," volunteered the youth. "He may go 'way."
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"It ain't no fun, is it?" he inquired, wishing vainly for a cheery reply.
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Hurstwood smiled grimly, and the boy laughed.
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"That'll do," he assented.
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"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"
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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.
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"Not much," answered Hurstwood.
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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.
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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.
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"Rather."
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Another silence.
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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.
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"Better than nothing," replied Hurstwood.
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"Not much of a place to sleep in, is it?" said the man.
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While he was doing so, the youth who had advised him to come here entered, and, seeing Hurstwood, tried to be genial.
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"I believe I'll turn in," said the man.
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"Cold, isn't it?" said the early guest.
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A long silence.
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"Better'n nothin'," he observed, looking around.
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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.
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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.
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Downstairs things were stirring again.
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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.
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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.
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"Guess I'd better get up," he said.
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"Hell!" he muttered, as he put on his hat.
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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.
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"Could you let me have a meal ticket?" he asked with an effort.
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"Had your breakfast yet?" inquired that worthy.
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Hurstwood hesitated.
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"No," said Hurstwood.
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He breakfasted as poorly as the night before on some fried steak and bad coffee. Then he went back.
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"Better get it, then; your car won't be ready for a little while."
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"Here you are," said the man, handing him one.
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"Here," said the foreman, motioning him, when he came in. "You take this car out in a few minutes."
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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.
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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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Hurstwood knew nothing of the change of temper.
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Idleness, however, and the sight of the company, backed by the police, triumphing, angered the men. They saw that each day more cars were going on, each day more declarations were being made by the company officials that the effective opposition of the strikers was broken. This put desperate thoughts in the minds of the men. Peaceful methods meant, they saw, that the companies would soon run all their cars and those who had complained would be forgotten. There was nothing so helpful to the companies as peaceful methods.
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"Run your car out," called the foreman, waving a vigorous hand at him. A green conductor jumped up behind and rang the bell twice as a signal to start. Hurstwood turned the lever and ran the car out through the door into the street in front of the barn. Here two brawny policemen got up beside him on the platform -- one on either hand.
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All at once they blazed forth, and for a week there was storm and stress. Cars were assailed, men attacked, policemen struggled with, tracks torn up, and shots fired, until at last street fights and mob movements became frequent, and the city was invested with militia.
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"Schaeffer and Ryan."
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At the sound of a gong near the barn door, two bells were given by the conductor and Hurstwood opened his lever.
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"I had enough of it yesterday," said the other. "I wouldn't want a steady job of this."
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"Who's on there?" asked the second officer, referring, of course, to its complement of policemen.
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The two officers kept silent for a few moments.
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The two policemen looked about them calmly.
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"Keep a steady gait," the foreman had said. "Don't stop for any one who doesn't look like a real passenger. Whatever you do, don't stop for a crowd."
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Neither paid the slightest attention to Hurstwood, who stood facing the cold wind, which was chilling him completely, and thinking of his orders.
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"Nor I."
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"The last man must have gone through all right," said the officer on the left. "I don't see his car anywhere."
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"'Tis cold, all right, this morning," said the one on the left, who possessed a rich brogue.
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There was another silence, in which the car ran smoothly along. There were not so many houses along this part of the way. Hurstwood did not see many people either. The situation was not wholly disagreeable to him. If he were not so cold, he thought he would do well enough.
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He was brought out of this feeling by the sudden appearance of a curve ahead, which he had not expected. He shut off the current and did an energetic turn at the brake, but not in time to avoid an unnaturally quick turn. It shook him up and made him feel like making some apologetic remarks, but he refrained.
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"That's right," agreed Hurstwood, shamefacedly.
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Around the corner a more populated way appeared. One or two pedestrians were in view ahead. A boy coming out of a gate with a tin milk bucket gave Hurstwood his first objectionable greeting.
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"There's lots of them on this line," said the officer on the right.
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"You want to look out for them things," said the officer on the left, condescendingly.
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At a corner farther up a man stood by the track and signalled the car to stop.
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"Never mind him," said one of the officers. "He's up to some game."
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"Scab!" he yelled. "Scab!"
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Hurstwood obeyed. At the corner he saw the wisdom of it. No sooner did the man perceive the intention to ignore him, than he shook his fist.
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Hurstwood heard it, but tried to make no comment, even to himself. He knew he would get that, and much more of the same sort, probably.
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Some half dozen men, standing on the corner, flung taunts and jeers after the speeding car.
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"We'll have an argument, maybe," said the other.
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"Ah, you bloody coward!" he yelled.
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Hurstwood winced the least bit. The real thing was slightly worse than the thoughts of it had been.
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Now came in sight, three or four blocks farther on, a heap of something on the track.
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Hurstwood ran the car close and stopped. He had not done so wholly, however, before a crowd gathered about. It was composed of ex-motormen and conductors in part, with a sprinkling of friends and sympathisers.
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"They've been at work, here, all right," said one of the policemen.
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Hurstwood held to his brake and lever, pale and very uncertain what to do.
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"Come off the car, pardner," said one of the men in a voice meant to be conciliatory. "You don't want to take the bread out of another man's mouth, do you?"
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"Stand back," yelled one of the officers, leaning over the platform railing. "Clear out of this, now. Give the man a chance to do his work."
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It was like a small swarm of bees.
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"Stand back, now," they yelled. "Get out of this. What the hell do you mean? Out, now."
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"Listen, pardner," said the leader, ignoring the policeman and addressing Hurstwood. "We're all working men, like yourself. If you were a regular motorman, and had been treated as we've been, you wouldn't want any one to come in and take your place, would you? You wouldn't want any one to do you out of your chance to get your rights, would you?"
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Crack came an officer's club on his forehead. He blinked his eyes blindly a few times, wabbled on his legs, threw up his hands, and staggered back. In return, a swift fist landed on the officer's neck.
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"Shut her off! shut her off!" urged the other of the policemen, roughly. "Get out of this, now," and he jumped the railing and landed before the crowd and began shoving. Instantly the other officer was down beside him.
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"Get out of this!" cried the officer, swinging his club. "I'll give ye a bat on the sconce. Back, now."
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"Don't shove me," said one of the strikers, determinedly. "I'm not doing anything."
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"What the hell!" cried another of the strikers, pushing the other way, adding at the same time some lusty oaths.
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"Where is the conductor?" yelled one of the officers, getting his eye on that individual, who had come nervously forward to stand by Hurstwood. The latter had stood gazing upon the scene with more astonishment than fear.
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"Why don't you come down here and get these stones off the track?" inquired the officer. "What you standing there for? Do you want to stay here all day? Get down."
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Infuriated by this, the latter plunged left and right, laying about madly with his club. He was ably assisted by his brother of the blue, who poured ponderous oaths upon the troubled waters. No severe damage was done, owing to the agility of the strikers in keeping out of reach. They stood about the sidewalk now and jeered.
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"Hurry up, now," said the other policeman.
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Cold as it was, these officers were hot and mad. Hurstwood worked with the conductor, lifting stone after stone and warming himself by the work.
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Hurstwood breathed heavily in excitement and jumped down with the nervous conductor as if he had been called.
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"Ah, you scab, you!" yelled the crowd. "You coward! Steal a man's job, will you? Rob the poor, will you, you thief? We'll get you yet, now. Wait."
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Not all of this was delivered by one man. It came from here and there, incorporated with much more of the same sort and curses.
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"May God starve ye yet," yelled an old Irish woman, who now threw open a nearby window and stuck out her head.
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"Work, you blackguards," yelled a voice. "Do the dirty work. You're the suckers that keep the poor people down!"
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"Yes, and you," she added, catching the eye of one of the policemen. "You bloody, murtherin' thafe! Crack my son over the head, will you, you hardhearted, murtherin' divil? Ah, ye --"
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But the officer turned a deaf ear.
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Now the stones were off, and Hurstwood took his place again amid a continued chorus of epithets. Both officers got up beside him and the conductor rang the bell, when, bang! bang! through window and door came rocks and stones. One narrowly grazed Hurstwood's head. Another shattered the window behind.
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"Go to the devil, you old hag," he half muttered as he stared round upon the scattered company.
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"Throw open your lever," yelled one of the officers, grabbing at the handle himself.
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Hurstwood complied and the car shot away, followed by a rattle of stones and a rain of curses.
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"I think I must have left spots on some of them," said the other.
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"I know that big guy that called us a -- -- -- --" said the first. "I'll get him yet for that."
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Hurstwood, warmed and excited, gazed steadily ahead. It was an astonishing experience for him. He had read of these things, but the reality seemed something altogether new. He was no coward in spirit. The fact that he had suffered this much now rather operated to arouse a stolid determination to stick it out. He did not recur in thought to New York or the flat. This one trip seemed a consuming thing.
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"That -- -- -- -- hit me in the neck," said one of the officers. "I gave him a good crack for it, though."
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They now ran into the business heart of Brooklyn uninterrupted. People gazed at the broken windows of the car and at Hurstwood in his plain clothes. Voices called "scab" now and then, as well as other epithets, but no crowd attacked the car. At the downtown end of the line, one of the officers went to call up his station and report the trouble.
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"I thought we were in for it sure, once there," said the second.
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"Well," he observed to himself, "I came out of that all right."
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"There's a gang out there," he said, "laying for us yet. Better send some one over there and clean them out."
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The car ran back more quietly -- hooted, watched, flung at, but not attacked. Hurstwood breathed freely when he saw the barns.
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The car was turned in and he was allowed to loaf a while, but later he was again called. This time a new team of officers was aboard. Slightly more confident, he sped the car along the commonplace streets and felt somewhat less fearful. On one side, however, he suffered intensely. The day was raw, with a sprinkling of snow and a gusty wind, made all the more intolerable by the speed of the car. His clothing was not intended for this sort of work. He shivered, stamped his feet, and beat his arms as he had seen other motormen do in the past, but said nothing. The novelty and danger of the situation modified in a way his disgust and distress at being compelled to be here, but not enough to prevent him from feeling grim and sour. This was a dog's life, he thought. It was a tough thing to have to come to.
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"The little cur!" he muttered.
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A boy threw a clod of mud while he was thus reflecting and hit him upon the arm. It hurt sharply and angered him more than he had been any time since morning.
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The one thought that strengthened him was the insult offered by Carrie. He was not down so low as to take all that, he thought. He could do something -- this, even -- for a while. It would get better. He would save a little.
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"No," he answered.
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Hurstwood pretended not to see him. He kept his eyes straight on before and opened the lever wide. The voice had something appealing in it.
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All morning this went on and long into the afternoon. He made three such trips. The dinner he had was no stay for such work and the cold was telling on him. At each end of the line he stopped to thaw out, but he could have groaned at the anguish of it. One of the barnmen, out of pity, loaned him a heavy cap and a pair of sheepskin gloves, and for once he was extremely thankful.
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"Hurt you?" asked one of the policemen.
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At one of the corners, where the car slowed up because of a turn, an ex-motorman, standing on the sidewalk, called to him: "Won't you come out, pardner, and be a man? Remember we're fighting for decent day's wages, that's all. We've got families to support." The man seemed most peaceably inclined.
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"Yah, yah, yah!" yelled the crowd. "Get it off yourself."
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"Come down, pardner, and be a man. Don't fight the poor. Leave that to the corporations."
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The two policemen got down and Hurstwood started to follow.
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A third policeman joined the other two from somewhere and some one ran to telephone for more officers. Hurstwood gazed about, determined but fearful.
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Amid the babel of voices, Hurstwood heard one close beside him.
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On the second trip of the afternoon he ran into a crowd about half way along the line, that had blocked the car's progress with an old telegraph pole.
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"Get that thing off the track," shouted the two policemen.
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He saw the same fellow who had called to him from the corner. Now, as before, he pretended not to hear him.
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"You stay there," one called. "Some one will run away with your car."
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"Come down," the man repeated gently. "You don't want to fight poor men. Don't fight at all." It was a most philosophic and jesuitical motorman.
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A man grabbed him by the coat.
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"Come off of that," he exclaimed, jerking at him and trying to pull him over the railing.
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"I'll show you -- you scab!" cried a young Irishman, jumping up on the car and aiming a blow at Hurstwood. The latter ducked and caught it on the shoulder instead of the jaw.
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Hurstwood recovered himself, pale and trembling. It was becoming serious with him now. People were looking up and jeering at him. One girl was making faces.
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"Away from here," shouted an officer, hastening to the rescue, and adding, of course, the usual oaths.
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He began to waver in his resolution, when a patrol wagon rolled up and more officers dismounted. Now the track was quickly cleared and the release effected.
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"There they are again!" exclaimed one policeman.
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"Let go," said Hurstwood, savagely.
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"Let her go now, quick," said the officer, and again he was off.
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The end came with a real mob, which met the car on its return trip a mile or two from the barns. It was an exceedingly poor- looking neighbourhood. He wanted to run fast through it, but again the track was blocked. He saw men carrying something out to it when he was yet a half-dozen blocks away.
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Both policemen ran out toward the crowd, but the latter replied by running toward the car. A woman -- a mere girl in appearance -- was among these, bearing a rough stick.
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"I'll give them something this time," said the second officer, whose patience was becoming worn. Hurstwood suffered a qualm of body as the car rolled up. As before, the crowd began hooting, but now, rather than come near, they threw things. One or two windows were smashed and Hurstwood dodged a stone.
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"Ah, you sucker," he heard some one say. Kicks and blows rained on him. He seemed to be suffocating. Then two men seemed to be dragging him off and he wrestled for freedom.
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"Let go of me," he said, falling on his side.
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She was exceedingly wrathful and struck at Hurstwood, who dodged. Thereupon, her companions, duly encouraged, jumped on the car and pulled Hurstwood over. He had hardly time to speak or shout before he fell.
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He was let loose and recovered himself. Now he recognised two officers. He felt as if he would faint from exhaustion. Something was wet on his chin. He put up his hand and felt, then looked. It was red.
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"Let up," said a voice, "you're all right. Stand up."
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His senses became cleared now and he looked around. He was standing in a little store, where they left him for the moment. Outside, he could see, as he stood wiping his chin, the car and the excited crowd. A patrol wagon was there, and another.
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"They cut me," he said, foolishly, fishing for his handkerchief.
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He saw some energetic charging by the police and arrests being made.
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He walked over and looked out. It was an ambulance, backing in.
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"Now, now," said one of the officers. "It's only a scratch."
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"Who fired that?" he heard an officer exclaim. "By God! who did that?" Both left him, running toward a certain building. He paused a moment and then got down.
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"Come on, now, if you want to take your car," said an officer, opening the door and looking in. He walked out, feeling rather uncertain of himself. He was very cold and frightened.
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"Where's the conductor?" he asked.
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Hurstwood went toward the car and stepped nervously on. As he did so there was a pistol shot. Something stung his shoulder.
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"Oh, he's not here now," said the policeman.
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"George!" exclaimed Hurstwood, weakly, "this is too much for me." He walked nervously to the corner and hurried down a side street.
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He washed his hands and face, still in a brown study, apparently, and combed his hair. Then he looked for something to eat, and finally, his hunger gone, sat down in his comfortable rocking-chair. It was a wonderful relief.
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"Whew!" he said, drawing in his breath.
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"You'd better sneak," she called.
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A half block away, a small girl gazed at him.
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The cabins were filled with comfortable souls, who studied him curiously. His head was still in such a whirl that he felt confused. All the wonder of the twinkling lights of the river in a white storm passed for nothing. He trudged doggedly on until he reached the flat. There he entered and found the room warm. Carrie was gone.
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He walked homeward in a blinding snowstorm, reaching the ferry by dusk.
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A couple of evening papers were lying on the table where she left them. He lit the gas and sat down. Then he got up and stripped to examine his shoulder. It was a mere scratch.
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He adjusted his paper very comfortably and continued. It was the one thing he read with absorbing interest.
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"Well," he said, after a time, his nature recovering itself, "that's a pretty tough game over there."
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He put his hand to his chin, forgetting, for the moment, the papers.
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"Strike Spreading in Brooklyn," he read. "Rioting Breaks Out in all Parts of the City."
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Then he turned and saw the papers. With half a sigh he picked up the "World."
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