A PUBLIC DISSENSION: A FINAL APPEAL
There was no after-theatre lark, however, so far as Carrie was
concerned. She made her way homeward, thinking about her absence.
Hurstwood was asleep, but roused up to look as she passed through to her
own bed.
"Is that you?" he said.
"Yes," she answered.
The next morning at breakfast she felt like apologising.
"I couldn't get home last evening," she said.
"Ah, Carrie," he answered, "what's the use saying that? I don't care.
You needn't tell me that, though."
"I couldn't," said Carrie, her colour rising. Then, seeing that he
looked as if he said "I know," she exclaimed: "Oh, all right. I don't
care."
From now on, her indifference to the flat was even greater. There seemed
no common ground on which they could talk to one another. She let
herself be asked for expenses. It became so with him that he hated to do
it. He preferred standing off the butcher and baker. He ran up a grocery
bill of sixteen dollars with Oeslogge, laying in a supply of staple
articles, so that they would not have to buy any of those things for
some time to come. Then he changed his grocery. It was the same with the
butcher and several others. Carrie never heard anything of this directly
from him. He asked for such as he could expect, drifting farther and
farther into a situation which could have but one ending.
In this fashion, September went by.
"Isn't Mr. Drake going to open his hotel?" Carrie asked several times.
"Yes. He won't do it before October, though, now."
Carrie became disgusted. "Such a man," she said to herself frequently.
More and more she visited. She put most of her spare money in clothes,
which, after all, was not an astonishing amount. At last the opera she
was with announced its departure within four weeks. "Last two weeks of
the Great Comic Opera success--The ----," etc., was upon all bill-boards
and in the newspapers, before she acted.
"I'm not going out on the road," said Miss Osborne.
Carrie went with her to apply to another manager.
"Ever had any experience?" was one of his questions.
"I'm with the company at the Casino now."
"Oh, you are?" he said.
The end of this was another engagement at twenty per week.
Carrie was delighted. She began to feel that she had a place in the
world. People recognised ability.
So changed was her state that the home atmosphere became intolerable. It
was all poverty and trouble there, or seemed to be, because it was a
load to bear. It became a place to keep away from. Still she slept
there, and did a fair amount of work, keeping it in order. It was a
sitting place for Hurstwood. He sat and rocked, rocked and read,
enveloped in the gloom of his own fate. October went by, and November.
It was the dead of winter almost before he knew it, and there he sat.
Carrie was doing better, that he knew. Her clothes were improved now,
even fine. He saw her coming and going, sometimes picturing to himself
her rise. Little eating had thinned him somewhat. He had no appetite.
His clothes, too, were a poor man's clothes. Talk about getting
something had become even too threadbare and ridiculous for him. So he
folded his hands and waited--for what, he could not anticipate.
At last, however, troubles became too thick. The hounding of creditors,
the indifference of Carrie, the silence of the flat, and presence of
winter, all joined to produce a climax. It was effected by the arrival
of Oeslogge, personally, when Carrie was there.
"I call about my bill," said Mr. Oeslogge.
Carrie was only faintly surprised.
"How much is it?" she asked.
"Sixteen dollars," he replied.
"Oh, that much?" said Carrie. "Is this right?" she asked, turning to
Hurstwood.
"Yes," he said.
"Well, I never heard anything about it."
She looked as if she thought he had been contracting some needless
expense.
"Well, we had it all right," he answered. Then he went to the door. "I
can't pay you anything on that to-day," he said, mildly.
"Well, when can you?" said the grocer.
"Not before Saturday, anyhow," said Hurstwood.
"Huh!" returned the grocer. "This is fine. I must have that. I need the
money."
Carrie was standing farther back in the room, hearing it all. She was
greatly distressed. It was so bad and commonplace. Hurstwood was annoyed
also.
"Well," he said, "there's no use talking about it now. If you'll come in
Saturday, I'll pay you something on it."
The grocery man went away.
"How are we going to pay it?" asked Carrie, astonished by the bill. "I
can't do it."
"Well, you don't have to," he said. "He can't get what he can't get.
He'll have to wait."
"I don't see how we ran up such a bill as that," said Carrie.
"Well, we ate it," said Hurstwood.
"It's funny," she replied, still doubting.
"What's the use of your standing there and talking like that, now?" he
asked. "Do you think I've had it alone? You talk as if I'd taken
something."
"Well, it's too much, anyhow," said Carrie. "I oughtn't to be made to
pay for it. I've got more than I can pay for now."
"All right," replied Hurstwood, sitting down in silence. He was sick of
the grind of this thing.
Carrie went out, and there he sat, determining to do something.
There had been appearing in the papers about this time rumours and
notices of an approaching strike on the trolley lines in Brooklyn. There
was general dissatisfaction as to the hours of labour required and the
wages paid. As usual--and for some inexplicable reason--the men chose
the winter for the forcing of the hand of their employers and the
settlement of their difficulties.
Hurstwood had been reading of this thing, and wondering concerning the
huge tie-up which would follow. A day or two before this trouble with
Carrie, it came. On a cold afternoon, when everything was grey and it
threatened to snow, the papers announced that the men had been called
out on all the lines.
Being so utterly idle, and his mind filled with the numerous predictions
which had been made concerning the scarcity of labour this winter and
the panicky state of the financial market, Hurstwood read this with
interest. He noted the claims of the striking motormen and conductors,
who said that they had been wont to receive two dollars a day in times
past, but that for a year or more "trippers" had been introduced, which
cut down their chance of livelihood one-half, and increased their hours
of servitude from ten to twelve, and even fourteen. These "trippers"
were men put on during the busy and _rush_ hours, to take a car out for
one trip. The compensation paid for such a trip was only twenty-five
cents. When the rush or busy hours were over, they were laid off. Worst
of all, no man might know when he was going to get a car. He must come
to the barns in the morning and wait around in fair and foul weather
until such time as he was needed. Two trips were an average reward for
so much waiting--a little over three hours' work for fifty cents. The
work of waiting was not counted.
The men complained that this system was extending, and that the time was
not far off when but a few out of 7,000 employees would have regular
two-dollar-a-day work at all. They demanded that the system be
abolished, and that ten hours be considered a day's work, barring
unavoidable delays, with $2.25 pay. They demanded immediate acceptance
of these terms, which the various trolley companies refused.
Hurstwood at first sympathised with the demands of these men--indeed, it
is a question whether he did not always sympathise with them to the end,
belie him as his actions might. Reading nearly all the news, he was
attracted first by the scare-heads with which the trouble was noted in
the "World." He read it fully--the names of the seven companies
involved, the number of men.
"They're foolish to strike in this sort of weather," he thought to
himself. "Let 'em win if they can, though."
The next day there was even a larger notice of it. "Brooklynites Walk,"
said the "World." "Knights of Labour Tie up the Trolley Lines Across the
Bridge." "About Seven Thousand Men Out."
Hurstwood read this, formulating to himself his own idea of what would
be the outcome. He was a great believer in the strength of corporations.
"They can't win," he said, concerning the men. "They haven't any money.
The police will protect the companies. They've got to. The public has to
have its cars."
He didn't sympathise with the corporations, but strength was with them.
So was property and public utility.
"Those fellows can't win," he thought.
Among other things, he noticed a circular issued by one of the
companies, which read:
"ATLANTIC AVENUE RAILROAD.
"SPECIAL NOTICE.
"The motormen and conductors and other employees of this company
having abruptly left its service, an opportunity is now given to
all loyal men who have struck against their will to be reinstated,
providing they will make their applications by twelve o'clock noon
on Wednesday, January 16th. Such men will be given employment (with
guaranteed protection) in the order in which such applications are
received, and runs and positions assigned them accordingly.
Otherwise, they will be considered discharged, and every vacancy
will be filled by a new man as soon as his services can be secured.
"(Signed)
"BENJAMIN NORTON,
"_President_."
He also noted among the want ads. one which read:
"WANTED.--50 skilled motormen, accustomed to Westinghouse system,
to run U. S. mail cars only, in the City of Brooklyn; protection
guaranteed."
He noted particularly in each the "protection guaranteed." It signified
to him the unassailable power of the companies.
"They've got the militia on their side," he thought. "There isn't
anything those men can do."
While this was still in his mind, the incident with Oeslogge and Carrie
occurred. There had been a good deal to irritate him, but this seemed
much the worst. Never before had she accused him of stealing--or very
near that. She doubted the naturalness of so large a bill. And he had
worked so hard to make expenses seem light. He had been "doing" butcher
and baker in order not to call on her. He had eaten very little--almost
nothing.
"Damn it all!" he said. "I can get something. I'm not down yet."
He thought that he really must do something now. It was too cheap to sit
around after such an insinuation as this. Why, after a little, he would
be standing anything.
He got up and looked out the window into the chilly street. It came
gradually into his mind, as he stood there, to go to Brooklyn.
"Why not?" his mind said. "Any one can get work over there. You'll get
two a day."
"How about accidents?" said a voice. "You might get hurt."
"Oh, there won't be much of that," he answered. "They've called out the
police. Any one who wants to run a car will be protected all right."
"You don't know how to run a car," rejoined the voice.
"I won't apply as a motorman," he answered. "I can ring up fares all
right."
"They'll want motormen mostly."
"They'll take anybody; that I know."
For several hours he argued pro and con with this mental counsellor,
feeling no need to act at once in a matter so sure of profit.
In the morning he put on his best clothes, which were poor enough, and
began stirring about, putting some bread and meat into a page of a
newspaper. Carrie watched him, interested in this new move.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Over to Brooklyn," he answered. Then, seeing her still inquisitive, he
added: "I think I can get on over there."
"On the trolley lines?" said Carrie, astonished.
"Yes," he rejoined.
"Aren't you afraid?" she asked.
"What of?" he answered. "The police are protecting them."
"The paper said four men were hurt yesterday."
"Yes," he returned; "but you can't go by what the papers say. They'll
run the cars all right."
He looked rather determined now, in a desolate sort of way, and Carrie
felt very sorry. Something of the old Hurstwood was here--the least
shadow of what was once shrewd and pleasant strength. Outside, it was
cloudy and blowing a few flakes of snow.
"What a day to go over there," thought Carrie.
Now he left before she did, which was a remarkable thing, and tramped
eastward to Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, where he took the car.
He had read that scores of applicants were applying at the office of
the Brooklyn City Railroad building and were being received. He made his
way there by horse-car and ferry--a dark, silent man--to the offices in
question. It was a long way, for no cars were running, and the day was
cold; but he trudged along grimly. Once in Brooklyn, he could clearly
see and feel that a strike was on. People showed it in their manner.
Along the routes of certain tracks not a car was running. About certain
corners and near-by saloons small groups of men were lounging. Several
spring wagons passed him, equipped with plain wooden chairs, and
labelled "Flatbush" or "Prospect Park. Fare, Ten Cents." He noticed cold
and even gloomy faces. Labour was having its little war.
When he came near the office in question, he saw a few men standing
about, and some policemen. On the far corners were other men--whom he
took to be strikers--watching. All the houses were small and wooden, the
streets poorly paved. After New York, Brooklyn looked actually poor and
hard-up.
He made his way into the heart of the small group, eyed by policemen and
the men already there. One of the officers addressed him.
"What are you looking for?"
"I want to see if I can get a place."
"The offices are up those steps," said the bluecoat. His face was a very
neutral thing to contemplate. In his heart of hearts, he sympathised
with the strikers and hated this "scab." In his heart of hearts, also,
he felt the dignity and use of the police force, which commanded order.
Of its true social significance, he never once dreamed. His was not the
mind for that. The two feelings blended in him--neutralised one another
and him. He would have fought for this man as determinedly as for
himself, and yet only so far as commanded. Strip him of his uniform,
and he would have soon picked his side.
Hurstwood ascended a dusty flight of steps and entered a small,
dust-coloured office, in which were a railing, a long desk, and several
clerks.
"Well, sir?" said a middle-aged man, looking up at him from the long
desk.
"Do you want to hire any men?" inquired Hurstwood.
"What are you--a motorman?"
"No; I'm not anything," said Hurstwood.
He was not at all abashed by his position. He knew these people needed
men. If one didn't take him, another would. This man could take him or
leave him, just as he chose.
"Well, we prefer experienced men, of course," said the man. He paused,
while Hurstwood smiled indifferently. Then he added: "Still, I guess you
can learn. What is your name?"
"Wheeler," said Hurstwood.
The man wrote an order on a small card. "Take that to our barns," he
said, "and give it to the foreman. He'll show you what to do."
Hurstwood went down and out. He walked straight away in the direction
indicated, while the policemen looked after.
"There's another wants to try it," said Officer Kiely to Officer Macey.
"I have my mind he'll get his fill," returned the latter, quietly.
They had been in strikes before.