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diff --git a/old/140-0.txt b/old/140-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8ad1704..0000000 --- a/old/140-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14408 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Jungle, by Upton Sinclair - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Jungle - -Author: Upton Sinclair - -Release Date: June, 1994 [eBook #140] -[Most recently updated: January 17, 2021] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: David Meltzer, Christy Phillips, Scott Coulter, Leroy Smith and David Widger - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JUNGLE *** - -[Illustration] - - - - -The Jungle - -by Upton Sinclair - -(1906) - -TO THE WORKINGMEN OF AMERICA - - -Contents - - CHAPTER I - CHAPTER II - CHAPTER III - CHAPTER IV - CHAPTER V - CHAPTER VI - CHAPTER VII - CHAPTER VIII - CHAPTER IX - CHAPTER X - CHAPTER XI - CHAPTER XII - CHAPTER XIII - CHAPTER XIV - CHAPTER XV - CHAPTER XVI - CHAPTER XVII - CHAPTER XVIII - CHAPTER XIX - CHAPTER XX - CHAPTER XXI - CHAPTER XXII - CHAPTER XXIII - CHAPTER XXIV - CHAPTER XXV - CHAPTER XXVI - CHAPTER XXVII - CHAPTER XXVIII - CHAPTER XXIX - CHAPTER XXX - CHAPTER XXXI - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -It was four o’clock when the ceremony was over and the carriages began -to arrive. There had been a crowd following all the way, owing to the -exuberance of Marija Berczynskas. The occasion rested heavily upon -Marija’s broad shoulders—it was her task to see that all things went in -due form, and after the best home traditions; and, flying wildly hither -and thither, bowling every one out of the way, and scolding and -exhorting all day with her tremendous voice, Marija was too eager to -see that others conformed to the proprieties to consider them herself. -She had left the church last of all, and, desiring to arrive first at -the hall, had issued orders to the coachman to drive faster. When that -personage had developed a will of his own in the matter, Marija had -flung up the window of the carriage, and, leaning out, proceeded to -tell him her opinion of him, first in Lithuanian, which he did not -understand, and then in Polish, which he did. Having the advantage of -her in altitude, the driver had stood his ground and even ventured to -attempt to speak; and the result had been a furious altercation, which, -continuing all the way down Ashland Avenue, had added a new swarm of -urchins to the cortege at each side street for half a mile. - -This was unfortunate, for already there was a throng before the door. -The music had started up, and half a block away you could hear the dull -“broom, broom” of a cello, with the squeaking of two fiddles which vied -with each other in intricate and altitudinous gymnastics. Seeing the -throng, Marija abandoned precipitately the debate concerning the -ancestors of her coachman, and, springing from the moving carriage, -plunged in and proceeded to clear a way to the hall. Once within, she -turned and began to push the other way, roaring, meantime, “_Eik! Eik! -Uzdaryk-duris!_” in tones which made the orchestral uproar sound like -fairy music. - -“Z. Graiczunas, Pasilinksminimams darzas. Vynas. Sznapsas. Wines and -Liquors. Union Headquarters”—that was the way the signs ran. The -reader, who perhaps has never held much converse in the language of -far-off Lithuania, will be glad of the explanation that the place was -the rear room of a saloon in that part of Chicago known as “back of the -yards.” This information is definite and suited to the matter of fact; -but how pitifully inadequate it would have seemed to one who understood -that it was also the supreme hour of ecstasy in the life of one of -God’s gentlest creatures, the scene of the wedding feast and the -joy-transfiguration of little Ona Lukoszaite! - -She stood in the doorway, shepherded by Cousin Marija, breathless from -pushing through the crowd, and in her happiness painful to look upon. -There was a light of wonder in her eyes and her lids trembled, and her -otherwise wan little face was flushed. She wore a muslin dress, -conspicuously white, and a stiff little veil coming to her shoulders. -There were five pink paper roses twisted in the veil, and eleven bright -green rose leaves. There were new white cotton gloves upon her hands, -and as she stood staring about her she twisted them together -feverishly. It was almost too much for her—you could see the pain of -too great emotion in her face, and all the tremor of her form. She was -so young—not quite sixteen—and small for her age, a mere child; and she -had just been married—and married to Jurgis,[1] of all men, to Jurgis -Rudkus, he with the white flower in the buttonhole of his new black -suit, he with the mighty shoulders and the giant hands. - - [1] Pronounced _Yoorghis_ - - -Ona was blue-eyed and fair, while Jurgis had great black eyes with -beetling brows, and thick black hair that curled in waves about his -ears—in short, they were one of those incongruous and impossible -married couples with which Mother Nature so often wills to confound all -prophets, before and after. Jurgis could take up a -two-hundred-and-fifty-pound quarter of beef and carry it into a car -without a stagger, or even a thought; and now he stood in a far corner, -frightened as a hunted animal, and obliged to moisten his lips with his -tongue each time before he could answer the congratulations of his -friends. - -Gradually there was effected a separation between the spectators and -the guests—a separation at least sufficiently complete for working -purposes. There was no time during the festivities which ensued when -there were not groups of onlookers in the doorways and the corners; and -if any one of these onlookers came sufficiently close, or looked -sufficiently hungry, a chair was offered him, and he was invited to the -feast. It was one of the laws of the _veselija_ that no one goes -hungry; and, while a rule made in the forests of Lithuania is hard to -apply in the stockyards district of Chicago, with its quarter of a -million inhabitants, still they did their best, and the children who -ran in from the street, and even the dogs, went out again happier. A -charming informality was one of the characteristics of this -celebration. The men wore their hats, or, if they wished, they took -them off, and their coats with them; they ate when and where they -pleased, and moved as often as they pleased. There were to be speeches -and singing, but no one had to listen who did not care to; if he -wished, meantime, to speak or sing himself, he was perfectly free. The -resulting medley of sound distracted no one, save possibly alone the -babies, of which there were present a number equal to the total -possessed by all the guests invited. There was no other place for the -babies to be, and so part of the preparations for the evening consisted -of a collection of cribs and carriages in one corner. In these the -babies slept, three or four together, or wakened together, as the case -might be. Those who were still older, and could reach the tables, -marched about munching contentedly at meat bones and bologna sausages. - -The room is about thirty feet square, with whitewashed walls, bare save -for a calendar, a picture of a race horse, and a family tree in a -gilded frame. To the right there is a door from the saloon, with a few -loafers in the doorway, and in the corner beyond it a bar, with a -presiding genius clad in soiled white, with waxed black mustaches and a -carefully oiled curl plastered against one side of his forehead. In the -opposite corner are two tables, filling a third of the room and laden -with dishes and cold viands, which a few of the hungrier guests are -already munching. At the head, where sits the bride, is a snow-white -cake, with an Eiffel tower of constructed decoration, with sugar roses -and two angels upon it, and a generous sprinkling of pink and green and -yellow candies. Beyond opens a door into the kitchen, where there is a -glimpse to be had of a range with much steam ascending from it, and -many women, old and young, rushing hither and thither. In the corner to -the left are the three musicians, upon a little platform, toiling -heroically to make some impression upon the hubbub; also the babies, -similarly occupied, and an open window whence the populace imbibes the -sights and sounds and odors. - -Suddenly some of the steam begins to advance, and, peering through it, -you discern Aunt Elizabeth, Ona’s stepmother—Teta Elzbieta, as they -call her—bearing aloft a great platter of stewed duck. Behind her is -Kotrina, making her way cautiously, staggering beneath a similar -burden; and half a minute later there appears old Grandmother -Majauszkiene, with a big yellow bowl of smoking potatoes, nearly as big -as herself. So, bit by bit, the feast takes form—there is a ham and a -dish of sauerkraut, boiled rice, macaroni, bologna sausages, great -piles of penny buns, bowls of milk, and foaming pitchers of beer. There -is also, not six feet from your back, the bar, where you may order all -you please and do not have to pay for it. “_Eiksz! Graicziau!_” screams -Marija Berczynskas, and falls to work herself—for there is more upon -the stove inside that will be spoiled if it be not eaten. - -So, with laughter and shouts and endless badinage and merriment, the -guests take their places. The young men, who for the most part have -been huddled near the door, summon their resolution and advance; and -the shrinking Jurgis is poked and scolded by the old folks until he -consents to seat himself at the right hand of the bride. The two -bridesmaids, whose insignia of office are paper wreaths, come next, and -after them the rest of the guests, old and young, boys and girls. The -spirit of the occasion takes hold of the stately bartender, who -condescends to a plate of stewed duck; even the fat policeman—whose -duty it will be, later in the evening, to break up the fights—draws up -a chair to the foot of the table. And the children shout and the babies -yell, and every one laughs and sings and chatters—while above all the -deafening clamor Cousin Marija shouts orders to the musicians. - -The musicians—how shall one begin to describe them? All this time they -have been there, playing in a mad frenzy—all of this scene must be -read, or said, or sung, to music. It is the music which makes it what -it is; it is the music which changes the place from the rear room of a -saloon in back of the yards to a fairy place, a wonderland, a little -corner of the high mansions of the sky. - -The little person who leads this trio is an inspired man. His fiddle is -out of tune, and there is no rosin on his bow, but still he is an -inspired man—the hands of the muses have been laid upon him. He plays -like one possessed by a demon, by a whole horde of demons. You can feel -them in the air round about him, capering frenetically; with their -invisible feet they set the pace, and the hair of the leader of the -orchestra rises on end, and his eyeballs start from their sockets, as -he toils to keep up with them. - -Tamoszius Kuszleika is his name, and he has taught himself to play the -violin by practicing all night, after working all day on the “killing -beds.” He is in his shirt sleeves, with a vest figured with faded gold -horseshoes, and a pink-striped shirt, suggestive of peppermint candy. A -pair of military trousers, light blue with a yellow stripe, serve to -give that suggestion of authority proper to the leader of a band. He is -only about five feet high, but even so these trousers are about eight -inches short of the ground. You wonder where he can have gotten them or -rather you would wonder, if the excitement of being in his presence -left you time to think of such things. - -For he is an inspired man. Every inch of him is inspired—you might -almost say inspired separately. He stamps with his feet, he tosses his -head, he sways and swings to and fro; he has a wizened-up little face, -irresistibly comical; and, when he executes a turn or a flourish, his -brows knit and his lips work and his eyelids wink—the very ends of his -necktie bristle out. And every now and then he turns upon his -companions, nodding, signaling, beckoning frantically—with every inch -of him appealing, imploring, in behalf of the muses and their call. - -For they are hardly worthy of Tamoszius, the other two members of the -orchestra. The second violin is a Slovak, a tall, gaunt man with -black-rimmed spectacles and the mute and patient look of an overdriven -mule; he responds to the whip but feebly, and then always falls back -into his old rut. The third man is very fat, with a round, red, -sentimental nose, and he plays with his eyes turned up to the sky and a -look of infinite yearning. He is playing a bass part upon his cello, -and so the excitement is nothing to him; no matter what happens in the -treble, it is his task to saw out one long-drawn and lugubrious note -after another, from four o’clock in the afternoon until nearly the same -hour next morning, for his third of the total income of one dollar per -hour. - -Before the feast has been five minutes under way, Tamoszius Kuszleika -has risen in his excitement; a minute or two more and you see that he -is beginning to edge over toward the tables. His nostrils are dilated -and his breath comes fast—his demons are driving him. He nods and -shakes his head at his companions, jerking at them with his violin, -until at last the long form of the second violinist also rises up. In -the end all three of them begin advancing, step by step, upon the -banqueters, Valentinavyczia, the cellist, bumping along with his -instrument between notes. Finally all three are gathered at the foot of -the tables, and there Tamoszius mounts upon a stool. - -Now he is in his glory, dominating the scene. Some of the people are -eating, some are laughing and talking—but you will make a great mistake -if you think there is one of them who does not hear him. His notes are -never true, and his fiddle buzzes on the low ones and squeaks and -scratches on the high; but these things they heed no more than they -heed the dirt and noise and squalor about them—it is out of this -material that they have to build their lives, with it that they have to -utter their souls. And this is their utterance; merry and boisterous, -or mournful and wailing, or passionate and rebellious, this music is -their music, music of home. It stretches out its arms to them, they -have only to give themselves up. Chicago and its saloons and its slums -fade away—there are green meadows and sunlit rivers, mighty forests and -snow-clad hills. They behold home landscapes and childhood scenes -returning; old loves and friendships begin to waken, old joys and -griefs to laugh and weep. Some fall back and close their eyes, some -beat upon the table. Now and then one leaps up with a cry and calls for -this song or that; and then the fire leaps brighter in Tamoszius’ eyes, -and he flings up his fiddle and shouts to his companions, and away they -go in mad career. The company takes up the choruses, and men and women -cry out like all possessed; some leap to their feet and stamp upon the -floor, lifting their glasses and pledging each other. Before long it -occurs to some one to demand an old wedding song, which celebrates the -beauty of the bride and the joys of love. In the excitement of this -masterpiece Tamoszius Kuszleika begins to edge in between the tables, -making his way toward the head, where sits the bride. There is not a -foot of space between the chairs of the guests, and Tamoszius is so -short that he pokes them with his bow whenever he reaches over for the -low notes; but still he presses in, and insists relentlessly that his -companions must follow. During their progress, needless to say, the -sounds of the cello are pretty well extinguished; but at last the three -are at the head, and Tamoszius takes his station at the right hand of -the bride and begins to pour out his soul in melting strains. - -Little Ona is too excited to eat. Once in a while she tastes a little -something, when Cousin Marija pinches her elbow and reminds her; but, -for the most part, she sits gazing with the same fearful eyes of -wonder. Teta Elzbieta is all in a flutter, like a hummingbird; her -sisters, too, keep running up behind her, whispering, breathless. But -Ona seems scarcely to hear them—the music keeps calling, and the -far-off look comes back, and she sits with her hands pressed together -over her heart. Then the tears begin to come into her eyes; and as she -is ashamed to wipe them away, and ashamed to let them run down her -cheeks, she turns and shakes her head a little, and then flushes red -when she sees that Jurgis is watching her. When in the end Tamoszius -Kuszleika has reached her side, and is waving his magic wand above her, -Ona’s cheeks are scarlet, and she looks as if she would have to get up -and run away. - -In this crisis, however, she is saved by Marija Berczynskas, whom the -muses suddenly visit. Marija is fond of a song, a song of lovers’ -parting; she wishes to hear it, and, as the musicians do not know it, -she has risen, and is proceeding to teach them. Marija is short, but -powerful in build. She works in a canning factory, and all day long she -handles cans of beef that weigh fourteen pounds. She has a broad Slavic -face, with prominent red cheeks. When she opens her mouth, it is -tragical, but you cannot help thinking of a horse. She wears a blue -flannel shirt-waist, which is now rolled up at the sleeves, disclosing -her brawny arms; she has a carving fork in her hand, with which she -pounds on the table to mark the time. As she roars her song, in a voice -of which it is enough to say that it leaves no portion of the room -vacant, the three musicians follow her, laboriously and note by note, -but averaging one note behind; thus they toil through stanza after -stanza of a lovesick swain’s lamentation:— - -“Sudiev’ kvietkeli, tu brangiausis; -Sudiev’ ir laime, man biednam, -Matau—paskyre teip Aukszcziausis, -Jog vargt ant svieto reik vienam!” - - -When the song is over, it is time for the speech, and old Dede Antanas -rises to his feet. Grandfather Anthony, Jurgis’ father, is not more -than sixty years of age, but you would think that he was eighty. He has -been only six months in America, and the change has not done him good. -In his manhood he worked in a cotton mill, but then a coughing fell -upon him, and he had to leave; out in the country the trouble -disappeared, but he has been working in the pickle rooms at Durham’s, -and the breathing of the cold, damp air all day has brought it back. -Now as he rises he is seized with a coughing fit, and holds himself by -his chair and turns away his wan and battered face until it passes. - -Generally it is the custom for the speech at a _veselija_ to be taken -out of one of the books and learned by heart; but in his youthful days -Dede Antanas used to be a scholar, and really make up all the love -letters of his friends. Now it is understood that he has composed an -original speech of congratulation and benediction, and this is one of -the events of the day. Even the boys, who are romping about the room, -draw near and listen, and some of the women sob and wipe their aprons -in their eyes. It is very solemn, for Antanas Rudkus has become -possessed of the idea that he has not much longer to stay with his -children. His speech leaves them all so tearful that one of the guests, -Jokubas Szedvilas, who keeps a delicatessen store on Halsted Street, -and is fat and hearty, is moved to rise and say that things may not be -as bad as that, and then to go on and make a little speech of his own, -in which he showers congratulations and prophecies of happiness upon -the bride and groom, proceeding to particulars which greatly delight -the young men, but which cause Ona to blush more furiously than ever. -Jokubas possesses what his wife complacently describes as “poetiszka -vaidintuve”—a poetical imagination. - -Now a good many of the guests have finished, and, since there is no -pretense of ceremony, the banquet begins to break up. Some of the men -gather about the bar; some wander about, laughing and singing; here and -there will be a little group, chanting merrily, and in sublime -indifference to the others and to the orchestra as well. Everybody is -more or less restless—one would guess that something is on their minds. -And so it proves. The last tardy diners are scarcely given time to -finish, before the tables and the debris are shoved into the corner, -and the chairs and the babies piled out of the way, and the real -celebration of the evening begins. Then Tamoszius Kuszleika, after -replenishing himself with a pot of beer, returns to his platform, and, -standing up, reviews the scene; he taps authoritatively upon the side -of his violin, then tucks it carefully under his chin, then waves his -bow in an elaborate flourish, and finally smites the sounding strings -and closes his eyes, and floats away in spirit upon the wings of a -dreamy waltz. His companion follows, but with his eyes open, watching -where he treads, so to speak; and finally Valentinavyczia, after -waiting for a little and beating with his foot to get the time, casts -up his eyes to the ceiling and begins to saw—“Broom! broom! broom!” - -The company pairs off quickly, and the whole room is soon in motion. -Apparently nobody knows how to waltz, but that is nothing of any -consequence—there is music, and they dance, each as he pleases, just as -before they sang. Most of them prefer the “two-step,” especially the -young, with whom it is the fashion. The older people have dances from -home, strange and complicated steps which they execute with grave -solemnity. Some do not dance anything at all, but simply hold each -other’s hands and allow the undisciplined joy of motion to express -itself with their feet. Among these are Jokubas Szedvilas and his wife, -Lucija, who together keep the delicatessen store, and consume nearly as -much as they sell; they are too fat to dance, but they stand in the -middle of the floor, holding each other fast in their arms, rocking -slowly from side to side and grinning seraphically, a picture of -toothless and perspiring ecstasy. - -Of these older people many wear clothing reminiscent in some detail of -home—an embroidered waistcoat or stomacher, or a gaily colored -handkerchief, or a coat with large cuffs and fancy buttons. All these -things are carefully avoided by the young, most of whom have learned to -speak English and to affect the latest style of clothing. The girls -wear ready-made dresses or shirt waists, and some of them look quite -pretty. Some of the young men you would take to be Americans, of the -type of clerks, but for the fact that they wear their hats in the room. -Each of these younger couples affects a style of its own in dancing. -Some hold each other tightly, some at a cautious distance. Some hold -their hands out stiffly, some drop them loosely at their sides. Some -dance springily, some glide softly, some move with grave dignity. There -are boisterous couples, who tear wildly about the room, knocking every -one out of their way. There are nervous couples, whom these frighten, -and who cry, “Nusfok! Kas yra?” at them as they pass. Each couple is -paired for the evening—you will never see them change about. There is -Alena Jasaityte, for instance, who has danced unending hours with -Juozas Raczius, to whom she is engaged. Alena is the beauty of the -evening, and she would be really beautiful if she were not so proud. -She wears a white shirtwaist, which represents, perhaps, half a week’s -labor painting cans. She holds her skirt with her hand as she dances, -with stately precision, after the manner of the _grandes dames_. Juozas -is driving one of Durham’s wagons, and is making big wages. He affects -a “tough” aspect, wearing his hat on one side and keeping a cigarette -in his mouth all the evening. Then there is Jadvyga Marcinkus, who is -also beautiful, but humble. Jadvyga likewise paints cans, but then she -has an invalid mother and three little sisters to support by it, and so -she does not spend her wages for shirtwaists. Jadvyga is small and -delicate, with jet-black eyes and hair, the latter twisted into a -little knot and tied on the top of her head. She wears an old white -dress which she has made herself and worn to parties for the past five -years; it is high-waisted—almost under her arms, and not very -becoming,—but that does not trouble Jadvyga, who is dancing with her -Mikolas. She is small, while he is big and powerful; she nestles in his -arms as if she would hide herself from view, and leans her head upon -his shoulder. He in turn has clasped his arms tightly around her, as if -he would carry her away; and so she dances, and will dance the entire -evening, and would dance forever, in ecstasy of bliss. You would smile, -perhaps, to see them—but you would not smile if you knew all the story. -This is the fifth year, now, that Jadvyga has been engaged to Mikolas, -and her heart is sick. They would have been married in the beginning, -only Mikolas has a father who is drunk all day, and he is the only -other man in a large family. Even so they might have managed it (for -Mikolas is a skilled man) but for cruel accidents which have almost -taken the heart out of them. He is a beef-boner, and that is a -dangerous trade, especially when you are on piecework and trying to -earn a bride. Your hands are slippery, and your knife is slippery, and -you are toiling like mad, when somebody happens to speak to you, or you -strike a bone. Then your hand slips up on the blade, and there is a -fearful gash. And that would not be so bad, only for the deadly -contagion. The cut may heal, but you never can tell. Twice now; within -the last three years, Mikolas has been lying at home with blood -poisoning—once for three months and once for nearly seven. The last -time, too, he lost his job, and that meant six weeks more of standing -at the doors of the packing houses, at six o’clock on bitter winter -mornings, with a foot of snow on the ground and more in the air. There -are learned people who can tell you out of the statistics that -beef-boners make forty cents an hour, but, perhaps, these people have -never looked into a beef-boner’s hands. - -When Tamoszius and his companions stop for a rest, as perforce they -must, now and then, the dancers halt where they are and wait patiently. -They never seem to tire; and there is no place for them to sit down if -they did. It is only for a minute, anyway, for the leader starts up -again, in spite of all the protests of the other two. This time it is -another sort of a dance, a Lithuanian dance. Those who prefer to, go on -with the two-step, but the majority go through an intricate series of -motions, resembling more fancy skating than a dance. The climax of it -is a furious _prestissimo_, at which the couples seize hands and begin -a mad whirling. This is quite irresistible, and every one in the room -joins in, until the place becomes a maze of flying skirts and bodies -quite dazzling to look upon. But the sight of sights at this moment is -Tamoszius Kuszleika. The old fiddle squeaks and shrieks in protest, but -Tamoszius has no mercy. The sweat starts out on his forehead, and he -bends over like a cyclist on the last lap of a race. His body shakes -and throbs like a runaway steam engine, and the ear cannot follow the -flying showers of notes—there is a pale blue mist where you look to see -his bowing arm. With a most wonderful rush he comes to the end of the -tune, and flings up his hands and staggers back exhausted; and with a -final shout of delight the dancers fly apart, reeling here and there, -bringing up against the walls of the room. - -After this there is beer for every one, the musicians included, and the -revelers take a long breath and prepare for the great event of the -evening, which is the _acziavimas_. The _acziavimas_ is a ceremony -which, once begun, will continue for three or four hours, and it -involves one uninterrupted dance. The guests form a great ring, locking -hands, and, when the music starts up, begin to move around in a circle. -In the center stands the bride, and, one by one, the men step into the -enclosure and dance with her. Each dances for several minutes—as long -as he pleases; it is a very merry proceeding, with laughter and -singing, and when the guest has finished, he finds himself face to face -with Teta Elzbieta, who holds the hat. Into it he drops a sum of -money—a dollar, or perhaps five dollars, according to his power, and -his estimate of the value of the privilege. The guests are expected to -pay for this entertainment; if they be proper guests, they will see -that there is a neat sum left over for the bride and bridegroom to -start life upon. - -Most fearful they are to contemplate, the expenses of this -entertainment. They will certainly be over two hundred dollars and -maybe three hundred; and three hundred dollars is more than the year’s -income of many a person in this room. There are able-bodied men here -who work from early morning until late at night, in ice-cold cellars -with a quarter of an inch of water on the floor—men who for six or -seven months in the year never see the sunlight from Sunday afternoon -till the next Sunday morning—and who cannot earn three hundred dollars -in a year. There are little children here, scarce in their teens, who -can hardly see the top of the work benches—whose parents have lied to -get them their places—and who do not make the half of three hundred -dollars a year, and perhaps not even the third of it. And then to spend -such a sum, all in a single day of your life, at a wedding feast! (For -obviously it is the same thing, whether you spend it at once for your -own wedding, or in a long time, at the weddings of all your friends.) - -It is very imprudent, it is tragic—but, ah, it is so beautiful! Bit by -bit these poor people have given up everything else; but to this they -cling with all the power of their souls—they cannot give up the -_veselija!_ To do that would mean, not merely to be defeated, but to -acknowledge defeat—and the difference between these two things is what -keeps the world going. The _veselija_ has come down to them from a -far-off time; and the meaning of it was that one might dwell within the -cave and gaze upon shadows, provided only that once in his lifetime he -could break his chains, and feel his wings, and behold the sun; -provided that once in his lifetime he might testify to the fact that -life, with all its cares and its terrors, is no such great thing after -all, but merely a bubble upon the surface of a river, a thing that one -may toss about and play with as a juggler tosses his golden balls, a -thing that one may quaff, like a goblet of rare red wine. Thus having -known himself for the master of things, a man could go back to his toil -and live upon the memory all his days. - -Endlessly the dancers swung round and round—when they were dizzy they -swung the other way. Hour after hour this had continued—the darkness -had fallen and the room was dim from the light of two smoky oil lamps. -The musicians had spent all their fine frenzy by now, and played only -one tune, wearily, ploddingly. There were twenty bars or so of it, and -when they came to the end they began again. Once every ten minutes or -so they would fail to begin again, but instead would sink back -exhausted; a circumstance which invariably brought on a painful and -terrifying scene, that made the fat policeman stir uneasily in his -sleeping place behind the door. - -It was all Marija Berczynskas. Marija was one of those hungry souls who -cling with desperation to the skirts of the retreating muse. All day -long she had been in a state of wonderful exaltation; and now it was -leaving—and she would not let it go. Her soul cried out in the words of -Faust, “Stay, thou art fair!” Whether it was by beer, or by shouting, -or by music, or by motion, she meant that it should not go. And she -would go back to the chase of it—and no sooner be fairly started than -her chariot would be thrown off the track, so to speak, by the -stupidity of those thrice accursed musicians. Each time, Marija would -emit a howl and fly at them, shaking her fists in their faces, stamping -upon the floor, purple and incoherent with rage. In vain the frightened -Tamoszius would attempt to speak, to plead the limitations of the -flesh; in vain would the puffing and breathless ponas Jokubas insist, -in vain would Teta Elzbieta implore. “Szalin!” Marija would scream. -“Palauk! isz kelio! What are you paid for, children of hell?” And so, -in sheer terror, the orchestra would strike up again, and Marija would -return to her place and take up her task. - -She bore all the burden of the festivities now. Ona was kept up by her -excitement, but all of the women and most of the men were tired—the -soul of Marija was alone unconquered. She drove on the dancers—what had -once been the ring had now the shape of a pear, with Marija at the -stem, pulling one way and pushing the other, shouting, stamping, -singing, a very volcano of energy. Now and then some one coming in or -out would leave the door open, and the night air was chill; Marija as -she passed would stretch out her foot and kick the doorknob, and slam -would go the door! Once this procedure was the cause of a calamity of -which Sebastijonas Szedvilas was the hapless victim. Little -Sebastijonas, aged three, had been wandering about oblivious to all -things, holding turned up over his mouth a bottle of liquid known as -“pop,” pink-colored, ice-cold, and delicious. Passing through the -doorway the door smote him full, and the shriek which followed brought -the dancing to a halt. Marija, who threatened horrid murder a hundred -times a day, and would weep over the injury of a fly, seized little -Sebastijonas in her arms and bid fair to smother him with kisses. There -was a long rest for the orchestra, and plenty of refreshments, while -Marija was making her peace with her victim, seating him upon the bar, -and standing beside him and holding to his lips a foaming schooner of -beer. - -In the meantime there was going on in another corner of the room an -anxious conference between Teta Elzbieta and Dede Antanas, and a few of -the more intimate friends of the family. A trouble was come upon them. -The _veselija_ is a compact, a compact not expressed, but therefore -only the more binding upon all. Every one’s share was different—and yet -every one knew perfectly well what his share was, and strove to give a -little more. Now, however, since they had come to the new country, all -this was changing; it seemed as if there must be some subtle poison in -the air that one breathed here—it was affecting all the young men at -once. They would come in crowds and fill themselves with a fine dinner, -and then sneak off. One would throw another’s hat out of the window, -and both would go out to get it, and neither could be seen again. Or -now and then half a dozen of them would get together and march out -openly, staring at you, and making fun of you to your face. Still -others, worse yet, would crowd about the bar, and at the expense of the -host drink themselves sodden, paying not the least attention to any -one, and leaving it to be thought that either they had danced with the -bride already, or meant to later on. - -All these things were going on now, and the family was helpless with -dismay. So long they had toiled, and such an outlay they had made! Ona -stood by, her eyes wide with terror. Those frightful bills—how they had -haunted her, each item gnawing at her soul all day and spoiling her -rest at night. How often she had named them over one by one and figured -on them as she went to work—fifteen dollars for the hall, twenty-two -dollars and a quarter for the ducks, twelve dollars for the musicians, -five dollars at the church, and a blessing of the Virgin besides—and so -on without an end! Worst of all was the frightful bill that was still -to come from Graiczunas for the beer and liquor that might be consumed. -One could never get in advance more than a guess as to this from a -saloon-keeper—and then, when the time came he always came to you -scratching his head and saying that he had guessed too low, but that he -had done his best—your guests had gotten so very drunk. By him you were -sure to be cheated unmercifully, and that even though you thought -yourself the dearest of the hundreds of friends he had. He would begin -to serve your guests out of a keg that was half full, and finish with -one that was half empty, and then you would be charged for two kegs of -beer. He would agree to serve a certain quality at a certain price, and -when the time came you and your friends would be drinking some horrible -poison that could not be described. You might complain, but you would -get nothing for your pains but a ruined evening; while, as for going to -law about it, you might as well go to heaven at once. The saloon-keeper -stood in with all the big politics men in the district; and when you -had once found out what it meant to get into trouble with such people, -you would know enough to pay what you were told to pay and shut up. - -What made all this the more painful was that it was so hard on the few -that had really done their best. There was poor old ponas Jokubas, for -instance—he had already given five dollars, and did not every one know -that Jokubas Szedvilas had just mortgaged his delicatessen store for -two hundred dollars to meet several months’ overdue rent? And then -there was withered old poni Aniele—who was a widow, and had three -children, and the rheumatism besides, and did washing for the -tradespeople on Halsted Street at prices it would break your heart to -hear named. Aniele had given the entire profit of her chickens for -several months. Eight of them she owned, and she kept them in a little -place fenced around on her backstairs. All day long the children of -Aniele were raking in the dump for food for these chickens; and -sometimes, when the competition there was too fierce, you might see -them on Halsted Street walking close to the gutters, and with their -mother following to see that no one robbed them of their finds. Money -could not tell the value of these chickens to old Mrs. Jukniene—she -valued them differently, for she had a feeling that she was getting -something for nothing by means of them—that with them she was getting -the better of a world that was getting the better of her in so many -other ways. So she watched them every hour of the day, and had learned -to see like an owl at night to watch them then. One of them had been -stolen long ago, and not a month passed that some one did not try to -steal another. As the frustrating of this one attempt involved a score -of false alarms, it will be understood what a tribute old Mrs. Jukniene -brought, just because Teta Elzbieta had once loaned her some money for -a few days and saved her from being turned out of her house. - -More and more friends gathered round while the lamentation about these -things was going on. Some drew nearer, hoping to overhear the -conversation, who were themselves among the guilty—and surely that was -a thing to try the patience of a saint. Finally there came Jurgis, -urged by some one, and the story was retold to him. Jurgis listened in -silence, with his great black eyebrows knitted. Now and then there -would come a gleam underneath them and he would glance about the room. -Perhaps he would have liked to go at some of those fellows with his big -clenched fists; but then, doubtless, he realized how little good it -would do him. No bill would be any less for turning out any one at this -time; and then there would be the scandal—and Jurgis wanted nothing -except to get away with Ona and to let the world go its own way. So his -hands relaxed and he merely said quietly: “It is done, and there is no -use in weeping, Teta Elzbieta.” Then his look turned toward Ona, who -stood close to his side, and he saw the wide look of terror in her -eyes. “Little one,” he said, in a low voice, “do not worry—it will not -matter to us. We will pay them all somehow. I will work harder.” That -was always what Jurgis said. Ona had grown used to it as the solution -of all difficulties—“I will work harder!” He had said that in Lithuania -when one official had taken his passport from him, and another had -arrested him for being without it, and the two had divided a third of -his belongings. He had said it again in New York, when the -smooth-spoken agent had taken them in hand and made them pay such high -prices, and almost prevented their leaving his place, in spite of their -paying. Now he said it a third time, and Ona drew a deep breath; it was -so wonderful to have a husband, just like a grown woman—and a husband -who could solve all problems, and who was so big and strong! - -The last sob of little Sebastijonas has been stifled, and the orchestra -has once more been reminded of its duty. The ceremony begins again—but -there are few now left to dance with, and so very soon the collection -is over and promiscuous dances once more begin. It is now after -midnight, however, and things are not as they were before. The dancers -are dull and heavy—most of them have been drinking hard, and have long -ago passed the stage of exhilaration. They dance in monotonous measure, -round after round, hour after hour, with eyes fixed upon vacancy, as if -they were only half conscious, in a constantly growing stupor. The men -grasp the women very tightly, but there will be half an hour together -when neither will see the other’s face. Some couples do not care to -dance, and have retired to the corners, where they sit with their arms -enlaced. Others, who have been drinking still more, wander about the -room, bumping into everything; some are in groups of two or three, -singing, each group its own song. As time goes on there is a variety of -drunkenness, among the younger men especially. Some stagger about in -each other’s arms, whispering maudlin words—others start quarrels upon -the slightest pretext, and come to blows and have to be pulled apart. -Now the fat policeman wakens definitely, and feels of his club to see -that it is ready for business. He has to be prompt—for these -two-o’clock-in-the-morning fights, if they once get out of hand, are -like a forest fire, and may mean the whole reserves at the station. The -thing to do is to crack every fighting head that you see, before there -are so many fighting heads that you cannot crack any of them. There is -but scant account kept of cracked heads in back of the yards, for men -who have to crack the heads of animals all day seem to get into the -habit, and to practice on their friends, and even on their families, -between times. This makes it a cause for congratulation that by modern -methods a very few men can do the painfully necessary work of -head-cracking for the whole of the cultured world. - -There is no fight that night—perhaps because Jurgis, too, is -watchful—even more so than the policeman. Jurgis has drunk a great -deal, as any one naturally would on an occasion when it all has to be -paid for, whether it is drunk or not; but he is a very steady man, and -does not easily lose his temper. Only once there is a tight shave—and -that is the fault of Marija Berczynskas. Marija has apparently -concluded about two hours ago that if the altar in the corner, with the -deity in soiled white, be not the true home of the muses, it is, at any -rate, the nearest substitute on earth attainable. And Marija is just -fighting drunk when there come to her ears the facts about the villains -who have not paid that night. Marija goes on the warpath straight off, -without even the preliminary of a good cursing, and when she is pulled -off it is with the coat collars of two villains in her hands. -Fortunately, the policeman is disposed to be reasonable, and so it is -not Marija who is flung out of the place. - -All this interrupts the music for not more than a minute or two. Then -again the merciless tune begins—the tune that has been played for the -last half-hour without one single change. It is an American tune this -time, one which they have picked up on the streets; all seem to know -the words of it—or, at any rate, the first line of it, which they hum -to themselves, over and over again without rest: “In the good old -summertime—in the good old summertime! In the good old summertime—in -the good old summertime!” There seems to be something hypnotic about -this, with its endlessly recurring dominant. It has put a stupor upon -every one who hears it, as well as upon the men who are playing it. No -one can get away from it, or even think of getting away from it; it is -three o’clock in the morning, and they have danced out all their joy, -and danced out all their strength, and all the strength that unlimited -drink can lend them—and still there is no one among them who has the -power to think of stopping. Promptly at seven o’clock this same Monday -morning they will every one of them have to be in their places at -Durham’s or Brown’s or Jones’s, each in his working clothes. If one of -them be a minute late, he will be docked an hour’s pay, and if he be -many minutes late, he will be apt to find his brass check turned to the -wall, which will send him out to join the hungry mob that waits every -morning at the gates of the packing houses, from six o’clock until -nearly half-past eight. There is no exception to this rule, not even -little Ona—who has asked for a holiday the day after her wedding day, a -holiday without pay, and been refused. While there are so many who are -anxious to work as you wish, there is no occasion for incommoding -yourself with those who must work otherwise. - -Little Ona is nearly ready to faint—and half in a stupor herself, -because of the heavy scent in the room. She has not taken a drop, but -every one else there is literally burning alcohol, as the lamps are -burning oil; some of the men who are sound asleep in their chairs or on -the floor are reeking of it so that you cannot go near them. Now and -then Jurgis gazes at her hungrily—he has long since forgotten his -shyness; but then the crowd is there, and he still waits and watches -the door, where a carriage is supposed to come. It does not, and -finally he will wait no longer, but comes up to Ona, who turns white -and trembles. He puts her shawl about her and then his own coat. They -live only two blocks away, and Jurgis does not care about the carriage. - -There is almost no farewell—the dancers do not notice them, and all of -the children and many of the old folks have fallen asleep of sheer -exhaustion. Dede Antanas is asleep, and so are the Szedvilases, husband -and wife, the former snoring in octaves. There is Teta Elzbieta, and -Marija, sobbing loudly; and then there is only the silent night, with -the stars beginning to pale a little in the east. Jurgis, without a -word, lifts Ona in his arms, and strides out with her, and she sinks -her head upon his shoulder with a moan. When he reaches home he is not -sure whether she has fainted or is asleep, but when he has to hold her -with one hand while he unlocks the door, he sees that she has opened -her eyes. - -“You shall not go to Brown’s today, little one,” he whispers, as he -climbs the stairs; and she catches his arm in terror, gasping: “No! No! -I dare not! It will ruin us!” - -But he answers her again: “Leave it to me; leave it to me. I will earn -more money—I will work harder.” - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -Jurgis talked lightly about work, because he was young. They told him -stories about the breaking down of men, there in the stockyards of -Chicago, and of what had happened to them afterward—stories to make -your flesh creep, but Jurgis would only laugh. He had only been there -four months, and he was young, and a giant besides. There was too much -health in him. He could not even imagine how it would feel to be -beaten. “That is well enough for men like you,” he would say, -“_silpnas_, puny fellows—but my back is broad.” - -Jurgis was like a boy, a boy from the country. He was the sort of man -the bosses like to get hold of, the sort they make it a grievance they -cannot get hold of. When he was told to go to a certain place, he would -go there on the run. When he had nothing to do for the moment, he would -stand round fidgeting, dancing, with the overflow of energy that was in -him. If he were working in a line of men, the line always moved too -slowly for him, and you could pick him out by his impatience and -restlessness. That was why he had been picked out on one important -occasion; for Jurgis had stood outside of Brown and Company’s “Central -Time Station” not more than half an hour, the second day of his arrival -in Chicago, before he had been beckoned by one of the bosses. Of this -he was very proud, and it made him more disposed than ever to laugh at -the pessimists. In vain would they all tell him that there were men in -that crowd from which he had been chosen who had stood there a -month—yes, many months—and not been chosen yet. “Yes,” he would say, -“but what sort of men? Broken-down tramps and good-for-nothings, -fellows who have spent all their money drinking, and want to get more -for it. Do you want me to believe that with these arms”—and he would -clench his fists and hold them up in the air, so that you might see the -rolling muscles—“that with these arms people will ever let me starve?” - -“It is plain,” they would answer to this, “that you have come from the -country, and from very far in the country.” And this was the fact, for -Jurgis had never seen a city, and scarcely even a fair-sized town, -until he had set out to make his fortune in the world and earn his -right to Ona. His father, and his father’s father before him, and as -many ancestors back as legend could go, had lived in that part of -Lithuania known as _Brelovicz_, the Imperial Forest. This is a great -tract of a hundred thousand acres, which from time immemorial has been -a hunting preserve of the nobility. There are a very few peasants -settled in it, holding title from ancient times; and one of these was -Antanas Rudkus, who had been reared himself, and had reared his -children in turn, upon half a dozen acres of cleared land in the midst -of a wilderness. There had been one son besides Jurgis, and one sister. -The former had been drafted into the army; that had been over ten years -ago, but since that day nothing had ever been heard of him. The sister -was married, and her husband had bought the place when old Antanas had -decided to go with his son. - -It was nearly a year and a half ago that Jurgis had met Ona, at a horse -fair a hundred miles from home. Jurgis had never expected to get -married—he had laughed at it as a foolish trap for a man to walk into; -but here, without ever having spoken a word to her, with no more than -the exchange of half a dozen smiles, he found himself, purple in the -face with embarrassment and terror, asking her parents to sell her to -him for his wife—and offering his father’s two horses he had been sent -to the fair to sell. But Ona’s father proved as a rock—the girl was yet -a child, and he was a rich man, and his daughter was not to be had in -that way. So Jurgis went home with a heavy heart, and that spring and -summer toiled and tried hard to forget. In the fall, after the harvest -was over, he saw that it would not do, and tramped the full fortnight’s -journey that lay between him and Ona. - -He found an unexpected state of affairs—for the girl’s father had died, -and his estate was tied up with creditors; Jurgis’ heart leaped as he -realized that now the prize was within his reach. There was Elzbieta -Lukoszaite, Teta, or Aunt, as they called her, Ona’s stepmother, and -there were her six children, of all ages. There was also her brother -Jonas, a dried-up little man who had worked upon the farm. They were -people of great consequence, as it seemed to Jurgis, fresh out of the -woods; Ona knew how to read, and knew many other things that he did not -know, and now the farm had been sold, and the whole family was -adrift—all they owned in the world being about seven hundred rubles -which is half as many dollars. They would have had three times that, -but it had gone to court, and the judge had decided against them, and -it had cost the balance to get him to change his decision. - -Ona might have married and left them, but she would not, for she loved -Teta Elzbieta. It was Jonas who suggested that they all go to America, -where a friend of his had gotten rich. He would work, for his part, and -the women would work, and some of the children, doubtless—they would -live somehow. Jurgis, too, had heard of America. That was a country -where, they said, a man might earn three rubles a day; and Jurgis -figured what three rubles a day would mean, with prices as they were -where he lived, and decided forthwith that he would go to America and -marry, and be a rich man in the bargain. In that country, rich or poor, -a man was free, it was said; he did not have to go into the army, he -did not have to pay out his money to rascally officials—he might do as -he pleased, and count himself as good as any other man. So America was -a place of which lovers and young people dreamed. If one could only -manage to get the price of a passage, he could count his troubles at an -end. - -It was arranged that they should leave the following spring, and -meantime Jurgis sold himself to a contractor for a certain time, and -tramped nearly four hundred miles from home with a gang of men to work -upon a railroad in Smolensk. This was a fearful experience, with filth -and bad food and cruelty and overwork; but Jurgis stood it and came out -in fine trim, and with eighty rubles sewed up in his coat. He did not -drink or fight, because he was thinking all the time of Ona; and for -the rest, he was a quiet, steady man, who did what he was told to, did -not lose his temper often, and when he did lose it made the offender -anxious that he should not lose it again. When they paid him off he -dodged the company gamblers and dramshops, and so they tried to kill -him; but he escaped, and tramped it home, working at odd jobs, and -sleeping always with one eye open. - -So in the summer time they had all set out for America. At the last -moment there joined them Marija Berczynskas, who was a cousin of Ona’s. -Marija was an orphan, and had worked since childhood for a rich farmer -of Vilna, who beat her regularly. It was only at the age of twenty that -it had occurred to Marija to try her strength, when she had risen up -and nearly murdered the man, and then come away. - -There were twelve in all in the party, five adults and six children—and -Ona, who was a little of both. They had a hard time on the passage; -there was an agent who helped them, but he proved a scoundrel, and got -them into a trap with some officials, and cost them a good deal of -their precious money, which they clung to with such horrible fear. This -happened to them again in New York—for, of course, they knew nothing -about the country, and had no one to tell them, and it was easy for a -man in a blue uniform to lead them away, and to take them to a hotel -and keep them there, and make them pay enormous charges to get away. -The law says that the rate card shall be on the door of a hotel, but it -does not say that it shall be in Lithuanian. - -It was in the stockyards that Jonas’ friend had gotten rich, and so to -Chicago the party was bound. They knew that one word, Chicago and that -was all they needed to know, at least, until they reached the city. -Then, tumbled out of the cars without ceremony, they were no better off -than before; they stood staring down the vista of Dearborn Street, with -its big black buildings towering in the distance, unable to realize -that they had arrived, and why, when they said “Chicago,” people no -longer pointed in some direction, but instead looked perplexed, or -laughed, or went on without paying any attention. They were pitiable in -their helplessness; above all things they stood in deadly terror of any -sort of person in official uniform, and so whenever they saw a -policeman they would cross the street and hurry by. For the whole of -the first day they wandered about in the midst of deafening confusion, -utterly lost; and it was only at night that, cowering in the doorway of -a house, they were finally discovered and taken by a policeman to the -station. In the morning an interpreter was found, and they were taken -and put upon a car, and taught a new word—“stockyards.” Their delight -at discovering that they were to get out of this adventure without -losing another share of their possessions it would not be possible to -describe. - -They sat and stared out of the window. They were on a street which -seemed to run on forever, mile after mile—thirty-four of them, if they -had known it—and each side of it one uninterrupted row of wretched -little two-story frame buildings. Down every side street they could -see, it was the same—never a hill and never a hollow, but always the -same endless vista of ugly and dirty little wooden buildings. Here and -there would be a bridge crossing a filthy creek, with hard-baked mud -shores and dingy sheds and docks along it; here and there would be a -railroad crossing, with a tangle of switches, and locomotives puffing, -and rattling freight cars filing by; here and there would be a great -factory, a dingy building with innumerable windows in it, and immense -volumes of smoke pouring from the chimneys, darkening the air above and -making filthy the earth beneath. But after each of these interruptions, -the desolate procession would begin again—the procession of dreary -little buildings. - -A full hour before the party reached the city they had begun to note -the perplexing changes in the atmosphere. It grew darker all the time, -and upon the earth the grass seemed to grow less green. Every minute, -as the train sped on, the colors of things became dingier; the fields -were grown parched and yellow, the landscape hideous and bare. And -along with the thickening smoke they began to notice another -circumstance, a strange, pungent odor. They were not sure that it was -unpleasant, this odor; some might have called it sickening, but their -taste in odors was not developed, and they were only sure that it was -curious. Now, sitting in the trolley car, they realized that they were -on their way to the home of it—that they had traveled all the way from -Lithuania to it. It was now no longer something far off and faint, that -you caught in whiffs; you could literally taste it, as well as smell -it—you could take hold of it, almost, and examine it at your leisure. -They were divided in their opinions about it. It was an elemental odor, -raw and crude; it was rich, almost rancid, sensual, and strong. There -were some who drank it in as if it were an intoxicant; there were -others who put their handkerchiefs to their faces. The new emigrants -were still tasting it, lost in wonder, when suddenly the car came to a -halt, and the door was flung open, and a voice shouted—“Stockyards!” - -They were left standing upon the corner, staring; down a side street -there were two rows of brick houses, and between them a vista: half a -dozen chimneys, tall as the tallest of buildings, touching the very -sky—and leaping from them half a dozen columns of smoke, thick, oily, -and black as night. It might have come from the center of the world, -this smoke, where the fires of the ages still smolder. It came as if -self-impelled, driving all before it, a perpetual explosion. It was -inexhaustible; one stared, waiting to see it stop, but still the great -streams rolled out. They spread in vast clouds overhead, writhing, -curling; then, uniting in one giant river, they streamed away down the -sky, stretching a black pall as far as the eye could reach. - -Then the party became aware of another strange thing. This, too, like -the color, was a thing elemental; it was a sound, a sound made up of -ten thousand little sounds. You scarcely noticed it at first—it sunk -into your consciousness, a vague disturbance, a trouble. It was like -the murmuring of the bees in the spring, the whisperings of the forest; -it suggested endless activity, the rumblings of a world in motion. It -was only by an effort that one could realize that it was made by -animals, that it was the distant lowing of ten thousand cattle, the -distant grunting of ten thousand swine. - -They would have liked to follow it up, but, alas, they had no time for -adventures just then. The policeman on the corner was beginning to -watch them; and so, as usual, they started up the street. Scarcely had -they gone a block, however, before Jonas was heard to give a cry, and -began pointing excitedly across the street. Before they could gather -the meaning of his breathless ejaculations he had bounded away, and -they saw him enter a shop, over which was a sign: “J. Szedvilas, -Delicatessen.” When he came out again it was in company with a very -stout gentleman in shirt sleeves and an apron, clasping Jonas by both -hands and laughing hilariously. Then Teta Elzbieta recollected suddenly -that Szedvilas had been the name of the mythical friend who had made -his fortune in America. To find that he had been making it in the -delicatessen business was an extraordinary piece of good fortune at -this juncture; though it was well on in the morning, they had not -breakfasted, and the children were beginning to whimper. - -Thus was the happy ending to a woeful voyage. The two families -literally fell upon each other’s necks—for it had been years since -Jokubas Szedvilas had met a man from his part of Lithuania. Before half -the day they were lifelong friends. Jokubas understood all the pitfalls -of this new world, and could explain all of its mysteries; he could -tell them the things they ought to have done in the different -emergencies—and what was still more to the point, he could tell them -what to do now. He would take them to poni Aniele, who kept a -boardinghouse the other side of the yards; old Mrs. Jukniene, he -explained, had not what one would call choice accommodations, but they -might do for the moment. To this Teta Elzbieta hastened to respond that -nothing could be too cheap to suit them just then; for they were quite -terrified over the sums they had had to expend. A very few days of -practical experience in this land of high wages had been sufficient to -make clear to them the cruel fact that it was also a land of high -prices, and that in it the poor man was almost as poor as in any other -corner of the earth; and so there vanished in a night all the wonderful -dreams of wealth that had been haunting Jurgis. What had made the -discovery all the more painful was that they were spending, at American -prices, money which they had earned at home rates of wages—and so were -really being cheated by the world! The last two days they had all but -starved themselves—it made them quite sick to pay the prices that the -railroad people asked them for food. - -Yet, when they saw the home of the Widow Jukniene they could not but -recoil, even so, in all their journey they had seen nothing so bad as -this. Poni Aniele had a four-room flat in one of that wilderness of -two-story frame tenements that lie “back of the yards.” There were four -such flats in each building, and each of the four was a “boardinghouse” -for the occupancy of foreigners—Lithuanians, Poles, Slovaks, or -Bohemians. Some of these places were kept by private persons, some were -cooperative. There would be an average of half a dozen boarders to each -room—sometimes there were thirteen or fourteen to one room, fifty or -sixty to a flat. Each one of the occupants furnished his own -accommodations—that is, a mattress and some bedding. The mattresses -would be spread upon the floor in rows—and there would be nothing else -in the place except a stove. It was by no means unusual for two men to -own the same mattress in common, one working by day and using it by -night, and the other working at night and using it in the daytime. Very -frequently a lodging house keeper would rent the same beds to double -shifts of men. - -Mrs. Jukniene was a wizened-up little woman, with a wrinkled face. Her -home was unthinkably filthy; you could not enter by the front door at -all, owing to the mattresses, and when you tried to go up the -backstairs you found that she had walled up most of the porch with old -boards to make a place to keep her chickens. It was a standing jest of -the boarders that Aniele cleaned house by letting the chickens loose in -the rooms. Undoubtedly this did keep down the vermin, but it seemed -probable, in view of all the circumstances, that the old lady regarded -it rather as feeding the chickens than as cleaning the rooms. The truth -was that she had definitely given up the idea of cleaning anything, -under pressure of an attack of rheumatism, which had kept her doubled -up in one corner of her room for over a week; during which time eleven -of her boarders, heavily in her debt, had concluded to try their -chances of employment in Kansas City. This was July, and the fields -were green. One never saw the fields, nor any green thing whatever, in -Packingtown; but one could go out on the road and “hobo it,” as the men -phrased it, and see the country, and have a long rest, and an easy time -riding on the freight cars. - -Such was the home to which the new arrivals were welcomed. There was -nothing better to be had—they might not do so well by looking further, -for Mrs. Jukniene had at least kept one room for herself and her three -little children, and now offered to share this with the women and the -girls of the party. They could get bedding at a secondhand store, she -explained; and they would not need any, while the weather was so -hot—doubtless they would all sleep on the sidewalk such nights as this, -as did nearly all of her guests. “Tomorrow,” Jurgis said, when they -were left alone, “tomorrow I will get a job, and perhaps Jonas will get -one also; and then we can get a place of our own.” - -Later that afternoon he and Ona went out to take a walk and look about -them, to see more of this district which was to be their home. In back -of the yards the dreary two-story frame houses were scattered farther -apart, and there were great spaces bare—that seemingly had been -overlooked by the great sore of a city as it spread itself over the -surface of the prairie. These bare places were grown up with dingy, -yellow weeds, hiding innumerable tomato cans; innumerable children -played upon them, chasing one another here and there, screaming and -fighting. The most uncanny thing about this neighborhood was the number -of the children; you thought there must be a school just out, and it -was only after long acquaintance that you were able to realize that -there was no school, but that these were the children of the -neighborhood—that there were so many children to the block in -Packingtown that nowhere on its streets could a horse and buggy move -faster than a walk! - -It could not move faster anyhow, on account of the state of the -streets. Those through which Jurgis and Ona were walking resembled -streets less than they did a miniature topographical map. The roadway -was commonly several feet lower than the level of the houses, which -were sometimes joined by high board walks; there were no -pavements—there were mountains and valleys and rivers, gullies and -ditches, and great hollows full of stinking green water. In these pools -the children played, and rolled about in the mud of the streets; here -and there one noticed them digging in it, after trophies which they had -stumbled on. One wondered about this, as also about the swarms of flies -which hung about the scene, literally blackening the air, and the -strange, fetid odor which assailed one’s nostrils, a ghastly odor, of -all the dead things of the universe. It impelled the visitor to -questions and then the residents would explain, quietly, that all this -was “made” land, and that it had been “made” by using it as a dumping -ground for the city garbage. After a few years the unpleasant effect of -this would pass away, it was said; but meantime, in hot weather—and -especially when it rained—the flies were apt to be annoying. Was it not -unhealthful? the stranger would ask, and the residents would answer, -“Perhaps; but there is no telling.” - -A little way farther on, and Jurgis and Ona, staring open-eyed and -wondering, came to the place where this “made” ground was in process of -making. Here was a great hole, perhaps two city blocks square, and with -long files of garbage wagons creeping into it. The place had an odor -for which there are no polite words; and it was sprinkled over with -children, who raked in it from dawn till dark. Sometimes visitors from -the packing houses would wander out to see this “dump,” and they would -stand by and debate as to whether the children were eating the food -they got, or merely collecting it for the chickens at home. Apparently -none of them ever went down to find out. - -Beyond this dump there stood a great brickyard, with smoking chimneys. -First they took out the soil to make bricks, and then they filled it up -again with garbage, which seemed to Jurgis and Ona a felicitous -arrangement, characteristic of an enterprising country like America. A -little way beyond was another great hole, which they had emptied and -not yet filled up. This held water, and all summer it stood there, with -the near-by soil draining into it, festering and stewing in the sun; -and then, when winter came, somebody cut the ice on it, and sold it to -the people of the city. This, too, seemed to the newcomers an -economical arrangement; for they did not read the newspapers, and their -heads were not full of troublesome thoughts about “germs.” - -They stood there while the sun went down upon this scene, and the sky -in the west turned blood-red, and the tops of the houses shone like -fire. Jurgis and Ona were not thinking of the sunset, however—their -backs were turned to it, and all their thoughts were of Packingtown, -which they could see so plainly in the distance. The line of the -buildings stood clear-cut and black against the sky; here and there out -of the mass rose the great chimneys, with the river of smoke streaming -away to the end of the world. It was a study in colors now, this smoke; -in the sunset light it was black and brown and gray and purple. All the -sordid suggestions of the place were gone—in the twilight it was a -vision of power. To the two who stood watching while the darkness -swallowed it up, it seemed a dream of wonder, with its talc of human -energy, of things being done, of employment for thousands upon -thousands of men, of opportunity and freedom, of life and love and joy. -When they came away, arm in arm, Jurgis was saying, “Tomorrow I shall -go there and get a job!” - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -In his capacity as delicatessen vender, Jokubas Szedvilas had many -acquaintances. Among these was one of the special policemen employed by -Durham, whose duty it frequently was to pick out men for employment. -Jokubas had never tried it, but he expressed a certainty that he could -get some of his friends a job through this man. It was agreed, after -consultation, that he should make the effort with old Antanas and with -Jonas. Jurgis was confident of his ability to get work for himself, -unassisted by any one. As we have said before, he was not mistaken in -this. He had gone to Brown’s and stood there not more than half an hour -before one of the bosses noticed his form towering above the rest, and -signaled to him. The colloquy which followed was brief and to the -point: - -“Speak English?” - -“No; Lit-uanian.” (Jurgis had studied this word carefully.) - -“Job?” - -“Je.” (A nod.) - -“Worked here before?” - -“No ’stand.” - -(Signals and gesticulations on the part of the boss. Vigorous shakes of -the head by Jurgis.) - -“Shovel guts?” - -“No ’stand.” (More shakes of the head.) - -“Zarnos. Pagaiksztis. Szluofa!” (Imitative motions.) - -“Je.” - -“See door. Durys?” (Pointing.) - -“Je.” - -“To-morrow, seven o’clock. Understand? Rytoj! Prieszpietys! Septyni!” - -“Dekui, tamistai!” (Thank you, sir.) And that was all. Jurgis turned -away, and then in a sudden rush the full realization of his triumph -swept over him, and he gave a yell and a jump, and started off on a -run. He had a job! He had a job! And he went all the way home as if -upon wings, and burst into the house like a cyclone, to the rage of the -numerous lodgers who had just turned in for their daily sleep. - -Meantime Jokubas had been to see his friend the policeman, and received -encouragement, so it was a happy party. There being no more to be done -that day, the shop was left under the care of Lucija, and her husband -sallied forth to show his friends the sights of Packingtown. Jokubas -did this with the air of a country gentleman escorting a party of -visitors over his estate; he was an old-time resident, and all these -wonders had grown up under his eyes, and he had a personal pride in -them. The packers might own the land, but he claimed the landscape, and -there was no one to say nay to this. - -They passed down the busy street that led to the yards. It was still -early morning, and everything was at its high tide of activity. A -steady stream of employees was pouring through the gate—employees of -the higher sort, at this hour, clerks and stenographers and such. For -the women there were waiting big two-horse wagons, which set off at a -gallop as fast as they were filled. In the distance there was heard -again the lowing of the cattle, a sound as of a far-off ocean calling. -They followed it, this time, as eager as children in sight of a circus -menagerie—which, indeed, the scene a good deal resembled. They crossed -the railroad tracks, and then on each side of the street were the pens -full of cattle; they would have stopped to look, but Jokubas hurried -them on, to where there was a stairway and a raised gallery, from which -everything could be seen. Here they stood, staring, breathless with -wonder. - -There is over a square mile of space in the yards, and more than half -of it is occupied by cattle pens; north and south as far as the eye can -reach there stretches a sea of pens. And they were all filled—so many -cattle no one had ever dreamed existed in the world. Red cattle, black, -white, and yellow cattle; old cattle and young cattle; great bellowing -bulls and little calves not an hour born; meek-eyed milch cows and -fierce, long-horned Texas steers. The sound of them here was as of all -the barnyards of the universe; and as for counting them—it would have -taken all day simply to count the pens. Here and there ran long alleys, -blocked at intervals by gates; and Jokubas told them that the number of -these gates was twenty-five thousand. Jokubas had recently been reading -a newspaper article which was full of statistics such as that, and he -was very proud as he repeated them and made his guests cry out with -wonder. Jurgis too had a little of this sense of pride. Had he not just -gotten a job, and become a sharer in all this activity, a cog in this -marvelous machine? Here and there about the alleys galloped men upon -horseback, booted, and carrying long whips; they were very busy, -calling to each other, and to those who were driving the cattle. They -were drovers and stock raisers, who had come from far states, and -brokers and commission merchants, and buyers for all the big packing -houses. - -Here and there they would stop to inspect a bunch of cattle, and there -would be a parley, brief and businesslike. The buyer would nod or drop -his whip, and that would mean a bargain; and he would note it in his -little book, along with hundreds of others he had made that morning. -Then Jokubas pointed out the place where the cattle were driven to be -weighed, upon a great scale that would weigh a hundred thousand pounds -at once and record it automatically. It was near to the east entrance -that they stood, and all along this east side of the yards ran the -railroad tracks, into which the cars were run, loaded with cattle. All -night long this had been going on, and now the pens were full; by -tonight they would all be empty, and the same thing would be done -again. - -“And what will become of all these creatures?” cried Teta Elzbieta. - -“By tonight,” Jokubas answered, “they will all be killed and cut up; -and over there on the other side of the packing houses are more -railroad tracks, where the cars come to take them away.” - -There were two hundred and fifty miles of track within the yards, their -guide went on to tell them. They brought about ten thousand head of -cattle every day, and as many hogs, and half as many sheep—which meant -some eight or ten million live creatures turned into food every year. -One stood and watched, and little by little caught the drift of the -tide, as it set in the direction of the packing houses. There were -groups of cattle being driven to the chutes, which were roadways about -fifteen feet wide, raised high above the pens. In these chutes the -stream of animals was continuous; it was quite uncanny to watch them, -pressing on to their fate, all unsuspicious a very river of death. Our -friends were not poetical, and the sight suggested to them no metaphors -of human destiny; they thought only of the wonderful efficiency of it -all. The chutes into which the hogs went climbed high up—to the very -top of the distant buildings; and Jokubas explained that the hogs went -up by the power of their own legs, and then their weight carried them -back through all the processes necessary to make them into pork. - -“They don’t waste anything here,” said the guide, and then he laughed -and added a witticism, which he was pleased that his unsophisticated -friends should take to be his own: “They use everything about the hog -except the squeal.” In front of Brown’s General Office building there -grows a tiny plot of grass, and this, you may learn, is the only bit of -green thing in Packingtown; likewise this jest about the hog and his -squeal, the stock in trade of all the guides, is the one gleam of humor -that you will find there. - -After they had seen enough of the pens, the party went up the street, -to the mass of buildings which occupy the center of the yards. These -buildings, made of brick and stained with innumerable layers of -Packingtown smoke, were painted all over with advertising signs, from -which the visitor realized suddenly that he had come to the home of -many of the torments of his life. It was here that they made those -products with the wonders of which they pestered him so—by placards -that defaced the landscape when he traveled, and by staring -advertisements in the newspapers and magazines—by silly little jingles -that he could not get out of his mind, and gaudy pictures that lurked -for him around every street corner. Here was where they made Brown’s -Imperial Hams and Bacon, Brown’s Dressed Beef, Brown’s Excelsior -Sausages! Here was the headquarters of Durham’s Pure Leaf Lard, of -Durham’s Breakfast Bacon, Durham’s Canned Beef, Potted Ham, Deviled -Chicken, Peerless Fertilizer! - -Entering one of the Durham buildings, they found a number of other -visitors waiting; and before long there came a guide, to escort them -through the place. They make a great feature of showing strangers -through the packing plants, for it is a good advertisement. But Ponas -Jokubas whispered maliciously that the visitors did not see any more -than the packers wanted them to. They climbed a long series of -stairways outside of the building, to the top of its five or six -stories. Here was the chute, with its river of hogs, all patiently -toiling upward; there was a place for them to rest to cool off, and -then through another passageway they went into a room from which there -is no returning for hogs. - -It was a long, narrow room, with a gallery along it for visitors. At -the head there was a great iron wheel, about twenty feet in -circumference, with rings here and there along its edge. Upon both -sides of this wheel there was a narrow space, into which came the hogs -at the end of their journey; in the midst of them stood a great burly -Negro, bare-armed and bare-chested. He was resting for the moment, for -the wheel had stopped while men were cleaning up. In a minute or two, -however, it began slowly to revolve, and then the men upon each side of -it sprang to work. They had chains which they fastened about the leg of -the nearest hog, and the other end of the chain they hooked into one of -the rings upon the wheel. So, as the wheel turned, a hog was suddenly -jerked off his feet and borne aloft. - -At the same instant the car was assailed by a most terrifying shriek; -the visitors started in alarm, the women turned pale and shrank back. -The shriek was followed by another, louder and yet more agonizing—for -once started upon that journey, the hog never came back; at the top of -the wheel he was shunted off upon a trolley, and went sailing down the -room. And meantime another was swung up, and then another, and another, -until there was a double line of them, each dangling by a foot and -kicking in frenzy—and squealing. The uproar was appalling, perilous to -the eardrums; one feared there was too much sound for the room to -hold—that the walls must give way or the ceiling crack. There were high -squeals and low squeals, grunts, and wails of agony; there would come a -momentary lull, and then a fresh outburst, louder than ever, surging up -to a deafening climax. It was too much for some of the visitors—the men -would look at each other, laughing nervously, and the women would stand -with hands clenched, and the blood rushing to their faces, and the -tears starting in their eyes. - -Meantime, heedless of all these things, the men upon the floor were -going about their work. Neither squeals of hogs nor tears of visitors -made any difference to them; one by one they hooked up the hogs, and -one by one with a swift stroke they slit their throats. There was a -long line of hogs, with squeals and lifeblood ebbing away together; -until at last each started again, and vanished with a splash into a -huge vat of boiling water. - -It was all so very businesslike that one watched it fascinated. It was -porkmaking by machinery, porkmaking by applied mathematics. And yet -somehow the most matter-of-fact person could not help thinking of the -hogs; they were so innocent, they came so very trustingly; and they -were so very human in their protests—and so perfectly within their -rights! They had done nothing to deserve it; and it was adding insult -to injury, as the thing was done here, swinging them up in this -cold-blooded, impersonal way, without a pretense of apology, without -the homage of a tear. Now and then a visitor wept, to be sure; but this -slaughtering machine ran on, visitors or no visitors. It was like some -horrible crime committed in a dungeon, all unseen and unheeded, buried -out of sight and of memory. - -One could not stand and watch very long without becoming philosophical, -without beginning to deal in symbols and similes, and to hear the hog -squeal of the universe. Was it permitted to believe that there was -nowhere upon the earth, or above the earth, a heaven for hogs, where -they were requited for all this suffering? Each one of these hogs was a -separate creature. Some were white hogs, some were black; some were -brown, some were spotted; some were old, some young; some were long and -lean, some were monstrous. And each of them had an individuality of his -own, a will of his own, a hope and a heart’s desire; each was full of -self-confidence, of self-importance, and a sense of dignity. And -trusting and strong in faith he had gone about his business, the while -a black shadow hung over him and a horrid Fate waited in his pathway. -Now suddenly it had swooped upon him, and had seized him by the leg. -Relentless, remorseless, it was; all his protests, his screams, were -nothing to it—it did its cruel will with him, as if his wishes, his -feelings, had simply no existence at all; it cut his throat and watched -him gasp out his life. And now was one to believe that there was -nowhere a god of hogs, to whom this hog personality was precious, to -whom these hog squeals and agonies had a meaning? Who would take this -hog into his arms and comfort him, reward him for his work well done, -and show him the meaning of his sacrifice? Perhaps some glimpse of all -this was in the thoughts of our humble-minded Jurgis, as he turned to -go on with the rest of the party, and muttered: “Dieve—but I’m glad I’m -not a hog!” - -The carcass hog was scooped out of the vat by machinery, and then it -fell to the second floor, passing on the way through a wonderful -machine with numerous scrapers, which adjusted themselves to the size -and shape of the animal, and sent it out at the other end with nearly -all of its bristles removed. It was then again strung up by machinery, -and sent upon another trolley ride; this time passing between two lines -of men, who sat upon a raised platform, each doing a certain single -thing to the carcass as it came to him. One scraped the outside of a -leg; another scraped the inside of the same leg. One with a swift -stroke cut the throat; another with two swift strokes severed the head, -which fell to the floor and vanished through a hole. Another made a -slit down the body; a second opened the body wider; a third with a saw -cut the breastbone; a fourth loosened the entrails; a fifth pulled them -out—and they also slid through a hole in the floor. There were men to -scrape each side and men to scrape the back; there were men to clean -the carcass inside, to trim it and wash it. Looking down this room, one -saw, creeping slowly, a line of dangling hogs a hundred yards in -length; and for every yard there was a man, working as if a demon were -after him. At the end of this hog’s progress every inch of the carcass -had been gone over several times; and then it was rolled into the -chilling room, where it stayed for twenty-four hours, and where a -stranger might lose himself in a forest of freezing hogs. - -Before the carcass was admitted here, however, it had to pass a -government inspector, who sat in the doorway and felt of the glands in -the neck for tuberculosis. This government inspector did not have the -manner of a man who was worked to death; he was apparently not haunted -by a fear that the hog might get by him before he had finished his -testing. If you were a sociable person, he was quite willing to enter -into conversation with you, and to explain to you the deadly nature of -the ptomaines which are found in tubercular pork; and while he was -talking with you you could hardly be so ungrateful as to notice that a -dozen carcasses were passing him untouched. This inspector wore a blue -uniform, with brass buttons, and he gave an atmosphere of authority to -the scene, and, as it were, put the stamp of official approval upon the -things which were done in Durham’s. - -Jurgis went down the line with the rest of the visitors, staring -open-mouthed, lost in wonder. He had dressed hogs himself in the forest -of Lithuania; but he had never expected to live to see one hog dressed -by several hundred men. It was like a wonderful poem to him, and he -took it all in guilelessly—even to the conspicuous signs demanding -immaculate cleanliness of the employees. Jurgis was vexed when the -cynical Jokubas translated these signs with sarcastic comments, -offering to take them to the secret rooms where the spoiled meats went -to be doctored. - -The party descended to the next floor, where the various waste -materials were treated. Here came the entrails, to be scraped and -washed clean for sausage casings; men and women worked here in the -midst of a sickening stench, which caused the visitors to hasten by, -gasping. To another room came all the scraps to be “tanked,” which -meant boiling and pumping off the grease to make soap and lard; below -they took out the refuse, and this, too, was a region in which the -visitors did not linger. In still other places men were engaged in -cutting up the carcasses that had been through the chilling rooms. -First there were the “splitters,” the most expert workmen in the plant, -who earned as high as fifty cents an hour, and did not a thing all day -except chop hogs down the middle. Then there were “cleaver men,” great -giants with muscles of iron; each had two men to attend him—to slide -the half carcass in front of him on the table, and hold it while he -chopped it, and then turn each piece so that he might chop it once -more. His cleaver had a blade about two feet long, and he never made -but one cut; he made it so neatly, too, that his implement did not -smite through and dull itself—there was just enough force for a perfect -cut, and no more. So through various yawning holes there slipped to the -floor below—to one room hams, to another forequarters, to another sides -of pork. One might go down to this floor and see the pickling rooms, -where the hams were put into vats, and the great smoke rooms, with -their airtight iron doors. In other rooms they prepared salt pork—there -were whole cellars full of it, built up in great towers to the ceiling. -In yet other rooms they were putting up meats in boxes and barrels, and -wrapping hams and bacon in oiled paper, sealing and labeling and sewing -them. From the doors of these rooms went men with loaded trucks, to the -platform where freight cars were waiting to be filled; and one went out -there and realized with a start that he had come at last to the ground -floor of this enormous building. - -Then the party went across the street to where they did the killing of -beef—where every hour they turned four or five hundred cattle into -meat. Unlike the place they had left, all this work was done on one -floor; and instead of there being one line of carcasses which moved to -the workmen, there were fifteen or twenty lines, and the men moved from -one to another of these. This made a scene of intense activity, a -picture of human power wonderful to watch. It was all in one great -room, like a circus amphitheater, with a gallery for visitors running -over the center. - -Along one side of the room ran a narrow gallery, a few feet from the -floor; into which gallery the cattle were driven by men with goads -which gave them electric shocks. Once crowded in here, the creatures -were prisoned, each in a separate pen, by gates that shut, leaving them -no room to turn around; and while they stood bellowing and plunging, -over the top of the pen there leaned one of the “knockers,” armed with -a sledge hammer, and watching for a chance to deal a blow. The room -echoed with the thuds in quick succession, and the stamping and kicking -of the steers. The instant the animal had fallen, the “knocker” passed -on to another; while a second man raised a lever, and the side of the -pen was raised, and the animal, still kicking and struggling, slid out -to the “killing bed.” Here a man put shackles about one leg, and -pressed another lever, and the body was jerked up into the air. There -were fifteen or twenty such pens, and it was a matter of only a couple -of minutes to knock fifteen or twenty cattle and roll them out. Then -once more the gates were opened, and another lot rushed in; and so out -of each pen there rolled a steady stream of carcasses, which the men -upon the killing beds had to get out of the way. - -The manner in which they did this was something to be seen and never -forgotten. They worked with furious intensity, literally upon the -run—at a pace with which there is nothing to be compared except a -football game. It was all highly specialized labor, each man having his -task to do; generally this would consist of only two or three specific -cuts, and he would pass down the line of fifteen or twenty carcasses, -making these cuts upon each. First there came the “butcher,” to bleed -them; this meant one swift stroke, so swift that you could not see -it—only the flash of the knife; and before you could realize it, the -man had darted on to the next line, and a stream of bright red was -pouring out upon the floor. This floor was half an inch deep with -blood, in spite of the best efforts of men who kept shoveling it -through holes; it must have made the floor slippery, but no one could -have guessed this by watching the men at work. - -The carcass hung for a few minutes to bleed; there was no time lost, -however, for there were several hanging in each line, and one was -always ready. It was let down to the ground, and there came the -“headsman,” whose task it was to sever the head, with two or three -swift strokes. Then came the “floorsman,” to make the first cut in the -skin; and then another to finish ripping the skin down the center; and -then half a dozen more in swift succession, to finish the skinning. -After they were through, the carcass was again swung up; and while a -man with a stick examined the skin, to make sure that it had not been -cut, and another rolled it up and tumbled it through one of the -inevitable holes in the floor, the beef proceeded on its journey. There -were men to cut it, and men to split it, and men to gut it and scrape -it clean inside. There were some with hose which threw jets of boiling -water upon it, and others who removed the feet and added the final -touches. In the end, as with the hogs, the finished beef was run into -the chilling room, to hang its appointed time. - -The visitors were taken there and shown them, all neatly hung in rows, -labeled conspicuously with the tags of the government inspectors—and -some, which had been killed by a special process, marked with the sign -of the kosher rabbi, certifying that it was fit for sale to the -orthodox. And then the visitors were taken to the other parts of the -building, to see what became of each particle of the waste material -that had vanished through the floor; and to the pickling rooms, and the -salting rooms, the canning rooms, and the packing rooms, where choice -meat was prepared for shipping in refrigerator cars, destined to be -eaten in all the four corners of civilization. Afterward they went -outside, wandering about among the mazes of buildings in which was done -the work auxiliary to this great industry. There was scarcely a thing -needed in the business that Durham and Company did not make for -themselves. There was a great steam power plant and an electricity -plant. There was a barrel factory, and a boiler-repair shop. There was -a building to which the grease was piped, and made into soap and lard; -and then there was a factory for making lard cans, and another for -making soap boxes. There was a building in which the bristles were -cleaned and dried, for the making of hair cushions and such things; -there was a building where the skins were dried and tanned, there was -another where heads and feet were made into glue, and another where -bones were made into fertilizer. No tiniest particle of organic matter -was wasted in Durham’s. Out of the horns of the cattle they made combs, -buttons, hairpins, and imitation ivory; out of the shinbones and other -big bones they cut knife and toothbrush handles, and mouthpieces for -pipes; out of the hoofs they cut hairpins and buttons, before they made -the rest into glue. From such things as feet, knuckles, hide clippings, -and sinews came such strange and unlikely products as gelatin, -isinglass, and phosphorus, bone black, shoe blacking, and bone oil. -They had curled-hair works for the cattle tails, and a “wool pullery” -for the sheepskins; they made pepsin from the stomachs of the pigs, and -albumen from the blood, and violin strings from the ill-smelling -entrails. When there was nothing else to be done with a thing, they -first put it into a tank and got out of it all the tallow and grease, -and then they made it into fertilizer. All these industries were -gathered into buildings near by, connected by galleries and railroads -with the main establishment; and it was estimated that they had handled -nearly a quarter of a billion of animals since the founding of the -plant by the elder Durham a generation and more ago. If you counted -with it the other big plants—and they were now really all one—it was, -so Jokubas informed them, the greatest aggregation of labor and capital -ever gathered in one place. It employed thirty thousand men; it -supported directly two hundred and fifty thousand people in its -neighborhood, and indirectly it supported half a million. It sent its -products to every country in the civilized world, and it furnished the -food for no less than thirty million people! - -To all of these things our friends would listen open-mouthed—it seemed -to them impossible of belief that anything so stupendous could have -been devised by mortal man. That was why to Jurgis it seemed almost -profanity to speak about the place as did Jokubas, skeptically; it was -a thing as tremendous as the universe—the laws and ways of its working -no more than the universe to be questioned or understood. All that a -mere man could do, it seemed to Jurgis, was to take a thing like this -as he found it, and do as he was told; to be given a place in it and a -share in its wonderful activities was a blessing to be grateful for, as -one was grateful for the sunshine and the rain. Jurgis was even glad -that he had not seen the place before meeting with his triumph, for he -felt that the size of it would have overwhelmed him. But now he had -been admitted—he was a part of it all! He had the feeling that this -whole huge establishment had taken him under its protection, and had -become responsible for his welfare. So guileless was he, and ignorant -of the nature of business, that he did not even realize that he had -become an employee of Brown’s, and that Brown and Durham were supposed -by all the world to be deadly rivals—were even required to be deadly -rivals by the law of the land, and ordered to try to ruin each other -under penalty of fine and imprisonment! - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -Promptly at seven the next morning Jurgis reported for work. He came to -the door that had been pointed out to him, and there he waited for -nearly two hours. The boss had meant for him to enter, but had not said -this, and so it was only when on his way out to hire another man that -he came upon Jurgis. He gave him a good cursing, but as Jurgis did not -understand a word of it he did not object. He followed the boss, who -showed him where to put his street clothes, and waited while he donned -the working clothes he had bought in a secondhand shop and brought with -him in a bundle; then he led him to the “killing beds.” The work which -Jurgis was to do here was very simple, and it took him but a few -minutes to learn it. He was provided with a stiff besom, such as is -used by street sweepers, and it was his place to follow down the line -the man who drew out the smoking entrails from the carcass of the -steer; this mass was to be swept into a trap, which was then closed, so -that no one might slip into it. As Jurgis came in, the first cattle of -the morning were just making their appearance; and so, with scarcely -time to look about him, and none to speak to any one, he fell to work. -It was a sweltering day in July, and the place ran with steaming hot -blood—one waded in it on the floor. The stench was almost overpowering, -but to Jurgis it was nothing. His whole soul was dancing with joy—he -was at work at last! He was at work and earning money! All day long he -was figuring to himself. He was paid the fabulous sum of seventeen and -a half cents an hour; and as it proved a rush day and he worked until -nearly seven o’clock in the evening, he went home to the family with -the tidings that he had earned more than a dollar and a half in a -single day! - -At home, also, there was more good news; so much of it at once that -there was quite a celebration in Aniele’s hall bedroom. Jonas had been -to have an interview with the special policeman to whom Szedvilas had -introduced him, and had been taken to see several of the bosses, with -the result that one had promised him a job the beginning of the next -week. And then there was Marija Berczynskas, who, fired with jealousy -by the success of Jurgis, had set out upon her own responsibility to -get a place. Marija had nothing to take with her save her two brawny -arms and the word “job,” laboriously learned; but with these she had -marched about Packingtown all day, entering every door where there were -signs of activity. Out of some she had been ordered with curses; but -Marija was not afraid of man or devil, and asked every one she -saw—visitors and strangers, or work-people like herself, and once or -twice even high and lofty office personages, who stared at her as if -they thought she was crazy. In the end, however, she had reaped her -reward. In one of the smaller plants she had stumbled upon a room where -scores of women and girls were sitting at long tables preparing smoked -beef in cans; and wandering through room after room, Marija came at -last to the place where the sealed cans were being painted and labeled, -and here she had the good fortune to encounter the “forelady.” Marija -did not understand then, as she was destined to understand later, what -there was attractive to a “forelady” about the combination of a face -full of boundless good nature and the muscles of a dray horse; but the -woman had told her to come the next day and she would perhaps give her -a chance to learn the trade of painting cans. The painting of cans -being skilled piecework, and paying as much as two dollars a day, -Marija burst in upon the family with the yell of a Comanche Indian, and -fell to capering about the room so as to frighten the baby almost into -convulsions. - -Better luck than all this could hardly have been hoped for; there was -only one of them left to seek a place. Jurgis was determined that Teta -Elzbieta should stay at home to keep house, and that Ona should help -her. He would not have Ona working—he was not that sort of a man, he -said, and she was not that sort of a woman. It would be a strange thing -if a man like him could not support the family, with the help of the -board of Jonas and Marija. He would not even hear of letting the -children go to work—there were schools here in America for children, -Jurgis had heard, to which they could go for nothing. That the priest -would object to these schools was something of which he had as yet no -idea, and for the present his mind was made up that the children of -Teta Elzbieta should have as fair a chance as any other children. The -oldest of them, little Stanislovas, was but thirteen, and small for his -age at that; and while the oldest son of Szedvilas was only twelve, and -had worked for over a year at Jones’s, Jurgis would have it that -Stanislovas should learn to speak English, and grow up to be a skilled -man. - -So there was only old Dede Antanas; Jurgis would have had him rest too, -but he was forced to acknowledge that this was not possible, and, -besides, the old man would not hear it spoken of—it was his whim to -insist that he was as lively as any boy. He had come to America as full -of hope as the best of them; and now he was the chief problem that -worried his son. For every one that Jurgis spoke to assured him that it -was a waste of time to seek employment for the old man in Packingtown. -Szedvilas told him that the packers did not even keep the men who had -grown old in their own service—to say nothing of taking on new ones. -And not only was it the rule here, it was the rule everywhere in -America, so far as he knew. To satisfy Jurgis he had asked the -policeman, and brought back the message that the thing was not to be -thought of. They had not told this to old Anthony, who had consequently -spent the two days wandering about from one part of the yards to -another, and had now come home to hear about the triumph of the others, -smiling bravely and saying that it would be his turn another day. - -Their good luck, they felt, had given them the right to think about a -home; and sitting out on the doorstep that summer evening, they held -consultation about it, and Jurgis took occasion to broach a weighty -subject. Passing down the avenue to work that morning he had seen two -boys leaving an advertisement from house to house; and seeing that -there were pictures upon it, Jurgis had asked for one, and had rolled -it up and tucked it into his shirt. At noontime a man with whom he had -been talking had read it to him and told him a little about it, with -the result that Jurgis had conceived a wild idea. - -He brought out the placard, which was quite a work of art. It was -nearly two feet long, printed on calendered paper, with a selection of -colors so bright that they shone even in the moonlight. The center of -the placard was occupied by a house, brilliantly painted, new, and -dazzling. The roof of it was of a purple hue, and trimmed with gold; -the house itself was silvery, and the doors and windows red. It was a -two-story building, with a porch in front, and a very fancy scrollwork -around the edges; it was complete in every tiniest detail, even the -doorknob, and there was a hammock on the porch and white lace curtains -in the windows. Underneath this, in one corner, was a picture of a -husband and wife in loving embrace; in the opposite corner was a -cradle, with fluffy curtains drawn over it, and a smiling cherub -hovering upon silver-colored wings. For fear that the significance of -all this should be lost, there was a label, in Polish, Lithuanian, and -German—“_Dom. Namai. Heim._” “Why pay rent?” the linguistic circular -went on to demand. “Why not own your own home? Do you know that you can -buy one for less than your rent? We have built thousands of homes which -are now occupied by happy families.”—So it became eloquent, picturing -the blissfulness of married life in a house with nothing to pay. It -even quoted “Home, Sweet Home,” and made bold to translate it into -Polish—though for some reason it omitted the Lithuanian of this. -Perhaps the translator found it a difficult matter to be sentimental in -a language in which a sob is known as a gukcziojimas and a smile as a -nusiszypsojimas. - -Over this document the family pored long, while Ona spelled out its -contents. It appeared that this house contained four rooms, besides a -basement, and that it might be bought for fifteen hundred dollars, the -lot and all. Of this, only three hundred dollars had to be paid down, -the balance being paid at the rate of twelve dollars a month. These -were frightful sums, but then they were in America, where people talked -about such without fear. They had learned that they would have to pay a -rent of nine dollars a month for a flat, and there was no way of doing -better, unless the family of twelve was to exist in one or two rooms, -as at present. If they paid rent, of course, they might pay forever, -and be no better off; whereas, if they could only meet the extra -expense in the beginning, there would at last come a time when they -would not have any rent to pay for the rest of their lives. - -They figured it up. There was a little left of the money belonging to -Teta Elzbieta, and there was a little left to Jurgis. Marija had about -fifty dollars pinned up somewhere in her stockings, and Grandfather -Anthony had part of the money he had gotten for his farm. If they all -combined, they would have enough to make the first payment; and if they -had employment, so that they could be sure of the future, it might -really prove the best plan. It was, of course, not a thing even to be -talked of lightly; it was a thing they would have to sift to the -bottom. And yet, on the other hand, if they were going to make the -venture, the sooner they did it the better, for were they not paying -rent all the time, and living in a most horrible way besides? Jurgis -was used to dirt—there was nothing could scare a man who had been with -a railroad gang, where one could gather up the fleas off the floor of -the sleeping room by the handful. But that sort of thing would not do -for Ona. They must have a better place of some sort soon—Jurgis said it -with all the assurance of a man who had just made a dollar and -fifty-seven cents in a single day. Jurgis was at a loss to understand -why, with wages as they were, so many of the people of this district -should live the way they did. - -The next day Marija went to see her “forelady,” and was told to report -the first of the week, and learn the business of can-painter. Marija -went home, singing out loud all the way, and was just in time to join -Ona and her stepmother as they were setting out to go and make inquiry -concerning the house. That evening the three made their report to the -men—the thing was altogether as represented in the circular, or at any -rate so the agent had said. The houses lay to the south, about a mile -and a half from the yards; they were wonderful bargains, the gentleman -had assured them—personally, and for their own good. He could do this, -so he explained to them, for the reason that he had himself no interest -in their sale—he was merely the agent for a company that had built -them. These were the last, and the company was going out of business, -so if any one wished to take advantage of this wonderful no-rent plan, -he would have to be very quick. As a matter of fact there was just a -little uncertainty as to whether there was a single house left; for the -agent had taken so many people to see them, and for all he knew the -company might have parted with the last. Seeing Teta Elzbieta’s evident -grief at this news, he added, after some hesitation, that if they -really intended to make a purchase, he would send a telephone message -at his own expense, and have one of the houses kept. So it had finally -been arranged—and they were to go and make an inspection the following -Sunday morning. - -That was Thursday; and all the rest of the week the killing gang at -Brown’s worked at full pressure, and Jurgis cleared a dollar -seventy-five every day. That was at the rate of ten and one-half -dollars a week, or forty-five a month. Jurgis was not able to figure, -except it was a very simple sum, but Ona was like lightning at such -things, and she worked out the problem for the family. Marija and Jonas -were each to pay sixteen dollars a month board, and the old man -insisted that he could do the same as soon as he got a place—which -might be any day now. That would make ninety-three dollars. Then Marija -and Jonas were between them to take a third share in the house, which -would leave only eight dollars a month for Jurgis to contribute to the -payment. So they would have eighty-five dollars a month—or, supposing -that Dede Antanas did not get work at once, seventy dollars a -month—which ought surely to be sufficient for the support of a family -of twelve. - -An hour before the time on Sunday morning the entire party set out. -They had the address written on a piece of paper, which they showed to -some one now and then. It proved to be a long mile and a half, but they -walked it, and half an hour or so later the agent put in an appearance. -He was a smooth and florid personage, elegantly dressed, and he spoke -their language freely, which gave him a great advantage in dealing with -them. He escorted them to the house, which was one of a long row of the -typical frame dwellings of the neighborhood, where architecture is a -luxury that is dispensed with. Ona’s heart sank, for the house was not -as it was shown in the picture; the color scheme was different, for one -thing, and then it did not seem quite so big. Still, it was freshly -painted, and made a considerable show. It was all brand-new, so the -agent told them, but he talked so incessantly that they were quite -confused, and did not have time to ask many questions. There were all -sorts of things they had made up their minds to inquire about, but when -the time came, they either forgot them or lacked the courage. The other -houses in the row did not seem to be new, and few of them seemed to be -occupied. When they ventured to hint at this, the agent’s reply was -that the purchasers would be moving in shortly. To press the matter -would have seemed to be doubting his word, and never in their lives had -any one of them ever spoken to a person of the class called “gentleman” -except with deference and humility. - -The house had a basement, about two feet below the street line, and a -single story, about six feet above it, reached by a flight of steps. In -addition there was an attic, made by the peak of the roof, and having -one small window in each end. The street in front of the house was -unpaved and unlighted, and the view from it consisted of a few exactly -similar houses, scattered here and there upon lots grown up with dingy -brown weeds. The house inside contained four rooms, plastered white; -the basement was but a frame, the walls being unplastered and the floor -not laid. The agent explained that the houses were built that way, as -the purchasers generally preferred to finish the basements to suit -their own taste. The attic was also unfinished—the family had been -figuring that in case of an emergency they could rent this attic, but -they found that there was not even a floor, nothing but joists, and -beneath them the lath and plaster of the ceiling below. All of this, -however, did not chill their ardor as much as might have been expected, -because of the volubility of the agent. There was no end to the -advantages of the house, as he set them forth, and he was not silent -for an instant; he showed them everything, down to the locks on the -doors and the catches on the windows, and how to work them. He showed -them the sink in the kitchen, with running water and a faucet, -something which Teta Elzbieta had never in her wildest dreams hoped to -possess. After a discovery such as that it would have seemed ungrateful -to find any fault, and so they tried to shut their eyes to other -defects. - -Still, they were peasant people, and they hung on to their money by -instinct; it was quite in vain that the agent hinted at promptness—they -would see, they would see, they told him, they could not decide until -they had had more time. And so they went home again, and all day and -evening there was figuring and debating. It was an agony to them to -have to make up their minds in a matter such as this. They never could -agree all together; there were so many arguments upon each side, and -one would be obstinate, and no sooner would the rest have convinced him -than it would transpire that his arguments had caused another to waver. -Once, in the evening, when they were all in harmony, and the house was -as good as bought, Szedvilas came in and upset them again. Szedvilas -had no use for property owning. He told them cruel stories of people -who had been done to death in this “buying a home” swindle. They would -be almost sure to get into a tight place and lose all their money; and -there was no end of expense that one could never foresee; and the house -might be good-for-nothing from top to bottom—how was a poor man to -know? Then, too, they would swindle you with the contract—and how was a -poor man to understand anything about a contract? It was all nothing -but robbery, and there was no safety but in keeping out of it. And pay -rent? asked Jurgis. Ah, yes, to be sure, the other answered, that too -was robbery. It was all robbery, for a poor man. After half an hour of -such depressing conversation, they had their minds quite made up that -they had been saved at the brink of a precipice; but then Szedvilas -went away, and Jonas, who was a sharp little man, reminded them that -the delicatessen business was a failure, according to its proprietor, -and that this might account for his pessimistic views. Which, of -course, reopened the subject! - -The controlling factor was that they could not stay where they -were—they had to go somewhere. And when they gave up the house plan and -decided to rent, the prospect of paying out nine dollars a month -forever they found just as hard to face. All day and all night for -nearly a whole week they wrestled with the problem, and then in the end -Jurgis took the responsibility. Brother Jonas had gotten his job, and -was pushing a truck in Durham’s; and the killing gang at Brown’s -continued to work early and late, so that Jurgis grew more confident -every hour, more certain of his mastership. It was the kind of thing -the man of the family had to decide and carry through, he told himself. -Others might have failed at it, but he was not the failing kind—he -would show them how to do it. He would work all day, and all night, -too, if need be; he would never rest until the house was paid for and -his people had a home. So he told them, and so in the end the decision -was made. - -They had talked about looking at more houses before they made the -purchase; but then they did not know where any more were, and they did -not know any way of finding out. The one they had seen held the sway in -their thoughts; whenever they thought of themselves in a house, it was -this house that they thought of. And so they went and told the agent -that they were ready to make the agreement. They knew, as an abstract -proposition, that in matters of business all men are to be accounted -liars; but they could not but have been influenced by all they had -heard from the eloquent agent, and were quite persuaded that the house -was something they had run a risk of losing by their delay. They drew a -deep breath when he told them that they were still in time. - -They were to come on the morrow, and he would have the papers all drawn -up. This matter of papers was one in which Jurgis understood to the -full the need of caution; yet he could not go himself—every one told -him that he could not get a holiday, and that he might lose his job by -asking. So there was nothing to be done but to trust it to the women, -with Szedvilas, who promised to go with them. Jurgis spent a whole -evening impressing upon them the seriousness of the occasion—and then -finally, out of innumerable hiding places about their persons and in -their baggage, came forth the precious wads of money, to be done up -tightly in a little bag and sewed fast in the lining of Teta Elzbieta’s -dress. - -Early in the morning they sallied forth. Jurgis had given them so many -instructions and warned them against so many perils, that the women -were quite pale with fright, and even the imperturbable delicatessen -vender, who prided himself upon being a businessman, was ill at ease. -The agent had the deed all ready, and invited them to sit down and read -it; this Szedvilas proceeded to do—a painful and laborious process, -during which the agent drummed upon the desk. Teta Elzbieta was so -embarrassed that the perspiration came out upon her forehead in beads; -for was not this reading as much as to say plainly to the gentleman’s -face that they doubted his honesty? Yet Jokubas Szedvilas read on and -on; and presently there developed that he had good reason for doing so. -For a horrible suspicion had begun dawning in his mind; he knitted his -brows more and more as he read. This was not a deed of sale at all, so -far as he could see—it provided only for the renting of the property! -It was hard to tell, with all this strange legal jargon, words he had -never heard before; but was not this plain—“the party of the first part -hereby covenants and agrees to rent to the said party of the second -part!” And then again—“a monthly _rental_ of twelve dollars, for a -period of eight years and four months!” Then Szedvilas took off his -spectacles, and looked at the agent, and stammered a question. - -The agent was most polite, and explained that that was the usual -formula; that it was always arranged that the property should be merely -rented. He kept trying to show them something in the next paragraph; -but Szedvilas could not get by the word “rental”—and when he translated -it to Teta Elzbieta, she too was thrown into a fright. They would not -own the home at all, then, for nearly nine years! The agent, with -infinite patience, began to explain again; but no explanation would do -now. Elzbieta had firmly fixed in her mind the last solemn warning of -Jurgis: “If there is anything wrong, do not give him the money, but go -out and get a lawyer.” It was an agonizing moment, but she sat in the -chair, her hands clenched like death, and made a fearful effort, -summoning all her powers, and gasped out her purpose. - -Jokubas translated her words. She expected the agent to fly into a -passion, but he was, to her bewilderment, as ever imperturbable; he -even offered to go and get a lawyer for her, but she declined this. -They went a long way, on purpose to find a man who would not be a -confederate. Then let any one imagine their dismay, when, after half an -hour, they came in with a lawyer, and heard him greet the agent by his -first name! They felt that all was lost; they sat like prisoners -summoned to hear the reading of their death warrant. There was nothing -more that they could do—they were trapped! The lawyer read over the -deed, and when he had read it he informed Szedvilas that it was all -perfectly regular, that the deed was a blank deed such as was often -used in these sales. And was the price as agreed? the old man -asked—three hundred dollars down, and the balance at twelve dollars a -month, till the total of fifteen hundred dollars had been paid? Yes, -that was correct. And it was for the sale of such and such a house—the -house and lot and everything? Yes,—and the lawyer showed him where that -was all written. And it was all perfectly regular—there were no tricks -about it of any sort? They were poor people, and this was all they had -in the world, and if there was anything wrong they would be ruined. And -so Szedvilas went on, asking one trembling question after another, -while the eyes of the women folks were fixed upon him in mute agony. -They could not understand what he was saying, but they knew that upon -it their fate depended. And when at last he had questioned until there -was no more questioning to be done, and the time came for them to make -up their minds, and either close the bargain or reject it, it was all -that poor Teta Elzbieta could do to keep from bursting into tears. -Jokubas had asked her if she wished to sign; he had asked her twice—and -what could she say? How did she know if this lawyer were telling the -truth—that he was not in the conspiracy? And yet, how could she say -so—what excuse could she give? The eyes of every one in the room were -upon her, awaiting her decision; and at last, half blind with her -tears, she began fumbling in her jacket, where she had pinned the -precious money. And she brought it out and unwrapped it before the men. -All of this Ona sat watching, from a corner of the room, twisting her -hands together, meantime, in a fever of fright. Ona longed to cry out -and tell her stepmother to stop, that it was all a trap; but there -seemed to be something clutching her by the throat, and she could not -make a sound. And so Teta Elzbieta laid the money on the table, and the -agent picked it up and counted it, and then wrote them a receipt for it -and passed them the deed. Then he gave a sigh of satisfaction, and rose -and shook hands with them all, still as smooth and polite as at the -beginning. Ona had a dim recollection of the lawyer telling Szedvilas -that his charge was a dollar, which occasioned some debate, and more -agony; and then, after they had paid that, too, they went out into the -street, her stepmother clutching the deed in her hand. They were so -weak from fright that they could not walk, but had to sit down on the -way. - -So they went home, with a deadly terror gnawing at their souls; and -that evening Jurgis came home and heard their story, and that was the -end. Jurgis was sure that they had been swindled, and were ruined; and -he tore his hair and cursed like a madman, swearing that he would kill -the agent that very night. In the end he seized the paper and rushed -out of the house, and all the way across the yards to Halsted Street. -He dragged Szedvilas out from his supper, and together they rushed to -consult another lawyer. When they entered his office the lawyer sprang -up, for Jurgis looked like a crazy person, with flying hair and -bloodshot eyes. His companion explained the situation, and the lawyer -took the paper and began to read it, while Jurgis stood clutching the -desk with knotted hands, trembling in every nerve. - -Once or twice the lawyer looked up and asked a question of Szedvilas; -the other did not know a word that he was saying, but his eyes were -fixed upon the lawyer’s face, striving in an agony of dread to read his -mind. He saw the lawyer look up and laugh, and he gave a gasp; the man -said something to Szedvilas, and Jurgis turned upon his friend, his -heart almost stopping. - -“Well?” he panted. - -“He says it is all right,” said Szedvilas. - -“All right!” - -“Yes, he says it is just as it should be.” And Jurgis, in his relief, -sank down into a chair. - -“Are you sure of it?” he gasped, and made Szedvilas translate question -after question. He could not hear it often enough; he could not ask -with enough variations. Yes, they had bought the house, they had really -bought it. It belonged to them, they had only to pay the money and it -would be all right. Then Jurgis covered his face with his hands, for -there were tears in his eyes, and he felt like a fool. But he had had -such a horrible fright; strong man as he was, it left him almost too -weak to stand up. - -The lawyer explained that the rental was a form—the property was said -to be merely rented until the last payment had been made, the purpose -being to make it easier to turn the party out if he did not make the -payments. So long as they paid, however, they had nothing to fear, the -house was all theirs. - -Jurgis was so grateful that he paid the half dollar the lawyer asked -without winking an eyelash, and then rushed home to tell the news to -the family. He found Ona in a faint and the babies screaming, and the -whole house in an uproar—for it had been believed by all that he had -gone to murder the agent. It was hours before the excitement could be -calmed; and all through that cruel night Jurgis would wake up now and -then and hear Ona and her stepmother in the next room, sobbing softly -to themselves. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -They had bought their home. It was hard for them to realize that the -wonderful house was theirs to move into whenever they chose. They spent -all their time thinking about it, and what they were going to put into -it. As their week with Aniele was up in three days, they lost no time -in getting ready. They had to make some shift to furnish it, and every -instant of their leisure was given to discussing this. - -A person who had such a task before him would not need to look very far -in Packingtown—he had only to walk up the avenue and read the signs, or -get into a streetcar, to obtain full information as to pretty much -everything a human creature could need. It was quite touching, the zeal -of people to see that his health and happiness were provided for. Did -the person wish to smoke? There was a little discourse about cigars, -showing him exactly why the Thomas Jefferson Five-cent Perfecto was the -only cigar worthy of the name. Had he, on the other hand, smoked too -much? Here was a remedy for the smoking habit, twenty-five doses for a -quarter, and a cure absolutely guaranteed in ten doses. In innumerable -ways such as this, the traveler found that somebody had been busied to -make smooth his paths through the world, and to let him know what had -been done for him. In Packingtown the advertisements had a style all of -their own, adapted to the peculiar population. One would be tenderly -solicitous. “Is your wife pale?” it would inquire. “Is she discouraged, -does she drag herself about the house and find fault with everything? -Why do you not tell her to try Dr. Lanahan’s Life Preservers?” Another -would be jocular in tone, slapping you on the back, so to speak. “Don’t -be a chump!” it would exclaim. “Go and get the Goliath Bunion Cure.” -“Get a move on you!” would chime in another. “It’s easy, if you wear -the Eureka Two-fifty Shoe.” - -Among these importunate signs was one that had caught the attention of -the family by its pictures. It showed two very pretty little birds -building themselves a home; and Marija had asked an acquaintance to -read it to her, and told them that it related to the furnishing of a -house. “Feather your nest,” it ran—and went on to say that it could -furnish all the necessary feathers for a four-room nest for the -ludicrously small sum of seventy-five dollars. The particularly -important thing about this offer was that only a small part of the -money need be had at once—the rest one might pay a few dollars every -month. Our friends had to have some furniture, there was no getting -away from that; but their little fund of money had sunk so low that -they could hardly get to sleep at night, and so they fled to this as -their deliverance. There was more agony and another paper for Elzbieta -to sign, and then one night when Jurgis came home, he was told the -breathless tidings that the furniture had arrived and was safely stowed -in the house: a parlor set of four pieces, a bedroom set of three -pieces, a dining room table and four chairs, a toilet set with -beautiful pink roses painted all over it, an assortment of crockery, -also with pink roses—and so on. One of the plates in the set had been -found broken when they unpacked it, and Ona was going to the store the -first thing in the morning to make them change it; also they had -promised three saucepans, and there had only two come, and did Jurgis -think that they were trying to cheat them? - -The next day they went to the house; and when the men came from work -they ate a few hurried mouthfuls at Aniele’s, and then set to work at -the task of carrying their belongings to their new home. The distance -was in reality over two miles, but Jurgis made two trips that night, -each time with a huge pile of mattresses and bedding on his head, with -bundles of clothing and bags and things tied up inside. Anywhere else -in Chicago he would have stood a good chance of being arrested; but the -policemen in Packingtown were apparently used to these informal -movings, and contented themselves with a cursory examination now and -then. It was quite wonderful to see how fine the house looked, with all -the things in it, even by the dim light of a lamp: it was really home, -and almost as exciting as the placard had described it. Ona was fairly -dancing, and she and Cousin Marija took Jurgis by the arm and escorted -him from room to room, sitting in each chair by turns, and then -insisting that he should do the same. One chair squeaked with his great -weight, and they screamed with fright, and woke the baby and brought -everybody running. Altogether it was a great day; and tired as they -were, Jurgis and Ona sat up late, contented simply to hold each other -and gaze in rapture about the room. They were going to be married as -soon as they could get everything settled, and a little spare money put -by; and this was to be their home—that little room yonder would be -theirs! - -It was in truth a never-ending delight, the fixing up of this house. -They had no money to spend for the pleasure of spending, but there were -a few absolutely necessary things, and the buying of these was a -perpetual adventure for Ona. It must always be done at night, so that -Jurgis could go along; and even if it were only a pepper cruet, or half -a dozen glasses for ten cents, that was enough for an expedition. On -Saturday night they came home with a great basketful of things, and -spread them out on the table, while every one stood round, and the -children climbed up on the chairs, or howled to be lifted up to see. -There were sugar and salt and tea and crackers, and a can of lard and a -milk pail, and a scrubbing brush, and a pair of shoes for the second -oldest boy, and a can of oil, and a tack hammer, and a pound of nails. -These last were to be driven into the walls of the kitchen and the -bedrooms, to hang things on; and there was a family discussion as to -the place where each one was to be driven. Then Jurgis would try to -hammer, and hit his fingers because the hammer was too small, and get -mad because Ona had refused to let him pay fifteen cents more and get a -bigger hammer; and Ona would be invited to try it herself, and hurt her -thumb, and cry out, which necessitated the thumb’s being kissed by -Jurgis. Finally, after every one had had a try, the nails would be -driven, and something hung up. Jurgis had come home with a big packing -box on his head, and he sent Jonas to get another that he had bought. -He meant to take one side out of these tomorrow, and put shelves in -them, and make them into bureaus and places to keep things for the -bedrooms. The nest which had been advertised had not included feathers -for quite so many birds as there were in this family. - -They had, of course, put their dining table in the kitchen, and the -dining room was used as the bedroom of Teta Elzbieta and five of her -children. She and the two youngest slept in the only bed, and the other -three had a mattress on the floor. Ona and her cousin dragged a -mattress into the parlor and slept at night, and the three men and the -oldest boy slept in the other room, having nothing but the very level -floor to rest on for the present. Even so, however, they slept -soundly—it was necessary for Teta Elzbieta to pound more than once on -the door at a quarter past five every morning. She would have ready a -great pot full of steaming black coffee, and oatmeal and bread and -smoked sausages; and then she would fix them their dinner pails with -more thick slices of bread with lard between them—they could not afford -butter—and some onions and a piece of cheese, and so they would tramp -away to work. - -This was the first time in his life that he had ever really worked, it -seemed to Jurgis; it was the first time that he had ever had anything -to do which took all he had in him. Jurgis had stood with the rest up -in the gallery and watched the men on the killing beds, marveling at -their speed and power as if they had been wonderful machines; it -somehow never occurred to one to think of the flesh-and-blood side of -it—that is, not until he actually got down into the pit and took off -his coat. Then he saw things in a different light, he got at the inside -of them. The pace they set here, it was one that called for every -faculty of a man—from the instant the first steer fell till the -sounding of the noon whistle, and again from half-past twelve till -heaven only knew what hour in the late afternoon or evening, there was -never one instant’s rest for a man, for his hand or his eye or his -brain. Jurgis saw how they managed it; there were portions of the work -which determined the pace of the rest, and for these they had picked -men whom they paid high wages, and whom they changed frequently. You -might easily pick out these pacemakers, for they worked under the eye -of the bosses, and they worked like men possessed. This was called -“speeding up the gang,” and if any man could not keep up with the pace, -there were hundreds outside begging to try. - -Yet Jurgis did not mind it; he rather enjoyed it. It saved him the -necessity of flinging his arms about and fidgeting as he did in most -work. He would laugh to himself as he ran down the line, darting a -glance now and then at the man ahead of him. It was not the pleasantest -work one could think of, but it was necessary work; and what more had a -man the right to ask than a chance to do something useful, and to get -good pay for doing it? - -So Jurgis thought, and so he spoke, in his bold, free way; very much to -his surprise, he found that it had a tendency to get him into trouble. -For most of the men here took a fearfully different view of the thing. -He was quite dismayed when he first began to find it out—that most of -the men _hated_ their work. It seemed strange, it was even terrible, -when you came to find out the universality of the sentiment; but it was -certainly the fact—they hated their work. They hated the bosses and -they hated the owners; they hated the whole place, the whole -neighborhood—even the whole city, with an all-inclusive hatred, bitter -and fierce. Women and little children would fall to cursing about it; -it was rotten, rotten as hell—everything was rotten. When Jurgis would -ask them what they meant, they would begin to get suspicious, and -content themselves with saying, “Never mind, you stay here and see for -yourself.” - -One of the first problems that Jurgis ran upon was that of the unions. -He had had no experience with unions, and he had to have it explained -to him that the men were banded together for the purpose of fighting -for their rights. Jurgis asked them what they meant by their rights, a -question in which he was quite sincere, for he had not any idea of any -rights that he had, except the right to hunt for a job, and do as he -was told when he got it. Generally, however, this harmless question -would only make his fellow workingmen lose their tempers and call him a -fool. There was a delegate of the butcher-helpers’ union who came to -see Jurgis to enroll him; and when Jurgis found that this meant that he -would have to part with some of his money, he froze up directly, and -the delegate, who was an Irishman and only knew a few words of -Lithuanian, lost his temper and began to threaten him. In the end -Jurgis got into a fine rage, and made it sufficiently plain that it -would take more than one Irishman to scare him into a union. Little by -little he gathered that the main thing the men wanted was to put a stop -to the habit of “speeding-up”; they were trying their best to force a -lessening of the pace, for there were some, they said, who could not -keep up with it, whom it was killing. But Jurgis had no sympathy with -such ideas as this—he could do the work himself, and so could the rest -of them, he declared, if they were good for anything. If they couldn’t -do it, let them go somewhere else. Jurgis had not studied the books, -and he would not have known how to pronounce “laissez faire”; but he -had been round the world enough to know that a man has to shift for -himself in it, and that if he gets the worst of it, there is nobody to -listen to him holler. - -Yet there have been known to be philosophers and plain men who swore by -Malthus in the books, and would, nevertheless, subscribe to a relief -fund in time of a famine. It was the same with Jurgis, who consigned -the unfit to destruction, while going about all day sick at heart -because of his poor old father, who was wandering somewhere in the -yards begging for a chance to earn his bread. Old Antanas had been a -worker ever since he was a child; he had run away from home when he was -twelve, because his father beat him for trying to learn to read. And he -was a faithful man, too; he was a man you might leave alone for a -month, if only you had made him understand what you wanted him to do in -the meantime. And now here he was, worn out in soul and body, and with -no more place in the world than a sick dog. He had his home, as it -happened, and some one who would care for him if he never got a job; -but his son could not help thinking, suppose this had not been the -case. Antanas Rudkus had been into every building in Packingtown by -this time, and into nearly every room; he had stood mornings among the -crowd of applicants till the very policemen had come to know his face -and to tell him to go home and give it up. He had been likewise to all -the stores and saloons for a mile about, begging for some little thing -to do; and everywhere they had ordered him out, sometimes with curses, -and not once even stopping to ask him a question. - -So, after all, there was a crack in the fine structure of Jurgis’ faith -in things as they are. The crack was wide while Dede Antanas was -hunting a job—and it was yet wider when he finally got it. For one -evening the old man came home in a great state of excitement, with the -tale that he had been approached by a man in one of the corridors of -the pickle rooms of Durham’s, and asked what he would pay to get a job. -He had not known what to make of this at first; but the man had gone on -with matter-of-fact frankness to say that he could get him a job, -provided that he were willing to pay one-third of his wages for it. Was -he a boss? Antanas had asked; to which the man had replied that that -was nobody’s business, but that he could do what he said. - -Jurgis had made some friends by this time, and he sought one of them -and asked what this meant. The friend, who was named Tamoszius -Kuszleika, was a sharp little man who folded hides on the killing beds, -and he listened to what Jurgis had to say without seeming at all -surprised. They were common enough, he said, such cases of petty graft. -It was simply some boss who proposed to add a little to his income. -After Jurgis had been there awhile he would know that the plants were -simply honeycombed with rottenness of that sort—the bosses grafted off -the men, and they grafted off each other; and some day the -superintendent would find out about the boss, and then he would graft -off the boss. Warming to the subject, Tamoszius went on to explain the -situation. Here was Durham’s, for instance, owned by a man who was -trying to make as much money out of it as he could, and did not care in -the least how he did it; and underneath him, ranged in ranks and grades -like an army, were managers and superintendents and foremen, each one -driving the man next below him and trying to squeeze out of him as much -work as possible. And all the men of the same rank were pitted against -each other; the accounts of each were kept separately, and every man -lived in terror of losing his job, if another made a better record than -he. So from top to bottom the place was simply a seething caldron of -jealousies and hatreds; there was no loyalty or decency anywhere about -it, there was no place in it where a man counted for anything against a -dollar. And worse than there being no decency, there was not even any -honesty. The reason for that? Who could say? It must have been old -Durham in the beginning; it was a heritage which the self-made merchant -had left to his son, along with his millions. - -Jurgis would find out these things for himself, if he stayed there long -enough; it was the men who had to do all the dirty jobs, and so there -was no deceiving them; and they caught the spirit of the place, and did -like all the rest. Jurgis had come there, and thought he was going to -make himself useful, and rise and become a skilled man; but he would -soon find out his error—for nobody rose in Packingtown by doing good -work. You could lay that down for a rule—if you met a man who was -rising in Packingtown, you met a knave. That man who had been sent to -Jurgis’ father by the boss, _he_ would rise; the man who told tales and -spied upon his fellows would rise; but the man who minded his own -business and did his work—why, they would “speed him up” till they had -worn him out, and then they would throw him into the gutter. - -Jurgis went home with his head buzzing. Yet he could not bring himself -to believe such things—no, it could not be so. Tamoszius was simply -another of the grumblers. He was a man who spent all his time fiddling; -and he would go to parties at night and not get home till sunrise, and -so of course he did not feel like work. Then, too, he was a puny little -chap; and so he had been left behind in the race, and that was why he -was sore. And yet so many strange things kept coming to Jurgis’ notice -every day! - -He tried to persuade his father to have nothing to do with the offer. -But old Antanas had begged until he was worn out, and all his courage -was gone; he wanted a job, any sort of a job. So the next day he went -and found the man who had spoken to him, and promised to bring him a -third of all he earned; and that same day he was put to work in -Durham’s cellars. It was a “pickle room,” where there was never a dry -spot to stand upon, and so he had to take nearly the whole of his first -week’s earnings to buy him a pair of heavy-soled boots. He was a -“squeedgie” man; his job was to go about all day with a long-handled -mop, swabbing up the floor. Except that it was damp and dark, it was -not an unpleasant job, in summer. - -Now Antanas Rudkus was the meekest man that God ever put on earth; and -so Jurgis found it a striking confirmation of what the men all said, -that his father had been at work only two days before he came home as -bitter as any of them, and cursing Durham’s with all the power of his -soul. For they had set him to cleaning out the traps; and the family -sat round and listened in wonder while he told them what that meant. It -seemed that he was working in the room where the men prepared the beef -for canning, and the beef had lain in vats full of chemicals, and men -with great forks speared it out and dumped it into trucks, to be taken -to the cooking room. When they had speared out all they could reach, -they emptied the vat on the floor, and then with shovels scraped up the -balance and dumped it into the truck. This floor was filthy, yet they -set Antanas with his mop slopping the “pickle” into a hole that -connected with a sink, where it was caught and used over again forever; -and if that were not enough, there was a trap in the pipe, where all -the scraps of meat and odds and ends of refuse were caught, and every -few days it was the old man’s task to clean these out, and shovel their -contents into one of the trucks with the rest of the meat! - -This was the experience of Antanas; and then there came also Jonas and -Marija with tales to tell. Marija was working for one of the -independent packers, and was quite beside herself and outrageous with -triumph over the sums of money she was making as a painter of cans. But -one day she walked home with a pale-faced little woman who worked -opposite to her, Jadvyga Marcinkus by name, and Jadvyga told her how -she, Marija, had chanced to get her job. She had taken the place of an -Irishwoman who had been working in that factory ever since any one -could remember. For over fifteen years, so she declared. Mary Dennis -was her name, and a long time ago she had been seduced, and had a -little boy; he was a cripple, and an epileptic, but still he was all -that she had in the world to love, and they had lived in a little room -alone somewhere back of Halsted Street, where the Irish were. Mary had -had consumption, and all day long you might hear her coughing as she -worked; of late she had been going all to pieces, and when Marija came, -the “forelady” had suddenly decided to turn her off. The forelady had -to come up to a certain standard herself, and could not stop for sick -people, Jadvyga explained. The fact that Mary had been there so long -had not made any difference to her—it was doubtful if she even knew -that, for both the forelady and the superintendent were new people, -having only been there two or three years themselves. Jadvyga did not -know what had become of the poor creature; she would have gone to see -her, but had been sick herself. She had pains in her back all the time, -Jadvyga explained, and feared that she had womb trouble. It was not fit -work for a woman, handling fourteen-pound cans all day. - -It was a striking circumstance that Jonas, too, had gotten his job by -the misfortune of some other person. Jonas pushed a truck loaded with -hams from the smoke rooms on to an elevator, and thence to the packing -rooms. The trucks were all of iron, and heavy, and they put about -threescore hams on each of them, a load of more than a quarter of a -ton. On the uneven floor it was a task for a man to start one of these -trucks, unless he was a giant; and when it was once started he -naturally tried his best to keep it going. There was always the boss -prowling about, and if there was a second’s delay he would fall to -cursing; Lithuanians and Slovaks and such, who could not understand -what was said to them, the bosses were wont to kick about the place -like so many dogs. Therefore these trucks went for the most part on the -run; and the predecessor of Jonas had been jammed against the wall by -one and crushed in a horrible and nameless manner. - -All of these were sinister incidents; but they were trifles compared to -what Jurgis saw with his own eyes before long. One curious thing he had -noticed, the very first day, in his profession of shoveler of guts; -which was the sharp trick of the floor bosses whenever there chanced to -come a “slunk” calf. Any man who knows anything about butchering knows -that the flesh of a cow that is about to calve, or has just calved, is -not fit for food. A good many of these came every day to the packing -houses—and, of course, if they had chosen, it would have been an easy -matter for the packers to keep them till they were fit for food. But -for the saving of time and fodder, it was the law that cows of that -sort came along with the others, and whoever noticed it would tell the -boss, and the boss would start up a conversation with the government -inspector, and the two would stroll away. So in a trice the carcass of -the cow would be cleaned out, and entrails would have vanished; it was -Jurgis’ task to slide them into the trap, calves and all, and on the -floor below they took out these “slunk” calves, and butchered them for -meat, and used even the skins of them. - -One day a man slipped and hurt his leg; and that afternoon, when the -last of the cattle had been disposed of, and the men were leaving, -Jurgis was ordered to remain and do some special work which this -injured man had usually done. It was late, almost dark, and the -government inspectors had all gone, and there were only a dozen or two -of men on the floor. That day they had killed about four thousand -cattle, and these cattle had come in freight trains from far states, -and some of them had got hurt. There were some with broken legs, and -some with gored sides; there were some that had died, from what cause -no one could say; and they were all to be disposed of, here in darkness -and silence. “Downers,” the men called them; and the packing house had -a special elevator upon which they were raised to the killing beds, -where the gang proceeded to handle them, with an air of businesslike -nonchalance which said plainer than any words that it was a matter of -everyday routine. It took a couple of hours to get them out of the way, -and in the end Jurgis saw them go into the chilling rooms with the rest -of the meat, being carefully scattered here and there so that they -could not be identified. When he came home that night he was in a very -somber mood, having begun to see at last how those might be right who -had laughed at him for his faith in America. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -Jurgis and Ona were very much in love; they had waited a long time—it -was now well into the second year, and Jurgis judged everything by the -criterion of its helping or hindering their union. All his thoughts -were there; he accepted the family because it was a part of Ona. And he -was interested in the house because it was to be Ona’s home. Even the -tricks and cruelties he saw at Durham’s had little meaning for him just -then, save as they might happen to affect his future with Ona. - -The marriage would have been at once, if they had had their way; but -this would mean that they would have to do without any wedding feast, -and when they suggested this they came into conflict with the old -people. To Teta Elzbieta especially the very suggestion was an -affliction. What! she would cry. To be married on the roadside like a -parcel of beggars! No! No!—Elzbieta had some traditions behind her; she -had been a person of importance in her girlhood—had lived on a big -estate and had servants, and might have married well and been a lady, -but for the fact that there had been nine daughters and no sons in the -family. Even so, however, she knew what was decent, and clung to her -traditions with desperation. They were not going to lose all caste, -even if they had come to be unskilled laborers in Packingtown; and that -Ona had even talked of omitting a _veselija_ was enough to keep her -stepmother lying awake all night. It was in vain for them to say that -they had so few friends; they were bound to have friends in time, and -then the friends would talk about it. They must not give up what was -right for a little money—if they did, the money would never do them any -good, they could depend upon that. And Elzbieta would call upon Dede -Antanas to support her; there was a fear in the souls of these two, -lest this journey to a new country might somehow undermine the old home -virtues of their children. The very first Sunday they had all been -taken to mass; and poor as they were, Elzbieta had felt it advisable to -invest a little of her resources in a representation of the babe of -Bethlehem, made in plaster, and painted in brilliant colors. Though it -was only a foot high, there was a shrine with four snow-white steeples, -and the Virgin standing with her child in her arms, and the kings and -shepherds and wise men bowing down before him. It had cost fifty cents; -but Elzbieta had a feeling that money spent for such things was not to -be counted too closely, it would come back in hidden ways. The piece -was beautiful on the parlor mantel, and one could not have a home -without some sort of ornament. - -The cost of the wedding feast would, of course, be returned to them; -but the problem was to raise it even temporarily. They had been in the -neighborhood so short a time that they could not get much credit, and -there was no one except Szedvilas from whom they could borrow even a -little. Evening after evening Jurgis and Ona would sit and figure the -expenses, calculating the term of their separation. They could not -possibly manage it decently for less than two hundred dollars, and even -though they were welcome to count in the whole of the earnings of -Marija and Jonas, as a loan, they could not hope to raise this sum in -less than four or five months. So Ona began thinking of seeking -employment herself, saying that if she had even ordinarily good luck, -she might be able to take two months off the time. They were just -beginning to adjust themselves to this necessity, when out of the clear -sky there fell a thunderbolt upon them—a calamity that scattered all -their hopes to the four winds. - -About a block away from them there lived another Lithuanian family, -consisting of an elderly widow and one grown son; their name was -Majauszkis, and our friends struck up an acquaintance with them before -long. One evening they came over for a visit, and naturally the first -subject upon which the conversation turned was the neighborhood and its -history; and then Grandmother Majauszkiene, as the old lady was called, -proceeded to recite to them a string of horrors that fairly froze their -blood. She was a wrinkled-up and wizened personage—she must have been -eighty—and as she mumbled the grim story through her toothless gums, -she seemed a very old witch to them. Grandmother Majauszkiene had lived -in the midst of misfortune so long that it had come to be her element, -and she talked about starvation, sickness, and death as other people -might about weddings and holidays. - -The thing came gradually. In the first place as to the house they had -bought, it was not new at all, as they had supposed; it was about -fifteen years old, and there was nothing new upon it but the paint, -which was so bad that it needed to be put on new every year or two. The -house was one of a whole row that was built by a company which existed -to make money by swindling poor people. The family had paid fifteen -hundred dollars for it, and it had not cost the builders five hundred, -when it was new. Grandmother Majauszkiene knew that because her son -belonged to a political organization with a contractor who put up -exactly such houses. They used the very flimsiest and cheapest -material; they built the houses a dozen at a time, and they cared about -nothing at all except the outside shine. The family could take her word -as to the trouble they would have, for she had been through it all—she -and her son had bought their house in exactly the same way. They had -fooled the company, however, for her son was a skilled man, who made as -high as a hundred dollars a month, and as he had had sense enough not -to marry, they had been able to pay for the house. - -Grandmother Majauszkiene saw that her friends were puzzled at this -remark; they did not quite see how paying for the house was “fooling -the company.” Evidently they were very inexperienced. Cheap as the -houses were, they were sold with the idea that the people who bought -them would not be able to pay for them. When they failed—if it were -only by a single month—they would lose the house and all that they had -paid on it, and then the company would sell it over again. And did they -often get a chance to do that? _Dieve!_ (Grandmother Majauszkiene -raised her hands.) They did it—how often no one could say, but -certainly more than half of the time. They might ask any one who knew -anything at all about Packingtown as to that; she had been living here -ever since this house was built, and she could tell them all about it. -And had it ever been sold before? _Susimilkie!_ Why, since it had been -built, no less than four families that their informant could name had -tried to buy it and failed. She would tell them a little about it. - -The first family had been Germans. The families had all been of -different nationalities—there had been a representative of several -races that had displaced each other in the stockyards. Grandmother -Majauszkiene had come to America with her son at a time when so far as -she knew there was only one other Lithuanian family in the district; -the workers had all been Germans then—skilled cattle butchers that the -packers had brought from abroad to start the business. Afterward, as -cheaper labor had come, these Germans had moved away. The next were the -Irish—there had been six or eight years when Packingtown had been a -regular Irish city. There were a few colonies of them still here, -enough to run all the unions and the police force and get all the -graft; but most of those who were working in the packing houses had -gone away at the next drop in wages—after the big strike. The Bohemians -had come then, and after them the Poles. People said that old man -Durham himself was responsible for these immigrations; he had sworn -that he would fix the people of Packingtown so that they would never -again call a strike on him, and so he had sent his agents into every -city and village in Europe to spread the tale of the chances of work -and high wages at the stockyards. The people had come in hordes; and -old Durham had squeezed them tighter and tighter, speeding them up and -grinding them to pieces and sending for new ones. The Poles, who had -come by tens of thousands, had been driven to the wall by the -Lithuanians, and now the Lithuanians were giving way to the Slovaks. -Who there was poorer and more miserable than the Slovaks, Grandmother -Majauszkiene had no idea, but the packers would find them, never fear. -It was easy to bring them, for wages were really much higher, and it -was only when it was too late that the poor people found out that -everything else was higher too. They were like rats in a trap, that was -the truth; and more of them were piling in every day. By and by they -would have their revenge, though, for the thing was getting beyond -human endurance, and the people would rise and murder the packers. -Grandmother Majauszkiene was a socialist, or some such strange thing; -another son of hers was working in the mines of Siberia, and the old -lady herself had made speeches in her time—which made her seem all the -more terrible to her present auditors. - -They called her back to the story of the house. The German family had -been a good sort. To be sure there had been a great many of them, which -was a common failing in Packingtown; but they had worked hard, and the -father had been a steady man, and they had a good deal more than half -paid for the house. But he had been killed in an elevator accident in -Durham’s. - -Then there had come the Irish, and there had been lots of them, too; -the husband drank and beat the children—the neighbors could hear them -shrieking any night. They were behind with their rent all the time, but -the company was good to them; there was some politics back of that, -Grandmother Majauszkiene could not say just what, but the Laffertys had -belonged to the “War Whoop League,” which was a sort of political club -of all the thugs and rowdies in the district; and if you belonged to -that, you could never be arrested for anything. Once upon a time old -Lafferty had been caught with a gang that had stolen cows from several -of the poor people of the neighborhood and butchered them in an old -shanty back of the yards and sold them. He had been in jail only three -days for it, and had come out laughing, and had not even lost his place -in the packing house. He had gone all to ruin with the drink, however, -and lost his power; one of his sons, who was a good man, had kept him -and the family up for a year or two, but then he had got sick with -consumption. - -That was another thing, Grandmother Majauszkiene interrupted -herself—this house was unlucky. Every family that lived in it, some one -was sure to get consumption. Nobody could tell why that was; there must -be something about the house, or the way it was built—some folks said -it was because the building had been begun in the dark of the moon. -There were dozens of houses that way in Packingtown. Sometimes there -would be a particular room that you could point out—if anybody slept in -that room he was just as good as dead. With this house it had been the -Irish first; and then a Bohemian family had lost a child of it—though, -to be sure, that was uncertain, since it was hard to tell what was the -matter with children who worked in the yards. In those days there had -been no law about the age of children—the packers had worked all but -the babies. At this remark the family looked puzzled, and Grandmother -Majauszkiene again had to make an explanation—that it was against the -law for children to work before they were sixteen. What was the sense -of that? they asked. They had been thinking of letting little -Stanislovas go to work. Well, there was no need to worry, Grandmother -Majauszkiene said—the law made no difference except that it forced -people to lie about the ages of their children. One would like to know -what the lawmakers expected them to do; there were families that had no -possible means of support except the children, and the law provided -them no other way of getting a living. Very often a man could get no -work in Packingtown for months, while a child could go and get a place -easily; there was always some new machine, by which the packers could -get as much work out of a child as they had been able to get out of a -man, and for a third of the pay. - -To come back to the house again, it was the woman of the next family -that had died. That was after they had been there nearly four years, -and this woman had had twins regularly every year—and there had been -more than you could count when they moved in. After she died the man -would go to work all day and leave them to shift for themselves—the -neighbors would help them now and then, for they would almost freeze to -death. At the end there were three days that they were alone, before it -was found out that the father was dead. He was a “floorsman” at -Jones’s, and a wounded steer had broken loose and mashed him against a -pillar. Then the children had been taken away, and the company had sold -the house that very same week to a party of emigrants. - -So this grim old woman went on with her tale of horrors. How much of it -was exaggeration—who could tell? It was only too plausible. There was -that about consumption, for instance. They knew nothing about -consumption whatever, except that it made people cough; and for two -weeks they had been worrying about a coughing-spell of Antanas. It -seemed to shake him all over, and it never stopped; you could see a red -stain wherever he had spit upon the floor. - -And yet all these things were as nothing to what came a little later. -They had begun to question the old lady as to why one family had been -unable to pay, trying to show her by figures that it ought to have been -possible; and Grandmother Majauszkiene had disputed their figures—“You -say twelve dollars a month; but that does not include the interest.” - -Then they stared at her. “Interest!” they cried. - -“Interest on the money you still owe,” she answered. - -“But we don’t have to pay any interest!” they exclaimed, three or four -at once. “We only have to pay twelve dollars each month.” - -And for this she laughed at them. “You are like all the rest,” she -said; “they trick you and eat you alive. They never sell the houses -without interest. Get your deed, and see.” - -Then, with a horrible sinking of the heart, Teta Elzbieta unlocked her -bureau and brought out the paper that had already caused them so many -agonies. Now they sat round, scarcely breathing, while the old lady, -who could read English, ran over it. “Yes,” she said, finally, “here it -is, of course: ‘With interest thereon monthly, at the rate of seven per -cent per annum.’” - -And there followed a dead silence. “What does that mean?” asked Jurgis -finally, almost in a whisper. - -“That means,” replied the other, “that you have to pay them seven -dollars next month, as well as the twelve dollars.” - -Then again there was not a sound. It was sickening, like a nightmare, -in which suddenly something gives way beneath you, and you feel -yourself sinking, sinking, down into bottomless abysses. As if in a -flash of lightning they saw themselves—victims of a relentless fate, -cornered, trapped, in the grip of destruction. All the fair structure -of their hopes came crashing about their ears.—And all the time the old -woman was going on talking. They wished that she would be still; her -voice sounded like the croaking of some dismal raven. Jurgis sat with -his hands clenched and beads of perspiration on his forehead, and there -was a great lump in Ona’s throat, choking her. Then suddenly Teta -Elzbieta broke the silence with a wail, and Marija began to wring her -hands and sob, “_Ai! Ai! Beda man!_” - -All their outcry did them no good, of course. There sat Grandmother -Majauszkiene, unrelenting, typifying fate. No, of course it was not -fair, but then fairness had nothing to do with it. And of course they -had not known it. They had not been intended to know it. But it was in -the deed, and that was all that was necessary, as they would find when -the time came. - -Somehow or other they got rid of their guest, and then they passed a -night of lamentation. The children woke up and found out that something -was wrong, and they wailed and would not be comforted. In the morning, -of course, most of them had to go to work, the packing houses would not -stop for their sorrows; but by seven o’clock Ona and her stepmother -were standing at the door of the office of the agent. Yes, he told -them, when he came, it was quite true that they would have to pay -interest. And then Teta Elzbieta broke forth into protestations and -reproaches, so that the people outside stopped and peered in at the -window. The agent was as bland as ever. He was deeply pained, he said. -He had not told them, simply because he had supposed they would -understand that they had to pay interest upon their debt, as a matter -of course. - -So they came away, and Ona went down to the yards, and at noontime saw -Jurgis and told him. Jurgis took it stolidly—he had made up his mind to -it by this time. It was part of fate; they would manage it somehow—he -made his usual answer, “I will work harder.” It would upset their plans -for a time; and it would perhaps be necessary for Ona to get work after -all. Then Ona added that Teta Elzbieta had decided that little -Stanislovas would have to work too. It was not fair to let Jurgis and -her support the family—the family would have to help as it could. -Previously Jurgis had scouted this idea, but now knit his brows and -nodded his head slowly—yes, perhaps it would be best; they would all -have to make some sacrifices now. - -So Ona set out that day to hunt for work; and at night Marija came home -saying that she had met a girl named Jasaityte who had a friend that -worked in one of the wrapping rooms in Brown’s, and might get a place -for Ona there; only the forelady was the kind that takes presents—it -was no use for any one to ask her for a place unless at the same time -they slipped a ten-dollar bill into her hand. Jurgis was not in the -least surprised at this now—he merely asked what the wages of the place -would be. So negotiations were opened, and after an interview Ona came -home and reported that the forelady seemed to like her, and had said -that, while she was not sure, she thought she might be able to put her -at work sewing covers on hams, a job at which she would earn as much as -eight or ten dollars a week. That was a bid, so Marija reported, after -consulting her friend; and then there was an anxious conference at -home. The work was done in one of the cellars, and Jurgis did not want -Ona to work in such a place; but then it was easy work, and one could -not have everything. So in the end Ona, with a ten-dollar bill burning -a hole in her palm, had another interview with the forelady. - -Meantime Teta Elzbieta had taken Stanislovas to the priest and gotten a -certificate to the effect that he was two years older than he was; and -with it the little boy now sallied forth to make his fortune in the -world. It chanced that Durham had just put in a wonderful new lard -machine, and when the special policeman in front of the time station -saw Stanislovas and his document, he smiled to himself and told him to -go—“Czia! Czia!” pointing. And so Stanislovas went down a long stone -corridor, and up a flight of stairs, which took him into a room lighted -by electricity, with the new machines for filling lard cans at work in -it. The lard was finished on the floor above, and it came in little -jets, like beautiful, wriggling, snow-white snakes of unpleasant odor. -There were several kinds and sizes of jets, and after a certain precise -quantity had come out, each stopped automatically, and the wonderful -machine made a turn, and took the can under another jet, and so on, -until it was filled neatly to the brim, and pressed tightly, and -smoothed off. To attend to all this and fill several hundred cans of -lard per hour, there were necessary two human creatures, one of whom -knew how to place an empty lard can on a certain spot every few -seconds, and the other of whom knew how to take a full lard can off a -certain spot every few seconds and set it upon a tray. - -And so, after little Stanislovas had stood gazing timidly about him for -a few minutes, a man approached him, and asked what he wanted, to which -Stanislovas said, “Job.” Then the man said “How old?” and Stanislovas -answered, “Sixtin.” Once or twice every year a state inspector would -come wandering through the packing plants, asking a child here and -there how old he was; and so the packers were very careful to comply -with the law, which cost them as much trouble as was now involved in -the boss’s taking the document from the little boy, and glancing at it, -and then sending it to the office to be filed away. Then he set some -one else at a different job, and showed the lad how to place a lard can -every time the empty arm of the remorseless machine came to him; and so -was decided the place in the universe of little Stanislovas, and his -destiny till the end of his days. Hour after hour, day after day, year -after year, it was fated that he should stand upon a certain square -foot of floor from seven in the morning until noon, and again from -half-past twelve till half-past five, making never a motion and -thinking never a thought, save for the setting of lard cans. In summer -the stench of the warm lard would be nauseating, and in winter the cans -would all but freeze to his naked little fingers in the unheated -cellar. Half the year it would be dark as night when he went in to -work, and dark as night again when he came out, and so he would never -know what the sun looked like on weekdays. And for this, at the end of -the week, he would carry home three dollars to his family, being his -pay at the rate of five cents per hour—just about his proper share of -the total earnings of the million and three-quarters of children who -are now engaged in earning their livings in the United States. - -And meantime, because they were young, and hope is not to be stifled -before its time, Jurgis and Ona were again calculating; for they had -discovered that the wages of Stanislovas would a little more than pay -the interest, which left them just about as they had been before! It -would be but fair to them to say that the little boy was delighted with -his work, and at the idea of earning a lot of money; and also that the -two were very much in love with each other. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -All summer long the family toiled, and in the fall they had money -enough for Jurgis and Ona to be married according to home traditions of -decency. In the latter part of November they hired a hall, and invited -all their new acquaintances, who came and left them over a hundred -dollars in debt. - -It was a bitter and cruel experience, and it plunged them into an agony -of despair. Such a time, of all times, for them to have it, when their -hearts were made tender! Such a pitiful beginning it was for their -married life; they loved each other so, and they could not have the -briefest respite! It was a time when everything cried out to them that -they ought to be happy; when wonder burned in their hearts, and leaped -into flame at the slightest breath. They were shaken to the depths of -them, with the awe of love realized—and was it so very weak of them -that they cried out for a little peace? They had opened their hearts, -like flowers to the springtime, and the merciless winter had fallen -upon them. They wondered if ever any love that had blossomed in the -world had been so crushed and trampled! - -Over them, relentless and savage, there cracked the lash of want; the -morning after the wedding it sought them as they slept, and drove them -out before daybreak to work. Ona was scarcely able to stand with -exhaustion; but if she were to lose her place they would be ruined, and -she would surely lose it if she were not on time that day. They all had -to go, even little Stanislovas, who was ill from overindulgence in -sausages and sarsaparilla. All that day he stood at his lard machine, -rocking unsteadily, his eyes closing in spite of him; and he all but -lost his place even so, for the foreman booted him twice to waken him. - -It was fully a week before they were all normal again, and meantime, -with whining children and cross adults, the house was not a pleasant -place to live in. Jurgis lost his temper very little, however, all -things considered. It was because of Ona; the least glance at her was -always enough to make him control himself. She was so sensitive—she was -not fitted for such a life as this; and a hundred times a day, when he -thought of her, he would clench his hands and fling himself again at -the task before him. She was too good for him, he told himself, and he -was afraid, because she was his. So long he had hungered to possess -her, but now that the time had come he knew that he had not earned the -right; that she trusted him so was all her own simple goodness, and no -virtue of his. But he was resolved that she should never find this out, -and so was always on the watch to see that he did not betray any of his -ugly self; he would take care even in little matters, such as his -manners, and his habit of swearing when things went wrong. The tears -came so easily into Ona’s eyes, and she would look at him so -appealingly—it kept Jurgis quite busy making resolutions, in addition -to all the other things he had on his mind. It was true that more -things were going on at this time in the mind of Jurgis than ever had -in all his life before. - -He had to protect her, to do battle for her against the horror he saw -about them. He was all that she had to look to, and if he failed she -would be lost; he would wrap his arms about her, and try to hide her -from the world. He had learned the ways of things about him now. It was -a war of each against all, and the devil take the hindmost. You did not -give feasts to other people, you waited for them to give feasts to you. -You went about with your soul full of suspicion and hatred; you -understood that you were environed by hostile powers that were trying -to get your money, and who used all the virtues to bait their traps -with. The store-keepers plastered up their windows with all sorts of -lies to entice you; the very fences by the wayside, the lampposts and -telegraph poles, were pasted over with lies. The great corporation -which employed you lied to you, and lied to the whole country—from top -to bottom it was nothing but one gigantic lie. - -So Jurgis said that he understood it; and yet it was really pitiful, -for the struggle was so unfair—some had so much the advantage! Here he -was, for instance, vowing upon his knees that he would save Ona from -harm, and only a week later she was suffering atrociously, and from the -blow of an enemy that he could not possibly have thwarted. There came a -day when the rain fell in torrents; and it being December, to be wet -with it and have to sit all day long in one of the cold cellars of -Brown’s was no laughing matter. Ona was a working girl, and did not own -waterproofs and such things, and so Jurgis took her and put her on the -streetcar. Now it chanced that this car line was owned by gentlemen who -were trying to make money. And the city having passed an ordinance -requiring them to give transfers, they had fallen into a rage; and -first they had made a rule that transfers could be had only when the -fare was paid; and later, growing still uglier, they had made -another—that the passenger must ask for the transfer, the conductor was -not allowed to offer it. Now Ona had been told that she was to get a -transfer; but it was not her way to speak up, and so she merely waited, -following the conductor about with her eyes, wondering when he would -think of her. When at last the time came for her to get out, she asked -for the transfer, and was refused. Not knowing what to make of this, -she began to argue with the conductor, in a language of which he did -not understand a word. After warning her several times, he pulled the -bell and the car went on—at which Ona burst into tears. At the next -corner she got out, of course; and as she had no more money, she had to -walk the rest of the way to the yards in the pouring rain. And so all -day long she sat shivering, and came home at night with her teeth -chattering and pains in her head and back. For two weeks afterward she -suffered cruelly—and yet every day she had to drag herself to her work. -The forewoman was especially severe with Ona, because she believed that -she was obstinate on account of having been refused a holiday the day -after her wedding. Ona had an idea that her “forelady” did not like to -have her girls marry—perhaps because she was old and ugly and unmarried -herself. - -There were many such dangers, in which the odds were all against them. -Their children were not as well as they had been at home; but how could -they know that there was no sewer to their house, and that the drainage -of fifteen years was in a cesspool under it? How could they know that -the pale-blue milk that they bought around the corner was watered, and -doctored with formaldehyde besides? When the children were not well at -home, Teta Elzbieta would gather herbs and cure them; now she was -obliged to go to the drugstore and buy extracts—and how was she to know -that they were all adulterated? How could they find out that their tea -and coffee, their sugar and flour, had been doctored; that their canned -peas had been colored with copper salts, and their fruit jams with -aniline dyes? And even if they had known it, what good would it have -done them, since there was no place within miles of them where any -other sort was to be had? The bitter winter was coming, and they had to -save money to get more clothing and bedding; but it would not matter in -the least how much they saved, they could not get anything to keep them -warm. All the clothing that was to be had in the stores was made of -cotton and shoddy, which is made by tearing old clothes to pieces and -weaving the fiber again. If they paid higher prices, they might get -frills and fanciness, or be cheated; but genuine quality they could not -obtain for love nor money. A young friend of Szedvilas’, recently come -from abroad, had become a clerk in a store on Ashland Avenue, and he -narrated with glee a trick that had been played upon an unsuspecting -countryman by his boss. The customer had desired to purchase an alarm -clock, and the boss had shown him two exactly similar, telling him that -the price of one was a dollar and of the other a dollar seventy-five. -Upon being asked what the difference was, the man had wound up the -first halfway and the second all the way, and showed the customer how -the latter made twice as much noise; upon which the customer remarked -that he was a sound sleeper, and had better take the more expensive -clock! - -There is a poet who sings that - - -“Deeper their heart grows and nobler their bearing, -Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died.” - - -But it was not likely that he had reference to the kind of anguish that -comes with destitution, that is so endlessly bitter and cruel, and yet -so sordid and petty, so ugly, so humiliating—unredeemed by the -slightest touch of dignity or even of pathos. It is a kind of anguish -that poets have not commonly dealt with; its very words are not -admitted into the vocabulary of poets—the details of it cannot be told -in polite society at all. How, for instance, could any one expect to -excite sympathy among lovers of good literature by telling how a family -found their home alive with vermin, and of all the suffering and -inconvenience and humiliation they were put to, and the hard-earned -money they spent, in efforts to get rid of them? After long hesitation -and uncertainty they paid twenty-five cents for a big package of insect -powder—a patent preparation which chanced to be ninety-five per cent -gypsum, a harmless earth which had cost about two cents to prepare. Of -course it had not the least effect, except upon a few roaches which had -the misfortune to drink water after eating it, and so got their inwards -set in a coating of plaster of Paris. The family, having no idea of -this, and no more money to throw away, had nothing to do but give up -and submit to one more misery for the rest of their days. - -Then there was old Antanas. The winter came, and the place where he -worked was a dark, unheated cellar, where you could see your breath all -day, and where your fingers sometimes tried to freeze. So the old man’s -cough grew every day worse, until there came a time when it hardly ever -stopped, and he had become a nuisance about the place. Then, too, a -still more dreadful thing happened to him; he worked in a place where -his feet were soaked in chemicals, and it was not long before they had -eaten through his new boots. Then sores began to break out on his feet, -and grow worse and worse. Whether it was that his blood was bad, or -there had been a cut, he could not say; but he asked the men about it, -and learned that it was a regular thing—it was the saltpeter. Every one -felt it, sooner or later, and then it was all up with him, at least for -that sort of work. The sores would never heal—in the end his toes would -drop off, if he did not quit. Yet old Antanas would not quit; he saw -the suffering of his family, and he remembered what it had cost him to -get a job. So he tied up his feet, and went on limping about and -coughing, until at last he fell to pieces, all at once and in a heap, -like the One-Horse Shay. They carried him to a dry place and laid him -on the floor, and that night two of the men helped him home. The poor -old man was put to bed, and though he tried it every morning until the -end, he never could get up again. He would lie there and cough and -cough, day and night, wasting away to a mere skeleton. There came a -time when there was so little flesh on him that the bones began to poke -through—which was a horrible thing to see or even to think of. And one -night he had a choking fit, and a little river of blood came out of his -mouth. The family, wild with terror, sent for a doctor, and paid half a -dollar to be told that there was nothing to be done. Mercifully the -doctor did not say this so that the old man could hear, for he was -still clinging to the faith that tomorrow or next day he would be -better, and could go back to his job. The company had sent word to him -that they would keep it for him—or rather Jurgis had bribed one of the -men to come one Sunday afternoon and say they had. Dede Antanas -continued to believe it, while three more hemorrhages came; and then at -last one morning they found him stiff and cold. Things were not going -well with them then, and though it nearly broke Teta Elzbieta’s heart, -they were forced to dispense with nearly all the decencies of a -funeral; they had only a hearse, and one hack for the women and -children; and Jurgis, who was learning things fast, spent all Sunday -making a bargain for these, and he made it in the presence of -witnesses, so that when the man tried to charge him for all sorts of -incidentals, he did not have to pay. For twenty-five years old Antanas -Rudkus and his son had dwelt in the forest together, and it was hard to -part in this way; perhaps it was just as well that Jurgis had to give -all his attention to the task of having a funeral without being -bankrupted, and so had no time to indulge in memories and grief. - -Now the dreadful winter was come upon them. In the forests, all summer -long, the branches of the trees do battle for light, and some of them -lose and die; and then come the raging blasts, and the storms of snow -and hail, and strew the ground with these weaker branches. Just so it -was in Packingtown; the whole district braced itself for the struggle -that was an agony, and those whose time was come died off in hordes. -All the year round they had been serving as cogs in the great packing -machine; and now was the time for the renovating of it, and the -replacing of damaged parts. There came pneumonia and grippe, stalking -among them, seeking for weakened constitutions; there was the annual -harvest of those whom tuberculosis had been dragging down. There came -cruel, cold, and biting winds, and blizzards of snow, all testing -relentlessly for failing muscles and impoverished blood. Sooner or -later came the day when the unfit one did not report for work; and -then, with no time lost in waiting, and no inquiries or regrets, there -was a chance for a new hand. - -The new hands were here by the thousands. All day long the gates of the -packing houses were besieged by starving and penniless men; they came, -literally, by the thousands every single morning, fighting with each -other for a chance for life. Blizzards and cold made no difference to -them, they were always on hand; they were on hand two hours before the -sun rose, an hour before the work began. Sometimes their faces froze, -sometimes their feet and their hands; sometimes they froze all -together—but still they came, for they had no other place to go. One -day Durham advertised in the paper for two hundred men to cut ice; and -all that day the homeless and starving of the city came trudging -through the snow from all over its two hundred square miles. That night -forty score of them crowded into the station house of the stockyards -district—they filled the rooms, sleeping in each other’s laps, toboggan -fashion, and they piled on top of each other in the corridors, till the -police shut the doors and left some to freeze outside. On the morrow, -before daybreak, there were three thousand at Durham’s, and the police -reserves had to be sent for to quell the riot. Then Durham’s bosses -picked out twenty of the biggest; the “two hundred” proved to have been -a printer’s error. - -Four or five miles to the eastward lay the lake, and over this the -bitter winds came raging. Sometimes the thermometer would fall to ten -or twenty degrees below zero at night, and in the morning the streets -would be piled with snowdrifts up to the first-floor windows. The -streets through which our friends had to go to their work were all -unpaved and full of deep holes and gullies; in summer, when it rained -hard, a man might have to wade to his waist to get to his house; and -now in winter it was no joke getting through these places, before light -in the morning and after dark at night. They would wrap up in all they -owned, but they could not wrap up against exhaustion; and many a man -gave out in these battles with the snowdrifts, and lay down and fell -asleep. - -And if it was bad for the men, one may imagine how the women and -children fared. Some would ride in the cars, if the cars were running; -but when you are making only five cents an hour, as was little -Stanislovas, you do not like to spend that much to ride two miles. The -children would come to the yards with great shawls about their ears, -and so tied up that you could hardly find them—and still there would be -accidents. One bitter morning in February the little boy who worked at -the lard machine with Stanislovas came about an hour late, and -screaming with pain. They unwrapped him, and a man began vigorously -rubbing his ears; and as they were frozen stiff, it took only two or -three rubs to break them short off. As a result of this, little -Stanislovas conceived a terror of the cold that was almost a mania. -Every morning, when it came time to start for the yards, he would begin -to cry and protest. Nobody knew quite how to manage him, for threats -did no good—it seemed to be something that he could not control, and -they feared sometimes that he would go into convulsions. In the end it -had to be arranged that he always went with Jurgis, and came home with -him again; and often, when the snow was deep, the man would carry him -the whole way on his shoulders. Sometimes Jurgis would be working until -late at night, and then it was pitiful, for there was no place for the -little fellow to wait, save in the doorways or in a corner of the -killing beds, and he would all but fall asleep there, and freeze to -death. - -There was no heat upon the killing beds; the men might exactly as well -have worked out of doors all winter. For that matter, there was very -little heat anywhere in the building, except in the cooking rooms and -such places—and it was the men who worked in these who ran the most -risk of all, because whenever they had to pass to another room they had -to go through ice-cold corridors, and sometimes with nothing on above -the waist except a sleeveless undershirt. On the killing beds you were -apt to be covered with blood, and it would freeze solid; if you leaned -against a pillar, you would freeze to that, and if you put your hand -upon the blade of your knife, you would run a chance of leaving your -skin on it. The men would tie up their feet in newspapers and old -sacks, and these would be soaked in blood and frozen, and then soaked -again, and so on, until by nighttime a man would be walking on great -lumps the size of the feet of an elephant. Now and then, when the -bosses were not looking, you would see them plunging their feet and -ankles into the steaming hot carcass of the steer, or darting across -the room to the hot-water jets. The cruelest thing of all was that -nearly all of them—all of those who used knives—were unable to wear -gloves, and their arms would be white with frost and their hands would -grow numb, and then of course there would be accidents. Also the air -would be full of steam, from the hot water and the hot blood, so that -you could not see five feet before you; and then, with men rushing -about at the speed they kept up on the killing beds, and all with -butcher knives, like razors, in their hands—well, it was to be counted -as a wonder that there were not more men slaughtered than cattle. - -And yet all this inconvenience they might have put up with, if only it -had not been for one thing—if only there had been some place where they -might eat. Jurgis had either to eat his dinner amid the stench in which -he had worked, or else to rush, as did all his companions, to any one -of the hundreds of liquor stores which stretched out their arms to him. -To the west of the yards ran Ashland Avenue, and here was an unbroken -line of saloons—“Whiskey Row,” they called it; to the north was -Forty-seventh Street, where there were half a dozen to the block, and -at the angle of the two was “Whiskey Point,” a space of fifteen or -twenty acres, and containing one glue factory and about two hundred -saloons. - -One might walk among these and take his choice: “Hot pea-soup and -boiled cabbage today.” “Sauerkraut and hot frankfurters. Walk in.” -“Bean soup and stewed lamb. Welcome.” All of these things were printed -in many languages, as were also the names of the resorts, which were -infinite in their variety and appeal. There was the “Home Circle” and -the “Cosey Corner”; there were “Firesides” and “Hearthstones” and -“Pleasure Palaces” and “Wonderlands” and “Dream Castles” and “Love’s -Delights.” Whatever else they were called, they were sure to be called -“Union Headquarters,” and to hold out a welcome to workingmen; and -there was always a warm stove, and a chair near it, and some friends to -laugh and talk with. There was only one condition attached,—you must -drink. If you went in not intending to drink, you would be put out in -no time, and if you were slow about going, like as not you would get -your head split open with a beer bottle in the bargain. But all of the -men understood the convention and drank; they believed that by it they -were getting something for nothing—for they did not need to take more -than one drink, and upon the strength of it they might fill themselves -up with a good hot dinner. This did not always work out in practice, -however, for there was pretty sure to be a friend who would treat you, -and then you would have to treat him. Then some one else would come -in—and, anyhow, a few drinks were good for a man who worked hard. As he -went back he did not shiver so, he had more courage for his task; the -deadly brutalizing monotony of it did not afflict him so,—he had ideas -while he worked, and took a more cheerful view of his circumstances. On -the way home, however, the shivering was apt to come on him again; and -so he would have to stop once or twice to warm up against the cruel -cold. As there were hot things to eat in this saloon too, he might get -home late to his supper, or he might not get home at all. And then his -wife might set out to look for him, and she too would feel the cold; -and perhaps she would have some of the children with her—and so a whole -family would drift into drinking, as the current of a river drifts -downstream. As if to complete the chain, the packers all paid their men -in checks, refusing all requests to pay in coin; and where in -Packingtown could a man go to have his check cashed but to a saloon, -where he could pay for the favor by spending a part of the money? - -From all of these things Jurgis was saved because of Ona. He never -would take but the one drink at noontime; and so he got the reputation -of being a surly fellow, and was not quite welcome at the saloons, and -had to drift about from one to another. Then at night he would go -straight home, helping Ona and Stanislovas, or often putting the former -on a car. And when he got home perhaps he would have to trudge several -blocks, and come staggering back through the snowdrifts with a bag of -coal upon his shoulder. Home was not a very attractive place—at least -not this winter. They had only been able to buy one stove, and this was -a small one, and proved not big enough to warm even the kitchen in the -bitterest weather. This made it hard for Teta Elzbieta all day, and for -the children when they could not get to school. At night they would sit -huddled round this stove, while they ate their supper off their laps; -and then Jurgis and Jonas would smoke a pipe, after which they would -all crawl into their beds to get warm, after putting out the fire to -save the coal. Then they would have some frightful experiences with the -cold. They would sleep with all their clothes on, including their -overcoats, and put over them all the bedding and spare clothing they -owned; the children would sleep all crowded into one bed, and yet even -so they could not keep warm. The outside ones would be shivering and -sobbing, crawling over the others and trying to get down into the -center, and causing a fight. This old house with the leaky -weatherboards was a very different thing from their cabins at home, -with great thick walls plastered inside and outside with mud; and the -cold which came upon them was a living thing, a demon-presence in the -room. They would waken in the midnight hours, when everything was -black; perhaps they would hear it yelling outside, or perhaps there -would be deathlike stillness—and that would be worse yet. They could -feel the cold as it crept in through the cracks, reaching out for them -with its icy, death-dealing fingers; and they would crouch and cower, -and try to hide from it, all in vain. It would come, and it would come; -a grisly thing, a specter born in the black caverns of terror; a power -primeval, cosmic, shadowing the tortures of the lost souls flung out to -chaos and destruction. It was cruel iron-hard; and hour after hour they -would cringe in its grasp, alone, alone. There would be no one to hear -them if they cried out; there would be no help, no mercy. And so on -until morning—when they would go out to another day of toil, a little -weaker, a little nearer to the time when it would be their turn to be -shaken from the tree. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -Yet even by this deadly winter the germ of hope was not to be kept from -sprouting in their hearts. It was just at this time that the great -adventure befell Marija. - -The victim was Tamoszius Kuszleika, who played the violin. Everybody -laughed at them, for Tamoszius was petite and frail, and Marija could -have picked him up and carried him off under one arm. But perhaps that -was why she fascinated him; the sheer volume of Marija’s energy was -overwhelming. That first night at the wedding Tamoszius had hardly -taken his eyes off her; and later on, when he came to find that she had -really the heart of a baby, her voice and her violence ceased to -terrify him, and he got the habit of coming to pay her visits on Sunday -afternoons. There was no place to entertain company except in the -kitchen, in the midst of the family, and Tamoszius would sit there with -his hat between his knees, never saying more than half a dozen words at -a time, and turning red in the face before he managed to say those; -until finally Jurgis would clap him upon the back, in his hearty way, -crying, “Come now, brother, give us a tune.” And then Tamoszius’ face -would light up and he would get out his fiddle, tuck it under his chin, -and play. And forthwith the soul of him would flame up and become -eloquent—it was almost an impropriety, for all the while his gaze would -be fixed upon Marija’s face, until she would begin to turn red and -lower her eyes. There was no resisting the music of Tamoszius, however; -even the children would sit awed and wondering, and the tears would run -down Teta Elzbieta’s cheeks. A wonderful privilege it was to be thus -admitted into the soul of a man of genius, to be allowed to share the -ecstasies and the agonies of his inmost life. - -Then there were other benefits accruing to Marija from this -friendship—benefits of a more substantial nature. People paid Tamoszius -big money to come and make music on state occasions; and also they -would invite him to parties and festivals, knowing well that he was too -good-natured to come without his fiddle, and that having brought it, he -could be made to play while others danced. Once he made bold to ask -Marija to accompany him to such a party, and Marija accepted, to his -great delight—after which he never went anywhere without her, while if -the celebration were given by friends of his, he would invite the rest -of the family also. In any case Marija would bring back a huge -pocketful of cakes and sandwiches for the children, and stories of all -the good things she herself had managed to consume. She was compelled, -at these parties, to spend most of her time at the refreshment table, -for she could not dance with anybody except other women and very old -men; Tamoszius was of an excitable temperament, and afflicted with a -frantic jealousy, and any unmarried man who ventured to put his arm -about the ample waist of Marija would be certain to throw the orchestra -out of tune. - -It was a great help to a person who had to toil all the week to be able -to look forward to some such relaxation as this on Saturday nights. The -family was too poor and too hardworked to make many acquaintances; in -Packingtown, as a rule, people know only their near neighbors and -shopmates, and so the place is like a myriad of little country -villages. But now there was a member of the family who was permitted to -travel and widen her horizon; and so each week there would be new -personalities to talk about,—how so-and-so was dressed, and where she -worked, and what she got, and whom she was in love with; and how this -man had jilted his girl, and how she had quarreled with the other girl, -and what had passed between them; and how another man beat his wife, -and spent all her earnings upon drink, and pawned her very clothes. -Some people would have scorned this talk as gossip; but then one has to -talk about what one knows. - -It was one Saturday night, as they were coming home from a wedding, -that Tamoszius found courage, and set down his violin case in the -street and spoke his heart; and then Marija clasped him in her arms. -She told them all about it the next day, and fairly cried with -happiness, for she said that Tamoszius was a lovely man. After that he -no longer made love to her with his fiddle, but they would sit for -hours in the kitchen, blissfully happy in each other’s arms; it was the -tacit convention of the family to know nothing of what was going on in -that corner. - -They were planning to be married in the spring, and have the garret of -the house fixed up, and live there. Tamoszius made good wages; and -little by little the family were paying back their debt to Marija, so -she ought soon to have enough to start life upon—only, with her -preposterous softheartedness, she would insist upon spending a good -part of her money every week for things which she saw they needed. -Marija was really the capitalist of the party, for she had become an -expert can painter by this time—she was getting fourteen cents for -every hundred and ten cans, and she could paint more than two cans -every minute. Marija felt, so to speak, that she had her hand on the -throttle, and the neighborhood was vocal with her rejoicings. - -Yet her friends would shake their heads and tell her to go slow; one -could not count upon such good fortune forever—there were accidents -that always happened. But Marija was not to be prevailed upon, and went -on planning and dreaming of all the treasures she was going to have for -her home; and so, when the crash did come, her grief was painful to -see. - -For her canning factory shut down! Marija would about as soon have -expected to see the sun shut down—the huge establishment had been to -her a thing akin to the planets and the seasons. But now it was shut! -And they had not given her any explanation, they had not even given her -a day’s warning; they had simply posted a notice one Saturday that all -hands would be paid off that afternoon, and would not resume work for -at least a month! And that was all that there was to it—her job was -gone! - -It was the holiday rush that was over, the girls said in answer to -Marija’s inquiries; after that there was always a slack. Sometimes the -factory would start up on half time after a while, but there was no -telling—it had been known to stay closed until way into the summer. The -prospects were bad at present, for truckmen who worked in the -storerooms said that these were piled up to the ceilings, so that the -firm could not have found room for another week’s output of cans. And -they had turned off three-quarters of these men, which was a still -worse sign, since it meant that there were no orders to be filled. It -was all a swindle, can-painting, said the girls—you were crazy with -delight because you were making twelve or fourteen dollars a week, and -saving half of it; but you had to spend it all keeping alive while you -were out, and so your pay was really only half what you thought. - -Marija came home, and because she was a person who could not rest -without danger of explosion, they first had a great house cleaning, and -then she set out to search Packingtown for a job to fill up the gap. As -nearly all the canning establishments were shut down, and all the girls -hunting work, it will be readily understood that Marija did not find -any. Then she took to trying the stores and saloons, and when this -failed she even traveled over into the far-distant regions near the -lake front, where lived the rich people in great palaces, and begged -there for some sort of work that could be done by a person who did not -know English. - -The men upon the killing beds felt also the effects of the slump which -had turned Marija out; but they felt it in a different way, and a way -which made Jurgis understand at last all their bitterness. The big -packers did not turn their hands off and close down, like the canning -factories; but they began to run for shorter and shorter hours. They -had always required the men to be on the killing beds and ready for -work at seven o’clock, although there was almost never any work to be -done till the buyers out in the yards had gotten to work, and some -cattle had come over the chutes. That would often be ten or eleven -o’clock, which was bad enough, in all conscience; but now, in the slack -season, they would perhaps not have a thing for their men to do till -late in the afternoon. And so they would have to loaf around, in a -place where the thermometer might be twenty degrees below zero! At -first one would see them running about, or skylarking with each other, -trying to keep warm; but before the day was over they would become -quite chilled through and exhausted, and, when the cattle finally came, -so near frozen that to move was an agony. And then suddenly the place -would spring into activity, and the merciless “speeding-up” would -begin! - -There were weeks at a time when Jurgis went home after such a day as -this with not more than two hours’ work to his credit—which meant about -thirty-five cents. There were many days when the total was less than -half an hour, and others when there was none at all. The general -average was six hours a day, which meant for Jurgis about six dollars a -week; and this six hours of work would be done after standing on the -killing bed till one o’clock, or perhaps even three or four o’clock, in -the afternoon. Like as not there would come a rush of cattle at the -very end of the day, which the men would have to dispose of before they -went home, often working by electric light till nine or ten, or even -twelve or one o’clock, and without a single instant for a bite of -supper. The men were at the mercy of the cattle. Perhaps the buyers -would be holding off for better prices—if they could scare the shippers -into thinking that they meant to buy nothing that day, they could get -their own terms. For some reason the cost of fodder for cattle in the -yards was much above the market price—and you were not allowed to bring -your own fodder! Then, too, a number of cars were apt to arrive late in -the day, now that the roads were blocked with snow, and the packers -would buy their cattle that night, to get them cheaper, and then would -come into play their ironclad rule, that all cattle must be killed the -same day they were bought. There was no use kicking about this—there -had been one delegation after another to see the packers about it, only -to be told that it was the rule, and that there was not the slightest -chance of its ever being altered. And so on Christmas Eve Jurgis worked -till nearly one o’clock in the morning, and on Christmas Day he was on -the killing bed at seven o’clock. - -All this was bad; and yet it was not the worst. For after all the hard -work a man did, he was paid for only part of it. Jurgis had once been -among those who scoffed at the idea of these huge concerns cheating; -and so now he could appreciate the bitter irony of the fact that it was -precisely their size which enabled them to do it with impunity. One of -the rules on the killing beds was that a man who was one minute late -was docked an hour; and this was economical, for he was made to work -the balance of the hour—he was not allowed to stand round and wait. And -on the other hand if he came ahead of time he got no pay for -that—though often the bosses would start up the gang ten or fifteen -minutes before the whistle. And this same custom they carried over to -the end of the day; they did not pay for any fraction of an hour—for -“broken time.” A man might work full fifty minutes, but if there was no -work to fill out the hour, there was no pay for him. Thus the end of -every day was a sort of lottery—a struggle, all but breaking into open -war between the bosses and the men, the former trying to rush a job -through and the latter trying to stretch it out. Jurgis blamed the -bosses for this, though the truth to be told it was not always their -fault; for the packers kept them frightened for their lives—and when -one was in danger of falling behind the standard, what was easier than -to catch up by making the gang work awhile “for the church”? This was a -savage witticism the men had, which Jurgis had to have explained to -him. Old man Jones was great on missions and such things, and so -whenever they were doing some particularly disreputable job, the men -would wink at each other and say, “Now we’re working for the church!” - -One of the consequences of all these things was that Jurgis was no -longer perplexed when he heard men talk of fighting for their rights. -He felt like fighting now himself; and when the Irish delegate of the -butcher-helpers’ union came to him a second time, he received him in a -far different spirit. A wonderful idea it now seemed to Jurgis, this of -the men—that by combining they might be able to make a stand and -conquer the packers! Jurgis wondered who had first thought of it; and -when he was told that it was a common thing for men to do in America, -he got the first inkling of a meaning in the phrase “a free country.” -The delegate explained to him how it depended upon their being able to -get every man to join and stand by the organization, and so Jurgis -signified that he was willing to do his share. Before another month was -by, all the working members of his family had union cards, and wore -their union buttons conspicuously and with pride. For fully a week they -were quite blissfully happy, thinking that belonging to a union meant -an end to all their troubles. - -But only ten days after she had joined, Marija’s canning factory closed -down, and that blow quite staggered them. They could not understand why -the union had not prevented it, and the very first time she attended a -meeting Marija got up and made a speech about it. It was a business -meeting, and was transacted in English, but that made no difference to -Marija; she said what was in her, and all the pounding of the -chairman’s gavel and all the uproar and confusion in the room could not -prevail. Quite apart from her own troubles she was boiling over with a -general sense of the injustice of it, and she told what she thought of -the packers, and what she thought of a world where such things were -allowed to happen; and then, while the echoes of the hall rang with the -shock of her terrible voice, she sat down again and fanned herself, and -the meeting gathered itself together and proceeded to discuss the -election of a recording secretary. - -Jurgis too had an adventure the first time he attended a union meeting, -but it was not of his own seeking. Jurgis had gone with the desire to -get into an inconspicuous corner and see what was done; but this -attitude of silent and open-eyed attention had marked him out for a -victim. Tommy Finnegan was a little Irishman, with big staring eyes and -a wild aspect, a “hoister” by trade, and badly cracked. Somewhere back -in the far-distant past Tommy Finnegan had had a strange experience, -and the burden of it rested upon him. All the balance of his life he -had done nothing but try to make it understood. When he talked he -caught his victim by the buttonhole, and his face kept coming closer -and closer—which was trying, because his teeth were so bad. Jurgis did -not mind that, only he was frightened. The method of operation of the -higher intelligences was Tom Finnegan’s theme, and he desired to find -out if Jurgis had ever considered that the representation of things in -their present similarity might be altogether unintelligible upon a more -elevated plane. There were assuredly wonderful mysteries about the -developing of these things; and then, becoming confidential, Mr. -Finnegan proceeded to tell of some discoveries of his own. “If ye have -iver had onything to do wid shperrits,” said he, and looked inquiringly -at Jurgis, who kept shaking his head. “Niver mind, niver mind,” -continued the other, “but their influences may be operatin’ upon ye; -it’s shure as I’m tellin’ ye, it’s them that has the reference to the -immejit surroundin’s that has the most of power. It was vouchsafed to -me in me youthful days to be acquainted with shperrits” and so Tommy -Finnegan went on, expounding a system of philosophy, while the -perspiration came out on Jurgis’ forehead, so great was his agitation -and embarrassment. In the end one of the men, seeing his plight, came -over and rescued him; but it was some time before he was able to find -any one to explain things to him, and meanwhile his fear lest the -strange little Irishman should get him cornered again was enough to -keep him dodging about the room the whole evening. - -He never missed a meeting, however. He had picked up a few words of -English by this time, and friends would help him to understand. They -were often very turbulent meetings, with half a dozen men declaiming at -once, in as many dialects of English; but the speakers were all -desperately in earnest, and Jurgis was in earnest too, for he -understood that a fight was on, and that it was his fight. Since the -time of his disillusionment, Jurgis had sworn to trust no man, except -in his own family; but here he discovered that he had brothers in -affliction, and allies. Their one chance for life was in union, and so -the struggle became a kind of crusade. Jurgis had always been a member -of the church, because it was the right thing to be, but the church had -never touched him, he left all that for the women. Here, however, was a -new religion—one that did touch him, that took hold of every fiber of -him; and with all the zeal and fury of a convert he went out as a -missionary. There were many nonunion men among the Lithuanians, and -with these he would labor and wrestle in prayer, trying to show them -the right. Sometimes they would be obstinate and refuse to see it, and -Jurgis, alas, was not always patient! He forgot how he himself had been -blind, a short time ago—after the fashion of all crusaders since the -original ones, who set out to spread the gospel of Brotherhood by force -of arms. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -One of the first consequences of the discovery of the union was that -Jurgis became desirous of learning English. He wanted to know what was -going on at the meetings, and to be able to take part in them, and so -he began to look about him, and to try to pick up words. The children, -who were at school, and learning fast, would teach him a few; and a -friend loaned him a little book that had some in it, and Ona would read -them to him. Then Jurgis became sorry that he could not read himself; -and later on in the winter, when some one told him that there was a -night school that was free, he went and enrolled. After that, every -evening that he got home from the yards in time, he would go to the -school; he would go even if he were in time for only half an hour. They -were teaching him both to read and to speak English—and they would have -taught him other things, if only he had had a little time. - -Also the union made another great difference with him—it made him begin -to pay attention to the country. It was the beginning of democracy with -him. It was a little state, the union, a miniature republic; its -affairs were every man’s affairs, and every man had a real say about -them. In other words, in the union Jurgis learned to talk politics. In -the place where he had come from there had not been any politics—in -Russia one thought of the government as an affliction like the -lightning and the hail. “Duck, little brother, duck,” the wise old -peasants would whisper; “everything passes away.” And when Jurgis had -first come to America he had supposed that it was the same. He had -heard people say that it was a free country—but what did that mean? He -found that here, precisely as in Russia, there were rich men who owned -everything; and if one could not find any work, was not the hunger he -began to feel the same sort of hunger? - -When Jurgis had been working about three weeks at Brown’s, there had -come to him one noontime a man who was employed as a night watchman, -and who asked him if he would not like to take out naturalization -papers and become a citizen. Jurgis did not know what that meant, but -the man explained the advantages. In the first place, it would not cost -him anything, and it would get him half a day off, with his pay just -the same; and then when election time came he would be able to vote—and -there was something in that. Jurgis was naturally glad to accept, and -so the night watchman said a few words to the boss, and he was excused -for the rest of the day. When, later on, he wanted a holiday to get -married he could not get it; and as for a holiday with pay just the -same—what power had wrought that miracle heaven only knew! However, he -went with the man, who picked up several other newly landed immigrants, -Poles, Lithuanians, and Slovaks, and took them all outside, where stood -a great four-horse tallyho coach, with fifteen or twenty men already in -it. It was a fine chance to see the sights of the city, and the party -had a merry time, with plenty of beer handed up from inside. So they -drove downtown and stopped before an imposing granite building, in -which they interviewed an official, who had the papers all ready, with -only the names to be filled in. So each man in turn took an oath of -which he did not understand a word, and then was presented with a -handsome ornamented document with a big red seal and the shield of the -United States upon it, and was told that he had become a citizen of the -Republic and the equal of the President himself. - -A month or two later Jurgis had another interview with this same man, -who told him where to go to “register.” And then finally, when election -day came, the packing houses posted a notice that men who desired to -vote might remain away until nine that morning, and the same night -watchman took Jurgis and the rest of his flock into the back room of a -saloon, and showed each of them where and how to mark a ballot, and -then gave each two dollars, and took them to the polling place, where -there was a policeman on duty especially to see that they got through -all right. Jurgis felt quite proud of this good luck till he got home -and met Jonas, who had taken the leader aside and whispered to him, -offering to vote three times for four dollars, which offer had been -accepted. - -And now in the union Jurgis met men who explained all this mystery to -him; and he learned that America differed from Russia in that its -government existed under the form of a democracy. The officials who -ruled it, and got all the graft, had to be elected first; and so there -were two rival sets of grafters, known as political parties, and the -one got the office which bought the most votes. Now and then, the -election was very close, and that was the time the poor man came in. In -the stockyards this was only in national and state elections, for in -local elections the Democratic Party always carried everything. The -ruler of the district was therefore the Democratic boss, a little -Irishman named Mike Scully. Scully held an important party office in -the state, and bossed even the mayor of the city, it was said; it was -his boast that he carried the stockyards in his pocket. He was an -enormously rich man—he had a hand in all the big graft in the -neighborhood. It was Scully, for instance, who owned that dump which -Jurgis and Ona had seen the first day of their arrival. Not only did he -own the dump, but he owned the brick factory as well, and first he took -out the clay and made it into bricks, and then he had the city bring -garbage to fill up the hole, so that he could build houses to sell to -the people. Then, too, he sold the bricks to the city, at his own -price, and the city came and got them in its own wagons. And also he -owned the other hole near by, where the stagnant water was; and it was -he who cut the ice and sold it; and what was more, if the men told -truth, he had not had to pay any taxes for the water, and he had built -the ice-house out of city lumber, and had not had to pay anything for -that. The newspapers had got hold of that story, and there had been a -scandal; but Scully had hired somebody to confess and take all the -blame, and then skip the country. It was said, too, that he had built -his brick-kiln in the same way, and that the workmen were on the city -payroll while they did it; however, one had to press closely to get -these things out of the men, for it was not their business, and Mike -Scully was a good man to stand in with. A note signed by him was equal -to a job any time at the packing houses; and also he employed a good -many men himself, and worked them only eight hours a day, and paid them -the highest wages. This gave him many friends—all of whom he had gotten -together into the “War Whoop League,” whose clubhouse you might see -just outside of the yards. It was the biggest clubhouse, and the -biggest club, in all Chicago; and they had prizefights every now and -then, and cockfights and even dogfights. The policemen in the district -all belonged to the league, and instead of suppressing the fights, they -sold tickets for them. The man that had taken Jurgis to be naturalized -was one of these “Indians,” as they were called; and on election day -there would be hundreds of them out, and all with big wads of money in -their pockets and free drinks at every saloon in the district. That was -another thing, the men said—all the saloon-keepers had to be “Indians,” -and to put up on demand, otherwise they could not do business on -Sundays, nor have any gambling at all. In the same way Scully had all -the jobs in the fire department at his disposal, and all the rest of -the city graft in the stockyards district; he was building a block of -flats somewhere up on Ashland Avenue, and the man who was overseeing it -for him was drawing pay as a city inspector of sewers. The city -inspector of water pipes had been dead and buried for over a year, but -somebody was still drawing his pay. The city inspector of sidewalks was -a barkeeper at the War Whoop Cafe—and maybe he could make it -uncomfortable for any tradesman who did not stand in with Scully! - -Even the packers were in awe of him, so the men said. It gave them -pleasure to believe this, for Scully stood as the people’s man, and -boasted of it boldly when election day came. The packers had wanted a -bridge at Ashland Avenue, but they had not been able to get it till -they had seen Scully; and it was the same with “Bubbly Creek,” which -the city had threatened to make the packers cover over, till Scully had -come to their aid. “Bubbly Creek” is an arm of the Chicago River, and -forms the southern boundary of the yards: all the drainage of the -square mile of packing houses empties into it, so that it is really a -great open sewer a hundred or two feet wide. One long arm of it is -blind, and the filth stays there forever and a day. The grease and -chemicals that are poured into it undergo all sorts of strange -transformations, which are the cause of its name; it is constantly in -motion, as if huge fish were feeding in it, or great leviathans -disporting themselves in its depths. Bubbles of carbonic acid gas will -rise to the surface and burst, and make rings two or three feet wide. -Here and there the grease and filth have caked solid, and the creek -looks like a bed of lava; chickens walk about on it, feeding, and many -times an unwary stranger has started to stroll across, and vanished -temporarily. The packers used to leave the creek that way, till every -now and then the surface would catch on fire and burn furiously, and -the fire department would have to come and put it out. Once, however, -an ingenious stranger came and started to gather this filth in scows, -to make lard out of; then the packers took the cue, and got out an -injunction to stop him, and afterward gathered it themselves. The banks -of “Bubbly Creek” are plastered thick with hairs, and this also the -packers gather and clean. - -And there were things even stranger than this, according to the gossip -of the men. The packers had secret mains, through which they stole -billions of gallons of the city’s water. The newspapers had been full -of this scandal—once there had even been an investigation, and an -actual uncovering of the pipes; but nobody had been punished, and the -thing went right on. And then there was the condemned meat industry, -with its endless horrors. The people of Chicago saw the government -inspectors in Packingtown, and they all took that to mean that they -were protected from diseased meat; they did not understand that these -hundred and sixty-three inspectors had been appointed at the request of -the packers, and that they were paid by the United States government to -certify that all the diseased meat was kept in the state. They had no -authority beyond that; for the inspection of meat to be sold in the -city and state the whole force in Packingtown consisted of three -henchmen of the local political machine![2] And shortly afterward one -of these, a physician, made the discovery that the carcasses of steers -which had been condemned as tubercular by the government inspectors, -and which therefore contained ptomaines, which are deadly poisons, were -left upon an open platform and carted away to be sold in the city; and -so he insisted that these carcasses be treated with an injection of -kerosene—and was ordered to resign the same week! So indignant were the -packers that they went farther, and compelled the mayor to abolish the -whole bureau of inspection; so that since then there has not been even -a pretense of any interference with the graft. There was said to be two -thousand dollars a week hush money from the tubercular steers alone; -and as much again from the hogs which had died of cholera on the -trains, and which you might see any day being loaded into boxcars and -hauled away to a place called Globe, in Indiana, where they made a -fancy grade of lard. - - [2] Rules and Regulations for the Inspection of Livestock and Their - Products. United States Department of Agriculture, Bureau of Animal - Industries, Order No. 125:— - Section 1. Proprietors of slaughterhouses, canning, salting, - packing, or rendering establishments engaged in the slaughtering of - cattle, sheep, or swine, or the packing of any of their products, - _the carcasses or products of which are to become subjects of - interstate or foreign commerce_, shall make application to the - Secretary of Agriculture for inspection of said animals and their - products.... - Section 15. Such rejected or condemned animals shall at once be - removed by the owners from the pens containing animals which have - been inspected and found to be free from disease and fit for human - food, and _shall be disposed of in accordance with the laws, - ordinances, and regulations of the state and municipality in which - said rejected or condemned animals are located_.... - - Section 25. A microscopic examination for trichinae shall be made - of all swine products exported to countries requiring such - examination. _No microscopic examination will be made of hogs - slaughtered for interstate trade, but this examination shall be - confined to those intended for the export trade._ - - -Jurgis heard of these things little by little, in the gossip of those -who were obliged to perpetrate them. It seemed as if every time you met -a person from a new department, you heard of new swindles and new -crimes. There was, for instance, a Lithuanian who was a cattle butcher -for the plant where Marija had worked, which killed meat for canning -only; and to hear this man describe the animals which came to his place -would have been worthwhile for a Dante or a Zola. It seemed that they -must have agencies all over the country, to hunt out old and crippled -and diseased cattle to be canned. There were cattle which had been fed -on “whisky-malt,” the refuse of the breweries, and had become what the -men called “steerly”—which means covered with boils. It was a nasty job -killing these, for when you plunged your knife into them they would -burst and splash foul-smelling stuff into your face; and when a man’s -sleeves were smeared with blood, and his hands steeped in it, how was -he ever to wipe his face, or to clear his eyes so that he could see? It -was stuff such as this that made the “embalmed beef” that had killed -several times as many United States soldiers as all the bullets of the -Spaniards; only the army beef, besides, was not fresh canned, it was -old stuff that had been lying for years in the cellars. - -Then one Sunday evening, Jurgis sat puffing his pipe by the kitchen -stove, and talking with an old fellow whom Jonas had introduced, and -who worked in the canning rooms at Durham’s; and so Jurgis learned a -few things about the great and only Durham canned goods, which had -become a national institution. They were regular alchemists at -Durham’s; they advertised a mushroom-catsup, and the men who made it -did not know what a mushroom looked like. They advertised “potted -chicken,”—and it was like the boardinghouse soup of the comic papers, -through which a chicken had walked with rubbers on. Perhaps they had a -secret process for making chickens chemically—who knows? said Jurgis’ -friend; the things that went into the mixture were tripe, and the fat -of pork, and beef suet, and hearts of beef, and finally the waste ends -of veal, when they had any. They put these up in several grades, and -sold them at several prices; but the contents of the cans all came out -of the same hopper. And then there was “potted game” and “potted -grouse,” “potted ham,” and “deviled ham”—de-vyled, as the men called -it. “De-vyled” ham was made out of the waste ends of smoked beef that -were too small to be sliced by the machines; and also tripe, dyed with -chemicals so that it would not show white; and trimmings of hams and -corned beef; and potatoes, skins and all; and finally the hard -cartilaginous gullets of beef, after the tongues had been cut out. All -this ingenious mixture was ground up and flavored with spices to make -it taste like something. Anybody who could invent a new imitation had -been sure of a fortune from old Durham, said Jurgis’ informant; but it -was hard to think of anything new in a place where so many sharp wits -had been at work for so long; where men welcomed tuberculosis in the -cattle they were feeding, because it made them fatten more quickly; and -where they bought up all the old rancid butter left over in the grocery -stores of a continent, and “oxidized” it by a forced-air process, to -take away the odor, rechurned it with skim milk, and sold it in bricks -in the cities! Up to a year or two ago it had been the custom to kill -horses in the yards—ostensibly for fertilizer; but after long agitation -the newspapers had been able to make the public realize that the horses -were being canned. Now it was against the law to kill horses in -Packingtown, and the law was really complied with—for the present, at -any rate. Any day, however, one might see sharp-horned and -shaggy-haired creatures running with the sheep and yet what a job you -would have to get the public to believe that a good part of what it -buys for lamb and mutton is really goat’s flesh! - -There was another interesting set of statistics that a person might -have gathered in Packingtown—those of the various afflictions of the -workers. When Jurgis had first inspected the packing plants with -Szedvilas, he had marveled while he listened to the tale of all the -things that were made out of the carcasses of animals, and of all the -lesser industries that were maintained there; now he found that each -one of these lesser industries was a separate little inferno, in its -way as horrible as the killing beds, the source and fountain of them -all. The workers in each of them had their own peculiar diseases. And -the wandering visitor might be skeptical about all the swindles, but he -could not be skeptical about these, for the worker bore the evidence of -them about on his own person—generally he had only to hold out his -hand. - -There were the men in the pickle rooms, for instance, where old Antanas -had gotten his death; scarce a one of these that had not some spot of -horror on his person. Let a man so much as scrape his finger pushing a -truck in the pickle rooms, and he might have a sore that would put him -out of the world; all the joints in his fingers might be eaten by the -acid, one by one. Of the butchers and floorsmen, the beef-boners and -trimmers, and all those who used knives, you could scarcely find a -person who had the use of his thumb; time and time again the base of it -had been slashed, till it was a mere lump of flesh against which the -man pressed the knife to hold it. The hands of these men would be -criss-crossed with cuts, until you could no longer pretend to count -them or to trace them. They would have no nails,—they had worn them off -pulling hides; their knuckles were swollen so that their fingers spread -out like a fan. There were men who worked in the cooking rooms, in the -midst of steam and sickening odors, by artificial light; in these rooms -the germs of tuberculosis might live for two years, but the supply was -renewed every hour. There were the beef-luggers, who carried -two-hundred-pound quarters into the refrigerator-cars; a fearful kind -of work, that began at four o’clock in the morning, and that wore out -the most powerful men in a few years. There were those who worked in -the chilling rooms, and whose special disease was rheumatism; the time -limit that a man could work in the chilling rooms was said to be five -years. There were the wool-pluckers, whose hands went to pieces even -sooner than the hands of the pickle men; for the pelts of the sheep had -to be painted with acid to loosen the wool, and then the pluckers had -to pull out this wool with their bare hands, till the acid had eaten -their fingers off. There were those who made the tins for the canned -meat; and their hands, too, were a maze of cuts, and each cut -represented a chance for blood poisoning. Some worked at the stamping -machines, and it was very seldom that one could work long there at the -pace that was set, and not give out and forget himself and have a part -of his hand chopped off. There were the “hoisters,” as they were -called, whose task it was to press the lever which lifted the dead -cattle off the floor. They ran along upon a rafter, peering down -through the damp and the steam; and as old Durham’s architects had not -built the killing room for the convenience of the hoisters, at every -few feet they would have to stoop under a beam, say four feet above the -one they ran on; which got them into the habit of stooping, so that in -a few years they would be walking like chimpanzees. Worst of any, -however, were the fertilizer men, and those who served in the cooking -rooms. These people could not be shown to the visitor,—for the odor of -a fertilizer man would scare any ordinary visitor at a hundred yards, -and as for the other men, who worked in tank rooms full of steam, and -in some of which there were open vats near the level of the floor, -their peculiar trouble was that they fell into the vats; and when they -were fished out, there was never enough of them left to be worth -exhibiting,—sometimes they would be overlooked for days, till all but -the bones of them had gone out to the world as Durham’s Pure Leaf Lard! - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -During the early part of the winter the family had had money enough to -live and a little over to pay their debts with; but when the earnings -of Jurgis fell from nine or ten dollars a week to five or six, there -was no longer anything to spare. The winter went, and the spring came, -and found them still living thus from hand to mouth, hanging on day by -day, with literally not a month’s wages between them and starvation. -Marija was in despair, for there was still no word about the reopening -of the canning factory, and her savings were almost entirely gone. She -had had to give up all idea of marrying then; the family could not get -along without her—though for that matter she was likely soon to become -a burden even upon them, for when her money was all gone, they would -have to pay back what they owed her in board. So Jurgis and Ona and -Teta Elzbieta would hold anxious conferences until late at night, -trying to figure how they could manage this too without starving. - -Such were the cruel terms upon which their life was possible, that they -might never have nor expect a single instant’s respite from worry, a -single instant in which they were not haunted by the thought of money. -They would no sooner escape, as by a miracle, from one difficulty, than -a new one would come into view. In addition to all their physical -hardships, there was thus a constant strain upon their minds; they were -harried all day and nearly all night by worry and fear. This was in -truth not living; it was scarcely even existing, and they felt that it -was too little for the price they paid. They were willing to work all -the time; and when people did their best, ought they not to be able to -keep alive? - -There seemed never to be an end to the things they had to buy and to -the unforeseen contingencies. Once their water pipes froze and burst; -and when, in their ignorance, they thawed them out, they had a -terrifying flood in their house. It happened while the men were away, -and poor Elzbieta rushed out into the street screaming for help, for -she did not even know whether the flood could be stopped, or whether -they were ruined for life. It was nearly as bad as the latter, they -found in the end, for the plumber charged them seventy-five cents an -hour, and seventy-five cents for another man who had stood and watched -him, and included all the time the two had been going and coming, and -also a charge for all sorts of material and extras. And then again, -when they went to pay their January’s installment on the house, the -agent terrified them by asking them if they had had the insurance -attended to yet. In answer to their inquiry he showed them a clause in -the deed which provided that they were to keep the house insured for -one thousand dollars, as soon as the present policy ran out, which -would happen in a few days. Poor Elzbieta, upon whom again fell the -blow, demanded how much it would cost them. Seven dollars, the man -said; and that night came Jurgis, grim and determined, requesting that -the agent would be good enough to inform him, once for all, as to all -the expenses they were liable for. The deed was signed now, he said, -with sarcasm proper to the new way of life he had learned—the deed was -signed, and so the agent had no longer anything to gain by keeping -quiet. And Jurgis looked the fellow squarely in the eye, and so the -fellow wasted no time in conventional protests, but read him the deed. -They would have to renew the insurance every year; they would have to -pay the taxes, about ten dollars a year; they would have to pay the -water tax, about six dollars a year—(Jurgis silently resolved to shut -off the hydrant). This, besides the interest and the monthly -installments, would be all—unless by chance the city should happen to -decide to put in a sewer or to lay a sidewalk. Yes, said the agent, -they would have to have these, whether they wanted them or not, if the -city said so. The sewer would cost them about twenty-two dollars, and -the sidewalk fifteen if it were wood, twenty-five if it were cement. - -So Jurgis went home again; it was a relief to know the worst, at any -rate, so that he could no more be surprised by fresh demands. He saw -now how they had been plundered; but they were in for it, there was no -turning back. They could only go on and make the fight and win—for -defeat was a thing that could not even be thought of. - -When the springtime came, they were delivered from the dreadful cold, -and that was a great deal; but in addition they had counted on the -money they would not have to pay for coal—and it was just at this time -that Marija’s board began to fail. Then, too, the warm weather brought -trials of its own; each season had its trials, as they found. In the -spring there were cold rains, that turned the streets into canals and -bogs; the mud would be so deep that wagons would sink up to the hubs, -so that half a dozen horses could not move them. Then, of course, it -was impossible for any one to get to work with dry feet; and this was -bad for men that were poorly clad and shod, and still worse for women -and children. Later came midsummer, with the stifling heat, when the -dingy killing beds of Durham’s became a very purgatory; one time, in a -single day, three men fell dead from sunstroke. All day long the rivers -of hot blood poured forth, until, with the sun beating down, and the -air motionless, the stench was enough to knock a man over; all the old -smells of a generation would be drawn out by this heat—for there was -never any washing of the walls and rafters and pillars, and they were -caked with the filth of a lifetime. The men who worked on the killing -beds would come to reek with foulness, so that you could smell one of -them fifty feet away; there was simply no such thing as keeping decent, -the most careful man gave it up in the end, and wallowed in -uncleanness. There was not even a place where a man could wash his -hands, and the men ate as much raw blood as food at dinnertime. When -they were at work they could not even wipe off their faces—they were as -helpless as newly born babes in that respect; and it may seem like a -small matter, but when the sweat began to run down their necks and -tickle them, or a fly to bother them, it was a torture like being -burned alive. Whether it was the slaughterhouses or the dumps that were -responsible, one could not say, but with the hot weather there -descended upon Packingtown a veritable Egyptian plague of flies; there -could be no describing this—the houses would be black with them. There -was no escaping; you might provide all your doors and windows with -screens, but their buzzing outside would be like the swarming of bees, -and whenever you opened the door they would rush in as if a storm of -wind were driving them. - -Perhaps the summertime suggests to you thoughts of the country, visions -of green fields and mountains and sparkling lakes. It had no such -suggestion for the people in the yards. The great packing machine -ground on remorselessly, without thinking of green fields; and the men -and women and children who were part of it never saw any green thing, -not even a flower. Four or five miles to the east of them lay the blue -waters of Lake Michigan; but for all the good it did them it might have -been as far away as the Pacific Ocean. They had only Sundays, and then -they were too tired to walk. They were tied to the great packing -machine, and tied to it for life. The managers and superintendents and -clerks of Packingtown were all recruited from another class, and never -from the workers; they scorned the workers, the very meanest of them. A -poor devil of a bookkeeper who had been working in Durham’s for twenty -years at a salary of six dollars a week, and might work there for -twenty more and do no better, would yet consider himself a gentleman, -as far removed as the poles from the most skilled worker on the killing -beds; he would dress differently, and live in another part of the town, -and come to work at a different hour of the day, and in every way make -sure that he never rubbed elbows with a laboring man. Perhaps this was -due to the repulsiveness of the work; at any rate, the people who -worked with their hands were a class apart, and were made to feel it. - -In the late spring the canning factory started up again, and so once -more Marija was heard to sing, and the love-music of Tamoszius took on -a less melancholy tone. It was not for long, however; for a month or -two later a dreadful calamity fell upon Marija. Just one year and three -days after she had begun work as a can-painter, she lost her job. - -It was a long story. Marija insisted that it was because of her -activity in the union. The packers, of course, had spies in all the -unions, and in addition they made a practice of buying up a certain -number of the union officials, as many as they thought they needed. So -every week they received reports as to what was going on, and often -they knew things before the members of the union knew them. Any one who -was considered to be dangerous by them would find that he was not a -favorite with his boss; and Marija had been a great hand for going -after the foreign people and preaching to them. However that might be, -the known facts were that a few weeks before the factory closed, Marija -had been cheated out of her pay for three hundred cans. The girls -worked at a long table, and behind them walked a woman with pencil and -notebook, keeping count of the number they finished. This woman was, of -course, only human, and sometimes made mistakes; when this happened, -there was no redress—if on Saturday you got less money than you had -earned, you had to make the best of it. But Marija did not understand -this, and made a disturbance. Marija’s disturbances did not mean -anything, and while she had known only Lithuanian and Polish, they had -done no harm, for people only laughed at her and made her cry. But now -Marija was able to call names in English, and so she got the woman who -made the mistake to disliking her. Probably, as Marija claimed, she -made mistakes on purpose after that; at any rate, she made them, and -the third time it happened Marija went on the warpath and took the -matter first to the forelady, and when she got no satisfaction there, -to the superintendent. This was unheard-of presumption, but the -superintendent said he would see about it, which Marija took to mean -that she was going to get her money; after waiting three days, she went -to see the superintendent again. This time the man frowned, and said -that he had not had time to attend to it; and when Marija, against the -advice and warning of every one, tried it once more, he ordered her -back to her work in a passion. Just how things happened after that -Marija was not sure, but that afternoon the forelady told her that her -services would not be any longer required. Poor Marija could not have -been more dumfounded had the woman knocked her over the head; at first -she could not believe what she heard, and then she grew furious and -swore that she would come anyway, that her place belonged to her. In -the end she sat down in the middle of the floor and wept and wailed. - -It was a cruel lesson; but then Marija was headstrong—she should have -listened to those who had had experience. The next time she would know -her place, as the forelady expressed it; and so Marija went out, and -the family faced the problem of an existence again. - -It was especially hard this time, for Ona was to be confined before -long, and Jurgis was trying hard to save up money for this. He had -heard dreadful stories of the midwives, who grow as thick as fleas in -Packingtown; and he had made up his mind that Ona must have a -man-doctor. Jurgis could be very obstinate when he wanted to, and he -was in this case, much to the dismay of the women, who felt that a -man-doctor was an impropriety, and that the matter really belonged to -them. The cheapest doctor they could find would charge them fifteen -dollars, and perhaps more when the bill came in; and here was Jurgis, -declaring that he would pay it, even if he had to stop eating in the -meantime! - -Marija had only about twenty-five dollars left. Day after day she -wandered about the yards begging a job, but this time without hope of -finding it. Marija could do the work of an able-bodied man, when she -was cheerful, but discouragement wore her out easily, and she would -come home at night a pitiable object. She learned her lesson this time, -poor creature; she learned it ten times over. All the family learned it -along with her—that when you have once got a job in Packingtown, you -hang on to it, come what will. - -Four weeks Marija hunted, and half of a fifth week. Of course she -stopped paying her dues to the union. She lost all interest in the -union, and cursed herself for a fool that she had ever been dragged -into one. She had about made up her mind that she was a lost soul, when -somebody told her of an opening, and she went and got a place as a -“beef-trimmer.” She got this because the boss saw that she had the -muscles of a man, and so he discharged a man and put Marija to do his -work, paying her a little more than half what he had been paying -before. - -When she first came to Packingtown, Marija would have scorned such work -as this. She was in another canning factory, and her work was to trim -the meat of those diseased cattle that Jurgis had been told about not -long before. She was shut up in one of the rooms where the people -seldom saw the daylight; beneath her were the chilling rooms, where the -meat was frozen, and above her were the cooking rooms; and so she stood -on an ice-cold floor, while her head was often so hot that she could -scarcely breathe. Trimming beef off the bones by the hundred-weight, -while standing up from early morning till late at night, with heavy -boots on and the floor always damp and full of puddles, liable to be -thrown out of work indefinitely because of a slackening in the trade, -liable again to be kept overtime in rush seasons, and be worked till -she trembled in every nerve and lost her grip on her slimy knife, and -gave herself a poisoned wound—that was the new life that unfolded -itself before Marija. But because Marija was a human horse she merely -laughed and went at it; it would enable her to pay her board again, and -keep the family going. And as for Tamoszius—well, they had waited a -long time, and they could wait a little longer. They could not possibly -get along upon his wages alone, and the family could not live without -hers. He could come and visit her, and sit in the kitchen and hold her -hand, and he must manage to be content with that. But day by day the -music of Tamoszius’ violin became more passionate and heartbreaking; -and Marija would sit with her hands clasped and her cheeks wet and all -her body a-tremble, hearing in the wailing melodies the voices of the -unborn generations which cried out in her for life. - -Marija’s lesson came just in time to save Ona from a similar fate. Ona, -too, was dissatisfied with her place, and had far more reason than -Marija. She did not tell half of her story at home, because she saw it -was a torment to Jurgis, and she was afraid of what he might do. For a -long time Ona had seen that Miss Henderson, the forelady in her -department, did not like her. At first she thought it was the old-time -mistake she had made in asking for a holiday to get married. Then she -concluded it must be because she did not give the forelady a present -occasionally—she was the kind that took presents from the girls, Ona -learned, and made all sorts of discriminations in favor of those who -gave them. In the end, however, Ona discovered that it was even worse -than that. Miss Henderson was a newcomer, and it was some time before -rumor made her out; but finally it transpired that she was a kept -woman, the former mistress of the superintendent of a department in the -same building. He had put her there to keep her quiet, it seemed—and -that not altogether with success, for once or twice they had been heard -quarreling. She had the temper of a hyena, and soon the place she ran -was a witch’s caldron. There were some of the girls who were of her own -sort, who were willing to toady to her and flatter her; and these would -carry tales about the rest, and so the furies were unchained in the -place. Worse than this, the woman lived in a bawdy-house downtown, with -a coarse, red-faced Irishman named Connor, who was the boss of the -loading-gang outside, and would make free with the girls as they went -to and from their work. In the slack seasons some of them would go with -Miss Henderson to this house downtown—in fact, it would not be too much -to say that she managed her department at Brown’s in conjunction with -it. Sometimes women from the house would be given places alongside of -decent girls, and after other decent girls had been turned off to make -room for them. When you worked in this woman’s department the house -downtown was never out of your thoughts all day—there were always -whiffs of it to be caught, like the odor of the Packingtown rendering -plants at night, when the wind shifted suddenly. There would be stories -about it going the rounds; the girls opposite you would be telling them -and winking at you. In such a place Ona would not have stayed a day, -but for starvation; and, as it was, she was never sure that she could -stay the next day. She understood now that the real reason that Miss -Henderson hated her was that she was a decent married girl; and she -knew that the talebearers and the toadies hated her for the same -reason, and were doing their best to make her life miserable. - -But there was no place a girl could go in Packingtown, if she was -particular about things of this sort; there was no place in it where a -prostitute could not get along better than a decent girl. Here was a -population, low-class and mostly foreign, hanging always on the verge -of starvation, and dependent for its opportunities of life upon the -whim of men every bit as brutal and unscrupulous as the old-time slave -drivers; under such circumstances immorality was exactly as inevitable, -and as prevalent, as it was under the system of chattel slavery. Things -that were quite unspeakable went on there in the packing houses all the -time, and were taken for granted by everybody; only they did not show, -as in the old slavery times, because there was no difference in color -between master and slave. - -One morning Ona stayed home, and Jurgis had the man-doctor, according -to his whim, and she was safely delivered of a fine baby. It was an -enormous big boy, and Ona was such a tiny creature herself, that it -seemed quite incredible. Jurgis would stand and gaze at the stranger by -the hour, unable to believe that it had really happened. - -The coming of this boy was a decisive event with Jurgis. It made him -irrevocably a family man; it killed the last lingering impulse that he -might have had to go out in the evenings and sit and talk with the men -in the saloons. There was nothing he cared for now so much as to sit -and look at the baby. This was very curious, for Jurgis had never been -interested in babies before. But then, this was a very unusual sort of -a baby. He had the brightest little black eyes, and little black -ringlets all over his head; he was the living image of his father, -everybody said—and Jurgis found this a fascinating circumstance. It was -sufficiently perplexing that this tiny mite of life should have come -into the world at all in the manner that it had; that it should have -come with a comical imitation of its father’s nose was simply uncanny. - -Perhaps, Jurgis thought, this was intended to signify that it was his -baby; that it was his and Ona’s, to care for all its life. Jurgis had -never possessed anything nearly so interesting—a baby was, when you -came to think about it, assuredly a marvelous possession. It would grow -up to be a man, a human soul, with a personality all its own, a will of -its own! Such thoughts would keep haunting Jurgis, filling him with all -sorts of strange and almost painful excitements. He was wonderfully -proud of little Antanas; he was curious about all the details of -him—the washing and the dressing and the eating and the sleeping of -him, and asked all sorts of absurd questions. It took him quite a while -to get over his alarm at the incredible shortness of the little -creature’s legs. - -Jurgis had, alas, very little time to see his baby; he never felt the -chains about him more than just then. When he came home at night, the -baby would be asleep, and it would be the merest chance if he awoke -before Jurgis had to go to sleep himself. Then in the morning there was -no time to look at him, so really the only chance the father had was on -Sundays. This was more cruel yet for Ona, who ought to have stayed home -and nursed him, the doctor said, for her own health as well as the -baby’s; but Ona had to go to work, and leave him for Teta Elzbieta to -feed upon the pale blue poison that was called milk at the corner -grocery. Ona’s confinement lost her only a week’s wages—she would go to -the factory the second Monday, and the best that Jurgis could persuade -her was to ride in the car, and let him run along behind and help her -to Brown’s when she alighted. After that it would be all right, said -Ona, it was no strain sitting still sewing hams all day; and if she -waited longer she might find that her dreadful forelady had put some -one else in her place. That would be a greater calamity than ever now, -Ona continued, on account of the baby. They would all have to work -harder now on his account. It was such a responsibility—they must not -have the baby grow up to suffer as they had. And this indeed had been -the first thing that Jurgis had thought of himself—he had clenched his -hands and braced himself anew for the struggle, for the sake of that -tiny mite of human possibility. - -And so Ona went back to Brown’s and saved her place and a week’s wages; -and so she gave herself some one of the thousand ailments that women -group under the title of “womb trouble,” and was never again a well -person as long as she lived. It is difficult to convey in words all -that this meant to Ona; it seemed such a slight offense, and the -punishment was so out of all proportion, that neither she nor any one -else ever connected the two. “Womb trouble” to Ona did not mean a -specialist’s diagnosis, and a course of treatment, and perhaps an -operation or two; it meant simply headaches and pains in the back, and -depression and heartsickness, and neuralgia when she had to go to work -in the rain. The great majority of the women who worked in Packingtown -suffered in the same way, and from the same cause, so it was not deemed -a thing to see the doctor about; instead Ona would try patent -medicines, one after another, as her friends told her about them. As -these all contained alcohol, or some other stimulant, she found that -they all did her good while she took them; and so she was always -chasing the phantom of good health, and losing it because she was too -poor to continue. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -During the summer the packing houses were in full activity again, and -Jurgis made more money. He did not make so much, however, as he had the -previous summer, for the packers took on more hands. There were new men -every week, it seemed—it was a regular system; and this number they -would keep over to the next slack season, so that every one would have -less than ever. Sooner or later, by this plan, they would have all the -floating labor of Chicago trained to do their work. And how very -cunning a trick was that! The men were to teach new hands, who would -some day come and break their strike; and meantime they were kept so -poor that they could not prepare for the trial! - -But let no one suppose that this superfluity of employees meant easier -work for any one! On the contrary, the speeding-up seemed to be growing -more savage all the time; they were continually inventing new devices -to crowd the work on—it was for all the world like the thumbscrew of -the mediæval torture chamber. They would get new pacemakers and pay -them more; they would drive the men on with new machinery—it was said -that in the hog-killing rooms the speed at which the hogs moved was -determined by clockwork, and that it was increased a little every day. -In piecework they would reduce the time, requiring the same work in a -shorter time, and paying the same wages; and then, after the workers -had accustomed themselves to this new speed, they would reduce the rate -of payment to correspond with the reduction in time! They had done this -so often in the canning establishments that the girls were fairly -desperate; their wages had gone down by a full third in the past two -years, and a storm of discontent was brewing that was likely to break -any day. Only a month after Marija had become a beef-trimmer the -canning factory that she had left posted a cut that would divide the -girls’ earnings almost squarely in half; and so great was the -indignation at this that they marched out without even a parley, and -organized in the street outside. One of the girls had read somewhere -that a red flag was the proper symbol for oppressed workers, and so -they mounted one, and paraded all about the yards, yelling with rage. A -new union was the result of this outburst, but the impromptu strike -went to pieces in three days, owing to the rush of new labor. At the -end of it the girl who had carried the red flag went downtown and got a -position in a great department store, at a salary of two dollars and a -half a week. - -Jurgis and Ona heard these stories with dismay, for there was no -telling when their own time might come. Once or twice there had been -rumors that one of the big houses was going to cut its unskilled men to -fifteen cents an hour, and Jurgis knew that if this was done, his turn -would come soon. He had learned by this time that Packingtown was -really not a number of firms at all, but one great firm, the Beef -Trust. And every week the managers of it got together and compared -notes, and there was one scale for all the workers in the yards and one -standard of efficiency. Jurgis was told that they also fixed the price -they would pay for beef on the hoof and the price of all dressed meat -in the country; but that was something he did not understand or care -about. - -The only one who was not afraid of a cut was Marija, who congratulated -herself, somewhat naïvely, that there had been one in her place only a -short time before she came. Marija was getting to be a skilled -beef-trimmer, and was mounting to the heights again. During the summer -and fall Jurgis and Ona managed to pay her back the last penny they -owed her, and so she began to have a bank account. Tamoszius had a bank -account also, and they ran a race, and began to figure upon household -expenses once more. - -The possession of vast wealth entails cares and responsibilities, -however, as poor Marija found out. She had taken the advice of a friend -and invested her savings in a bank on Ashland Avenue. Of course she -knew nothing about it, except that it was big and imposing—what -possible chance has a poor foreign working girl to understand the -banking business, as it is conducted in this land of frenzied finance? -So Marija lived in a continual dread lest something should happen to -her bank, and would go out of her way mornings to make sure that it was -still there. Her principal thought was of fire, for she had deposited -her money in bills, and was afraid that if they were burned up the bank -would not give her any others. Jurgis made fun of her for this, for he -was a man and was proud of his superior knowledge, telling her that the -bank had fireproof vaults, and all its millions of dollars hidden -safely away in them. - -However, one morning Marija took her usual detour, and, to her horror -and dismay, saw a crowd of people in front of the bank, filling the -avenue solid for half a block. All the blood went out of her face for -terror. She broke into a run, shouting to the people to ask what was -the matter, but not stopping to hear what they answered, till she had -come to where the throng was so dense that she could no longer advance. -There was a “run on the bank,” they told her then, but she did not know -what that was, and turned from one person to another, trying in an -agony of fear to make out what they meant. Had something gone wrong -with the bank? Nobody was sure, but they thought so. Couldn’t she get -her money? There was no telling; the people were afraid not, and they -were all trying to get it. It was too early yet to tell anything—the -bank would not open for nearly three hours. So in a frenzy of despair -Marija began to claw her way toward the doors of this building, through -a throng of men, women, and children, all as excited as herself. It was -a scene of wild confusion, women shrieking and wringing their hands and -fainting, and men fighting and trampling down everything in their way. -In the midst of the mêlée Marija recollected that she did not have her -bankbook, and could not get her money anyway, so she fought her way out -and started on a run for home. This was fortunate for her, for a few -minutes later the police reserves arrived. - -In half an hour Marija was back, Teta Elzbieta with her, both of them -breathless with running and sick with fear. The crowd was now formed in -a line, extending for several blocks, with half a hundred policemen -keeping guard, and so there was nothing for them to do but to take -their places at the end of it. At nine o’clock the bank opened and -began to pay the waiting throng; but then, what good did that do -Marija, who saw three thousand people before her—enough to take out the -last penny of a dozen banks? - -To make matters worse a drizzling rain came up, and soaked them to the -skin; yet all the morning they stood there, creeping slowly toward the -goal—all the afternoon they stood there, heartsick, seeing that the -hour of closing was coming, and that they were going to be left out. -Marija made up her mind that, come what might, she would stay there and -keep her place; but as nearly all did the same, all through the long, -cold night, she got very little closer to the bank for that. Toward -evening Jurgis came; he had heard the story from the children, and he -brought some food and dry wraps, which made it a little easier. - -The next morning, before daybreak, came a bigger crowd than ever, and -more policemen from downtown. Marija held on like grim death, and -toward afternoon she got into the bank and got her money—all in big -silver dollars, a handkerchief full. When she had once got her hands on -them her fear vanished, and she wanted to put them back again; but the -man at the window was savage, and said that the bank would receive no -more deposits from those who had taken part in the run. So Marija was -forced to take her dollars home with her, watching to right and left, -expecting every instant that some one would try to rob her; and when -she got home she was not much better off. Until she could find another -bank there was nothing to do but sew them up in her clothes, and so -Marija went about for a week or more, loaded down with bullion, and -afraid to cross the street in front of the house, because Jurgis told -her she would sink out of sight in the mud. Weighted this way she made -her way to the yards, again in fear, this time to see if she had lost -her place; but fortunately about ten per cent of the working people of -Packingtown had been depositors in that bank, and it was not convenient -to discharge that many at once. The cause of the panic had been the -attempt of a policeman to arrest a drunken man in a saloon next door, -which had drawn a crowd at the hour the people were on their way to -work, and so started the “run.” - -About this time Jurgis and Ona also began a bank account. Besides -having paid Jonas and Marija, they had almost paid for their furniture, -and could have that little sum to count on. So long as each of them -could bring home nine or ten dollars a week, they were able to get -along finely. Also election day came round again, and Jurgis made half -a week’s wages out of that, all net profit. It was a very close -election that year, and the echoes of the battle reached even to -Packingtown. The two rival sets of grafters hired halls and set off -fireworks and made speeches, to try to get the people interested in the -matter. Although Jurgis did not understand it all, he knew enough by -this time to realize that it was not supposed to be right to sell your -vote. However, as every one did it, and his refusal to join would not -have made the slightest difference in the results, the idea of refusing -would have seemed absurd, had it ever come into his head. - -Now chill winds and shortening days began to warn them that the winter -was coming again. It seemed as if the respite had been too short—they -had not had time enough to get ready for it; but still it came, -inexorably, and the hunted look began to come back into the eyes of -little Stanislovas. The prospect struck fear to the heart of Jurgis -also, for he knew that Ona was not fit to face the cold and the -snowdrifts this year. And suppose that some day when a blizzard struck -them and the cars were not running, Ona should have to give up, and -should come the next day to find that her place had been given to some -one who lived nearer and could be depended on? - -It was the week before Christmas that the first storm came, and then -the soul of Jurgis rose up within him like a sleeping lion. There were -four days that the Ashland Avenue cars were stalled, and in those days, -for the first time in his life, Jurgis knew what it was to be really -opposed. He had faced difficulties before, but they had been child’s -play; now there was a death struggle, and all the furies were unchained -within him. The first morning they set out two hours before dawn, Ona -wrapped all in blankets and tossed upon his shoulder like a sack of -meal, and the little boy, bundled nearly out of sight, hanging by his -coat-tails. There was a raging blast beating in his face, and the -thermometer stood below zero; the snow was never short of his knees, -and in some of the drifts it was nearly up to his armpits. It would -catch his feet and try to trip him; it would build itself into a wall -before him to beat him back; and he would fling himself into it, -plunging like a wounded buffalo, puffing and snorting in rage. So foot -by foot he drove his way, and when at last he came to Durham’s he was -staggering and almost blind, and leaned against a pillar, gasping, and -thanking God that the cattle came late to the killing beds that day. In -the evening the same thing had to be done again; and because Jurgis -could not tell what hour of the night he would get off, he got a -saloon-keeper to let Ona sit and wait for him in a corner. Once it was -eleven o’clock at night, and black as the pit, but still they got home. - -That blizzard knocked many a man out, for the crowd outside begging for -work was never greater, and the packers would not wait long for any -one. When it was over, the soul of Jurgis was a song, for he had met -the enemy and conquered, and felt himself the master of his fate.—So it -might be with some monarch of the forest that has vanquished his foes -in fair fight, and then falls into some cowardly trap in the -night-time. - -A time of peril on the killing beds was when a steer broke loose. -Sometimes, in the haste of speeding-up, they would dump one of the -animals out on the floor before it was fully stunned, and it would get -upon its feet and run amuck. Then there would be a yell of warning—the -men would drop everything and dash for the nearest pillar, slipping -here and there on the floor, and tumbling over each other. This was bad -enough in the summer, when a man could see; in wintertime it was enough -to make your hair stand up, for the room would be so full of steam that -you could not make anything out five feet in front of you. To be sure, -the steer was generally blind and frantic, and not especially bent on -hurting any one; but think of the chances of running upon a knife, -while nearly every man had one in his hand! And then, to cap the -climax, the floor boss would come rushing up with a rifle and begin -blazing away! - -It was in one of these mêlées that Jurgis fell into his trap. That is -the only word to describe it; it was so cruel, and so utterly not to be -foreseen. At first he hardly noticed it, it was such a slight -accident—simply that in leaping out of the way he turned his ankle. -There was a twinge of pain, but Jurgis was used to pain, and did not -coddle himself. When he came to walk home, however, he realized that it -was hurting him a great deal; and in the morning his ankle was swollen -out nearly double its size, and he could not get his foot into his -shoe. Still, even then, he did nothing more than swear a little, and -wrapped his foot in old rags, and hobbled out to take the car. It -chanced to be a rush day at Durham’s, and all the long morning he -limped about with his aching foot; by noontime the pain was so great -that it made him faint, and after a couple of hours in the afternoon he -was fairly beaten, and had to tell the boss. They sent for the company -doctor, and he examined the foot and told Jurgis to go home to bed, -adding that he had probably laid himself up for months by his folly. -The injury was not one that Durham and Company could be held -responsible for, and so that was all there was to it, so far as the -doctor was concerned. - -Jurgis got home somehow, scarcely able to see for the pain, and with an -awful terror in his soul, Elzbieta helped him into bed and bandaged his -injured foot with cold water and tried hard not to let him see her -dismay; when the rest came home at night she met them outside and told -them, and they, too, put on a cheerful face, saying it would only be -for a week or two, and that they would pull him through. - -When they had gotten him to sleep, however, they sat by the kitchen -fire and talked it over in frightened whispers. They were in for a -siege, that was plainly to be seen. Jurgis had only about sixty dollars -in the bank, and the slack season was upon them. Both Jonas and Marija -might soon be earning no more than enough to pay their board, and -besides that there were only the wages of Ona and the pittance of the -little boy. There was the rent to pay, and still some on the furniture; -there was the insurance just due, and every month there was sack after -sack of coal. It was January, midwinter, an awful time to have to face -privation. Deep snows would come again, and who would carry Ona to her -work now? She might lose her place—she was almost certain to lose it. -And then little Stanislovas began to whimper—who would take care of -him? - -It was dreadful that an accident of this sort, that no man can help, -should have meant such suffering. The bitterness of it was the daily -food and drink of Jurgis. It was of no use for them to try to deceive -him; he knew as much about the situation as they did, and he knew that -the family might literally starve to death. The worry of it fairly ate -him up—he began to look haggard the first two or three days of it. In -truth, it was almost maddening for a strong man like him, a fighter, to -have to lie there helpless on his back. It was for all the world the -old story of Prometheus bound. As Jurgis lay on his bed, hour after -hour there came to him emotions that he had never known before. Before -this he had met life with a welcome—it had its trials, but none that a -man could not face. But now, in the nighttime, when he lay tossing -about, there would come stalking into his chamber a grisly phantom, the -sight of which made his flesh curl and his hair to bristle up. It was -like seeing the world fall away from underneath his feet; like plunging -down into a bottomless abyss into yawning caverns of despair. It might -be true, then, after all, what others had told him about life, that the -best powers of a man might not be equal to it! It might be true that, -strive as he would, toil as he would, he might fail, and go down and be -destroyed! The thought of this was like an icy hand at his heart; the -thought that here, in this ghastly home of all horror, he and all those -who were dear to him might lie and perish of starvation and cold, and -there would be no ear to hear their cry, no hand to help them! It was -true, it was true,—that here in this huge city, with its stores of -heaped-up wealth, human creatures might be hunted down and destroyed by -the wild-beast powers of nature, just as truly as ever they were in the -days of the cave men! - -Ona was now making about thirty dollars a month, and Stanislovas about -thirteen. To add to this there was the board of Jonas and Marija, about -forty-five dollars. Deducting from this the rent, interest, and -installments on the furniture, they had left sixty dollars, and -deducting the coal, they had fifty. They did without everything that -human beings could do without; they went in old and ragged clothing, -that left them at the mercy of the cold, and when the children’s shoes -wore out, they tied them up with string. Half invalid as she was, Ona -would do herself harm by walking in the rain and cold when she ought to -have ridden; they bought literally nothing but food—and still they -could not keep alive on fifty dollars a month. They might have done it, -if only they could have gotten pure food, and at fair prices; or if -only they had known what to get—if they had not been so pitifully -ignorant! But they had come to a new country, where everything was -different, including the food. They had always been accustomed to eat a -great deal of smoked sausage, and how could they know that what they -bought in America was not the same—that its color was made by -chemicals, and its smoky flavor by more chemicals, and that it was full -of “potato flour” besides? Potato flour is the waste of potato after -the starch and alcohol have been extracted; it has no more food value -than so much wood, and as its use as a food adulterant is a penal -offense in Europe, thousands of tons of it are shipped to America every -year. It was amazing what quantities of food such as this were needed -every day, by eleven hungry persons. A dollar sixty-five a day was -simply not enough to feed them, and there was no use trying; and so -each week they made an inroad upon the pitiful little bank account that -Ona had begun. Because the account was in her name, it was possible for -her to keep this a secret from her husband, and to keep the -heartsickness of it for her own. - -It would have been better if Jurgis had been really ill; if he had not -been able to think. For he had no resources such as most invalids have; -all he could do was to lie there and toss about from side to side. Now -and then he would break into cursing, regardless of everything; and now -and then his impatience would get the better of him, and he would try -to get up, and poor Teta Elzbieta would have to plead with him in a -frenzy. Elzbieta was all alone with him the greater part of the time. -She would sit and smooth his forehead by the hour, and talk to him and -try to make him forget. Sometimes it would be too cold for the children -to go to school, and they would have to play in the kitchen, where -Jurgis was, because it was the only room that was half warm. These were -dreadful times, for Jurgis would get as cross as any bear; he was -scarcely to be blamed, for he had enough to worry him, and it was hard -when he was trying to take a nap to be kept awake by noisy and peevish -children. - -Elzbieta’s only resource in those times was little Antanas; indeed, it -would be hard to say how they could have gotten along at all if it had -not been for little Antanas. It was the one consolation of Jurgis’ long -imprisonment that now he had time to look at his baby. Teta Elzbieta -would put the clothes-basket in which the baby slept alongside of his -mattress, and Jurgis would lie upon one elbow and watch him by the -hour, imagining things. Then little Antanas would open his eyes—he was -beginning to take notice of things now; and he would smile—how he would -smile! So Jurgis would begin to forget and be happy because he was in a -world where there was a thing so beautiful as the smile of little -Antanas, and because such a world could not but be good at the heart of -it. He looked more like his father every hour, Elzbieta would say, and -said it many times a day, because she saw that it pleased Jurgis; the -poor little terror-stricken woman was planning all day and all night to -soothe the prisoned giant who was intrusted to her care. Jurgis, who -knew nothing about the age-long and everlasting hypocrisy of woman, -would take the bait and grin with delight; and then he would hold his -finger in front of little Antanas’ eyes, and move it this way and that, -and laugh with glee to see the baby follow it. There is no pet quite so -fascinating as a baby; he would look into Jurgis’ face with such -uncanny seriousness, and Jurgis would start and cry: “_Palauk!_ Look, -Muma, he knows his papa! He does, he does! _Tu mano szirdele_, the -little rascal!” - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -For three weeks after his injury Jurgis never got up from bed. It was a -very obstinate sprain; the swelling would not go down, and the pain -still continued. At the end of that time, however, he could contain -himself no longer, and began trying to walk a little every day, -laboring to persuade himself that he was better. No arguments could -stop him, and three or four days later he declared that he was going -back to work. He limped to the cars and got to Brown’s, where he found -that the boss had kept his place—that is, was willing to turn out into -the snow the poor devil he had hired in the meantime. Every now and -then the pain would force Jurgis to stop work, but he stuck it out till -nearly an hour before closing. Then he was forced to acknowledge that -he could not go on without fainting; it almost broke his heart to do -it, and he stood leaning against a pillar and weeping like a child. Two -of the men had to help him to the car, and when he got out he had to -sit down and wait in the snow till some one came along. - -So they put him to bed again, and sent for the doctor, as they ought to -have done in the beginning. It transpired that he had twisted a tendon -out of place, and could never have gotten well without attention. Then -he gripped the sides of the bed, and shut his teeth together, and -turned white with agony, while the doctor pulled and wrenched away at -his swollen ankle. When finally the doctor left, he told him that he -would have to lie quiet for two months, and that if he went to work -before that time he might lame himself for life. - -Three days later there came another heavy snowstorm, and Jonas and -Marija and Ona and little Stanislovas all set out together, an hour -before daybreak, to try to get to the yards. About noon the last two -came back, the boy screaming with pain. His fingers were all frosted, -it seemed. They had had to give up trying to get to the yards, and had -nearly perished in a drift. All that they knew how to do was to hold -the frozen fingers near the fire, and so little Stanislovas spent most -of the day dancing about in horrible agony, till Jurgis flew into a -passion of nervous rage and swore like a madman, declaring that he -would kill him if he did not stop. All that day and night the family -was half-crazed with fear that Ona and the boy had lost their places; -and in the morning they set out earlier than ever, after the little -fellow had been beaten with a stick by Jurgis. There could be no -trifling in a case like this, it was a matter of life and death; little -Stanislovas could not be expected to realize that he might a great deal -better freeze in the snowdrift than lose his job at the lard machine. -Ona was quite certain that she would find her place gone, and was all -unnerved when she finally got to Brown’s, and found that the forelady -herself had failed to come, and was therefore compelled to be lenient. - -One of the consequences of this episode was that the first joints of -three of the little boy’s fingers were permanently disabled, and -another that thereafter he always had to be beaten before he set out to -work, whenever there was fresh snow on the ground. Jurgis was called -upon to do the beating, and as it hurt his foot he did it with a -vengeance; but it did not tend to add to the sweetness of his temper. -They say that the best dog will turn cross if he be kept chained all -the time, and it was the same with the man; he had not a thing to do -all day but lie and curse his fate, and the time came when he wanted to -curse everything. - -This was never for very long, however, for when Ona began to cry, -Jurgis could not stay angry. The poor fellow looked like a homeless -ghost, with his cheeks sunken in and his long black hair straggling -into his eyes; he was too discouraged to cut it, or to think about his -appearance. His muscles were wasting away, and what were left were soft -and flabby. He had no appetite, and they could not afford to tempt him -with delicacies. It was better, he said, that he should not eat, it was -a saving. About the end of March he had got hold of Ona’s bankbook, and -learned that there was only three dollars left to them in the world. - -But perhaps the worst of the consequences of this long siege was that -they lost another member of their family; Brother Jonas disappeared. -One Saturday night he did not come home, and thereafter all their -efforts to get trace of him were futile. It was said by the boss at -Durham’s that he had gotten his week’s money and left there. That might -not be true, of course, for sometimes they would say that when a man -had been killed; it was the easiest way out of it for all concerned. -When, for instance, a man had fallen into one of the rendering tanks -and had been made into pure leaf lard and peerless fertilizer, there -was no use letting the fact out and making his family unhappy. More -probable, however, was the theory that Jonas had deserted them, and -gone on the road, seeking happiness. He had been discontented for a -long time, and not without some cause. He paid good board, and was yet -obliged to live in a family where nobody had enough to eat. And Marija -would keep giving them all her money, and of course he could not but -feel that he was called upon to do the same. Then there were crying -brats, and all sorts of misery; a man would have had to be a good deal -of a hero to stand it all without grumbling, and Jonas was not in the -least a hero—he was simply a weatherbeaten old fellow who liked to have -a good supper and sit in the corner by the fire and smoke his pipe in -peace before he went to bed. Here there was not room by the fire, and -through the winter the kitchen had seldom been warm enough for comfort. -So, with the springtime, what was more likely than that the wild idea -of escaping had come to him? Two years he had been yoked like a horse -to a half-ton truck in Durham’s dark cellars, with never a rest, save -on Sundays and four holidays in the year, and with never a word of -thanks—only kicks and blows and curses, such as no decent dog would -have stood. And now the winter was over, and the spring winds were -blowing—and with a day’s walk a man might put the smoke of Packingtown -behind him forever, and be where the grass was green and the flowers -all the colors of the rainbow! - -But now the income of the family was cut down more than one-third, and -the food demand was cut only one-eleventh, so that they were worse off -than ever. Also they were borrowing money from Marija, and eating up -her bank account, and spoiling once again her hopes of marriage and -happiness. And they were even going into debt to Tamoszius Kuszleika -and letting him impoverish himself. Poor Tamoszius was a man without -any relatives, and with a wonderful talent besides, and he ought to -have made money and prospered; but he had fallen in love, and so given -hostages to fortune, and was doomed to be dragged down too. - -So it was finally decided that two more of the children would have to -leave school. Next to Stanislovas, who was now fifteen, there was a -girl, little Kotrina, who was two years younger, and then two boys, -Vilimas, who was eleven, and Nikalojus, who was ten. Both of these last -were bright boys, and there was no reason why their family should -starve when tens of thousands of children no older were earning their -own livings. So one morning they were given a quarter apiece and a roll -with a sausage in it, and, with their minds top-heavy with good advice, -were sent out to make their way to the city and learn to sell -newspapers. They came back late at night in tears, having walked for -the five or six miles to report that a man had offered to take them to -a place where they sold newspapers, and had taken their money and gone -into a store to get them, and nevermore been seen. So they both -received a whipping, and the next morning set out again. This time they -found the newspaper place, and procured their stock; and after -wandering about till nearly noontime, saying “Paper?” to every one they -saw, they had all their stock taken away and received a thrashing -besides from a big newsman upon whose territory they had trespassed. -Fortunately, however, they had already sold some papers, and came back -with nearly as much as they started with. - -After a week of mishaps such as these, the two little fellows began to -learn the ways of the trade—the names of the different papers, and how -many of each to get, and what sort of people to offer them to, and -where to go and where to stay away from. After this, leaving home at -four o’clock in the morning, and running about the streets, first with -morning papers and then with evening, they might come home late at -night with twenty or thirty cents apiece—possibly as much as forty -cents. From this they had to deduct their carfare, since the distance -was so great; but after a while they made friends, and learned still -more, and then they would save their carfare. They would get on a car -when the conductor was not looking, and hide in the crowd; and three -times out of four he would not ask for their fares, either not seeing -them, or thinking they had already paid; or if he did ask, they would -hunt through their pockets, and then begin to cry, and either have -their fares paid by some kind old lady, or else try the trick again on -a new car. All this was fair play, they felt. Whose fault was it that -at the hours when workingmen were going to their work and back, the -cars were so crowded that the conductors could not collect all the -fares? And besides, the companies were thieves, people said—had stolen -all their franchises with the help of scoundrelly politicians! - -Now that the winter was by, and there was no more danger of snow, and -no more coal to buy, and another room warm enough to put the children -into when they cried, and enough money to get along from week to week -with, Jurgis was less terrible than he had been. A man can get used to -anything in the course of time, and Jurgis had gotten used to lying -about the house. Ona saw this, and was very careful not to destroy his -peace of mind, by letting him know how very much pain she was -suffering. It was now the time of the spring rains, and Ona had often -to ride to her work, in spite of the expense; she was getting paler -every day, and sometimes, in spite of her good resolutions, it pained -her that Jurgis did not notice it. She wondered if he cared for her as -much as ever, if all this misery was not wearing out his love. She had -to be away from him all the time, and bear her own troubles while he -was bearing his; and then, when she came home, she was so worn out; and -whenever they talked they had only their worries to talk of—truly it -was hard, in such a life, to keep any sentiment alive. The woe of this -would flame up in Ona sometimes—at night she would suddenly clasp her -big husband in her arms and break into passionate weeping, demanding to -know if he really loved her. Poor Jurgis, who had in truth grown more -matter-of-fact, under the endless pressure of penury, would not know -what to make of these things, and could only try to recollect when he -had last been cross; and so Ona would have to forgive him and sob -herself to sleep. - -The latter part of April Jurgis went to see the doctor, and was given a -bandage to lace about his ankle, and told that he might go back to -work. It needed more than the permission of the doctor, however, for -when he showed up on the killing floor of Brown’s, he was told by the -foreman that it had not been possible to keep his job for him. Jurgis -knew that this meant simply that the foreman had found some one else to -do the work as well and did not want to bother to make a change. He -stood in the doorway, looking mournfully on, seeing his friends and -companions at work, and feeling like an outcast. Then he went out and -took his place with the mob of the unemployed. - -This time, however, Jurgis did not have the same fine confidence, nor -the same reason for it. He was no longer the finest-looking man in the -throng, and the bosses no longer made for him; he was thin and haggard, -and his clothes were seedy, and he looked miserable. And there were -hundreds who looked and felt just like him, and who had been wandering -about Packingtown for months begging for work. This was a critical time -in Jurgis’ life, and if he had been a weaker man he would have gone the -way the rest did. Those out-of-work wretches would stand about the -packing houses every morning till the police drove them away, and then -they would scatter among the saloons. Very few of them had the nerve to -face the rebuffs that they would encounter by trying to get into the -buildings to interview the bosses; if they did not get a chance in the -morning, there would be nothing to do but hang about the saloons the -rest of the day and night. Jurgis was saved from all this—partly, to be -sure, because it was pleasant weather, and there was no need to be -indoors; but mainly because he carried with him always the pitiful -little face of his wife. He must get work, he told himself, fighting -the battle with despair every hour of the day. He must get work! He -must have a place again and some money saved up, before the next winter -came. - -But there was no work for him. He sought out all the members of his -union—Jurgis had stuck to the union through all this—and begged them to -speak a word for him. He went to every one he knew, asking for a -chance, there or anywhere. He wandered all day through the buildings; -and in a week or two, when he had been all over the yards, and into -every room to which he had access, and learned that there was not a job -anywhere, he persuaded himself that there might have been a change in -the places he had first visited, and began the round all over; till -finally the watchmen and the “spotters” of the companies came to know -him by sight and to order him out with threats. Then there was nothing -more for him to do but go with the crowd in the morning, and keep in -the front row and look eager, and when he failed, go back home, and -play with little Kotrina and the baby. - -The peculiar bitterness of all this was that Jurgis saw so plainly the -meaning of it. In the beginning he had been fresh and strong, and he -had gotten a job the first day; but now he was second-hand, a damaged -article, so to speak, and they did not want him. They had got the best -of him—they had worn him out, with their speeding-up and their -carelessness, and now they had thrown him away! And Jurgis would make -the acquaintance of others of these unemployed men and find that they -had all had the same experience. There were some, of course, who had -wandered in from other places, who had been ground up in other mills; -there were others who were out from their own fault—some, for instance, -who had not been able to stand the awful grind without drink. The vast -majority, however, were simply the worn-out parts of the great -merciless packing machine; they had toiled there, and kept up with the -pace, some of them for ten or twenty years, until finally the time had -come when they could not keep up with it any more. Some had been -frankly told that they were too old, that a sprier man was needed; -others had given occasion, by some act of carelessness or incompetence; -with most, however, the occasion had been the same as with Jurgis. They -had been overworked and underfed so long, and finally some disease had -laid them on their backs; or they had cut themselves, and had blood -poisoning, or met with some other accident. When a man came back after -that, he would get his place back only by the courtesy of the boss. To -this there was no exception, save when the accident was one for which -the firm was liable; in that case they would send a slippery lawyer to -see him, first to try to get him to sign away his claims, but if he was -too smart for that, to promise him that he and his should always be -provided with work. This promise they would keep, strictly and to the -letter—for two years. Two years was the “statute of limitations,” and -after that the victim could not sue. - -What happened to a man after any of these things, all depended upon the -circumstances. If he were of the highly skilled workers, he would -probably have enough saved up to tide him over. The best paid men, the -“splitters,” made fifty cents an hour, which would be five or six -dollars a day in the rush seasons, and one or two in the dullest. A man -could live and save on that; but then there were only half a dozen -splitters in each place, and one of them that Jurgis knew had a family -of twenty-two children, all hoping to grow up to be splitters like -their father. For an unskilled man, who made ten dollars a week in the -rush seasons and five in the dull, it all depended upon his age and the -number he had dependent upon him. An unmarried man could save, if he -did not drink, and if he was absolutely selfish—that is, if he paid no -heed to the demands of his old parents, or of his little brothers and -sisters, or of any other relatives he might have, as well as of the -members of his union, and his chums, and the people who might be -starving to death next door. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -During this time that Jurgis was looking for work occurred the death of -little Kristoforas, one of the children of Teta Elzbieta. Both -Kristoforas and his brother, Juozapas, were cripples, the latter having -lost one leg by having it run over, and Kristoforas having congenital -dislocation of the hip, which made it impossible for him ever to walk. -He was the last of Teta Elzbieta’s children, and perhaps he had been -intended by nature to let her know that she had had enough. At any rate -he was wretchedly sick and undersized; he had the rickets, and though -he was over three years old, he was no bigger than an ordinary child of -one. All day long he would crawl around the floor in a filthy little -dress, whining and fretting; because the floor was full of drafts he -was always catching cold, and snuffling because his nose ran. This made -him a nuisance, and a source of endless trouble in the family. For his -mother, with unnatural perversity, loved him best of all her children, -and made a perpetual fuss over him—would let him do anything -undisturbed, and would burst into tears when his fretting drove Jurgis -wild. - -And now he died. Perhaps it was the smoked sausage he had eaten that -morning—which may have been made out of some of the tubercular pork -that was condemned as unfit for export. At any rate, an hour after -eating it, the child had begun to cry with pain, and in another hour he -was rolling about on the floor in convulsions. Little Kotrina, who was -all alone with him, ran out screaming for help, and after a while a -doctor came, but not until Kristoforas had howled his last howl. No one -was really sorry about this except poor Elzbieta, who was inconsolable. -Jurgis announced that so far as he was concerned the child would have -to be buried by the city, since they had no money for a funeral; and at -this the poor woman almost went out of her senses, wringing her hands -and screaming with grief and despair. Her child to be buried in a -pauper’s grave! And her stepdaughter to stand by and hear it said -without protesting! It was enough to make Ona’s father rise up out of -his grave to rebuke her! If it had come to this, they might as well -give up at once, and be buried all of them together! . . . In the end -Marija said that she would help with ten dollars; and Jurgis being -still obdurate, Elzbieta went in tears and begged the money from the -neighbors, and so little Kristoforas had a mass and a hearse with white -plumes on it, and a tiny plot in a graveyard with a wooden cross to -mark the place. The poor mother was not the same for months after that; -the mere sight of the floor where little Kristoforas had crawled about -would make her weep. He had never had a fair chance, poor little -fellow, she would say. He had been handicapped from his birth. If only -she had heard about it in time, so that she might have had that great -doctor to cure him of his lameness! . . . Some time ago, Elzbieta was -told, a Chicago billionaire had paid a fortune to bring a great -European surgeon over to cure his little daughter of the same disease -from which Kristoforas had suffered. And because this surgeon had to -have bodies to demonstrate upon, he announced that he would treat the -children of the poor, a piece of magnanimity over which the papers -became quite eloquent. Elzbieta, alas, did not read the papers, and no -one had told her; but perhaps it was as well, for just then they would -not have had the carfare to spare to go every day to wait upon the -surgeon, nor for that matter anybody with the time to take the child. - -All this while that he was seeking for work, there was a dark shadow -hanging over Jurgis; as if a savage beast were lurking somewhere in the -pathway of his life, and he knew it, and yet could not help approaching -the place. There are all stages of being out of work in Packingtown, -and he faced in dread the prospect of reaching the lowest. There is a -place that waits for the lowest man—the fertilizer plant! - -The men would talk about it in awe-stricken whispers. Not more than one -in ten had ever really tried it; the other nine had contented -themselves with hearsay evidence and a peep through the door. There -were some things worse than even starving to death. They would ask -Jurgis if he had worked there yet, and if he meant to; and Jurgis would -debate the matter with himself. As poor as they were, and making all -the sacrifices that they were, would he dare to refuse any sort of work -that was offered to him, be it as horrible as ever it could? Would he -dare to go home and eat bread that had been earned by Ona, weak and -complaining as she was, knowing that he had been given a chance, and -had not had the nerve to take it?—And yet he might argue that way with -himself all day, and one glimpse into the fertilizer works would send -him away again shuddering. He was a man, and he would do his duty; he -went and made application—but surely he was not also required to hope -for success! - -The fertilizer works of Durham’s lay away from the rest of the plant. -Few visitors ever saw them, and the few who did would come out looking -like Dante, of whom the peasants declared that he had been into hell. -To this part of the yards came all the “tankage” and the waste products -of all sorts; here they dried out the bones,—and in suffocating cellars -where the daylight never came you might see men and women and children -bending over whirling machines and sawing bits of bone into all sorts -of shapes, breathing their lungs full of the fine dust, and doomed to -die, every one of them, within a certain definite time. Here they made -the blood into albumen, and made other foul-smelling things into things -still more foul-smelling. In the corridors and caverns where it was -done you might lose yourself as in the great caves of Kentucky. In the -dust and the steam the electric lights would shine like far-off -twinkling stars—red and blue-green and purple stars, according to the -color of the mist and the brew from which it came. For the odors of -these ghastly charnel houses there may be words in Lithuanian, but -there are none in English. The person entering would have to summon his -courage as for a cold-water plunge. He would go in like a man swimming -under water; he would put his handkerchief over his face, and begin to -cough and choke; and then, if he were still obstinate, he would find -his head beginning to ring, and the veins in his forehead to throb, -until finally he would be assailed by an overpowering blast of ammonia -fumes, and would turn and run for his life, and come out half-dazed. - -On top of this were the rooms where they dried the “tankage,” the mass -of brown stringy stuff that was left after the waste portions of the -carcasses had had the lard and tallow dried out of them. This dried -material they would then grind to a fine powder, and after they had -mixed it up well with a mysterious but inoffensive brown rock which -they brought in and ground up by the hundreds of carloads for that -purpose, the substance was ready to be put into bags and sent out to -the world as any one of a hundred different brands of standard bone -phosphate. And then the farmer in Maine or California or Texas would -buy this, at say twenty-five dollars a ton, and plant it with his corn; -and for several days after the operation the fields would have a strong -odor, and the farmer and his wagon and the very horses that had hauled -it would all have it too. In Packingtown the fertilizer is pure, -instead of being a flavoring, and instead of a ton or so spread out on -several acres under the open sky, there are hundreds and thousands of -tons of it in one building, heaped here and there in haystack piles, -covering the floor several inches deep, and filling the air with a -choking dust that becomes a blinding sandstorm when the wind stirs. - -It was to this building that Jurgis came daily, as if dragged by an -unseen hand. The month of May was an exceptionally cool one, and his -secret prayers were granted; but early in June there came a -record-breaking hot spell, and after that there were men wanted in the -fertilizer mill. - -The boss of the grinding room had come to know Jurgis by this time, and -had marked him for a likely man; and so when he came to the door about -two o’clock this breathless hot day, he felt a sudden spasm of pain -shoot through him—the boss beckoned to him! In ten minutes more Jurgis -had pulled off his coat and overshirt, and set his teeth together and -gone to work. Here was one more difficulty for him to meet and conquer! - -His labor took him about one minute to learn. Before him was one of the -vents of the mill in which the fertilizer was being ground—rushing -forth in a great brown river, with a spray of the finest dust flung -forth in clouds. Jurgis was given a shovel, and along with half a dozen -others it was his task to shovel this fertilizer into carts. That -others were at work he knew by the sound, and by the fact that he -sometimes collided with them; otherwise they might as well not have -been there, for in the blinding dust storm a man could not see six feet -in front of his face. When he had filled one cart he had to grope -around him until another came, and if there was none on hand he -continued to grope till one arrived. In five minutes he was, of course, -a mass of fertilizer from head to feet; they gave him a sponge to tie -over his mouth, so that he could breathe, but the sponge did not -prevent his lips and eyelids from caking up with it and his ears from -filling solid. He looked like a brown ghost at twilight—from hair to -shoes he became the color of the building and of everything in it, and -for that matter a hundred yards outside it. The building had to be left -open, and when the wind blew Durham and Company lost a great deal of -fertilizer. - -Working in his shirt sleeves, and with the thermometer at over a -hundred, the phosphates soaked in through every pore of Jurgis’ skin, -and in five minutes he had a headache, and in fifteen was almost dazed. -The blood was pounding in his brain like an engine’s throbbing; there -was a frightful pain in the top of his skull, and he could hardly -control his hands. Still, with the memory of his four months’ siege -behind him, he fought on, in a frenzy of determination; and half an -hour later he began to vomit—he vomited until it seemed as if his -inwards must be torn into shreds. A man could get used to the -fertilizer mill, the boss had said, if he would make up his mind to it; -but Jurgis now began to see that it was a question of making up his -stomach. - -At the end of that day of horror, he could scarcely stand. He had to -catch himself now and then, and lean against a building and get his -bearings. Most of the men, when they came out, made straight for a -saloon—they seemed to place fertilizer and rattlesnake poison in one -class. But Jurgis was too ill to think of drinking—he could only make -his way to the street and stagger on to a car. He had a sense of humor, -and later on, when he became an old hand, he used to think it fun to -board a streetcar and see what happened. Now, however, he was too ill -to notice it—how the people in the car began to gasp and sputter, to -put their handkerchiefs to their noses, and transfix him with furious -glances. Jurgis only knew that a man in front of him immediately got up -and gave him a seat; and that half a minute later the two people on -each side of him got up; and that in a full minute the crowded car was -nearly empty—those passengers who could not get room on the platform -having gotten out to walk. - -Of course Jurgis had made his home a miniature fertilizer mill a minute -after entering. The stuff was half an inch deep in his skin—his whole -system was full of it, and it would have taken a week not merely of -scrubbing, but of vigorous exercise, to get it out of him. As it was, -he could be compared with nothing known to men, save that newest -discovery of the savants, a substance which emits energy for an -unlimited time, without being itself in the least diminished in power. -He smelled so that he made all the food at the table taste, and set the -whole family to vomiting; for himself it was three days before he could -keep anything upon his stomach—he might wash his hands, and use a knife -and fork, but were not his mouth and throat filled with the poison? - -And still Jurgis stuck it out! In spite of splitting headaches he would -stagger down to the plant and take up his stand once more, and begin to -shovel in the blinding clouds of dust. And so at the end of the week he -was a fertilizer man for life—he was able to eat again, and though his -head never stopped aching, it ceased to be so bad that he could not -work. - -So there passed another summer. It was a summer of prosperity, all over -the country, and the country ate generously of packing house products, -and there was plenty of work for all the family, in spite of the -packers’ efforts to keep a superfluity of labor. They were again able -to pay their debts and to begin to save a little sum; but there were -one or two sacrifices they considered too heavy to be made for long—it -was too bad that the boys should have to sell papers at their age. It -was utterly useless to caution them and plead with them; quite without -knowing it, they were taking on the tone of their new environment. They -were learning to swear in voluble English; they were learning to pick -up cigar stumps and smoke them, to pass hours of their time gambling -with pennies and dice and cigarette cards; they were learning the -location of all the houses of prostitution on the “Lêvée,” and the -names of the “madames” who kept them, and the days when they gave their -state banquets, which the police captains and the big politicians all -attended. If a visiting “country customer” were to ask them, they could -show him which was “Hinkydink’s” famous saloon, and could even point -out to him by name the different gamblers and thugs and “hold-up men” -who made the place their headquarters. And worse yet, the boys were -getting out of the habit of coming home at night. What was the use, -they would ask, of wasting time and energy and a possible carfare -riding out to the stockyards every night when the weather was pleasant -and they could crawl under a truck or into an empty doorway and sleep -exactly as well? So long as they brought home a half dollar for each -day, what mattered it when they brought it? But Jurgis declared that -from this to ceasing to come at all would not be a very long step, and -so it was decided that Vilimas and Nikalojus should return to school in -the fall, and that instead Elzbieta should go out and get some work, -her place at home being taken by her younger daughter. - -Little Kotrina was like most children of the poor, prematurely made -old; she had to take care of her little brother, who was a cripple, and -also of the baby; she had to cook the meals and wash the dishes and -clean house, and have supper ready when the workers came home in the -evening. She was only thirteen, and small for her age, but she did all -this without a murmur; and her mother went out, and after trudging a -couple of days about the yards, settled down as a servant of a “sausage -machine.” - -Elzbieta was used to working, but she found this change a hard one, for -the reason that she had to stand motionless upon her feet from seven -o’clock in the morning till half-past twelve, and again from one till -half-past five. For the first few days it seemed to her that she could -not stand it—she suffered almost as much as Jurgis had from the -fertilizer, and would come out at sundown with her head fairly reeling. -Besides this, she was working in one of the dark holes, by electric -light, and the dampness, too, was deadly—there were always puddles of -water on the floor, and a sickening odor of moist flesh in the room. -The people who worked here followed the ancient custom of nature, -whereby the ptarmigan is the color of dead leaves in the fall and of -snow in the winter, and the chameleon, who is black when he lies upon a -stump and turns green when he moves to a leaf. The men and women who -worked in this department were precisely the color of the “fresh -country sausage” they made. - -The sausage-room was an interesting place to visit, for two or three -minutes, and provided that you did not look at the people; the machines -were perhaps the most wonderful things in the entire plant. Presumably -sausages were once chopped and stuffed by hand, and if so it would be -interesting to know how many workers had been displaced by these -inventions. On one side of the room were the hoppers, into which men -shoveled loads of meat and wheelbarrows full of spices; in these great -bowls were whirling knives that made two thousand revolutions a minute, -and when the meat was ground fine and adulterated with potato flour, -and well mixed with water, it was forced to the stuffing machines on -the other side of the room. The latter were tended by women; there was -a sort of spout, like the nozzle of a hose, and one of the women would -take a long string of “casing” and put the end over the nozzle and then -work the whole thing on, as one works on the finger of a tight glove. -This string would be twenty or thirty feet long, but the woman would -have it all on in a jiffy; and when she had several on, she would press -a lever, and a stream of sausage meat would be shot out, taking the -casing with it as it came. Thus one might stand and see appear, -miraculously born from the machine, a wriggling snake of sausage of -incredible length. In front was a big pan which caught these creatures, -and two more women who seized them as fast as they appeared and twisted -them into links. This was for the uninitiated the most perplexing work -of all; for all that the woman had to give was a single turn of the -wrist; and in some way she contrived to give it so that instead of an -endless chain of sausages, one after another, there grew under her -hands a bunch of strings, all dangling from a single center. It was -quite like the feat of a prestidigitator—for the woman worked so fast -that the eye could literally not follow her, and there was only a mist -of motion, and tangle after tangle of sausages appearing. In the midst -of the mist, however, the visitor would suddenly notice the tense set -face, with the two wrinkles graven in the forehead, and the ghastly -pallor of the cheeks; and then he would suddenly recollect that it was -time he was going on. The woman did not go on; she stayed right -there—hour after hour, day after day, year after year, twisting sausage -links and racing with death. It was piecework, and she was apt to have -a family to keep alive; and stern and ruthless economic laws had -arranged it that she could only do this by working just as she did, -with all her soul upon her work, and with never an instant for a glance -at the well-dressed ladies and gentlemen who came to stare at her, as -at some wild beast in a menagerie. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -With one member trimming beef in a cannery, and another working in a -sausage factory, the family had a first-hand knowledge of the great -majority of Packingtown swindles. For it was the custom, as they found, -whenever meat was so spoiled that it could not be used for anything -else, either to can it or else to chop it up into sausage. With what -had been told them by Jonas, who had worked in the pickle rooms, they -could now study the whole of the spoiled-meat industry on the inside, -and read a new and grim meaning into that old Packingtown jest—that -they use everything of the pig except the squeal. - -Jonas had told them how the meat that was taken out of pickle would -often be found sour, and how they would rub it up with soda to take -away the smell, and sell it to be eaten on free-lunch counters; also of -all the miracles of chemistry which they performed, giving to any sort -of meat, fresh or salted, whole or chopped, any color and any flavor -and any odor they chose. In the pickling of hams they had an ingenious -apparatus, by which they saved time and increased the capacity of the -plant—a machine consisting of a hollow needle attached to a pump; by -plunging this needle into the meat and working with his foot, a man -could fill a ham with pickle in a few seconds. And yet, in spite of -this, there would be hams found spoiled, some of them with an odor so -bad that a man could hardly bear to be in the room with them. To pump -into these the packers had a second and much stronger pickle which -destroyed the odor—a process known to the workers as “giving them -thirty per cent.” Also, after the hams had been smoked, there would be -found some that had gone to the bad. Formerly these had been sold as -“Number Three Grade,” but later on some ingenious person had hit upon a -new device, and now they would extract the bone, about which the bad -part generally lay, and insert in the hole a white-hot iron. After this -invention there was no longer Number One, Two, and Three Grade—there -was only Number One Grade. The packers were always originating such -schemes—they had what they called “boneless hams,” which were all the -odds and ends of pork stuffed into casings; and “California hams,” -which were the shoulders, with big knuckle joints, and nearly all the -meat cut out; and fancy “skinned hams,” which were made of the oldest -hogs, whose skins were so heavy and coarse that no one would buy -them—that is, until they had been cooked and chopped fine and labeled -“head cheese!” - -It was only when the whole ham was spoiled that it came into the -department of Elzbieta. Cut up by the two-thousand-revolutions-a-minute -flyers, and mixed with half a ton of other meat, no odor that ever was -in a ham could make any difference. There was never the least attention -paid to what was cut up for sausage; there would come all the way back -from Europe old sausage that had been rejected, and that was moldy and -white—it would be dosed with borax and glycerine, and dumped into the -hoppers, and made over again for home consumption. There would be meat -that had tumbled out on the floor, in the dirt and sawdust, where the -workers had tramped and spit uncounted billions of consumption germs. -There would be meat stored in great piles in rooms; and the water from -leaky roofs would drip over it, and thousands of rats would race about -on it. It was too dark in these storage places to see well, but a man -could run his hand over these piles of meat and sweep off handfuls of -the dried dung of rats. These rats were nuisances, and the packers -would put poisoned bread out for them; they would die, and then rats, -bread, and meat would go into the hoppers together. This is no fairy -story and no joke; the meat would be shoveled into carts, and the man -who did the shoveling would not trouble to lift out a rat even when he -saw one—there were things that went into the sausage in comparison with -which a poisoned rat was a tidbit. There was no place for the men to -wash their hands before they ate their dinner, and so they made a -practice of washing them in the water that was to be ladled into the -sausage. There were the butt-ends of smoked meat, and the scraps of -corned beef, and all the odds and ends of the waste of the plants, that -would be dumped into old barrels in the cellar and left there. Under -the system of rigid economy which the packers enforced, there were some -jobs that it only paid to do once in a long time, and among these was -the cleaning out of the waste barrels. Every spring they did it; and in -the barrels would be dirt and rust and old nails and stale water—and -cartload after cartload of it would be taken up and dumped into the -hoppers with fresh meat, and sent out to the public’s breakfast. Some -of it they would make into “smoked” sausage—but as the smoking took -time, and was therefore expensive, they would call upon their chemistry -department, and preserve it with borax and color it with gelatine to -make it brown. All of their sausage came out of the same bowl, but when -they came to wrap it they would stamp some of it “special,” and for -this they would charge two cents more a pound. - -Such were the new surroundings in which Elzbieta was placed, and such -was the work she was compelled to do. It was stupefying, brutalizing -work; it left her no time to think, no strength for anything. She was -part of the machine she tended, and every faculty that was not needed -for the machine was doomed to be crushed out of existence. There was -only one mercy about the cruel grind—that it gave her the gift of -insensibility. Little by little she sank into a torpor—she fell silent. -She would meet Jurgis and Ona in the evening, and the three would walk -home together, often without saying a word. Ona, too, was falling into -a habit of silence—Ona, who had once gone about singing like a bird. -She was sick and miserable, and often she would barely have strength -enough to drag herself home. And there they would eat what they had to -eat, and afterward, because there was only their misery to talk of, -they would crawl into bed and fall into a stupor and never stir until -it was time to get up again, and dress by candlelight, and go back to -the machines. They were so numbed that they did not even suffer much -from hunger, now; only the children continued to fret when the food ran -short. - -Yet the soul of Ona was not dead—the souls of none of them were dead, -but only sleeping; and now and then they would waken, and these were -cruel times. The gates of memory would roll open—old joys would stretch -out their arms to them, old hopes and dreams would call to them, and -they would stir beneath the burden that lay upon them, and feel its -forever immeasurable weight. They could not even cry out beneath it; -but anguish would seize them, more dreadful than the agony of death. It -was a thing scarcely to be spoken—a thing never spoken by all the -world, that will not know its own defeat. - -They were beaten; they had lost the game, they were swept aside. It was -not less tragic because it was so sordid, because it had to do with -wages and grocery bills and rents. They had dreamed of freedom; of a -chance to look about them and learn something; to be decent and clean, -to see their child grow up to be strong. And now it was all gone—it -would never be! They had played the game and they had lost. Six years -more of toil they had to face before they could expect the least -respite, the cessation of the payments upon the house; and how cruelly -certain it was that they could never stand six years of such a life as -they were living! They were lost, they were going down—and there was no -deliverance for them, no hope; for all the help it gave them the vast -city in which they lived might have been an ocean waste, a wilderness, -a desert, a tomb. So often this mood would come to Ona, in the -nighttime, when something wakened her; she would lie, afraid of the -beating of her own heart, fronting the blood-red eyes of the old -primeval terror of life. Once she cried aloud, and woke Jurgis, who was -tired and cross. After that she learned to weep silently—their moods so -seldom came together now! It was as if their hopes were buried in -separate graves. - -Jurgis, being a man, had troubles of his own. There was another specter -following him. He had never spoken of it, nor would he allow any one -else to speak of it—he had never acknowledged its existence to himself. -Yet the battle with it took all the manhood that he had—and once or -twice, alas, a little more. Jurgis had discovered drink. - -He was working in the steaming pit of hell; day after day, week after -week—until now, there was not an organ of his body that did its work -without pain, until the sound of ocean breakers echoed in his head day -and night, and the buildings swayed and danced before him as he went -down the street. And from all the unending horror of this there was a -respite, a deliverance—he could drink! He could forget the pain, he -could slip off the burden; he would see clearly again, he would be -master of his brain, of his thoughts, of his will. His dead self would -stir in him, and he would find himself laughing and cracking jokes with -his companions—he would be a man again, and master of his life. - -It was not an easy thing for Jurgis to take more than two or three -drinks. With the first drink he could eat a meal, and he could persuade -himself that that was economy; with the second he could eat another -meal—but there would come a time when he could eat no more, and then to -pay for a drink was an unthinkable extravagance, a defiance of the -age-long instincts of his hunger-haunted class. One day, however, he -took the plunge, and drank up all that he had in his pockets, and went -home half “piped,” as the men phrase it. He was happier than he had -been in a year; and yet, because he knew that the happiness would not -last, he was savage, too with those who would wreck it, and with the -world, and with his life; and then again, beneath this, he was sick -with the shame of himself. Afterward, when he saw the despair of his -family, and reckoned up the money he had spent, the tears came into his -eyes, and he began the long battle with the specter. - -It was a battle that had no end, that never could have one. But Jurgis -did not realize that very clearly; he was not given much time for -reflection. He simply knew that he was always fighting. Steeped in -misery and despair as he was, merely to walk down the street was to be -put upon the rack. There was surely a saloon on the corner—perhaps on -all four corners, and some in the middle of the block as well; and each -one stretched out a hand to him each one had a personality of its own, -allurements unlike any other. Going and coming—before sunrise and after -dark—there was warmth and a glow of light, and the steam of hot food, -and perhaps music, or a friendly face, and a word of good cheer. Jurgis -developed a fondness for having Ona on his arm whenever he went out on -the street, and he would hold her tightly, and walk fast. It was -pitiful to have Ona know of this—it drove him wild to think of it; the -thing was not fair, for Ona had never tasted drink, and so could not -understand. Sometimes, in desperate hours, he would find himself -wishing that she might learn what it was, so that he need not be -ashamed in her presence. They might drink together, and escape from the -horror—escape for a while, come what would. - -So there came a time when nearly all the conscious life of Jurgis -consisted of a struggle with the craving for liquor. He would have ugly -moods, when he hated Ona and the whole family, because they stood in -his way. He was a fool to have married; he had tied himself down, had -made himself a slave. It was all because he was a married man that he -was compelled to stay in the yards; if it had not been for that he -might have gone off like Jonas, and to hell with the packers. There -were few single men in the fertilizer mill—and those few were working -only for a chance to escape. Meantime, too, they had something to think -about while they worked,—they had the memory of the last time they had -been drunk, and the hope of the time when they would be drunk again. As -for Jurgis, he was expected to bring home every penny; he could not -even go with the men at noontime—he was supposed to sit down and eat -his dinner on a pile of fertilizer dust. - -This was not always his mood, of course; he still loved his family. But -just now was a time of trial. Poor little Antanas, for instance—who had -never failed to win him with a smile—little Antanas was not smiling -just now, being a mass of fiery red pimples. He had had all the -diseases that babies are heir to, in quick succession, scarlet fever, -mumps, and whooping cough in the first year, and now he was down with -the measles. There was no one to attend him but Kotrina; there was no -doctor to help him, because they were too poor, and children did not -die of the measles—at least not often. Now and then Kotrina would find -time to sob over his woes, but for the greater part of the time he had -to be left alone, barricaded upon the bed. The floor was full of -drafts, and if he caught cold he would die. At night he was tied down, -lest he should kick the covers off him, while the family lay in their -stupor of exhaustion. He would lie and scream for hours, almost in -convulsions; and then, when he was worn out, he would lie whimpering -and wailing in his torment. He was burning up with fever, and his eyes -were running sores; in the daytime he was a thing uncanny and impish to -behold, a plaster of pimples and sweat, a great purple lump of misery. - -Yet all this was not really as cruel as it sounds, for, sick as he was, -little Antanas was the least unfortunate member of that family. He was -quite able to bear his sufferings—it was as if he had all these -complaints to show what a prodigy of health he was. He was the child of -his parents’ youth and joy; he grew up like the conjurer’s rosebush, -and all the world was his oyster. In general, he toddled around the -kitchen all day with a lean and hungry look—the portion of the family’s -allowance that fell to him was not enough, and he was unrestrainable in -his demand for more. Antanas was but little over a year old, and -already no one but his father could manage him. - -It seemed as if he had taken all of his mother’s strength—had left -nothing for those that might come after him. Ona was with child again -now, and it was a dreadful thing to contemplate; even Jurgis, dumb and -despairing as he was, could not but understand that yet other agonies -were on the way, and shudder at the thought of them. - -For Ona was visibly going to pieces. In the first place she was -developing a cough, like the one that had killed old Dede Antanas. She -had had a trace of it ever since that fatal morning when the greedy -streetcar corporation had turned her out into the rain; but now it was -beginning to grow serious, and to wake her up at night. Even worse than -that was the fearful nervousness from which she suffered; she would -have frightful headaches and fits of aimless weeping; and sometimes she -would come home at night shuddering and moaning, and would fling -herself down upon the bed and burst into tears. Several times she was -quite beside herself and hysterical; and then Jurgis would go half-mad -with fright. Elzbieta would explain to him that it could not be helped, -that a woman was subject to such things when she was pregnant; but he -was hardly to be persuaded, and would beg and plead to know what had -happened. She had never been like this before, he would argue—it was -monstrous and unthinkable. It was the life she had to live, the -accursed work she had to do, that was killing her by inches. She was -not fitted for it—no woman was fitted for it, no woman ought to be -allowed to do such work; if the world could not keep them alive any -other way it ought to kill them at once and be done with it. They ought -not to marry, to have children; no workingman ought to marry—if he, -Jurgis, had known what a woman was like, he would have had his eyes -torn out first. So he would carry on, becoming half hysterical himself, -which was an unbearable thing to see in a big man; Ona would pull -herself together and fling herself into his arms, begging him to stop, -to be still, that she would be better, it would be all right. So she -would lie and sob out her grief upon his shoulder, while he gazed at -her, as helpless as a wounded animal, the target of unseen enemies. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -The beginning of these perplexing things was in the summer; and each -time Ona would promise him with terror in her voice that it would not -happen again—but in vain. Each crisis would leave Jurgis more and more -frightened, more disposed to distrust Elzbieta’s consolations, and to -believe that there was some terrible thing about all this that he was -not allowed to know. Once or twice in these outbreaks he caught Ona’s -eye, and it seemed to him like the eye of a hunted animal; there were -broken phrases of anguish and despair now and then, amid her frantic -weeping. It was only because he was so numb and beaten himself that -Jurgis did not worry more about this. But he never thought of it, -except when he was dragged to it—he lived like a dumb beast of burden, -knowing only the moment in which he was. - -The winter was coming on again, more menacing and cruel than ever. It -was October, and the holiday rush had begun. It was necessary for the -packing machines to grind till late at night to provide food that would -be eaten at Christmas breakfasts; and Marija and Elzbieta and Ona, as -part of the machine, began working fifteen or sixteen hours a day. -There was no choice about this—whatever work there was to be done they -had to do, if they wished to keep their places; besides that, it added -another pittance to their incomes. So they staggered on with the awful -load. They would start work every morning at seven, and eat their -dinners at noon, and then work until ten or eleven at night without -another mouthful of food. Jurgis wanted to wait for them, to help them -home at night, but they would not think of this; the fertilizer mill -was not running overtime, and there was no place for him to wait save -in a saloon. Each would stagger out into the darkness, and make her way -to the corner, where they met; or if the others had already gone, would -get into a car, and begin a painful struggle to keep awake. When they -got home they were always too tired either to eat or to undress; they -would crawl into bed with their shoes on, and lie like logs. If they -should fail, they would certainly be lost; if they held out, they might -have enough coal for the winter. - -A day or two before Thanksgiving Day there came a snowstorm. It began -in the afternoon, and by evening two inches had fallen. Jurgis tried to -wait for the women, but went into a saloon to get warm, and took two -drinks, and came out and ran home to escape from the demon; there he -lay down to wait for them, and instantly fell asleep. When he opened -his eyes again he was in the midst of a nightmare, and found Elzbieta -shaking him and crying out. At first he could not realize what she was -saying—Ona had not come home. What time was it, he asked. It was -morning—time to be up. Ona had not been home that night! And it was -bitter cold, and a foot of snow on the ground. - -Jurgis sat up with a start. Marija was crying with fright and the -children were wailing in sympathy—little Stanislovas in addition, -because the terror of the snow was upon him. Jurgis had nothing to put -on but his shoes and his coat, and in half a minute he was out of the -door. Then, however, he realized that there was no need of haste, that -he had no idea where to go. It was still dark as midnight, and the -thick snowflakes were sifting down—everything was so silent that he -could hear the rustle of them as they fell. In the few seconds that he -stood there hesitating he was covered white. - -He set off at a run for the yards, stopping by the way to inquire in -the saloons that were open. Ona might have been overcome on the way; or -else she might have met with an accident in the machines. When he got -to the place where she worked he inquired of one of the watchmen—there -had not been any accident, so far as the man had heard. At the time -office, which he found already open, the clerk told him that Ona’s -check had been turned in the night before, showing that she had left -her work. - -After that there was nothing for him to do but wait, pacing back and -forth in the snow, meantime, to keep from freezing. Already the yards -were full of activity; cattle were being unloaded from the cars in the -distance, and across the way the “beef-luggers” were toiling in the -darkness, carrying two-hundred-pound quarters of bullocks into the -refrigerator cars. Before the first streaks of daylight there came the -crowding throngs of workingmen, shivering, and swinging their dinner -pails as they hurried by. Jurgis took up his stand by the time-office -window, where alone there was light enough for him to see; the snow -fell so quick that it was only by peering closely that he could make -sure that Ona did not pass him. - -Seven o’clock came, the hour when the great packing machine began to -move. Jurgis ought to have been at his place in the fertilizer mill; -but instead he was waiting, in an agony of fear, for Ona. It was -fifteen minutes after the hour when he saw a form emerge from the snow -mist, and sprang toward it with a cry. It was she, running swiftly; as -she saw him, she staggered forward, and half fell into his outstretched -arms. - -“What has been the matter?” he cried, anxiously. “Where have you been?” - -It was several seconds before she could get breath to answer him. “I -couldn’t get home,” she exclaimed. “The snow—the cars had stopped.” - -“But where were you then?” he demanded. - -“I had to go home with a friend,” she panted—“with Jadvyga.” - -Jurgis drew a deep breath; but then he noticed that she was sobbing and -trembling—as if in one of those nervous crises that he dreaded so. “But -what’s the matter?” he cried. “What has happened?” - -“Oh, Jurgis, I was so frightened!” she said, clinging to him wildly. “I -have been so worried!” - -They were near the time station window, and people were staring at -them. Jurgis led her away. “How do you mean?” he asked, in perplexity. - -“I was afraid—I was just afraid!” sobbed Ona. “I knew you wouldn’t know -where I was, and I didn’t know what you might do. I tried to get home, -but I was so tired. Oh, Jurgis, Jurgis!” - -He was so glad to get her back that he could not think clearly about -anything else. It did not seem strange to him that she should be so -very much upset; all her fright and incoherent protestations did not -matter since he had her back. He let her cry away her tears; and then, -because it was nearly eight o’clock, and they would lose another hour -if they delayed, he left her at the packing house door, with her -ghastly white face and her haunted eyes of terror. - -There was another brief interval. Christmas was almost come; and -because the snow still held, and the searching cold, morning after -morning Jurgis half carried his wife to her post, staggering with her -through the darkness; until at last, one night, came the end. - -It lacked but three days of the holidays. About midnight Marija and -Elzbieta came home, exclaiming in alarm when they found that Ona had -not come. The two had agreed to meet her; and, after waiting, had gone -to the room where she worked; only to find that the ham-wrapping girls -had quit work an hour before, and left. There was no snow that night, -nor was it especially cold; and still Ona had not come! Something more -serious must be wrong this time. - -They aroused Jurgis, and he sat up and listened crossly to the story. -She must have gone home again with Jadvyga, he said; Jadvyga lived only -two blocks from the yards, and perhaps she had been tired. Nothing -could have happened to her—and even if there had, there was nothing -could be done about it until morning. Jurgis turned over in his bed, -and was snoring again before the two had closed the door. - -In the morning, however, he was up and out nearly an hour before the -usual time. Jadvyga Marcinkus lived on the other side of the yards, -beyond Halsted Street, with her mother and sisters, in a single -basement room—for Mikolas had recently lost one hand from blood -poisoning, and their marriage had been put off forever. The door of the -room was in the rear, reached by a narrow court, and Jurgis saw a light -in the window and heard something frying as he passed; he knocked, half -expecting that Ona would answer. - -Instead there was one of Jadvyga’s little sisters, who gazed at him -through a crack in the door. “Where’s Ona?” he demanded; and the child -looked at him in perplexity. “Ona?” she said. - -“Yes,” said Jurgis, “isn’t she here?” - -“No,” said the child, and Jurgis gave a start. A moment later came -Jadvyga, peering over the child’s head. When she saw who it was, she -slid around out of sight, for she was not quite dressed. Jurgis must -excuse her, she began, her mother was very ill— - -“Ona isn’t here?” Jurgis demanded, too alarmed to wait for her to -finish. - -“Why, no,” said Jadvyga. “What made you think she would be here? Had -she said she was coming?” - -“No,” he answered. “But she hasn’t come home—and I thought she would be -here the same as before.” - -“As before?” echoed Jadvyga, in perplexity. - -“The time she spent the night here,” said Jurgis. - -“There must be some mistake,” she answered, quickly. “Ona has never -spent the night here.” - -He was only half able to realize the words. “Why—why—” he exclaimed. -“Two weeks ago. Jadvyga! She told me so the night it snowed, and she -could not get home.” - -“There must be some mistake,” declared the girl, again; “she didn’t -come here.” - -He steadied himself by the door-sill; and Jadvyga in her anxiety—for -she was fond of Ona—opened the door wide, holding her jacket across her -throat. “Are you sure you didn’t misunderstand her?” she cried. “She -must have meant somewhere else. She—” - -“She said here,” insisted Jurgis. “She told me all about you, and how -you were, and what you said. Are you sure? You haven’t forgotten? You -weren’t away?” - -“No, no!” she exclaimed—and then came a peevish voice—“Jadvyga, you are -giving the baby a cold. Shut the door!” Jurgis stood for half a minute -more, stammering his perplexity through an eighth of an inch of crack; -and then, as there was really nothing more to be said, he excused -himself and went away. - -He walked on half dazed, without knowing where he went. Ona had -deceived him! She had lied to him! And what could it mean—where had she -been? Where was she now? He could hardly grasp the thing—much less try -to solve it; but a hundred wild surmises came to him, a sense of -impending calamity overwhelmed him. - -Because there was nothing else to do, he went back to the time office -to watch again. He waited until nearly an hour after seven, and then -went to the room where Ona worked to make inquiries of Ona’s -“forelady.” The “forelady,” he found, had not yet come; all the lines -of cars that came from downtown were stalled—there had been an accident -in the powerhouse, and no cars had been running since last night. -Meantime, however, the ham-wrappers were working away, with some one -else in charge of them. The girl who answered Jurgis was busy, and as -she talked she looked to see if she were being watched. Then a man came -up, wheeling a truck; he knew Jurgis for Ona’s husband, and was curious -about the mystery. - -“Maybe the cars had something to do with it,” he suggested—“maybe she -had gone down-town.” - -“No,” said Jurgis, “she never went down-town.” - -“Perhaps not,” said the man. Jurgis thought he saw him exchange a swift -glance with the girl as he spoke, and he demanded quickly. “What do you -know about it?” - -But the man had seen that the boss was watching him; he started on -again, pushing his truck. “I don’t know anything about it,” he said, -over his shoulder. “How should I know where your wife goes?” - -Then Jurgis went out again and paced up and down before the building. -All the morning he stayed there, with no thought of his work. About -noon he went to the police station to make inquiries, and then came -back again for another anxious vigil. Finally, toward the middle of the -afternoon, he set out for home once more. - -He was walking out Ashland Avenue. The streetcars had begun running -again, and several passed him, packed to the steps with people. The -sight of them set Jurgis to thinking again of the man’s sarcastic -remark; and half involuntarily he found himself watching the cars—with -the result that he gave a sudden startled exclamation, and stopped -short in his tracks. - -Then he broke into a run. For a whole block he tore after the car, only -a little ways behind. That rusty black hat with the drooping red -flower, it might not be Ona’s, but there was very little likelihood of -it. He would know for certain very soon, for she would get out two -blocks ahead. He slowed down, and let the car go on. - -She got out: and as soon as she was out of sight on the side street -Jurgis broke into a run. Suspicion was rife in him now, and he was not -ashamed to shadow her: he saw her turn the corner near their home, and -then he ran again, and saw her as she went up the porch steps of the -house. After that he turned back, and for five minutes paced up and -down, his hands clenched tightly and his lips set, his mind in a -turmoil. Then he went home and entered. - -As he opened the door, he saw Elzbieta, who had also been looking for -Ona, and had come home again. She was now on tiptoe, and had a finger -on her lips. Jurgis waited until she was close to him. - -“Don’t make any noise,” she whispered, hurriedly. - -“What’s the matter’?” he asked. “Ona is asleep,” she panted. “She’s -been very ill. I’m afraid her mind’s been wandering, Jurgis. She was -lost on the street all night, and I’ve only just succeeded in getting -her quiet.” - -“When did she come in?” he asked. - -“Soon after you left this morning,” said Elzbieta. - -“And has she been out since?” - -“No, of course not. She’s so weak, Jurgis, she—” - -And he set his teeth hard together. “You are lying to me,” he said. - -Elzbieta started, and turned pale. “Why!” she gasped. “What do you -mean?” - -But Jurgis did not answer. He pushed her aside, and strode to the -bedroom door and opened it. - -Ona was sitting on the bed. She turned a startled look upon him as he -entered. He closed the door in Elzbieta’s face, and went toward his -wife. “Where have you been?” he demanded. - -She had her hands clasped tightly in her lap, and he saw that her face -was as white as paper, and drawn with pain. She gasped once or twice as -she tried to answer him, and then began, speaking low, and swiftly. -“Jurgis, I—I think I have been out of my mind. I started to come last -night, and I could not find the way. I walked—I walked all night, I -think, and—and I only got home—this morning.” - -“You needed a rest,” he said, in a hard tone. “Why did you go out -again?” - -He was looking her fairly in the face, and he could read the sudden -fear and wild uncertainty that leaped into her eyes. “I—I had to go -to—to the store,” she gasped, almost in a whisper, “I had to go—” - -“You are lying to me,” said Jurgis. Then he clenched his hands and took -a step toward her. “Why do you lie to me?” he cried, fiercely. “What -are you doing that you have to lie to me?” - -“Jurgis!” she exclaimed, starting up in fright. “Oh, Jurgis, how can -you?” - -“You have lied to me, I say!” he cried. “You told me you had been to -Jadvyga’s house that other night, and you hadn’t. You had been where -you were last night—somewheres downtown, for I saw you get off the car. -Where were you?” - -It was as if he had struck a knife into her. She seemed to go all to -pieces. For half a second she stood, reeling and swaying, staring at -him with horror in her eyes; then, with a cry of anguish, she tottered -forward, stretching out her arms to him. But he stepped aside, -deliberately, and let her fall. She caught herself at the side of the -bed, and then sank down, burying her face in her hands and bursting -into frantic weeping. - -There came one of those hysterical crises that had so often dismayed -him. Ona sobbed and wept, her fear and anguish building themselves up -into long climaxes. Furious gusts of emotion would come sweeping over -her, shaking her as the tempest shakes the trees upon the hills; all -her frame would quiver and throb with them—it was as if some dreadful -thing rose up within her and took possession of her, torturing her, -tearing her. This thing had been wont to set Jurgis quite beside -himself; but now he stood with his lips set tightly and his hands -clenched—she might weep till she killed herself, but she should not -move him this time—not an inch, not an inch. Because the sounds she -made set his blood to running cold and his lips to quivering in spite -of himself, he was glad of the diversion when Teta Elzbieta, pale with -fright, opened the door and rushed in; yet he turned upon her with an -oath. “Go out!” he cried, “go out!” And then, as she stood hesitating, -about to speak, he seized her by the arm, and half flung her from the -room, slamming the door and barring it with a table. Then he turned -again and faced Ona, crying—“Now, answer me!” - -Yet she did not hear him—she was still in the grip of the fiend. Jurgis -could see her outstretched hands, shaking and twitching, roaming here -and there over the bed at will, like living things; he could see -convulsive shudderings start in her body and run through her limbs. She -was sobbing and choking—it was as if there were too many sounds for one -throat, they came chasing each other, like waves upon the sea. Then her -voice would begin to rise into screams, louder and louder until it -broke in wild, horrible peals of laughter. Jurgis bore it until he -could bear it no longer, and then he sprang at her, seizing her by the -shoulders and shaking her, shouting into her ear: “Stop it, I say! Stop -it!” - -She looked up at him, out of her agony; then she fell forward at his -feet. She caught them in her hands, in spite of his efforts to step -aside, and with her face upon the floor lay writhing. It made a choking -in Jurgis’ throat to hear her, and he cried again, more savagely than -before: “Stop it, I say!” - -This time she heeded him, and caught her breath and lay silent, save -for the gasping sobs that wrenched all her frame. For a long minute she -lay there, perfectly motionless, until a cold fear seized her husband, -thinking that she was dying. Suddenly, however, he heard her voice, -faintly: “Jurgis! Jurgis!” - -“What is it?” he said. - -He had to bend down to her, she was so weak. She was pleading with him, -in broken phrases, painfully uttered: “Have faith in me! Believe me!” - -“Believe what?” he cried. - -“Believe that I—that I know best—that I love you! And do not ask -me—what you did. Oh, Jurgis, please, please! It is for the best—it is—” - -He started to speak again, but she rushed on frantically, heading him -off. “If you will only do it! If you will only—only believe me! It -wasn’t my fault—I couldn’t help it—it will be all right—it is -nothing—it is no harm. Oh, Jurgis—please, please!” - -She had hold of him, and was trying to raise herself to look at him; he -could feel the palsied shaking of her hands and the heaving of the -bosom she pressed against him. She managed to catch one of his hands -and gripped it convulsively, drawing it to her face, and bathing it in -her tears. “Oh, believe me, believe me!” she wailed again; and he -shouted in fury, “I will not!” - -But still she clung to him, wailing aloud in her despair: “Oh, Jurgis, -think what you are doing! It will ruin us—it will ruin us! Oh, no, you -must not do it! No, don’t, don’t do it. You must not do it! It will -drive me mad—it will kill me—no, no, Jurgis, I am crazy—it is nothing. -You do not really need to know. We can be happy—we can love each other -just the same. Oh, please, please, believe me!” - -Her words fairly drove him wild. He tore his hands loose, and flung her -off. “Answer me,” he cried. “God damn it, I say—answer me!” - -She sank down upon the floor, beginning to cry again. It was like -listening to the moan of a damned soul, and Jurgis could not stand it. -He smote his fist upon the table by his side, and shouted again at her, -“Answer me!” - -She began to scream aloud, her voice like the voice of some wild beast: -“Ah! Ah! I can’t! I can’t do it!” - -“Why can’t you do it?” he shouted. - -“I don’t know how!” - -He sprang and caught her by the arm, lifting her up, and glaring into -her face. “Tell me where you were last night!” he panted. “Quick, out -with it!” - -Then she began to whisper, one word at a time: “I—was in—a -house—downtown—” - -“What house? What do you mean?” - -She tried to hide her eyes away, but he held her. “Miss Henderson’s -house,” she gasped. He did not understand at first. “Miss Henderson’s -house,” he echoed. And then suddenly, as in an explosion, the horrible -truth burst over him, and he reeled and staggered back with a scream. -He caught himself against the wall, and put his hand to his forehead, -staring about him, and whispering, “Jesus! Jesus!” - -An instant later he leaped at her, as she lay groveling at his feet. He -seized her by the throat. “Tell me!” he gasped, hoarsely. “Quick! Who -took you to that place?” - -She tried to get away, making him furious; he thought it was fear, of -the pain of his clutch—he did not understand that it was the agony of -her shame. Still she answered him, “Connor.” - -“Connor,” he gasped. “Who is Connor?” - -“The boss,” she answered. “The man—” - -He tightened his grip, in his frenzy, and only when he saw her eyes -closing did he realize that he was choking her. Then he relaxed his -fingers, and crouched, waiting, until she opened her lids again. His -breath beat hot into her face. - -“Tell me,” he whispered, at last, “tell me about it.” - -She lay perfectly motionless, and he had to hold his breath to catch -her words. “I did not want—to do it,” she said; “I tried—I tried not to -do it. I only did it—to save us. It was our only chance.” - -Again, for a space, there was no sound but his panting. Ona’s eyes -closed and when she spoke again she did not open them. “He told me—he -would have me turned off. He told me he would—we would all of us lose -our places. We could never get anything to do—here—again. He—he meant -it—he would have ruined us.” - -Jurgis’ arms were shaking so that he could scarcely hold himself up, -and lurched forward now and then as he listened. “When—when did this -begin?” he gasped. - -“At the very first,” she said. She spoke as if in a trance. “It was -all—it was their plot—Miss Henderson’s plot. She hated me. And he—he -wanted me. He used to speak to me—out on the platform. Then he began -to—to make love to me. He offered me money. He begged me—he said he -loved me. Then he threatened me. He knew all about us, he knew we would -starve. He knew your boss—he knew Marija’s. He would hound us to death, -he said—then he said if I would—if I—we would all of us be sure of -work—always. Then one day he caught hold of me—he would not let -go—he—he—” - -“Where was this?” - -“In the hallway—at night—after every one had gone. I could not help it. -I thought of you—of the baby—of mother and the children. I was afraid -of him—afraid to cry out.” - -A moment ago her face had been ashen gray, now it was scarlet. She was -beginning to breathe hard again. Jurgis made not a sound. - -“That was two months ago. Then he wanted me to come—to that house. He -wanted me to stay there. He said all of us—that we would not have to -work. He made me come there—in the evenings. I told you—you thought I -was at the factory. Then—one night it snowed, and I couldn’t get back. -And last night—the cars were stopped. It was such a little thing—to -ruin us all. I tried to walk, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want you to -know. It would have—it would have been all right. We could have gone -on—just the same—you need never have known about it. He was getting -tired of me—he would have let me alone soon. I am going to have a -baby—I am getting ugly. He told me that—twice, he told me, last night. -He kicked me—last night—too. And now you will kill him—you—you will -kill him—and we shall die.” - -All this she had said without a quiver; she lay still as death, not an -eyelid moving. And Jurgis, too, said not a word. He lifted himself by -the bed, and stood up. He did not stop for another glance at her, but -went to the door and opened it. He did not see Elzbieta, crouching -terrified in the corner. He went out, hatless, leaving the street door -open behind him. The instant his feet were on the sidewalk he broke -into a run. - -He ran like one possessed, blindly, furiously, looking neither to the -right nor left. He was on Ashland Avenue before exhaustion compelled -him to slow down, and then, noticing a car, he made a dart for it and -drew himself aboard. His eyes were wild and his hair flying, and he was -breathing hoarsely, like a wounded bull; but the people on the car did -not notice this particularly—perhaps it seemed natural to them that a -man who smelled as Jurgis smelled should exhibit an aspect to -correspond. They began to give way before him as usual. The conductor -took his nickel gingerly, with the tips of his fingers, and then left -him with the platform to himself. Jurgis did not even notice it—his -thoughts were far away. Within his soul it was like a roaring furnace; -he stood waiting, waiting, crouching as if for a spring. - -He had some of his breath back when the car came to the entrance of the -yards, and so he leaped off and started again, racing at full speed. -People turned and stared at him, but he saw no one—there was the -factory, and he bounded through the doorway and down the corridor. He -knew the room where Ona worked, and he knew Connor, the boss of the -loading-gang outside. He looked for the man as he sprang into the room. - -The truckmen were hard at work, loading the freshly packed boxes and -barrels upon the cars. Jurgis shot one swift glance up and down the -platform—the man was not on it. But then suddenly he heard a voice in -the corridor, and started for it with a bound. In an instant more he -fronted the boss. - -He was a big, red-faced Irishman, coarse-featured, and smelling of -liquor. He saw Jurgis as he crossed the threshold, and turned white. He -hesitated one second, as if meaning to run; and in the next his -assailant was upon him. He put up his hands to protect his face, but -Jurgis, lunging with all the power of his arm and body, struck him -fairly between the eyes and knocked him backward. The next moment he -was on top of him, burying his fingers in his throat. - -To Jurgis this man’s whole presence reeked of the crime he had -committed; the touch of his body was madness to him—it set every nerve -of him a-tremble, it aroused all the demon in his soul. It had worked -its will upon Ona, this great beast—and now he had it, he had it! It -was his turn now! Things swam blood before him, and he screamed aloud -in his fury, lifting his victim and smashing his head upon the floor. - -The place, of course, was in an uproar; women fainting and shrieking, -and men rushing in. Jurgis was so bent upon his task that he knew -nothing of this, and scarcely realized that people were trying to -interfere with him; it was only when half a dozen men had seized him by -the legs and shoulders and were pulling at him, that he understood that -he was losing his prey. In a flash he had bent down and sunk his teeth -into the man’s cheek; and when they tore him away he was dripping with -blood, and little ribbons of skin were hanging in his mouth. - -They got him down upon the floor, clinging to him by his arms and legs, -and still they could hardly hold him. He fought like a tiger, writhing -and twisting, half flinging them off, and starting toward his -unconscious enemy. But yet others rushed in, until there was a little -mountain of twisted limbs and bodies, heaving and tossing, and working -its way about the room. In the end, by their sheer weight, they choked -the breath out of him, and then they carried him to the company police -station, where he lay still until they had summoned a patrol wagon to -take him away. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - -When Jurgis got up again he went quietly enough. He was exhausted and -half-dazed, and besides he saw the blue uniforms of the policemen. He -drove in a patrol wagon with half a dozen of them watching him; keeping -as far away as possible, however, on account of the fertilizer. Then he -stood before the sergeant’s desk and gave his name and address, and saw -a charge of assault and battery entered against him. On his way to his -cell a burly policeman cursed him because he started down the wrong -corridor, and then added a kick when he was not quick enough; -nevertheless, Jurgis did not even lift his eyes—he had lived two years -and a half in Packingtown, and he knew what the police were. It was as -much as a man’s very life was worth to anger them, here in their inmost -lair; like as not a dozen would pile on to him at once, and pound his -face into a pulp. It would be nothing unusual if he got his skull -cracked in the mêlée—in which case they would report that he had been -drunk and had fallen down, and there would be no one to know the -difference or to care. - -So a barred door clanged upon Jurgis and he sat down upon a bench and -buried his face in his hands. He was alone; he had the afternoon and -all of the night to himself. - -At first he was like a wild beast that has glutted itself; he was in a -dull stupor of satisfaction. He had done up the scoundrel pretty -well—not as well as he would have if they had given him a minute more, -but pretty well, all the same; the ends of his fingers were still -tingling from their contact with the fellow’s throat. But then, little -by little, as his strength came back and his senses cleared, he began -to see beyond his momentary gratification; that he had nearly killed -the boss would not help Ona—not the horrors that she had borne, nor the -memory that would haunt her all her days. It would not help to feed her -and her child; she would certainly lose her place, while he—what was to -happen to him God only knew. - -Half the night he paced the floor, wrestling with this nightmare; and -when he was exhausted he lay down, trying to sleep, but finding -instead, for the first time in his life, that his brain was too much -for him. In the cell next to him was a drunken wife-beater and in the -one beyond a yelling maniac. At midnight they opened the station house -to the homeless wanderers who were crowded about the door, shivering in -the winter blast, and they thronged into the corridor outside of the -cells. Some of them stretched themselves out on the bare stone floor -and fell to snoring, others sat up, laughing and talking, cursing and -quarreling. The air was fetid with their breath, yet in spite of this -some of them smelled Jurgis and called down the torments of hell upon -him, while he lay in a far corner of his cell, counting the throbbings -of the blood in his forehead. - -They had brought him his supper, which was “duffers and dope”—being -hunks of dry bread on a tin plate, and coffee, called “dope” because it -was drugged to keep the prisoners quiet. Jurgis had not known this, or -he would have swallowed the stuff in desperation; as it was, every -nerve of him was a-quiver with shame and rage. Toward morning the place -fell silent, and he got up and began to pace his cell; and then within -the soul of him there rose up a fiend, red-eyed and cruel, and tore out -the strings of his heart. - -It was not for himself that he suffered—what did a man who worked in -Durham’s fertilizer mill care about anything that the world might do to -him! What was any tyranny of prison compared with the tyranny of the -past, of the thing that had happened and could not be recalled, of the -memory that could never be effaced! The horror of it drove him mad; he -stretched out his arms to heaven, crying out for deliverance from -it—and there was no deliverance, there was no power even in heaven that -could undo the past. It was a ghost that would not drown; it followed -him, it seized upon him and beat him to the ground. Ah, if only he -could have foreseen it—but then, he would have foreseen it, if he had -not been a fool! He smote his hands upon his forehead, cursing himself -because he had ever allowed Ona to work where she had, because he had -not stood between her and a fate which every one knew to be so common. -He should have taken her away, even if it were to lie down and die of -starvation in the gutters of Chicago’s streets! And now—oh, it could -not be true; it was too monstrous, too horrible. - -It was a thing that could not be faced; a new shuddering seized him -every time he tried to think of it. No, there was no bearing the load -of it, there was no living under it. There would be none for her—he -knew that he might pardon her, might plead with her on his knees, but -she would never look him in the face again, she would never be his wife -again. The shame of it would kill her—there could be no other -deliverance, and it was best that she should die. - -This was simple and clear, and yet, with cruel inconsistency, whenever -he escaped from this nightmare it was to suffer and cry out at the -vision of Ona starving. They had put him in jail, and they would keep -him here a long time, years maybe. And Ona would surely not go to work -again, broken and crushed as she was. And Elzbieta and Marija, too, -might lose their places—if that hell fiend Connor chose to set to work -to ruin them, they would all be turned out. And even if he did not, -they could not live—even if the boys left school again, they could -surely not pay all the bills without him and Ona. They had only a few -dollars now—they had just paid the rent of the house a week ago, and -that after it was two weeks overdue. So it would be due again in a -week! They would have no money to pay it then—and they would lose the -house, after all their long, heartbreaking struggle. Three times now -the agent had warned him that he would not tolerate another delay. -Perhaps it was very base of Jurgis to be thinking about the house when -he had the other unspeakable thing to fill his mind; yet, how much he -had suffered for this house, how much they had all of them suffered! It -was their one hope of respite, as long as they lived; they had put all -their money into it—and they were working people, poor people, whose -money was their strength, the very substance of them, body and soul, -the thing by which they lived and for lack of which they died. - -And they would lose it all; they would be turned out into the streets, -and have to hide in some icy garret, and live or die as best they -could! Jurgis had all the night—and all of many more nights—to think -about this, and he saw the thing in its details; he lived it all, as if -he were there. They would sell their furniture, and then run into debt -at the stores, and then be refused credit; they would borrow a little -from the Szedvilases, whose delicatessen store was tottering on the -brink of ruin; the neighbors would come and help them a little—poor, -sick Jadvyga would bring a few spare pennies, as she always did when -people were starving, and Tamoszius Kuszleika would bring them the -proceeds of a night’s fiddling. So they would struggle to hang on until -he got out of jail—or would they know that he was in jail, would they -be able to find out anything about him? Would they be allowed to see -him—or was it to be part of his punishment to be kept in ignorance -about their fate? - -His mind would hang upon the worst possibilities; he saw Ona ill and -tortured, Marija out of her place, little Stanislovas unable to get to -work for the snow, the whole family turned out on the street. God -Almighty! would they actually let them lie down in the street and die? -Would there be no help even then—would they wander about in the snow -till they froze? Jurgis had never seen any dead bodies in the streets, -but he had seen people evicted and disappear, no one knew where; and -though the city had a relief bureau, though there was a charity -organization society in the stockyards district, in all his life there -he had never heard of either of them. They did not advertise their -activities, having more calls than they could attend to without that. - -—So on until morning. Then he had another ride in the patrol wagon, -along with the drunken wife-beater and the maniac, several “plain -drunks” and “saloon fighters,” a burglar, and two men who had been -arrested for stealing meat from the packing houses. Along with them he -was driven into a large, white-walled room, stale-smelling and crowded. -In front, upon a raised platform behind a rail, sat a stout, -florid-faced personage, with a nose broken out in purple blotches. - -Our friend realized vaguely that he was about to be tried. He wondered -what for—whether or not his victim might be dead, and if so, what they -would do with him. Hang him, perhaps, or beat him to death—nothing -would have surprised Jurgis, who knew little of the laws. Yet he had -picked up gossip enough to have it occur to him that the loud-voiced -man upon the bench might be the notorious Justice Callahan, about whom -the people of Packingtown spoke with bated breath. - -“Pat” Callahan—“Growler” Pat, as he had been known before he ascended -the bench—had begun life as a butcher boy and a bruiser of local -reputation; he had gone into politics almost as soon as he had learned -to talk, and had held two offices at once before he was old enough to -vote. If Scully was the thumb, Pat Callahan was the first finger of the -unseen hand whereby the packers held down the people of the district. -No politician in Chicago ranked higher in their confidence; he had been -at it a long time—had been the business agent in the city council of -old Durham, the self-made merchant, way back in the early days, when -the whole city of Chicago had been up at auction. “Growler” Pat had -given up holding city offices very early in his career—caring only for -party power, and giving the rest of his time to superintending his -dives and brothels. Of late years, however, since his children were -growing up, he had begun to value respectability, and had had himself -made a magistrate; a position for which he was admirably fitted, -because of his strong conservatism and his contempt for “foreigners.” - -Jurgis sat gazing about the room for an hour or two; he was in hopes -that some one of the family would come, but in this he was -disappointed. Finally, he was led before the bar, and a lawyer for the -company appeared against him. Connor was under the doctor’s care, the -lawyer explained briefly, and if his Honor would hold the prisoner for -a week—“Three hundred dollars,” said his Honor, promptly. - -Jurgis was staring from the judge to the lawyer in perplexity. “Have -you any one to go on your bond?” demanded the judge, and then a clerk -who stood at Jurgis’ elbow explained to him what this meant. The latter -shook his head, and before he realized what had happened the policemen -were leading him away again. They took him to a room where other -prisoners were waiting and here he stayed until court adjourned, when -he had another long and bitterly cold ride in a patrol wagon to the -county jail, which is on the north side of the city, and nine or ten -miles from the stockyards. - -Here they searched Jurgis, leaving him only his money, which consisted -of fifteen cents. Then they led him to a room and told him to strip for -a bath; after which he had to walk down a long gallery, past the grated -cell doors of the inmates of the jail. This was a great event to the -latter—the daily review of the new arrivals, all stark naked, and many -and diverting were the comments. Jurgis was required to stay in the -bath longer than any one, in the vain hope of getting out of him a few -of his phosphates and acids. The prisoners roomed two in a cell, but -that day there was one left over, and he was the one. - -The cells were in tiers, opening upon galleries. His cell was about -five feet by seven in size, with a stone floor and a heavy wooden bench -built into it. There was no window—the only light came from windows -near the roof at one end of the court outside. There were two bunks, -one above the other, each with a straw mattress and a pair of gray -blankets—the latter stiff as boards with filth, and alive with fleas, -bedbugs, and lice. When Jurgis lifted up the mattress he discovered -beneath it a layer of scurrying roaches, almost as badly frightened as -himself. - -Here they brought him more “duffers and dope,” with the addition of a -bowl of soup. Many of the prisoners had their meals brought in from a -restaurant, but Jurgis had no money for that. Some had books to read -and cards to play, with candles to burn by night, but Jurgis was all -alone in darkness and silence. He could not sleep again; there was the -same maddening procession of thoughts that lashed him like whips upon -his naked back. When night fell he was pacing up and down his cell like -a wild beast that breaks its teeth upon the bars of its cage. Now and -then in his frenzy he would fling himself against the walls of the -place, beating his hands upon them. They cut him and bruised him—they -were cold and merciless as the men who had built them. - -In the distance there was a church-tower bell that tolled the hours one -by one. When it came to midnight Jurgis was lying upon the floor with -his head in his arms, listening. Instead of falling silent at the end, -the bell broke into a sudden clangor. Jurgis raised his head; what -could that mean—a fire? God! Suppose there were to be a fire in this -jail! But then he made out a melody in the ringing; there were chimes. -And they seemed to waken the city—all around, far and near, there were -bells, ringing wild music; for fully a minute Jurgis lay lost in -wonder, before, all at once, the meaning of it broke over him—that this -was Christmas Eve! - -Christmas Eve—he had forgotten it entirely! There was a breaking of -floodgates, a whirl of new memories and new griefs rushing into his -mind. In far Lithuania they had celebrated Christmas; and it came to -him as if it had been yesterday—himself a little child, with his lost -brother and his dead father in the cabin—in the deep black forest, -where the snow fell all day and all night and buried them from the -world. It was too far off for Santa Claus in Lithuania, but it was not -too far for peace and good will to men, for the wonder-bearing vision -of the Christ Child. And even in Packingtown they had not forgotten -it—some gleam of it had never failed to break their darkness. Last -Christmas Eve and all Christmas Day Jurgis had toiled on the killing -beds, and Ona at wrapping hams, and still they had found strength -enough to take the children for a walk upon the avenue, to see the -store windows all decorated with Christmas trees and ablaze with -electric lights. In one window there would be live geese, in another -marvels in sugar—pink and white canes big enough for ogres, and cakes -with cherubs upon them; in a third there would be rows of fat yellow -turkeys, decorated with rosettes, and rabbits and squirrels hanging; in -a fourth would be a fairyland of toys—lovely dolls with pink dresses, -and woolly sheep and drums and soldier hats. Nor did they have to go -without their share of all this, either. The last time they had had a -big basket with them and all their Christmas marketing to do—a roast of -pork and a cabbage and some rye bread, and a pair of mittens for Ona, -and a rubber doll that squeaked, and a little green cornucopia full of -candy to be hung from the gas jet and gazed at by half a dozen pairs of -longing eyes. - -Even half a year of the sausage machines and the fertilizer mill had -not been able to kill the thought of Christmas in them; there was a -choking in Jurgis’ throat as he recalled that the very night Ona had -not come home Teta Elzbieta had taken him aside and shown him an old -valentine that she had picked up in a paper store for three cents—dingy -and shopworn, but with bright colors, and figures of angels and doves. -She had wiped all the specks off this, and was going to set it on the -mantel, where the children could see it. Great sobs shook Jurgis at -this memory—they would spend their Christmas in misery and despair, -with him in prison and Ona ill and their home in desolation. Ah, it was -too cruel! Why at least had they not left him alone—why, after they had -shut him in jail, must they be ringing Christmas chimes in his ears! - -But no, their bells were not ringing for him—their Christmas was not -meant for him, they were simply not counting him at all. He was of no -consequence—he was flung aside, like a bit of trash, the carcass of -some animal. It was horrible, horrible! His wife might be dying, his -baby might be starving, his whole family might be perishing in the -cold—and all the while they were ringing their Christmas chimes! And -the bitter mockery of it—all this was punishment for him! They put him -in a place where the snow could not beat in, where the cold could not -eat through his bones; they brought him food and drink—why, in the name -of heaven, if they must punish him, did they not put his family in jail -and leave him outside—why could they find no better way to punish him -than to leave three weak women and six helpless children to starve and -freeze? That was their law, that was their justice! - -Jurgis stood upright; trembling with passion, his hands clenched and -his arms upraised, his whole soul ablaze with hatred and defiance. Ten -thousand curses upon them and their law! Their justice—it was a lie, it -was a lie, a hideous, brutal lie, a thing too black and hateful for any -world but a world of nightmares. It was a sham and a loathsome mockery. -There was no justice, there was no right, anywhere in it—it was only -force, it was tyranny, the will and the power, reckless and -unrestrained! They had ground him beneath their heel, they had devoured -all his substance; they had murdered his old father, they had broken -and wrecked his wife, they had crushed and cowed his whole family; and -now they were through with him, they had no further use for him—and -because he had interfered with them, had gotten in their way, this was -what they had done to him! They had put him behind bars, as if he had -been a wild beast, a thing without sense or reason, without rights, -without affections, without feelings. Nay, they would not even have -treated a beast as they had treated him! Would any man in his senses -have trapped a wild thing in its lair, and left its young behind to -die? - -These midnight hours were fateful ones to Jurgis; in them was the -beginning of his rebellion, of his outlawry and his unbelief. He had no -wit to trace back the social crime to its far sources—he could not say -that it was the thing men have called “the system” that was crushing -him to the earth; that it was the packers, his masters, who had bought -up the law of the land, and had dealt out their brutal will to him from -the seat of justice. He only knew that he was wronged, and that the -world had wronged him; that the law, that society, with all its powers, -had declared itself his foe. And every hour his soul grew blacker, -every hour he dreamed new dreams of vengeance, of defiance, of raging, -frenzied hate. - -The vilest deeds, like poison weeds, - Bloom well in prison air; -It is only what is good in Man - That wastes and withers there; -Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate, - And the Warder is Despair. - - -So wrote a poet, to whom the world had dealt its justice— - -I know not whether Laws be right, - Or whether Laws be wrong; -All that we know who lie in gaol - Is that the wall is strong. -And they do well to hide their hell, - For in it things are done -That Son of God nor son of Man - Ever should look upon! - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -At seven o’clock the next morning Jurgis was let out to get water to -wash his cell—a duty which he performed faithfully, but which most of -the prisoners were accustomed to shirk, until their cells became so -filthy that the guards interposed. Then he had more “duffers and dope,” -and afterward was allowed three hours for exercise, in a long, -cement-walked court roofed with glass. Here were all the inmates of the -jail crowded together. At one side of the court was a place for -visitors, cut off by two heavy wire screens, a foot apart, so that -nothing could be passed in to the prisoners; here Jurgis watched -anxiously, but there came no one to see him. - -Soon after he went back to his cell, a keeper opened the door to let in -another prisoner. He was a dapper young fellow, with a light brown -mustache and blue eyes, and a graceful figure. He nodded to Jurgis, and -then, as the keeper closed the door upon him, began gazing critically -about him. - -“Well, pal,” he said, as his glance encountered Jurgis again, “good -morning.” - -“Good morning,” said Jurgis. - -“A rum go for Christmas, eh?” added the other. - -Jurgis nodded. - -The newcomer went to the bunks and inspected the blankets; he lifted up -the mattress, and then dropped it with an exclamation. “My God!” he -said, “that’s the worst yet.” - -He glanced at Jurgis again. “Looks as if it hadn’t been slept in last -night. Couldn’t stand it, eh?” - -“I didn’t want to sleep last night,” said Jurgis. - -“When did you come in?” - -“Yesterday.” - -The other had another look around, and then wrinkled up his nose. -“There’s the devil of a stink in here,” he said, suddenly. “What is -it?” - -“It’s me,” said Jurgis. - -“You?” - -“Yes, me.” - -“Didn’t they make you wash?” - -“Yes, but this don’t wash.” - -“What is it?” - -“Fertilizer.” - -“Fertilizer! The deuce! What are you?” - -“I work in the stockyards—at least I did until the other day. It’s in -my clothes.” - -“That’s a new one on me,” said the newcomer. “I thought I’d been up -against ‘em all. What are you in for?” - -“I hit my boss.” - -“Oh—that’s it. What did he do?” - -“He—he treated me mean.” - -“I see. You’re what’s called an honest workingman!” - -“What are you?” Jurgis asked. - -“I?” The other laughed. “They say I’m a cracksman,” he said. - -“What’s that?” asked Jurgis. - -“Safes, and such things,” answered the other. - -“Oh,” said Jurgis, wonderingly, and stared at the speaker in awe. “You -mean you break into them—you—you—” - -“Yes,” laughed the other, “that’s what they say.” - -He did not look to be over twenty-two or three, though, as Jurgis found -afterward, he was thirty. He spoke like a man of education, like what -the world calls a “gentleman.” - -“Is that what you’re here for?” Jurgis inquired. - -“No,” was the answer. “I’m here for disorderly conduct. They were mad -because they couldn’t get any evidence. - -“What’s your name?” the young fellow continued after a pause. “My -name’s Duane—Jack Duane. I’ve more than a dozen, but that’s my company -one.” He seated himself on the floor with his back to the wall and his -legs crossed, and went on talking easily; he soon put Jurgis on a -friendly footing—he was evidently a man of the world, used to getting -on, and not too proud to hold conversation with a mere laboring man. He -drew Jurgis out, and heard all about his life all but the one -unmentionable thing; and then he told stories about his own life. He -was a great one for stories, not always of the choicest. Being sent to -jail had apparently not disturbed his cheerfulness; he had “done time” -twice before, it seemed, and he took it all with a frolic welcome. What -with women and wine and the excitement of his vocation, a man could -afford to rest now and then. - -Naturally, the aspect of prison life was changed for Jurgis by the -arrival of a cell mate. He could not turn his face to the wall and -sulk, he had to speak when he was spoken to; nor could he help being -interested in the conversation of Duane—the first educated man with -whom he had ever talked. How could he help listening with wonder while -the other told of midnight ventures and perilous escapes, of feastings -and orgies, of fortunes squandered in a night? The young fellow had an -amused contempt for Jurgis, as a sort of working mule; he, too, had -felt the world’s injustice, but instead of bearing it patiently, he had -struck back, and struck hard. He was striking all the time—there was -war between him and society. He was a genial freebooter, living off the -enemy, without fear or shame. He was not always victorious, but then -defeat did not mean annihilation, and need not break his spirit. - -Withal he was a goodhearted fellow—too much so, it appeared. His story -came out, not in the first day, nor the second, but in the long hours -that dragged by, in which they had nothing to do but talk and nothing -to talk of but themselves. Jack Duane was from the East; he was a -college-bred man—had been studying electrical engineering. Then his -father had met with misfortune in business and killed himself; and -there had been his mother and a younger brother and sister. Also, there -was an invention of Duane’s; Jurgis could not understand it clearly, -but it had to do with telegraphing, and it was a very important -thing—there were fortunes in it, millions upon millions of dollars. And -Duane had been robbed of it by a great company, and got tangled up in -lawsuits and lost all his money. Then somebody had given him a tip on a -horse race, and he had tried to retrieve his fortune with another -person’s money, and had to run away, and all the rest had come from -that. The other asked him what had led him to safe-breaking—to Jurgis a -wild and appalling occupation to think about. A man he had met, his -cell mate had replied—one thing leads to another. Didn’t he ever wonder -about his family, Jurgis asked. Sometimes, the other answered, but not -often—he didn’t allow it. Thinking about it would make it no better. -This wasn’t a world in which a man had any business with a family; -sooner or later Jurgis would find that out also, and give up the fight -and shift for himself. - -Jurgis was so transparently what he pretended to be that his cell mate -was as open with him as a child; it was pleasant to tell him -adventures, he was so full of wonder and admiration, he was so new to -the ways of the country. Duane did not even bother to keep back names -and places—he told all his triumphs and his failures, his loves and his -griefs. Also he introduced Jurgis to many of the other prisoners, -nearly half of whom he knew by name. The crowd had already given Jurgis -a name—they called him “the stinker.” This was cruel, but they meant no -harm by it, and he took it with a good-natured grin. - -Our friend had caught now and then a whiff from the sewers over which -he lived, but this was the first time that he had ever been splashed by -their filth. This jail was a Noah’s ark of the city’s crime—there were -murderers, “hold-up men” and burglars, embezzlers, counterfeiters and -forgers, bigamists, “shoplifters,” “confidence men,” petty thieves and -pickpockets, gamblers and procurers, brawlers, beggars, tramps and -drunkards; they were black and white, old and young, Americans and -natives of every nation under the sun. There were hardened criminals -and innocent men too poor to give bail; old men, and boys literally not -yet in their teens. They were the drainage of the great festering ulcer -of society; they were hideous to look upon, sickening to talk to. All -life had turned to rottenness and stench in them—love was a -beastliness, joy was a snare, and God was an imprecation. They strolled -here and there about the courtyard, and Jurgis listened to them. He was -ignorant and they were wise; they had been everywhere and tried -everything. They could tell the whole hateful story of it, set forth -the inner soul of a city in which justice and honor, women’s bodies and -men’s souls, were for sale in the marketplace, and human beings writhed -and fought and fell upon each other like wolves in a pit; in which -lusts were raging fires, and men were fuel, and humanity was festering -and stewing and wallowing in its own corruption. Into this wild-beast -tangle these men had been born without their consent, they had taken -part in it because they could not help it; that they were in jail was -no disgrace to them, for the game had never been fair, the dice were -loaded. They were swindlers and thieves of pennies and dimes, and they -had been trapped and put out of the way by the swindlers and thieves of -millions of dollars. - -To most of this Jurgis tried not to listen. They frightened him with -their savage mockery; and all the while his heart was far away, where -his loved ones were calling. Now and then in the midst of it his -thoughts would take flight; and then the tears would come into his -eyes—and he would be called back by the jeering laughter of his -companions. - -He spent a week in this company, and during all that time he had no -word from his home. He paid one of his fifteen cents for a postal card, -and his companion wrote a note to the family, telling them where he was -and when he would be tried. There came no answer to it, however, and at -last, the day before New Year’s, Jurgis bade good-by to Jack Duane. The -latter gave him his address, or rather the address of his mistress, and -made Jurgis promise to look him up. “Maybe I could help you out of a -hole some day,” he said, and added that he was sorry to have him go. -Jurgis rode in the patrol wagon back to Justice Callahan’s court for -trial. - -One of the first things he made out as he entered the room was Teta -Elzbieta and little Kotrina, looking pale and frightened, seated far in -the rear. His heart began to pound, but he did not dare to try to -signal to them, and neither did Elzbieta. He took his seat in the -prisoners’ pen and sat gazing at them in helpless agony. He saw that -Ona was not with them, and was full of foreboding as to what that might -mean. He spent half an hour brooding over this—and then suddenly he -straightened up and the blood rushed into his face. A man had come -in—Jurgis could not see his features for the bandages that swathed him, -but he knew the burly figure. It was Connor! A trembling seized him, -and his limbs bent as if for a spring. Then suddenly he felt a hand on -his collar, and heard a voice behind him: “Sit down, you son of a—!” - -He subsided, but he never took his eyes off his enemy. The fellow was -still alive, which was a disappointment, in one way; and yet it was -pleasant to see him, all in penitential plasters. He and the company -lawyer, who was with him, came and took seats within the judge’s -railing; and a minute later the clerk called Jurgis’ name, and the -policeman jerked him to his feet and led him before the bar, gripping -him tightly by the arm, lest he should spring upon the boss. - -Jurgis listened while the man entered the witness chair, took the oath, -and told his story. The wife of the prisoner had been employed in a -department near him, and had been discharged for impudence to him. Half -an hour later he had been violently attacked, knocked down, and almost -choked to death. He had brought witnesses— - -“They will probably not be necessary,” observed the judge and he turned -to Jurgis. “You admit attacking the plaintiff?” he asked. - -“Him?” inquired Jurgis, pointing at the boss. - -“Yes,” said the judge. “I hit him, sir,” said Jurgis. - -“Say ‘your Honor,’” said the officer, pinching his arm hard. - -“Your Honor,” said Jurgis, obediently. - -“You tried to choke him?” - -“Yes, sir, your Honor.” - -“Ever been arrested before?” - -“No, sir, your Honor.” - -“What have you to say for yourself?” - -Jurgis hesitated. What had he to say? In two years and a half he had -learned to speak English for practical purposes, but these had never -included the statement that some one had intimidated and seduced his -wife. He tried once or twice, stammering and balking, to the annoyance -of the judge, who was gasping from the odor of fertilizer. Finally, the -prisoner made it understood that his vocabulary was inadequate, and -there stepped up a dapper young man with waxed mustaches, bidding him -speak in any language he knew. - -Jurgis began; supposing that he would be given time, he explained how -the boss had taken advantage of his wife’s position to make advances to -her and had threatened her with the loss of her place. When the -interpreter had translated this, the judge, whose calendar was crowded, -and whose automobile was ordered for a certain hour, interrupted with -the remark: “Oh, I see. Well, if he made love to your wife, why didn’t -she complain to the superintendent or leave the place?” - -Jurgis hesitated, somewhat taken aback; he began to explain that they -were very poor—that work was hard to get— - -“I see,” said Justice Callahan; “so instead you thought you would knock -him down.” He turned to the plaintiff, inquiring, “Is there any truth -in this story, Mr. Connor?” - -“Not a particle, your Honor,” said the boss. “It is very -unpleasant—they tell some such tale every time you have to discharge a -woman—” - -“Yes, I know,” said the judge. “I hear it often enough. The fellow -seems to have handled you pretty roughly. Thirty days and costs. Next -case.” - -Jurgis had been listening in perplexity. It was only when the policeman -who had him by the arm turned and started to lead him away that he -realized that sentence had been passed. He gazed round him wildly. -“Thirty days!” he panted and then he whirled upon the judge. “What will -my family do?” he cried frantically. “I have a wife and baby, sir, and -they have no money—my God, they will starve to death!” - -“You would have done well to think about them before you committed the -assault,” said the judge dryly, as he turned to look at the next -prisoner. - -Jurgis would have spoken again, but the policeman had seized him by the -collar and was twisting it, and a second policeman was making for him -with evidently hostile intentions. So he let them lead him away. Far -down the room he saw Elzbieta and Kotrina, risen from their seats, -staring in fright; he made one effort to go to them, and then, brought -back by another twist at his throat, he bowed his head and gave up the -struggle. They thrust him into a cell room, where other prisoners were -waiting; and as soon as court had adjourned they led him down with them -into the “Black Maria,” and drove him away. - -This time Jurgis was bound for the “Bridewell,” a petty jail where Cook -County prisoners serve their time. It was even filthier and more -crowded than the county jail; all the smaller fry out of the latter had -been sifted into it—the petty thieves and swindlers, the brawlers and -vagrants. For his cell mate Jurgis had an Italian fruit seller who had -refused to pay his graft to the policeman, and been arrested for -carrying a large pocketknife; as he did not understand a word of -English our friend was glad when he left. He gave place to a Norwegian -sailor, who had lost half an ear in a drunken brawl, and who proved to -be quarrelsome, cursing Jurgis because he moved in his bunk and caused -the roaches to drop upon the lower one. It would have been quite -intolerable, staying in a cell with this wild beast, but for the fact -that all day long the prisoners were put at work breaking stone. - -Ten days of his thirty Jurgis spent thus, without hearing a word from -his family; then one day a keeper came and informed him that there was -a visitor to see him. Jurgis turned white, and so weak at the knees -that he could hardly leave his cell. - -The man led him down the corridor and a flight of steps to the -visitors’ room, which was barred like a cell. Through the grating -Jurgis could see some one sitting in a chair; and as he came into the -room the person started up, and he saw that it was little Stanislovas. -At the sight of some one from home the big fellow nearly went to -pieces—he had to steady himself by a chair, and he put his other hand -to his forehead, as if to clear away a mist. “Well?” he said, weakly. - -Little Stanislovas was also trembling, and all but too frightened to -speak. “They—they sent me to tell you—” he said, with a gulp. - -“Well?” Jurgis repeated. He followed the boy’s glance to where the -keeper was standing watching them. “Never mind that,” Jurgis cried, -wildly. “How are they?” - -“Ona is very sick,” Stanislovas said; “and we are almost starving. We -can’t get along; we thought you might be able to help us.” - -Jurgis gripped the chair tighter; there were beads of perspiration on -his forehead, and his hand shook. “I—can’t help you,” he said. - -“Ona lies in her room all day,” the boy went on, breathlessly. “She -won’t eat anything, and she cries all the time. She won’t tell what is -the matter and she won’t go to work at all. Then a long time ago the -man came for the rent. He was very cross. He came again last week. He -said he would turn us out of the house. And then Marija—” - -A sob choked Stanislovas, and he stopped. “What’s the matter with -Marija?” cried Jurgis. - -“She’s cut her hand!” said the boy. “She’s cut it bad, this time, worse -than before. She can’t work and it’s all turning green, and the company -doctor says she may—she may have to have it cut off. And Marija cries -all the time—her money is nearly all gone, too, and we can’t pay the -rent and the interest on the house; and we have no coal and nothing -more to eat, and the man at the store, he says—” - -The little fellow stopped again, beginning to whimper. “Go on!” the -other panted in frenzy—“Go on!” - -“I—I will,” sobbed Stanislovas. “It’s so—so cold all the time. And last -Sunday it snowed again—a deep, deep snow—and I couldn’t—couldn’t get to -work.” - -“God!” Jurgis half shouted, and he took a step toward the child. There -was an old hatred between them because of the snow—ever since that -dreadful morning when the boy had had his fingers frozen and Jurgis had -had to beat him to send him to work. Now he clenched his hands, looking -as if he would try to break through the grating. “You little villain,” -he cried, “you didn’t try!” - -“I did—I did!” wailed Stanislovas, shrinking from him in terror. “I -tried all day—two days. Elzbieta was with me, and she couldn’t either. -We couldn’t walk at all, it was so deep. And we had nothing to eat, and -oh, it was so cold! I tried, and then the third day Ona went with me—” - -“Ona!” - -“Yes. She tried to get to work, too. She had to. We were all starving. -But she had lost her place—” - -Jurgis reeled, and gave a gasp. “She went back to that place?” he -screamed. “She tried to,” said Stanislovas, gazing at him in -perplexity. “Why not, Jurgis?” - -The man breathed hard, three or four times. “Go—on,” he panted, -finally. - -“I went with her,” said Stanislovas, “but Miss Henderson wouldn’t take -her back. And Connor saw her and cursed her. He was still bandaged -up—why did you hit him, Jurgis?” (There was some fascinating mystery -about this, the little fellow knew; but he could get no satisfaction.) - -Jurgis could not speak; he could only stare, his eyes starting out. -“She has been trying to get other work,” the boy went on; “but she’s so -weak she can’t keep up. And my boss would not take me back, either—Ona -says he knows Connor, and that’s the reason; they’ve all got a grudge -against us now. So I’ve got to go downtown and sell papers with the -rest of the boys and Kotrina—” - -“Kotrina!” - -“Yes, she’s been selling papers, too. She does best, because she’s a -girl. Only the cold is so bad—it’s terrible coming home at night, -Jurgis. Sometimes they can’t come home at all—I’m going to try to find -them tonight and sleep where they do, it’s so late and it’s such a long -ways home. I’ve had to walk, and I didn’t know where it was—I don’t -know how to get back, either. Only mother said I must come, because you -would want to know, and maybe somebody would help your family when they -had put you in jail so you couldn’t work. And I walked all day to get -here—and I only had a piece of bread for breakfast, Jurgis. Mother -hasn’t any work either, because the sausage department is shut down; -and she goes and begs at houses with a basket, and people give her -food. Only she didn’t get much yesterday; it was too cold for her -fingers, and today she was crying—” - -So little Stanislovas went on, sobbing as he talked; and Jurgis stood, -gripping the table tightly, saying not a word, but feeling that his -head would burst; it was like having weights piled upon him, one after -another, crushing the life out of him. He struggled and fought within -himself—as if in some terrible nightmare, in which a man suffers an -agony, and cannot lift his hand, nor cry out, but feels that he is -going mad, that his brain is on fire— - -Just when it seemed to him that another turn of the screw would kill -him, little Stanislovas stopped. “You cannot help us?” he said weakly. - -Jurgis shook his head. - -“They won’t give you anything here?” - -He shook it again. - -“When are you coming out?” - -“Three weeks yet,” Jurgis answered. - -And the boy gazed around him uncertainly. “Then I might as well go,” he -said. - -Jurgis nodded. Then, suddenly recollecting, he put his hand into his -pocket and drew it out, shaking. “Here,” he said, holding out the -fourteen cents. “Take this to them.” - -And Stanislovas took it, and after a little more hesitation, started -for the door. “Good-by, Jurgis,” he said, and the other noticed that he -walked unsteadily as he passed out of sight. - -For a minute or so Jurgis stood clinging to his chair, reeling and -swaying; then the keeper touched him on the arm, and he turned and went -back to breaking stone. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -Jurgis did not get out of the Bridewell quite as soon as he had -expected. To his sentence there were added “court costs” of a dollar -and a half—he was supposed to pay for the trouble of putting him in -jail, and not having the money, was obliged to work it off by three -days more of toil. Nobody had taken the trouble to tell him this—only -after counting the days and looking forward to the end in an agony of -impatience, when the hour came that he expected to be free he found -himself still set at the stone heap, and laughed at when he ventured to -protest. Then he concluded he must have counted wrong; but as another -day passed, he gave up all hope—and was sunk in the depths of despair, -when one morning after breakfast a keeper came to him with the word -that his time was up at last. So he doffed his prison garb, and put on -his old fertilizer clothing, and heard the door of the prison clang -behind him. - -He stood upon the steps, bewildered; he could hardly believe that it -was true,—that the sky was above him again and the open street before -him; that he was a free man. But then the cold began to strike through -his clothes, and he started quickly away. - -There had been a heavy snow, and now a thaw had set in; fine sleety -rain was falling, driven by a wind that pierced Jurgis to the bone. He -had not stopped for his-overcoat when he set out to “do up” Connor, and -so his rides in the patrol wagons had been cruel experiences; his -clothing was old and worn thin, and it never had been very warm. Now as -he trudged on the rain soon wet it through; there were six inches of -watery slush on the sidewalks, so that his feet would soon have been -soaked, even had there been no holes in his shoes. - -Jurgis had had enough to eat in the jail, and the work had been the -least trying of any that he had done since he came to Chicago; but even -so, he had not grown strong—the fear and grief that had preyed upon his -mind had worn him thin. Now he shivered and shrunk from the rain, -hiding his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders together. -The Bridewell grounds were on the outskirts of the city and the country -around them was unsettled and wild—on one side was the big drainage -canal, and on the other a maze of railroad tracks, and so the wind had -full sweep. - -After walking a ways, Jurgis met a little ragamuffin whom he hailed: -“Hey, sonny!” The boy cocked one eye at him—he knew that Jurgis was a -“jailbird” by his shaven head. “Wot yer want?” he queried. - -“How do you go to the stockyards?” Jurgis demanded. - -“I don’t go,” replied the boy. - -Jurgis hesitated a moment, nonplussed. Then he said, “I mean which is -the way?” - -“Why don’t yer say so then?” was the response, and the boy pointed to -the northwest, across the tracks. “That way.” - -“How far is it?” Jurgis asked. “I dunno,” said the other. “Mebbe twenty -miles or so.” - -“Twenty miles!” Jurgis echoed, and his face fell. He had to walk every -foot of it, for they had turned him out of jail without a penny in his -pockets. - -Yet, when he once got started, and his blood had warmed with walking, -he forgot everything in the fever of his thoughts. All the dreadful -imaginations that had haunted him in his cell now rushed into his mind -at once. The agony was almost over—he was going to find out; and he -clenched his hands in his pockets as he strode, following his flying -desire, almost at a run. Ona—the baby—the family—the house—he would -know the truth about them all! And he was coming to the rescue—he was -free again! His hands were his own, and he could help them, he could do -battle for them against the world. - -For an hour or so he walked thus, and then he began to look about him. -He seemed to be leaving the city altogether. The street was turning -into a country road, leading out to the westward; there were -snow-covered fields on either side of him. Soon he met a farmer driving -a two-horse wagon loaded with straw, and he stopped him. - -“Is this the way to the stockyards?” he asked. - -The farmer scratched his head. “I dunno jest where they be,” he said. -“But they’re in the city somewhere, and you’re going dead away from it -now.” - -Jurgis looked dazed. “I was told this was the way,” he said. - -“Who told you?” - -“A boy.” - -“Well, mebbe he was playing a joke on ye. The best thing ye kin do is -to go back, and when ye git into town ask a policeman. I’d take ye in, -only I’ve come a long ways an’ I’m loaded heavy. Git up!” - -So Jurgis turned and followed, and toward the end of the morning he -began to see Chicago again. Past endless blocks of two-story shanties -he walked, along wooden sidewalks and unpaved pathways treacherous with -deep slush holes. Every few blocks there would be a railroad crossing -on the level with the sidewalk, a deathtrap for the unwary; long -freight trains would be passing, the cars clanking and crashing -together, and Jurgis would pace about waiting, burning up with a fever -of impatience. Occasionally the cars would stop for some minutes, and -wagons and streetcars would crowd together waiting, the drivers -swearing at each other, or hiding beneath umbrellas out of the rain; at -such times Jurgis would dodge under the gates and run across the tracks -and between the cars, taking his life into his hands. - -He crossed a long bridge over a river frozen solid and covered with -slush. Not even on the river bank was the snow white—the rain which -fell was a diluted solution of smoke, and Jurgis’ hands and face were -streaked with black. Then he came into the business part of the city, -where the streets were sewers of inky blackness, with horses sleeping -and plunging, and women and children flying across in panic-stricken -droves. These streets were huge canyons formed by towering black -buildings, echoing with the clang of car gongs and the shouts of -drivers; the people who swarmed in them were as busy as ants—all -hurrying breathlessly, never stopping to look at anything nor at each -other. The solitary trampish-looking foreigner, with water-soaked -clothing and haggard face and anxious eyes, was as much alone as he -hurried past them, as much unheeded and as lost, as if he had been a -thousand miles deep in a wilderness. - -A policeman gave him his direction and told him that he had five miles -to go. He came again to the slum districts, to avenues of saloons and -cheap stores, with long dingy red factory buildings, and coal-yards and -railroad tracks; and then Jurgis lifted up his head and began to sniff -the air like a startled animal—scenting the far-off odor of home. It -was late afternoon then, and he was hungry, but the dinner invitations -hung out of the saloons were not for him. - -So he came at last to the stockyards, to the black volcanoes of smoke -and the lowing cattle and the stench. Then, seeing a crowded car, his -impatience got the better of him and he jumped aboard, hiding behind -another man, unnoticed by the conductor. In ten minutes more he had -reached his street, and home. - -He was half running as he came round the corner. There was the house, -at any rate—and then suddenly he stopped and stared. What was the -matter with the house? - -Jurgis looked twice, bewildered; then he glanced at the house next door -and at the one beyond—then at the saloon on the corner. Yes, it was the -right place, quite certainly—he had not made any mistake. But the -house—the house was a different color! - -He came a couple of steps nearer. Yes; it had been gray and now it was -yellow! The trimmings around the windows had been red, and now they -were green! It was all newly painted! How strange it made it seem! - -Jurgis went closer yet, but keeping on the other side of the street. A -sudden and horrible spasm of fear had come over him. His knees were -shaking beneath him, and his mind was in a whirl. New paint on the -house, and new weatherboards, where the old had begun to rot off, and -the agent had got after them! New shingles over the hole in the roof, -too, the hole that had for six months been the bane of his soul—he -having no money to have it fixed and no time to fix it himself, and the -rain leaking in, and overflowing the pots and pans he put to catch it, -and flooding the attic and loosening the plaster. And now it was fixed! -And the broken windowpane replaced! And curtains in the windows! New, -white curtains, stiff and shiny! - -Then suddenly the front door opened. Jurgis stood, his chest heaving as -he struggled to catch his breath. A boy had come out, a stranger to -him; a big, fat, rosy-cheeked youngster, such as had never been seen in -his home before. - -Jurgis stared at the boy, fascinated. He came down the steps whistling, -kicking off the snow. He stopped at the foot, and picked up some, and -then leaned against the railing, making a snowball. A moment later he -looked around and saw Jurgis, and their eyes met; it was a hostile -glance, the boy evidently thinking that the other had suspicions of the -snowball. When Jurgis started slowly across the street toward him, he -gave a quick glance about, meditating retreat, but then he concluded to -stand his ground. - -Jurgis took hold of the railing of the steps, for he was a little -unsteady. “What—what are you doing here?” he managed to gasp. - -“Go on!” said the boy. - -“You—” Jurgis tried again. “What do you want here?” - -“Me?” answered the boy, angrily. “I live here.” - -“You live here!” Jurgis panted. He turned white and clung more tightly -to the railing. “You live here! Then where’s my family?” - -The boy looked surprised. “Your family!” he echoed. - -And Jurgis started toward him. “I—this is my house!” he cried. - -“Come off!” said the boy; then suddenly the door upstairs opened, and -he called: “Hey, ma! Here’s a fellow says he owns this house.” - -A stout Irishwoman came to the top of the steps. “What’s that?” she -demanded. - -Jurgis turned toward her. “Where is my family?” he cried, wildly. “I -left them here! This is my home! What are you doing in my home?” - -The woman stared at him in frightened wonder, she must have thought she -was dealing with a maniac—Jurgis looked like one. “Your home!” she -echoed. - -“My home!” he half shrieked. “I lived here, I tell you.” - -“You must be mistaken,” she answered him. “No one ever lived here. This -is a new house. They told us so. They—” - -“What have they done with my family?” shouted Jurgis, frantically. - -A light had begun to break upon the woman; perhaps she had had doubts -of what “they” had told her. “I don’t know where your family is,” she -said. “I bought the house only three days ago, and there was nobody -here, and they told me it was all new. Do you really mean you had ever -rented it?” - -“Rented it!” panted Jurgis. “I bought it! I paid for it! I own it! And -they—my God, can’t you tell me where my people went?” - -She made him understand at last that she knew nothing. Jurgis’ brain -was so confused that he could not grasp the situation. It was as if his -family had been wiped out of existence; as if they were proving to be -dream people, who never had existed at all. He was quite lost—but then -suddenly he thought of Grandmother Majauszkiene, who lived in the next -block. She would know! He turned and started at a run. - -Grandmother Majauszkiene came to the door herself. She cried out when -she saw Jurgis, wild-eyed and shaking. Yes, yes, she could tell him. -The family had moved; they had not been able to pay the rent and they -had been turned out into the snow, and the house had been repainted and -sold again the next week. No, she had not heard how they were, but she -could tell him that they had gone back to Aniele Jukniene, with whom -they had stayed when they first came to the yards. Wouldn’t Jurgis come -in and rest? It was certainly too bad—if only he had not got into jail— - -And so Jurgis turned and staggered away. He did not go very far round -the corner he gave out completely, and sat down on the steps of a -saloon, and hid his face in his hands, and shook all over with dry, -racking sobs. - -Their home! Their home! They had lost it! Grief, despair, rage, -overwhelmed him—what was any imagination of the thing to this -heartbreaking, crushing reality of it—to the sight of strange people -living in his house, hanging their curtains to his windows, staring at -him with hostile eyes! It was monstrous, it was unthinkable—they could -not do it—it could not be true! Only think what he had suffered for -that house—what miseries they had all suffered for it—the price they -had paid for it! - -The whole long agony came back to him. Their sacrifices in the -beginning, their three hundred dollars that they had scraped together, -all they owned in the world, all that stood between them and -starvation! And then their toil, month by month, to get together the -twelve dollars, and the interest as well, and now and then the taxes, -and the other charges, and the repairs, and what not! Why, they had put -their very souls into their payments on that house, they had paid for -it with their sweat and tears—yes, more, with their very lifeblood. -Dede Antanas had died of the struggle to earn that money—he would have -been alive and strong today if he had not had to work in Durham’s dark -cellars to earn his share. And Ona, too, had given her health and -strength to pay for it—she was wrecked and ruined because of it; and so -was he, who had been a big, strong man three years ago, and now sat -here shivering, broken, cowed, weeping like a hysterical child. Ah! -they had cast their all into the fight; and they had lost, they had -lost! All that they had paid was gone—every cent of it. And their house -was gone—they were back where they had started from, flung out into the -cold to starve and freeze! - -Jurgis could see all the truth now—could see himself, through the whole -long course of events, the victim of ravenous vultures that had torn -into his vitals and devoured him; of fiends that had racked and -tortured him, mocking him, meantime, jeering in his face. Ah, God, the -horror of it, the monstrous, hideous, demoniacal wickedness of it! He -and his family, helpless women and children, struggling to live, -ignorant and defenseless and forlorn as they were—and the enemies that -had been lurking for them, crouching upon their trail and thirsting for -their blood! That first lying circular, that smooth-tongued slippery -agent! That trap of the extra payments, the interest, and all the other -charges that they had not the means to pay, and would never have -attempted to pay! And then all the tricks of the packers, their -masters, the tyrants who ruled them—the shutdowns and the scarcity of -work, the irregular hours and the cruel speeding-up, the lowering of -wages, the raising of prices! The mercilessness of nature about them, -of heat and cold, rain and snow; the mercilessness of the city, of the -country in which they lived, of its laws and customs that they did not -understand! All of these things had worked together for the company -that had marked them for its prey and was waiting for its chance. And -now, with this last hideous injustice, its time had come, and it had -turned them out bag and baggage, and taken their house and sold it -again! And they could do nothing, they were tied hand and foot—the law -was against them, the whole machinery of society was at their -oppressors’ command! If Jurgis so much as raised a hand against them, -back he would go into that wild-beast pen from which he had just -escaped! - -To get up and go away was to give up, to acknowledge defeat, to leave -the strange family in possession; and Jurgis might have sat shivering -in the rain for hours before he could do that, had it not been for the -thought of his family. It might be that he had worse things yet to -learn—and so he got to his feet and started away, walking on, wearily, -half-dazed. - -To Aniele’s house, in back of the yards, was a good two miles; the -distance had never seemed longer to Jurgis, and when he saw the -familiar dingy-gray shanty his heart was beating fast. He ran up the -steps and began to hammer upon the door. - -The old woman herself came to open it. She had shrunk all up with her -rheumatism since Jurgis had seen her last, and her yellow parchment -face stared up at him from a little above the level of the doorknob. -She gave a start when she saw him. “Is Ona here?” he cried, -breathlessly. - -“Yes,” was the answer, “she’s here.” - -“How—” Jurgis began, and then stopped short, clutching convulsively at -the side of the door. From somewhere within the house had come a sudden -cry, a wild, horrible scream of anguish. And the voice was Ona’s. For a -moment Jurgis stood half-paralyzed with fright; then he bounded past -the old woman and into the room. - -It was Aniele’s kitchen, and huddled round the stove were half a dozen -women, pale and frightened. One of them started to her feet as Jurgis -entered; she was haggard and frightfully thin, with one arm tied up in -bandages—he hardly realized that it was Marija. He looked first for -Ona; then, not seeing her, he stared at the women, expecting them to -speak. But they sat dumb, gazing back at him, panic-stricken; and a -second later came another piercing scream. - -It was from the rear of the house, and upstairs. Jurgis bounded to a -door of the room and flung it open; there was a ladder leading through -a trap door to the garret, and he was at the foot of it when suddenly -he heard a voice behind him, and saw Marija at his heels. She seized -him by the sleeve with her good hand, panting wildly, “No, no, Jurgis! -Stop!” - -“What do you mean?” he gasped. - -“You mustn’t go up,” she cried. - -Jurgis was half-crazed with bewilderment and fright. “What’s the -matter?” he shouted. “What is it?” - -Marija clung to him tightly; he could hear Ona sobbing and moaning -above, and he fought to get away and climb up, without waiting for her -reply. “No, no,” she rushed on. “Jurgis! You mustn’t go up! It’s—it’s -the child!” - -“The child?” he echoed in perplexity. “Antanas?” - -Marija answered him, in a whisper: “The new one!” - -And then Jurgis went limp, and caught himself on the ladder. He stared -at her as if she were a ghost. “The new one!” he gasped. “But it isn’t -time,” he added, wildly. - -Marija nodded. “I know,” she said; “but it’s come.” - -And then again came Ona’s scream, smiting him like a blow in the face, -making him wince and turn white. Her voice died away into a wail—then -he heard her sobbing again, “My God—let me die, let me die!” And Marija -hung her arms about him, crying: “Come out! Come away!” - -She dragged him back into the kitchen, half carrying him, for he had -gone all to pieces. It was as if the pillars of his soul had fallen -in—he was blasted with horror. In the room he sank into a chair, -trembling like a leaf, Marija still holding him, and the women staring -at him in dumb, helpless fright. - -And then again Ona cried out; he could hear it nearly as plainly here, -and he staggered to his feet. “How long has this been going on?” he -panted. - -“Not very long,” Marija answered, and then, at a signal from Aniele, -she rushed on: “You go away, Jurgis you can’t help—go away and come -back later. It’s all right—it’s—” - -“Who’s with her?” Jurgis demanded; and then, seeing Marija hesitating, -he cried again, “Who’s with her?” - -“She’s—she’s all right,” she answered. “Elzbieta’s with her.” - -“But the doctor!” he panted. “Some one who knows!” - -He seized Marija by the arm; she trembled, and her voice sank beneath a -whisper as she replied, “We—we have no money.” Then, frightened at the -look on his face, she exclaimed: “It’s all right, Jurgis! You don’t -understand—go away—go away! Ah, if you only had waited!” - -Above her protests Jurgis heard Ona again; he was almost out of his -mind. It was all new to him, raw and horrible—it had fallen upon him -like a lightning stroke. When little Antanas was born he had been at -work, and had known nothing about it until it was over; and now he was -not to be controlled. The frightened women were at their wits’ end; one -after another they tried to reason with him, to make him understand -that this was the lot of woman. In the end they half drove him out into -the rain, where he began to pace up and down, bareheaded and frantic. -Because he could hear Ona from the street, he would first go away to -escape the sounds, and then come back because he could not help it. At -the end of a quarter of an hour he rushed up the steps again, and for -fear that he would break in the door they had to open it and let him -in. - -There was no arguing with him. They could not tell him that all was -going well—how could they know, he cried—why, she was dying, she was -being torn to pieces! Listen to her—listen! Why, it was monstrous—it -could not be allowed—there must be some help for it! Had they tried to -get a doctor? They might pay him afterward—they could promise— - -“We couldn’t promise, Jurgis,” protested Marija. “We had no money—we -have scarcely been able to keep alive.” - -“But I can work,” Jurgis exclaimed. “I can earn money!” - -“Yes,” she answered—“but we thought you were in jail. How could we know -when you would return? They will not work for nothing.” - -Marija went on to tell how she had tried to find a midwife, and how -they had demanded ten, fifteen, even twenty-five dollars, and that in -cash. “And I had only a quarter,” she said. “I have spent every cent of -my money—all that I had in the bank; and I owe the doctor who has been -coming to see me, and he has stopped because he thinks I don’t mean to -pay him. And we owe Aniele for two weeks’ rent, and she is nearly -starving, and is afraid of being turned out. We have been borrowing and -begging to keep alive, and there is nothing more we can do—” - -“And the children?” cried Jurgis. - -“The children have not been home for three days, the weather has been -so bad. They could not know what is happening—it came suddenly, two -months before we expected it.” - -Jurgis was standing by the table, and he caught himself with his hand; -his head sank and his arms shook—it looked as if he were going to -collapse. Then suddenly Aniele got up and came hobbling toward him, -fumbling in her skirt pocket. She drew out a dirty rag, in one corner -of which she had something tied. - -“Here, Jurgis!” she said, “I have some money. _Palauk!_ See!” - -She unwrapped it and counted it out—thirty-four cents. “You go, now,” -she said, “and try and get somebody yourself. And maybe the rest can -help—give him some money, you; he will pay you back some day, and it -will do him good to have something to think about, even if he doesn’t -succeed. When he comes back, maybe it will be over.” - -And so the other women turned out the contents of their pocketbooks; -most of them had only pennies and nickels, but they gave him all. Mrs. -Olszewski, who lived next door, and had a husband who was a skilled -cattle butcher, but a drinking man, gave nearly half a dollar, enough -to raise the whole sum to a dollar and a quarter. Then Jurgis thrust it -into his pocket, still holding it tightly in his fist, and started away -at a run. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - - -“Madame Haupt Hebamme”, ran a sign, swinging from a second-story window -over a saloon on the avenue; at a side door was another sign, with a -hand pointing up a dingy flight of stairs. Jurgis went up them, three -at a time. - -Madame Haupt was frying pork and onions, and had her door half open to -let out the smoke. When he tried to knock upon it, it swung open the -rest of the way, and he had a glimpse of her, with a black bottle -turned up to her lips. Then he knocked louder, and she started and put -it away. She was a Dutchwoman, enormously fat—when she walked she -rolled like a small boat on the ocean, and the dishes in the cupboard -jostled each other. She wore a filthy blue wrapper, and her teeth were -black. - -“Vot is it?” she said, when she saw Jurgis. - -He had run like mad all the way and was so out of breath he could -hardly speak. His hair was flying and his eyes wild—he looked like a -man that had risen from the tomb. “My wife!” he panted. “Come quickly!” -Madame Haupt set the frying pan to one side and wiped her hands on her -wrapper. - -“You vant me to come for a case?” she inquired. - -“Yes,” gasped Jurgis. - -“I haf yust come back from a case,” she said. “I haf had no time to eat -my dinner. Still—if it is so bad—” - -“Yes—it is!” cried he. - -“Vell, den, perhaps—vot you pay?” - -“I—I—how much do you want?” Jurgis stammered. - -“Tventy-five dollars.” His face fell. “I can’t pay that,” he said. - -The woman was watching him narrowly. “How much do you pay?” she -demanded. - -“Must I pay now—right away?” - -“Yes; all my customers do.” - -“I—I haven’t much money,” Jurgis began in an agony of dread. “I’ve been -in—in trouble—and my money is gone. But I’ll pay you—every cent—just as -soon as I can; I can work—” - -“Vot is your work?” - -“I have no place now. I must get one. But I—” - -“How much haf you got now?” - -He could hardly bring himself to reply. When he said “A dollar and a -quarter,” the woman laughed in his face. - -“I vould not put on my hat for a dollar and a quarter,” she said. - -“It’s all I’ve got,” he pleaded, his voice breaking. “I must get some -one—my wife will die. I can’t help it—I—” - -Madame Haupt had put back her pork and onions on the stove. She turned -to him and answered, out of the steam and noise: “Git me ten dollars -cash, und so you can pay me the rest next mont’.” - -“I can’t do it—I haven’t got it!” Jurgis protested. “I tell you I have -only a dollar and a quarter.” - -The woman turned to her work. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “Dot is -all to try to sheat me. Vot is de reason a big man like you has got -only a dollar und a quarter?” - -“I’ve just been in jail,” Jurgis cried—he was ready to get down upon -his knees to the woman—“and I had no money before, and my family has -almost starved.” - -“Vere is your friends, dot ought to help you?” - -“They are all poor,” he answered. “They gave me this. I have done -everything I can—” - -“Haven’t you got notting you can sell?” - -“I have nothing, I tell you—I have nothing,” he cried, frantically. - -“Can’t you borrow it, den? Don’t your store people trust you?” Then, as -he shook his head, she went on: “Listen to me—if you git me you vill be -glad of it. I vill save your wife und baby for you, and it vill not -seem like mooch to you in de end. If you loose dem now how you tink you -feel den? Und here is a lady dot knows her business—I could send you to -people in dis block, und dey vould tell you—” - -Madame Haupt was pointing her cooking-fork at Jurgis persuasively; but -her words were more than he could bear. He flung up his hands with a -gesture of despair and turned and started away. “It’s no use,” he -exclaimed—but suddenly he heard the woman’s voice behind him again— - -“I vill make it five dollars for you.” - -She followed behind him, arguing with him. “You vill be foolish not to -take such an offer,” she said. “You von’t find nobody go out on a rainy -day like dis for less. Vy, I haf never took a case in my life so sheap -as dot. I couldn’t pay mine room rent—” - -Jurgis interrupted her with an oath of rage. “If I haven’t got it,” he -shouted, “how can I pay it? Damn it, I would pay you if I could, but I -tell you I haven’t got it. I haven’t got it! Do you hear me—_I haven’t -got it!_” - -He turned and started away again. He was halfway down the stairs before -Madame Haupt could shout to him: “Vait! I vill go mit you! Come back!” - -He went back into the room again. - -“It is not goot to tink of anybody suffering,” she said, in a -melancholy voice. “I might as vell go mit you for noffing as vot you -offer me, but I vill try to help you. How far is it?” - -“Three or four blocks from here.” - -“Tree or four! Und so I shall get soaked! Gott in Himmel, it ought to -be vorth more! Vun dollar und a quarter, und a day like dis!—But you -understand now—you vill pay me de rest of twenty-five dollars soon?” - -“As soon as I can.” - -“Some time dis mont’?” - -“Yes, within a month,” said poor Jurgis. “Anything! Hurry up!” - -“Vere is de dollar und a quarter?” persisted Madame Haupt, -relentlessly. - -Jurgis put the money on the table and the woman counted it and stowed -it away. Then she wiped her greasy hands again and proceeded to get -ready, complaining all the time; she was so fat that it was painful for -her to move, and she grunted and gasped at every step. She took off her -wrapper without even taking the trouble to turn her back to Jurgis, and -put on her corsets and dress. Then there was a black bonnet which had -to be adjusted carefully, and an umbrella which was mislaid, and a bag -full of necessaries which had to be collected from here and there—the -man being nearly crazy with anxiety in the meantime. When they were on -the street he kept about four paces ahead of her, turning now and then, -as if he could hurry her on by the force of his desire. But Madame -Haupt could only go so far at a step, and it took all her attention to -get the needed breath for that. - -They came at last to the house, and to the group of frightened women in -the kitchen. It was not over yet, Jurgis learned—he heard Ona crying -still; and meantime Madame Haupt removed her bonnet and laid it on the -mantelpiece, and got out of her bag, first an old dress and then a -saucer of goose grease, which she proceeded to rub upon her hands. The -more cases this goose grease is used in, the better luck it brings to -the midwife, and so she keeps it upon her kitchen mantelpiece or stowed -away in a cupboard with her dirty clothes, for months, and sometimes -even for years. - -Then they escorted her to the ladder, and Jurgis heard her give an -exclamation of dismay. “Gott in Himmel, vot for haf you brought me to a -place like dis? I could not climb up dot ladder. I could not git troo a -trap door! I vill not try it—vy, I might kill myself already. Vot sort -of a place is dot for a woman to bear a child in—up in a garret, mit -only a ladder to it? You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!” Jurgis -stood in the doorway and listened to her scolding, half drowning out -the horrible moans and screams of Ona. - -At last Aniele succeeded in pacifying her, and she essayed the ascent; -then, however, she had to be stopped while the old woman cautioned her -about the floor of the garret. They had no real floor—they had laid old -boards in one part to make a place for the family to live; it was all -right and safe there, but the other part of the garret had only the -joists of the floor, and the lath and plaster of the ceiling below, and -if one stepped on this there would be a catastrophe. As it was half -dark up above, perhaps one of the others had best go up first with a -candle. Then there were more outcries and threatening, until at last -Jurgis had a vision of a pair of elephantine legs disappearing through -the trap door, and felt the house shake as Madame Haupt started to -walk. Then suddenly Aniele came to him and took him by the arm. - -“Now,” she said, “you go away. Do as I tell you—you have done all you -can, and you are only in the way. Go away and stay away.” - -“But where shall I go?” Jurgis asked, helplessly. - -“I don’t know where,” she answered. “Go on the street, if there is no -other place—only go! And stay all night!” - -In the end she and Marija pushed him out of the door and shut it behind -him. It was just about sundown, and it was turning cold—the rain had -changed to snow, and the slush was freezing. Jurgis shivered in his -thin clothing, and put his hands into his pockets and started away. He -had not eaten since morning, and he felt weak and ill; with a sudden -throb of hope he recollected he was only a few blocks from the saloon -where he had been wont to eat his dinner. They might have mercy on him -there, or he might meet a friend. He set out for the place as fast as -he could walk. - -“Hello, Jack,” said the saloon-keeper, when he entered—they call all -foreigners and unskilled men “Jack” in Packingtown. “Where’ve you -been?” - -Jurgis went straight to the bar. “I’ve been in jail,” he said, “and -I’ve just got out. I walked home all the way, and I’ve not a cent, and -had nothing to eat since this morning. And I’ve lost my home, and my -wife’s ill, and I’m done up.” - -The saloon-keeper gazed at him, with his haggard white face and his -blue trembling lips. Then he pushed a big bottle toward him. “Fill her -up!” he said. - -Jurgis could hardly hold the bottle, his hands shook so. - -“Don’t be afraid,” said the saloon-keeper, “fill her up!” - -So Jurgis drank a large glass of whisky, and then turned to the lunch -counter, in obedience to the other’s suggestion. He ate all he dared, -stuffing it in as fast as he could; and then, after trying to speak his -gratitude, he went and sat down by the big red stove in the middle of -the room. - -It was too good to last, however—like all things in this hard world. -His soaked clothing began to steam, and the horrible stench of -fertilizer to fill the room. In an hour or so the packing houses would -be closing and the men coming in from their work; and they would not -come into a place that smelt of Jurgis. Also it was Saturday night, and -in a couple of hours would come a violin and a cornet, and in the rear -part of the saloon the families of the neighborhood would dance and -feast upon wienerwurst and lager, until two or three o’clock in the -morning. The saloon-keeper coughed once or twice, and then remarked, -“Say, Jack, I’m afraid you’ll have to quit.” - -He was used to the sight of human wrecks, this saloon-keeper; he -“fired” dozens of them every night, just as haggard and cold and -forlorn as this one. But they were all men who had given up and been -counted out, while Jurgis was still in the fight, and had reminders of -decency about him. As he got up meekly, the other reflected that he had -always been a steady man, and might soon be a good customer again. -“You’ve been up against it, I see,” he said. “Come this way.” - -In the rear of the saloon were the cellar stairs. There was a door -above and another below, both safely padlocked, making the stairs an -admirable place to stow away a customer who might still chance to have -money, or a political light whom it was not advisable to kick out of -doors. - -So Jurgis spent the night. The whisky had only half warmed him, and he -could not sleep, exhausted as he was; he would nod forward, and then -start up, shivering with the cold, and begin to remember again. Hour -after hour passed, until he could only persuade himself that it was not -morning by the sounds of music and laughter and singing that were to be -heard from the room. When at last these ceased, he expected that he -would be turned out into the street; as this did not happen, he fell to -wondering whether the man had forgotten him. - -In the end, when the silence and suspense were no longer to be borne, -he got up and hammered on the door; and the proprietor came, yawning -and rubbing his eyes. He was keeping open all night, and dozing between -customers. - -“I want to go home,” Jurgis said. “I’m worried about my wife—I can’t -wait any longer.” - -“Why the hell didn’t you say so before?” said the man. “I thought you -didn’t have any home to go to.” Jurgis went outside. It was four -o’clock in the morning, and as black as night. There were three or four -inches of fresh snow on the ground, and the flakes were falling thick -and fast. He turned toward Aniele’s and started at a run. - -There was a light burning in the kitchen window and the blinds were -drawn. The door was unlocked and Jurgis rushed in. - -Aniele, Marija, and the rest of the women were huddled about the stove, -exactly as before; with them were several newcomers, Jurgis -noticed—also he noticed that the house was silent. - -“Well?” he said. - -No one answered him, they sat staring at him with their pale faces. He -cried again: “Well?” - -And then, by the light of the smoky lamp, he saw Marija who sat nearest -him, shaking her head slowly. “Not yet,” she said. - -And Jurgis gave a cry of dismay. “Not _yet?_” - -Again Marija’s head shook. The poor fellow stood dumfounded. “I don’t -hear her,” he gasped. - -“She’s been quiet a long time,” replied the other. - -There was another pause—broken suddenly by a voice from the attic: -“Hello, there!” - -Several of the women ran into the next room, while Marija sprang toward -Jurgis. “Wait here!” she cried, and the two stood, pale and trembling, -listening. In a few moments it became clear that Madame Haupt was -engaged in descending the ladder, scolding and exhorting again, while -the ladder creaked in protest. In a moment or two she reached the -ground, angry and breathless, and they heard her coming into the room. -Jurgis gave one glance at her, and then turned white and reeled. She -had her jacket off, like one of the workers on the killing beds. Her -hands and arms were smeared with blood, and blood was splashed upon her -clothing and her face. - -She stood breathing hard, and gazing about her; no one made a sound. “I -haf done my best,” she began suddenly. “I can do noffing more—dere is -no use to try.” - -Again there was silence. - -“It ain’t my fault,” she said. “You had ought to haf had a doctor, und -not vaited so long—it vas too late already ven I come.” Once more there -was deathlike stillness. Marija was clutching Jurgis with all the power -of her one well arm. - -Then suddenly Madame Haupt turned to Aniele. “You haf not got something -to drink, hey?” she queried. “Some brandy?” - -Aniele shook her head. - -“Herr Gott!” exclaimed Madame Haupt. “Such people! Perhaps you vill -give me someting to eat den—I haf had noffing since yesterday morning, -und I haf vorked myself near to death here. If I could haf known it vas -like dis, I vould never haf come for such money as you gif me.” At this -moment she chanced to look round, and saw Jurgis: She shook her finger -at him. “You understand me,” she said, “you pays me dot money yust de -same! It is not my fault dat you send for me so late I can’t help your -vife. It is not my fault if der baby comes mit one arm first, so dot I -can’t save it. I haf tried all night, und in dot place vere it is not -fit for dogs to be born, und mit notting to eat only vot I brings in -mine own pockets.” - -Here Madame Haupt paused for a moment to get her breath; and Marija, -seeing the beads of sweat on Jurgis’s forehead, and feeling the -quivering of his frame, broke out in a low voice: “How is Ona?” - -“How is she?” echoed Madame Haupt. “How do you tink she can be ven you -leave her to kill herself so? I told dem dot ven they send for de -priest. She is young, und she might haf got over it, und been vell und -strong, if she had been treated right. She fight hard, dot girl—she is -not yet quite dead.” - -And Jurgis gave a frantic scream. “_Dead!_” - -“She vill die, of course,” said the other angrily. “Der baby is dead -now.” - -The garret was lighted by a candle stuck upon a board; it had almost -burned itself out, and was sputtering and smoking as Jurgis rushed up -the ladder. He could make out dimly in one corner a pallet of rags and -old blankets, spread upon the floor; at the foot of it was a crucifix, -and near it a priest muttering a prayer. In a far corner crouched -Elzbieta, moaning and wailing. Upon the pallet lay Ona. - -She was covered with a blanket, but he could see her shoulders and one -arm lying bare; she was so shrunken he would scarcely have known -her—she was all but a skeleton, and as white as a piece of chalk. Her -eyelids were closed, and she lay still as death. He staggered toward -her and fell upon his knees with a cry of anguish: “Ona! Ona!” - -She did not stir. He caught her hand in his, and began to clasp it -frantically, calling: “Look at me! Answer me! It is Jurgis come -back—don’t you hear me?” - -There was the faintest quivering of the eyelids, and he called again in -frenzy: “Ona! Ona!” - -Then suddenly her eyes opened one instant. One instant she looked at -him—there was a flash of recognition between them, he saw her afar off, -as through a dim vista, standing forlorn. He stretched out his arms to -her, he called her in wild despair; a fearful yearning surged up in -him, hunger for her that was agony, desire that was a new being born -within him, tearing his heartstrings, torturing him. But it was all in -vain—she faded from him, she slipped back and was gone. And a wail of -anguish burst from him, great sobs shook all his frame, and hot tears -ran down his cheeks and fell upon her. He clutched her hands, he shook -her, he caught her in his arms and pressed her to him but she lay cold -and still—she was gone—she was gone! - -The word rang through him like the sound of a bell, echoing in the far -depths of him, making forgotten chords to vibrate, old shadowy fears to -stir—fears of the dark, fears of the void, fears of annihilation. She -was dead! She was dead! He would never see her again, never hear her -again! An icy horror of loneliness seized him; he saw himself standing -apart and watching all the world fade away from him—a world of shadows, -of fickle dreams. He was like a little child, in his fright and grief; -he called and called, and got no answer, and his cries of despair -echoed through the house, making the women downstairs draw nearer to -each other in fear. He was inconsolable, beside himself—the priest came -and laid his hand upon his shoulder and whispered to him, but he heard -not a sound. He was gone away himself, stumbling through the shadows, -and groping after the soul that had fled. - -So he lay. The gray dawn came up and crept into the attic. The priest -left, the women left, and he was alone with the still, white -figure—quieter now, but moaning and shuddering, wrestling with the -grisly fiend. Now and then he would raise himself and stare at the -white mask before him, then hide his eyes because he could not bear it. -Dead! _dead!_ And she was only a girl, she was barely eighteen! Her -life had hardly begun—and here she lay murdered—mangled, tortured to -death! - -It was morning when he rose up and came down into the kitchen—haggard -and ashen gray, reeling and dazed. More of the neighbors had come in, -and they stared at him in silence as he sank down upon a chair by the -table and buried his face in his arms. - -A few minutes later the front door opened; a blast of cold and snow -rushed in, and behind it little Kotrina, breathless from running, and -blue with the cold. “I’m home again!” she exclaimed. “I could hardly—” - -And then, seeing Jurgis, she stopped with an exclamation. Looking from -one to another she saw that something had happened, and she asked, in a -lower voice: “What’s the matter?” - -Before anyone could reply, Jurgis started up; he went toward her, -walking unsteadily. “Where have you been?” he demanded. - -“Selling papers with the boys,” she said. “The snow—” - -“Have you any money?” he demanded. - -“Yes.” - -“How much?” - -“Nearly three dollars, Jurgis.” - -“Give it to me.” - -Kotrina, frightened by his manner, glanced at the others. “Give it to -me!” he commanded again, and she put her hand into her pocket and -pulled out a lump of coins tied in a bit of rag. Jurgis took it without -a word, and went out of the door and down the street. - -Three doors away was a saloon. “Whisky,” he said, as he entered, and as -the man pushed him some, he tore at the rag with his teeth and pulled -out half a dollar. “How much is the bottle?” he said. “I want to get -drunk.” - - - - -CHAPTER XX - - -But a big man cannot stay drunk very long on three dollars. That was -Sunday morning, and Monday night Jurgis came home, sober and sick, -realizing that he had spent every cent the family owned, and had not -bought a single instant’s forgetfulness with it. - -Ona was not yet buried; but the police had been notified, and on the -morrow they would put the body in a pine coffin and take it to the -potter’s field. Elzbieta was out begging now, a few pennies from each -of the neighbors, to get enough to pay for a mass for her; and the -children were upstairs starving to death, while he, good-for-nothing -rascal, had been spending their money on drink. So spoke Aniele, -scornfully, and when he started toward the fire she added the -information that her kitchen was no longer for him to fill with his -phosphate stinks. She had crowded all her boarders into one room on -Ona’s account, but now he could go up in the garret where he -belonged—and not there much longer, either, if he did not pay her some -rent. - -Jurgis went without a word, and, stepping over half a dozen sleeping -boarders in the next room, ascended the ladder. It was dark up above; -they could not afford any light; also it was nearly as cold as -outdoors. In a corner, as far away from the corpse as possible, sat -Marija, holding little Antanas in her one good arm and trying to soothe -him to sleep. In another corner crouched poor little Juozapas, wailing -because he had had nothing to eat all day. Marija said not a word to -Jurgis; he crept in like a whipped cur, and went and sat down by the -body. - -Perhaps he ought to have meditated upon the hunger of the children, and -upon his own baseness; but he thought only of Ona, he gave himself up -again to the luxury of grief. He shed no tears, being ashamed to make a -sound; he sat motionless and shuddering with his anguish. He had never -dreamed how much he loved Ona, until now that she was gone; until now -that he sat here, knowing that on the morrow they would take her away, -and that he would never lay eyes upon her again—never all the days of -his life. His old love, which had been starved to death, beaten to -death, awoke in him again; the floodgates of memory were lifted—he saw -all their life together, saw her as he had seen her in Lithuania, the -first day at the fair, beautiful as the flowers, singing like a bird. -He saw her as he had married her, with all her tenderness, with her -heart of wonder; the very words she had spoken seemed to ring now in -his ears, the tears she had shed to be wet upon his cheek. The long, -cruel battle with misery and hunger had hardened and embittered him, -but it had not changed her—she had been the same hungry soul to the -end, stretching out her arms to him, pleading with him, begging him for -love and tenderness. And she had suffered—so cruelly she had suffered, -such agonies, such infamies—ah, God, the memory of them was not to be -borne. What a monster of wickedness, of heartlessness, he had been! -Every angry word that he had ever spoken came back to him and cut him -like a knife; every selfish act that he had done—with what torments he -paid for them now! And such devotion and awe as welled up in his -soul—now that it could never be spoken, now that it was too late, too -late! His bosom-was choking with it, bursting with it; he crouched here -in the darkness beside her, stretching out his arms to her—and she was -gone forever, she was dead! He could have screamed aloud with the -horror and despair of it; a sweat of agony beaded his forehead, yet he -dared not make a sound—he scarcely dared to breathe, because of his -shame and loathing of himself. - -Late at night came Elzbieta, having gotten the money for a mass, and -paid for it in advance, lest she should be tempted too sorely at home. -She brought also a bit of stale rye bread that some one had given her, -and with that they quieted the children and got them to sleep. Then she -came over to Jurgis and sat down beside him. - -She said not a word of reproach—she and Marija had chosen that course -before; she would only plead with him, here by the corpse of his dead -wife. Already Elzbieta had choked down her tears, grief being crowded -out of her soul by fear. She had to bury one of her children—but then -she had done it three times before, and each time risen up and gone -back to take up the battle for the rest. Elzbieta was one of the -primitive creatures: like the angleworm, which goes on living though -cut in half; like a hen, which, deprived of her chickens one by one, -will mother the last that is left her. She did this because it was her -nature—she asked no questions about the justice of it, nor the -worth-whileness of life in which destruction and death ran riot. - -And this old common-sense view she labored to impress upon Jurgis, -pleading with him with tears in her eyes. Ona was dead, but the others -were left and they must be saved. She did not ask for her own children. -She and Marija could care for them somehow, but there was Antanas, his -own son. Ona had given Antanas to him—the little fellow was the only -remembrance of her that he had; he must treasure it and protect it, he -must show himself a man. He knew what Ona would have had him do, what -she would ask of him at this moment, if she could speak to him. It was -a terrible thing that she should have died as she had; but the life had -been too hard for her, and she had to go. It was terrible that they -were not able to bury her, that he could not even have a day to mourn -her—but so it was. Their fate was pressing; they had not a cent, and -the children would perish—some money must be had. Could he not be a man -for Ona’s sake, and pull himself together? In a little while they would -be out of danger—now that they had given up the house they could live -more cheaply, and with all the children working they could get along, -if only he would not go to pieces. So Elzbieta went on, with feverish -intensity. It was a struggle for life with her; she was not afraid that -Jurgis would go on drinking, for he had no money for that, but she was -wild with dread at the thought that he might desert them, might take to -the road, as Jonas had done. - -But with Ona’s dead body beneath his eyes, Jurgis could not well think -of treason to his child. Yes, he said, he would try, for the sake of -Antanas. He would give the little fellow his chance—would get to work -at once, yes, tomorrow, without even waiting for Ona to be buried. They -might trust him, he would keep his word, come what might. - -And so he was out before daylight the next morning, headache, -heartache, and all. He went straight to Graham’s fertilizer mill, to -see if he could get back his job. But the boss shook his head when he -saw him—no, his place had been filled long ago, and there was no room -for him. - -“Do you think there will be?” Jurgis asked. “I may have to wait.” - -“No,” said the other, “it will not be worth your while to wait—there -will be nothing for you here.” - -Jurgis stood gazing at him in perplexity. “What is the matter?” he -asked. “Didn’t I do my work?” - -The other met his look with one of cold indifference, and answered, -“There will be nothing for you here, I said.” - -Jurgis had his suspicions as to the dreadful meaning of that incident, -and he went away with a sinking at the heart. He went and took his -stand with the mob of hungry wretches who were standing about in the -snow before the time station. Here he stayed, breakfastless, for two -hours, until the throng was driven away by the clubs of the police. -There was no work for him that day. - -Jurgis had made a good many acquaintances in his long services at the -yards—there were saloonkeepers who would trust him for a drink and a -sandwich, and members of his old union who would lend him a dime at a -pinch. It was not a question of life and death for him, therefore; he -might hunt all day, and come again on the morrow, and try hanging on -thus for weeks, like hundreds and thousands of others. Meantime, Teta -Elzbieta would go and beg, over in the Hyde Park district, and the -children would bring home enough to pacify Aniele, and keep them all -alive. - -It was at the end of a week of this sort of waiting, roaming about in -the bitter winds or loafing in saloons, that Jurgis stumbled on a -chance in one of the cellars of Jones’s big packing plant. He saw a -foreman passing the open doorway, and hailed him for a job. - -“Push a truck?” inquired the man, and Jurgis answered, “Yes, sir!” -before the words were well out of his mouth. - -“What’s your name?” demanded the other. - -“Jurgis Rudkus.” - -“Worked in the yards before?” - -“Yes.” - -“Whereabouts?” - -“Two places—Brown’s killing beds and Durham’s fertilizer mill.” - -“Why did you leave there?” - -“The first time I had an accident, and the last time I was sent up for -a month.” - -“I see. Well, I’ll give you a trial. Come early tomorrow and ask for -Mr. Thomas.” - -So Jurgis rushed home with the wild tidings that he had a job—that the -terrible siege was over. The remnants of the family had quite a -celebration that night; and in the morning Jurgis was at the place half -an hour before the time of opening. The foreman came in shortly -afterward, and when he saw Jurgis he frowned. - -“Oh,” he said, “I promised you a job, didn’t I?” - -“Yes, sir,” said Jurgis. - -“Well, I’m sorry, but I made a mistake. I can’t use you.” - -Jurgis stared, dumfounded. “What’s the matter?” he gasped. - -“Nothing,” said the man, “only I can’t use you.” - -There was the same cold, hostile stare that he had had from the boss of -the fertilizer mill. He knew that there was no use in saying a word, -and he turned and went away. - -Out in the saloons the men could tell him all about the meaning of it; -they gazed at him with pitying eyes—poor devil, he was blacklisted! -What had he done? they asked—knocked down his boss? Good heavens, then -he might have known! Why, he stood as much chance of getting a job in -Packingtown as of being chosen mayor of Chicago. Why had he wasted his -time hunting? They had him on a secret list in every office, big and -little, in the place. They had his name by this time in St. Louis and -New York, in Omaha and Boston, in Kansas City and St. Joseph. He was -condemned and sentenced, without trial and without appeal; he could -never work for the packers again—he could not even clean cattle pens or -drive a truck in any place where they controlled. He might try it, if -he chose, as hundreds had tried it, and found out for themselves. He -would never be told anything about it; he would never get any more -satisfaction than he had gotten just now; but he would always find when -the time came that he was not needed. It would not do for him to give -any other name, either—they had company “spotters” for just that -purpose, and he wouldn’t keep a job in Packingtown three days. It was -worth a fortune to the packers to keep their blacklist effective, as a -warning to the men and a means of keeping down union agitation and -political discontent. - -Jurgis went home, carrying these new tidings to the family council. It -was a most cruel thing; here in this district was his home, such as it -was, the place he was used to and the friends he knew—and now every -possibility of employment in it was closed to him. There was nothing in -Packingtown but packing houses; and so it was the same thing as -evicting him from his home. - -He and the two women spent all day and half the night discussing it. It -would be convenient, downtown, to the children’s place of work; but -then Marija was on the road to recovery, and had hopes of getting a job -in the yards; and though she did not see her old-time lover once a -month, because of the misery of their state, yet she could not make up -her mind to go away and give him up forever. Then, too, Elzbieta had -heard something about a chance to scrub floors in Durham’s offices and -was waiting every day for word. In the end it was decided that Jurgis -should go downtown to strike out for himself, and they would decide -after he got a job. As there was no one from whom he could borrow -there, and he dared not beg for fear of being arrested, it was arranged -that every day he should meet one of the children and be given fifteen -cents of their earnings, upon which he could keep going. Then all day -he was to pace the streets with hundreds and thousands of other -homeless wretches inquiring at stores, warehouses, and factories for a -chance; and at night he was to crawl into some doorway or underneath a -truck, and hide there until midnight, when he might get into one of the -station houses, and spread a newspaper upon the floor, and lie down in -the midst of a throng of “bums” and beggars, reeking with alcohol and -tobacco, and filthy with vermin and disease. - -So for two weeks more Jurgis fought with the demon of despair. Once he -got a chance to load a truck for half a day, and again he carried an -old woman’s valise and was given a quarter. This let him into a -lodging-house on several nights when he might otherwise have frozen to -death; and it also gave him a chance now and then to buy a newspaper in -the morning and hunt up jobs while his rivals were watching and waiting -for a paper to be thrown away. This, however, was really not the -advantage it seemed, for the newspaper advertisements were a cause of -much loss of precious time and of many weary journeys. A full half of -these were “fakes,” put in by the endless variety of establishments -which preyed upon the helpless ignorance of the unemployed. If Jurgis -lost only his time, it was because he had nothing else to lose; -whenever a smooth-tongued agent would tell him of the wonderful -positions he had on hand, he could only shake his head sorrowfully and -say that he had not the necessary dollar to deposit; when it was -explained to him what “big money” he and all his family could make by -coloring photographs, he could only promise to come in again when he -had two dollars to invest in the outfit. - -In the end Jurgis got a chance through an accidental meeting with an -old-time acquaintance of his union days. He met this man on his way to -work in the giant factories of the Harvester Trust; and his friend told -him to come along and he would speak a good word for him to his boss, -whom he knew well. So Jurgis trudged four or five miles, and passed -through a waiting throng of unemployed at the gate under the escort of -his friend. His knees nearly gave way beneath him when the foreman, -after looking him over and questioning him, told him that he could find -an opening for him. - -How much this accident meant to Jurgis he realized only by stages; for -he found that the harvester works were the sort of place to which -philanthropists and reformers pointed with pride. It had some thought -for its employees; its workshops were big and roomy, it provided a -restaurant where the workmen could buy good food at cost, it had even a -reading room, and decent places where its girl-hands could rest; also -the work was free from many of the elements of filth and repulsiveness -that prevailed at the stockyards. Day after day Jurgis discovered these -things—things never expected nor dreamed of by him—until this new place -came to seem a kind of a heaven to him. - -It was an enormous establishment, covering a hundred and sixty acres of -ground, employing five thousand people, and turning out over three -hundred thousand machines every year—a good part of all the harvesting -and mowing machines used in the country. Jurgis saw very little of it, -of course—it was all specialized work, the same as at the stockyards; -each one of the hundreds of parts of a mowing machine was made -separately, and sometimes handled by hundreds of men. Where Jurgis -worked there was a machine which cut and stamped a certain piece of -steel about two square inches in size; the pieces came tumbling out -upon a tray, and all that human hands had to do was to pile them in -regular rows, and change the trays at intervals. This was done by a -single boy, who stood with eyes and thought centered upon it, and -fingers flying so fast that the sounds of the bits of steel striking -upon each other was like the music of an express train as one hears it -in a sleeping car at night. This was “piece-work,” of course; and -besides it was made certain that the boy did not idle, by setting the -machine to match the highest possible speed of human hands. Thirty -thousand of these pieces he handled every day, nine or ten million -every year—how many in a lifetime it rested with the gods to say. Near -by him men sat bending over whirling grindstones, putting the finishing -touches to the steel knives of the reaper; picking them out of a basket -with the right hand, pressing first one side and then the other against -the stone and finally dropping them with the left hand into another -basket. One of these men told Jurgis that he had sharpened three -thousand pieces of steel a day for thirteen years. In the next room -were wonderful machines that ate up long steel rods by slow stages, -cutting them off, seizing the pieces, stamping heads upon them, -grinding them and polishing them, threading them, and finally dropping -them into a basket, all ready to bolt the harvesters together. From yet -another machine came tens of thousands of steel burs to fit upon these -bolts. In other places all these various parts were dipped into troughs -of paint and hung up to dry, and then slid along on trolleys to a room -where men streaked them with red and yellow, so that they might look -cheerful in the harvest fields. - -Jurgis’s friend worked upstairs in the casting rooms, and his task was -to make the molds of a certain part. He shoveled black sand into an -iron receptacle and pounded it tight and set it aside to harden; then -it would be taken out, and molten iron poured into it. This man, too, -was paid by the mold—or rather for perfect castings, nearly half his -work going for naught. You might see him, along with dozens of others, -toiling like one possessed by a whole community of demons; his arms -working like the driving rods of an engine, his long, black hair flying -wild, his eyes starting out, the sweat rolling in rivers down his face. -When he had shoveled the mold full of sand, and reached for the pounder -to pound it with, it was after the manner of a canoeist running rapids -and seizing a pole at sight of a submerged rock. All day long this man -would toil thus, his whole being centered upon the purpose of making -twenty-three instead of twenty-two and a half cents an hour; and then -his product would be reckoned up by the census taker, and jubilant -captains of industry would boast of it in their banquet halls, telling -how our workers are nearly twice as efficient as those of any other -country. If we are the greatest nation the sun ever shone upon, it -would seem to be mainly because we have been able to goad our -wage-earners to this pitch of frenzy; though there are a few other -things that are great among us including our drink-bill, which is a -billion and a quarter of dollars a year, and doubling itself every -decade. - -There was a machine which stamped out the iron plates, and then another -which, with a mighty thud, mashed them to the shape of the sitting-down -portion of the American farmer. Then they were piled upon a truck, and -it was Jurgis’s task to wheel them to the room where the machines were -“assembled.” This was child’s play for him, and he got a dollar and -seventy-five cents a day for it; on Saturday he paid Aniele the -seventy-five cents a week he owed her for the use of her garret, and -also redeemed his overcoat, which Elzbieta had put in pawn when he was -in jail. - -This last was a great blessing. A man cannot go about in midwinter in -Chicago with no overcoat and not pay for it, and Jurgis had to walk or -ride five or six miles back and forth to his work. It so happened that -half of this was in one direction and half in another, necessitating a -change of cars; the law required that transfers be given at all -intersecting points, but the railway corporation had gotten round this -by arranging a pretense at separate ownership. So whenever he wished to -ride, he had to pay ten cents each way, or over ten per cent of his -income to this power, which had gotten its franchises long ago by -buying up the city council, in the face of popular clamor amounting -almost to a rebellion. Tired as he felt at night, and dark and bitter -cold as it was in the morning, Jurgis generally chose to walk; at the -hours other workmen were traveling, the streetcar monopoly saw fit to -put on so few cars that there would be men hanging to every foot of the -backs of them and often crouching upon the snow-covered roof. Of course -the doors could never be closed, and so the cars were as cold as -outdoors; Jurgis, like many others, found it better to spend his fare -for a drink and a free lunch, to give him strength to walk. - -These, however, were all slight matters to a man who had escaped from -Durham’s fertilizer mill. Jurgis began to pick up heart again and to -make plans. He had lost his house but then the awful load of the rent -and interest was off his shoulders, and when Marija was well again they -could start over and save. In the shop where he worked was a man, a -Lithuanian like himself, whom the others spoke of in admiring whispers, -because of the mighty feats he was performing. All day he sat at a -machine turning bolts; and then in the evening he went to the public -school to study English and learn to read. In addition, because he had -a family of eight children to support and his earnings were not enough, -on Saturdays and Sundays he served as a watchman; he was required to -press two buttons at opposite ends of a building every five minutes, -and as the walk only took him two minutes, he had three minutes to -study between each trip. Jurgis felt jealous of this fellow; for that -was the sort of thing he himself had dreamed of, two or three years -ago. He might do it even yet, if he had a fair chance—he might attract -attention and become a skilled man or a boss, as some had done in this -place. Suppose that Marija could get a job in the big mill where they -made binder twine—then they would move into this neighborhood, and he -would really have a chance. With a hope like that, there was some use -in living; to find a place where you were treated like a human being—by -God! he would show them how he could appreciate it. He laughed to -himself as he thought how he would hang on to this job! - -And then one afternoon, the ninth of his work in the place, when he -went to get his overcoat he saw a group of men crowded before a placard -on the door, and when he went over and asked what it was, they told him -that beginning with the morrow his department of the harvester works -would be closed until further notice! - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - - -That was the way they did it! There was not half an hour’s warning—the -works were closed! It had happened that way before, said the men, and -it would happen that way forever. They had made all the harvesting -machines that the world needed, and now they had to wait till some wore -out! It was nobody’s fault—that was the way of it; and thousands of men -and women were turned out in the dead of winter, to live upon their -savings if they had any, and otherwise to die. So many tens of -thousands already in the city, homeless and begging for work, and now -several thousand more added to them! - -Jurgis walked home-with his pittance of pay in his pocket, heartbroken, -overwhelmed. One more bandage had been torn from his eyes, one more -pitfall was revealed to him! Of what help was kindness and decency on -the part of employers—when they could not keep a job for him, when -there were more harvesting machines made than the world was able to -buy! What a hellish mockery it was, anyway, that a man should slave to -make harvesting machines for the country, only to be turned out to -starve for doing his duty too well! - -It took him two days to get over this heart-sickening disappointment. -He did not drink anything, because Elzbieta got his money for -safekeeping, and knew him too well to be in the least frightened by his -angry demands. He stayed up in the garret however, and sulked—what was -the use of a man’s hunting a job when it was taken from him before he -had time to learn the work? But then their money was going again, and -little Antanas was hungry, and crying with the bitter cold of the -garret. Also Madame Haupt, the midwife, was after him for some money. -So he went out once more. - -For another ten days he roamed the streets and alleys of the huge city, -sick and hungry, begging for any work. He tried in stores and offices, -in restaurants and hotels, along the docks and in the railroad yards, -in warehouses and mills and factories where they made products that -went to every corner of the world. There were often one or two -chances—but there were always a hundred men for every chance, and his -turn would not come. At night he crept into sheds and cellars and -doorways—until there came a spell of belated winter weather, with a -raging gale, and the thermometer five degrees below zero at sundown and -falling all night. Then Jurgis fought like a wild beast to get into the -big Harrison Street police station, and slept down in a corridor, -crowded with two other men upon a single step. - -He had to fight often in these days to fight for a place near the -factory gates, and now and again with gangs on the street. He found, -for instance, that the business of carrying satchels for railroad -passengers was a pre-empted one—whenever he essayed it, eight or ten -men and boys would fall upon him and force him to run for his life. -They always had the policeman “squared,” and so there was no use in -expecting protection. - -That Jurgis did not starve to death was due solely to the pittance the -children brought him. And even this was never certain. For one thing -the cold was almost more than the children could bear; and then they, -too, were in perpetual peril from rivals who plundered and beat them. -The law was against them, too—little Vilimas, who was really eleven, -but did not look to be eight, was stopped on the streets by a severe -old lady in spectacles, who told him that he was too young to be -working and that if he did not stop selling papers she would send a -truant officer after him. Also one night a strange man caught little -Kotrina by the arm and tried to persuade her into a dark cellar-way, an -experience which filled her with such terror that she was hardly to be -kept at work. - -At last, on a Sunday, as there was no use looking for work, Jurgis went -home by stealing rides on the cars. He found that they had been waiting -for him for three days—there was a chance of a job for him. - -It was quite a story. Little Juozapas, who was near crazy with hunger -these days, had gone out on the street to beg for himself. Juozapas had -only one leg, having been run over by a wagon when a little child, but -he had got himself a broomstick, which he put under his arm for a -crutch. He had fallen in with some other children and found the way to -Mike Scully’s dump, which lay three or four blocks away. To this place -there came every day many hundreds of wagon-loads of garbage and trash -from the lake front, where the rich people lived; and in the heaps the -children raked for food—there were hunks of bread and potato peelings -and apple cores and meat bones, all of it half frozen and quite -unspoiled. Little Juozapas gorged himself, and came home with a -newspaper full, which he was feeding to Antanas when his mother came -in. Elzbieta was horrified, for she did not believe that the food out -of the dumps was fit to eat. The next day, however, when no harm came -of it and Juozapas began to cry with hunger, she gave in and said that -he might go again. And that afternoon he came home with a story of how -while he had been digging away with a stick, a lady upon the street had -called him. A real fine lady, the little boy explained, a beautiful -lady; and she wanted to know all about him, and whether he got the -garbage for chickens, and why he walked with a broomstick, and why Ona -had died, and how Jurgis had come to go to jail, and what was the -matter with Marija, and everything. In the end she had asked where he -lived, and said that she was coming to see him, and bring him a new -crutch to walk with. She had on a hat with a bird upon it, Juozapas -added, and a long fur snake around her neck. - -She really came, the very next morning, and climbed the ladder to the -garret, and stood and stared about her, turning pale at the sight of -the blood stains on the floor where Ona had died. She was a “settlement -worker,” she explained to Elzbieta—she lived around on Ashland Avenue. -Elzbieta knew the place, over a feed store; somebody had wanted her to -go there, but she had not cared to, for she thought that it must have -something to do with religion, and the priest did not like her to have -anything to do with strange religions. They were rich people who came -to live there to find out about the poor people; but what good they -expected it would do them to know, one could not imagine. So spoke -Elzbieta, naïvely, and the young lady laughed and was rather at a loss -for an answer—she stood and gazed about her, and thought of a cynical -remark that had been made to her, that she was standing upon the brink -of the pit of hell and throwing in snowballs to lower the temperature. - -Elzbieta was glad to have somebody to listen, and she told all their -woes—what had happened to Ona, and the jail, and the loss of their -home, and Marija’s accident, and how Ona had died, and how Jurgis could -get no work. As she listened the pretty young lady’s eyes filled with -tears, and in the midst of it she burst into weeping and hid her face -on Elzbieta’s shoulder, quite regardless of the fact that the woman had -on a dirty old wrapper and that the garret was full of fleas. Poor -Elzbieta was ashamed of herself for having told so woeful a tale, and -the other had to beg and plead with her to get her to go on. The end of -it was that the young lady sent them a basket of things to eat, and -left a letter that Jurgis was to take to a gentleman who was -superintendent in one of the mills of the great steelworks in South -Chicago. “He will get Jurgis something to do,” the young lady had said, -and added, smiling through her tears—“If he doesn’t, he will never -marry me.” - -The steel-works were fifteen miles away, and as usual it was so -contrived that one had to pay two fares to get there. Far and wide the -sky was flaring with the red glare that leaped from rows of towering -chimneys—for it was pitch dark when Jurgis arrived. The vast works, a -city in themselves, were surrounded by a stockade; and already a full -hundred men were waiting at the gate where new hands were taken on. -Soon after daybreak whistles began to blow, and then suddenly thousands -of men appeared, streaming from saloons and boardinghouses across the -way, leaping from trolley cars that passed—it seemed as if they rose -out of the ground, in the dim gray light. A river of them poured in -through the gate—and then gradually ebbed away again, until there were -only a few late ones running, and the watchman pacing up and down, and -the hungry strangers stamping and shivering. - -Jurgis presented his precious letter. The gatekeeper was surly, and put -him through a catechism, but he insisted that he knew nothing, and as -he had taken the precaution to seal his letter, there was nothing for -the gatekeeper to do but send it to the person to whom it was -addressed. A messenger came back to say that Jurgis should wait, and so -he came inside of the gate, perhaps not sorry enough that there were -others less fortunate watching him with greedy eyes. The great mills -were getting under way—one could hear a vast stirring, a rolling and -rumbling and hammering. Little by little the scene grew plain: -towering, black buildings here and there, long rows of shops and sheds, -little railways branching everywhere, bare gray cinders underfoot and -oceans of billowing black smoke above. On one side of the grounds ran a -railroad with a dozen tracks, and on the other side lay the lake, where -steamers came to load. - -Jurgis had time enough to stare and speculate, for it was two hours -before he was summoned. He went into the office building, where a -company timekeeper interviewed him. The superintendent was busy, he -said, but he (the timekeeper) would try to find Jurgis a job. He had -never worked in a steel mill before? But he was ready for anything? -Well, then, they would go and see. - -So they began a tour, among sights that made Jurgis stare amazed. He -wondered if ever he could get used to working in a place like this, -where the air shook with deafening thunder, and whistles shrieked -warnings on all sides of him at once; where miniature steam engines -came rushing upon him, and sizzling, quivering, white-hot masses of -metal sped past him, and explosions of fire and flaming sparks dazzled -him and scorched his face. The men in these mills were all black with -soot, and hollow-eyed and gaunt; they worked with fierce intensity, -rushing here and there, and never lifting their eyes from their tasks. -Jurgis clung to his guide like a scared child to its nurse, and while -the latter hailed one foreman after another to ask if they could use -another unskilled man, he stared about him and marveled. - -He was taken to the Bessemer furnace, where they made billets of -steel—a dome-like building, the size of a big theater. Jurgis stood -where the balcony of the theater would have been, and opposite, by the -stage, he saw three giant caldrons, big enough for all the devils of -hell to brew their broth in, full of something white and blinding, -bubbling and splashing, roaring as if volcanoes were blowing through -it—one had to shout to be heard in the place. Liquid fire would leap -from these caldrons and scatter like bombs below—and men were working -there, seeming careless, so that Jurgis caught his breath with fright. -Then a whistle would toot, and across the curtain of the theater would -come a little engine with a carload of something to be dumped into one -of the receptacles; and then another whistle would toot, down by the -stage, and another train would back up—and suddenly, without an -instant’s warning, one of the giant kettles began to tilt and topple, -flinging out a jet of hissing, roaring flame. Jurgis shrank back -appalled, for he thought it was an accident; there fell a pillar of -white flame, dazzling as the sun, swishing like a huge tree falling in -the forest. A torrent of sparks swept all the way across the building, -overwhelming everything, hiding it from sight; and then Jurgis looked -through the fingers of his hands, and saw pouring out of the caldron a -cascade of living, leaping fire, white with a whiteness not of earth, -scorching the eyeballs. Incandescent rainbows shone above it, blue, -red, and golden lights played about it; but the stream itself was -white, ineffable. Out of regions of wonder it streamed, the very river -of life; and the soul leaped up at the sight of it, fled back upon it, -swift and resistless, back into far-off lands, where beauty and terror -dwell. Then the great caldron tilted back again, empty, and Jurgis saw -to his relief that no one was hurt, and turned and followed his guide -out into the sunlight. - -They went through the blast furnaces, through rolling mills where bars -of steel were tossed about and chopped like bits of cheese. All around -and above giant machine arms were flying, giant wheels were turning, -great hammers crashing; traveling cranes creaked and groaned overhead, -reaching down iron hands and seizing iron prey—it was like standing in -the center of the earth, where the machinery of time was revolving. - -By and by they came to the place where steel rails were made; and -Jurgis heard a toot behind him, and jumped out of the way of a car with -a white-hot ingot upon it, the size of a man’s body. There was a sudden -crash and the car came to a halt, and the ingot toppled out upon a -moving platform, where steel fingers and arms seized hold of it, -punching it and prodding it into place, and hurrying it into the grip -of huge rollers. Then it came out upon the other side, and there were -more crashings and clatterings, and over it was flopped, like a pancake -on a gridiron, and seized again and rushed back at you through another -squeezer. So amid deafening uproar it clattered to and fro, growing -thinner and flatter and longer. The ingot seemed almost a living thing; -it did not want to run this mad course, but it was in the grip of fate, -it was tumbled on, screeching and clanking and shivering in protest. By -and by it was long and thin, a great red snake escaped from purgatory; -and then, as it slid through the rollers, you would have sworn that it -was alive—it writhed and squirmed, and wriggles and shudders passed out -through its tail, all but flinging it off by their violence. There was -no rest for it until it was cold and black—and then it needed only to -be cut and straightened to be ready for a railroad. - -It was at the end of this rail’s progress that Jurgis got his chance. -They had to be moved by men with crowbars, and the boss here could use -another man. So he took off his coat and set to work on the spot. - -It took him two hours to get to this place every day and cost him a -dollar and twenty cents a week. As this was out of the question, he -wrapped his bedding in a bundle and took it with him, and one of his -fellow workingmen introduced him to a Polish lodging-house, where he -might have the privilege of sleeping upon the floor for ten cents a -night. He got his meals at free-lunch counters, and every Saturday -night he went home—bedding and all—and took the greater part of his -money to the family. Elzbieta was sorry for this arrangement, for she -feared that it would get him into the habit of living without them, and -once a week was not very often for him to see his baby; but there was -no other way of arranging it. There was no chance for a woman at the -steelworks, and Marija was now ready for work again, and lured on from -day to day by the hope of finding it at the yards. - -In a week Jurgis got over his sense of helplessness and bewilderment in -the rail mill. He learned to find his way about and to take all the -miracles and terrors for granted, to work without hearing the rumbling -and crashing. From blind fear he went to the other extreme; he became -reckless and indifferent, like all the rest of the men, who took but -little thought of themselves in the ardor of their work. It was -wonderful, when one came to think of it, that these men should have -taken an interest in the work they did—they had no share in it—they -were paid by the hour, and paid no more for being interested. Also they -knew that if they were hurt they would be flung aside and forgotten—and -still they would hurry to their task by dangerous short cuts, would use -methods that were quicker and more effective in spite of the fact that -they were also risky. His fourth day at his work Jurgis saw a man -stumble while running in front of a car, and have his foot mashed off, -and before he had been there three weeks he was witness of a yet more -dreadful accident. There was a row of brick furnaces, shining white -through every crack with the molten steel inside. Some of these were -bulging dangerously, yet men worked before them, wearing blue glasses -when they opened and shut the doors. One morning as Jurgis was passing, -a furnace blew out, spraying two men with a shower of liquid fire. As -they lay screaming and rolling upon the ground in agony, Jurgis rushed -to help them, and as a result he lost a good part of the skin from the -inside of one of his hands. The company doctor bandaged it up, but he -got no other thanks from any one, and was laid up for eight working -days without any pay. - -Most fortunately, at this juncture, Elzbieta got the long-awaited -chance to go at five o’clock in the morning and help scrub the office -floors of one of the packers. Jurgis came home and covered himself with -blankets to keep warm, and divided his time between sleeping and -playing with little Antanas. Juozapas was away raking in the dump a -good part of the time, and Elzbieta and Marija were hunting for more -work. - -Antanas was now over a year and a half old, and was a perfect talking -machine. He learned so fast that every week when Jurgis came home it -seemed to him as if he had a new child. He would sit down and listen -and stare at him, and give vent to delighted exclamations—“_Palauk! -Muma! Tu mano szirdele!_” The little fellow was now really the one -delight that Jurgis had in the world—his one hope, his one victory. -Thank God, Antanas was a boy! And he was as tough as a pine knot, and -with the appetite of a wolf. Nothing had hurt him, and nothing could -hurt him; he had come through all the suffering and deprivation -unscathed—only shriller-voiced and more determined in his grip upon -life. He was a terrible child to manage, was Antanas, but his father -did not mind that—he would watch him and smile to himself with -satisfaction. The more of a fighter he was the better—he would need to -fight before he got through. - -Jurgis had got the habit of buying the Sunday paper whenever he had the -money; a most wonderful paper could be had for only five cents, a whole -armful, with all the news of the world set forth in big headlines, that -Jurgis could spell out slowly, with the children to help him at the -long words. There was battle and murder and sudden death—it was -marvelous how they ever heard about so many entertaining and thrilling -happenings; the stories must be all true, for surely no man could have -made such things up, and besides, there were pictures of them all, as -real as life. One of these papers was as good as a circus, and nearly -as good as a spree—certainly a most wonderful treat for a workingman, -who was tired out and stupefied, and had never had any education, and -whose work was one dull, sordid grind, day after day, and year after -year, with never a sight of a green field nor an hour’s entertainment, -nor anything but liquor to stimulate his imagination. Among other -things, these papers had pages full of comical pictures, and these were -the main joy in life to little Antanas. He treasured them up, and would -drag them out and make his father tell him about them; there were all -sorts of animals among them, and Antanas could tell the names of all of -them, lying upon the floor for hours and pointing them out with his -chubby little fingers. Whenever the story was plain enough for Jurgis -to make out, Antanas would have it repeated to him, and then he would -remember it, prattling funny little sentences and mixing it up with -other stories in an irresistible fashion. Also his quaint pronunciation -of words was such a delight—and the phrases he would pick up and -remember, the most outlandish and impossible things! The first time -that the little rascal burst out with “God damn,” his father nearly -rolled off the chair with glee; but in the end he was sorry for this, -for Antanas was soon “God-damning” everything and everybody. - -And then, when he was able to use his hands, Jurgis took his bedding -again and went back to his task of shifting rails. It was now April, -and the snow had given place to cold rains, and the unpaved street in -front of Aniele’s house was turned into a canal. Jurgis would have to -wade through it to get home, and if it was late he might easily get -stuck to his waist in the mire. But he did not mind this much—it was a -promise that summer was coming. Marija had now gotten a place as -beef-trimmer in one of the smaller packing plants; and he told himself -that he had learned his lesson now, and would meet with no more -accidents—so that at last there was prospect of an end to their long -agony. They could save money again, and when another winter came they -would have a comfortable place; and the children would be off the -streets and in school again, and they might set to work to nurse back -into life their habits of decency and kindness. So once more Jurgis -began to make plans and dream dreams. - -And then one Saturday night he jumped off the car and started home, -with the sun shining low under the edge of a bank of clouds that had -been pouring floods of water into the mud-soaked street. There was a -rainbow in the sky, and another in his breast—for he had thirty-six -hours’ rest before him, and a chance to see his family. Then suddenly -he came in sight of the house, and noticed that there was a crowd -before the door. He ran up the steps and pushed his way in, and saw -Aniele’s kitchen crowded with excited women. It reminded him so vividly -of the time when he had come home from jail and found Ona dying, that -his heart almost stood still. “What’s the matter?” he cried. - -A dead silence had fallen in the room, and he saw that every one was -staring at him. “What’s the matter?” he exclaimed again. - -And then, up in the garret, he heard sounds of wailing, in Marija’s -voice. He started for the ladder—and Aniele seized him by the arm. “No, -no!” she exclaimed. “Don’t go up there!” - -“What is it?” he shouted. - -And the old woman answered him weakly: “It’s Antanas. He’s dead. He was -drowned out in the street!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - - -Jurgis took the news in a peculiar way. He turned deadly pale, but he -caught himself, and for half a minute stood in the middle of the room, -clenching his hands tightly and setting his teeth. Then he pushed -Aniele aside and strode into the next room and climbed the ladder. - -In the corner was a blanket, with a form half showing beneath it; and -beside it lay Elzbieta, whether crying or in a faint, Jurgis could not -tell. Marija was pacing the room, screaming and wringing her hands. He -clenched his hands tighter yet, and his voice was hard as he spoke. - -“How did it happen?” he asked. - -Marija scarcely heard him in her agony. He repeated the question, -louder and yet more harshly. “He fell off the sidewalk!” she wailed. -The sidewalk in front of the house was a platform made of half-rotten -boards, about five feet above the level of the sunken street. - -“How did he come to be there?” he demanded. - -“He went—he went out to play,” Marija sobbed, her voice choking her. -“We couldn’t make him stay in. He must have got caught in the mud!” - -“Are you sure that he is dead?” he demanded. - -“Ai! ai!” she wailed. “Yes; we had the doctor.” - -Then Jurgis stood a few seconds, wavering. He did not shed a tear. He -took one glance more at the blanket with the little form beneath it, -and then turned suddenly to the ladder and climbed down again. A -silence fell once more in the room as he entered. He went straight to -the door, passed out, and started down the street. - -When his wife had died, Jurgis made for the nearest saloon, but he did -not do that now, though he had his week’s wages in his pocket. He -walked and walked, seeing nothing, splashing through mud and water. -Later on he sat down upon a step and hid his face in his hands and for -half an hour or so he did not move. Now and then he would whisper to -himself: “Dead! _Dead!_” - -Finally, he got up and walked on again. It was about sunset, and he -went on and on until it was dark, when he was stopped by a railroad -crossing. The gates were down, and a long train of freight cars was -thundering by. He stood and watched it; and all at once a wild impulse -seized him, a thought that had been lurking within him, unspoken, -unrecognized, leaped into sudden life. He started down the track, and -when he was past the gate-keeper’s shanty he sprang forward and swung -himself on to one of the cars. - -By and by the train stopped again, and Jurgis sprang down and ran under -the car, and hid himself upon the truck. Here he sat, and when the -train started again, he fought a battle with his soul. He gripped his -hands and set his teeth together—he had not wept, and he would not—not -a tear! It was past and over, and he was done with it—he would fling it -off his shoulders, be free of it, the whole business, that night. It -should go like a black, hateful nightmare, and in the morning he would -be a new man. And every time that a thought of it assailed him—a tender -memory, a trace of a tear—he rose up, cursing with rage, and pounded it -down. - -He was fighting for his life; he gnashed his teeth together in his -desperation. He had been a fool, a fool! He had wasted his life, he had -wrecked himself, with his accursed weakness; and now he was done with -it—he would tear it out of him, root and branch! There should be no -more tears and no more tenderness; he had had enough of them—they had -sold him into slavery! Now he was going to be free, to tear off his -shackles, to rise up and fight. He was glad that the end had come—it -had to come some time, and it was just as well now. This was no world -for women and children, and the sooner they got out of it the better -for them. Whatever Antanas might suffer where he was, he could suffer -no more than he would have had he stayed upon earth. And meantime his -father had thought the last thought about him that he meant to; he was -going to think of himself, he was going to fight for himself, against -the world that had baffled him and tortured him! - -So he went on, tearing up all the flowers from the garden of his soul, -and setting his heel upon them. The train thundered deafeningly, and a -storm of dust blew in his face; but though it stopped now and then -through the night, he clung where he was—he would cling there until he -was driven off, for every mile that he got from Packingtown meant -another load from his mind. - -Whenever the cars stopped a warm breeze blew upon him, a breeze laden -with the perfume of fresh fields, of honeysuckle and clover. He snuffed -it, and it made his heart beat wildly—he was out in the country again! -He was going to _live_ in the country! When the dawn came he was -peering out with hungry eyes, getting glimpses of meadows and woods and -rivers. At last he could stand it no longer, and when the train stopped -again he crawled out. Upon the top of the car was a brakeman, who shook -his fist and swore; Jurgis waved his hand derisively, and started -across the country. - -Only think that he had been a countryman all his life; and for three -long years he had never seen a country sight nor heard a country sound! -Excepting for that one walk when he left jail, when he was too much -worried to notice anything, and for a few times that he had rested in -the city parks in the winter time when he was out of work, he had -literally never seen a tree! And now he felt like a bird lifted up and -borne away upon a gale; he stopped and stared at each new sight of -wonder—at a herd of cows, and a meadow full of daisies, at hedgerows -set thick with June roses, at little birds singing in the trees. - -Then he came to a farm-house, and after getting himself a stick for -protection, he approached it. The farmer was greasing a wagon in front -of the barn, and Jurgis went to him. “I would like to get some -breakfast, please,” he said. - -“Do you want to work?” said the farmer. - -“No,” said Jurgis. “I don’t.” - -“Then you can’t get anything here,” snapped the other. - -“I meant to pay for it,” said Jurgis. - -“Oh,” said the farmer; and then added sarcastically, “We don’t serve -breakfast after 7 A.M.” - -“I am very hungry,” said Jurgis gravely; “I would like to buy some -food.” - -“Ask the woman,” said the farmer, nodding over his shoulder. The -“woman” was more tractable, and for a dime Jurgis secured two thick -sandwiches and a piece of pie and two apples. He walked off eating the -pie, as the least convenient thing to carry. In a few minutes he came -to a stream, and he climbed a fence and walked down the bank, along a -woodland path. By and by he found a comfortable spot, and there he -devoured his meal, slaking his thirst at the stream. Then he lay for -hours, just gazing and drinking in joy; until at last he felt sleepy, -and lay down in the shade of a bush. - -When he awoke the sun was shining hot in his face. He sat up and -stretched his arms, and then gazed at the water sliding by. There was a -deep pool, sheltered and silent, below him, and a sudden wonderful idea -rushed upon him. He might have a bath! The water was free, and he might -get into it—all the way into it! It would be the first time that he had -been all the way into the water since he left Lithuania! - -When Jurgis had first come to the stockyards he had been as clean as -any workingman could well be. But later on, what with sickness and cold -and hunger and discouragement, and the filthiness of his work, and the -vermin in his home, he had given up washing in winter, and in summer -only as much of him as would go into a basin. He had had a shower bath -in jail, but nothing since—and now he would have a swim! - -The water was warm, and he splashed about like a very boy in his glee. -Afterward he sat down in the water near the bank, and proceeded to -scrub himself—soberly and methodically, scouring every inch of him with -sand. While he was doing it he would do it thoroughly, and see how it -felt to be clean. He even scrubbed his head with sand, and combed what -the men called “crumbs” out of his long, black hair, holding his head -under water as long as he could, to see if he could not kill them all. -Then, seeing that the sun was still hot, he took his clothes from the -bank and proceeded to wash them, piece by piece; as the dirt and grease -went floating off downstream he grunted with satisfaction and soused -the clothes again, venturing even to dream that he might get rid of the -fertilizer. - -He hung them all up, and while they were drying he lay down in the sun -and had another long sleep. They were hot and stiff as boards on top, -and a little damp on the underside, when he awakened; but being hungry, -he put them on and set out again. He had no knife, but with some labor -he broke himself a good stout club, and, armed with this, he marched -down the road again. - -Before long he came to a big farmhouse, and turned up the lane that led -to it. It was just supper-time, and the farmer was washing his hands at -the kitchen door. “Please, sir,” said Jurgis, “can I have something to -eat? I can pay.” To which the farmer responded promptly, “We don’t feed -tramps here. Get out!” - -Jurgis went without a word; but as he passed round the barn he came to -a freshly ploughed and harrowed field, in which the farmer had set out -some young peach trees; and as he walked he jerked up a row of them by -the roots, more than a hundred trees in all, before he reached the end -of the field. That was his answer, and it showed his mood; from now on -he was fighting, and the man who hit him would get all that he gave, -every time. - -Beyond the orchard Jurgis struck through a patch of woods, and then a -field of winter grain, and came at last to another road. Before long he -saw another farmhouse, and, as it was beginning to cloud over a little, -he asked here for shelter as well as food. Seeing the farmer eying him -dubiously, he added, “I’ll be glad to sleep in the barn.” - -“Well, I dunno,” said the other. “Do you smoke?” - -“Sometimes,” said Jurgis, “but I’ll do it out of doors.” When the man -had assented, he inquired, “How much will it cost me? I haven’t very -much money.” - -“I reckon about twenty cents for supper,” replied the farmer. “I won’t -charge ye for the barn.” - -So Jurgis went in, and sat down at the table with the farmer’s wife and -half a dozen children. It was a bountiful meal—there were baked beans -and mashed potatoes and asparagus chopped and stewed, and a dish of -strawberries, and great, thick slices of bread, and a pitcher of milk. -Jurgis had not had such a feast since his wedding day, and he made a -mighty effort to put in his twenty cents’ worth. - -They were all of them too hungry to talk; but afterward they sat upon -the steps and smoked, and the farmer questioned his guest. When Jurgis -had explained that he was a workingman from Chicago, and that he did -not know just whither he was bound, the other said, “Why don’t you stay -here and work for me?” - -“I’m not looking for work just now,” Jurgis answered. - -“I’ll pay ye good,” said the other, eying his big form—“a dollar a day -and board ye. Help’s terrible scarce round here.” - -“Is that winter as well as summer?” Jurgis demanded quickly. - -“N—no,” said the farmer; “I couldn’t keep ye after November—I ain’t got -a big enough place for that.” - -“I see,” said the other, “that’s what I thought. When you get through -working your horses this fall, will you turn them out in the snow?” -(Jurgis was beginning to think for himself nowadays.) - -“It ain’t quite the same,” the farmer answered, seeing the point. -“There ought to be work a strong fellow like you can find to do, in the -cities, or some place, in the winter time.” - -“Yes,” said Jurgis, “that’s what they all think; and so they crowd into -the cities, and when they have to beg or steal to live, then people ask -’em why they don’t go into the country, where help is scarce.” The -farmer meditated awhile. - -“How about when your money’s gone?” he inquired, finally. “You’ll have -to, then, won’t you?” - -“Wait till she’s gone,” said Jurgis; “then I’ll see.” - -He had a long sleep in the barn and then a big breakfast of coffee and -bread and oatmeal and stewed cherries, for which the man charged him -only fifteen cents, perhaps having been influenced by his arguments. -Then Jurgis bade farewell, and went on his way. - -Such was the beginning of his life as a tramp. It was seldom he got as -fair treatment as from this last farmer, and so as time went on he -learned to shun the houses and to prefer sleeping in the fields. When -it rained he would find a deserted building, if he could, and if not, -he would wait until after dark and then, with his stick ready, begin a -stealthy approach upon a barn. Generally he could get in before the dog -got scent of him, and then he would hide in the hay and be safe until -morning; if not, and the dog attacked him, he would rise up and make a -retreat in battle order. Jurgis was not the mighty man he had once -been, but his arms were still good, and there were few farm dogs he -needed to hit more than once. - -Before long there came raspberries, and then blackberries, to help him -save his money; and there were apples in the orchards and potatoes in -the ground—he learned to note the places and fill his pockets after -dark. Twice he even managed to capture a chicken, and had a feast, once -in a deserted barn and the other time in a lonely spot alongside of a -stream. When all of these things failed him he used his money -carefully, but without worry—for he saw that he could earn more -whenever he chose. Half an hour’s chopping wood in his lively fashion -was enough to bring him a meal, and when the farmer had seen him -working he would sometimes try to bribe him to stay. - -But Jurgis was not staying. He was a free man now, a buccaneer. The old -_Wanderlust_ had got into his blood, the joy of the unbound life, the -joy of seeking, of hoping without limit. There were mishaps and -discomforts—but at least there was always something new; and only think -what it meant to a man who for years had been penned up in one place, -seeing nothing but one dreary prospect of shanties and factories, to be -suddenly set loose beneath the open sky, to behold new landscapes, new -places, and new people every hour! To a man whose whole life had -consisted of doing one certain thing all day, until he was so exhausted -that he could only lie down and sleep until the next day—and to be now -his own master, working as he pleased and when he pleased, and facing a -new adventure every hour! - -Then, too, his health came back to him, all his lost youthful vigor, -his joy and power that he had mourned and forgotten! It came with a -sudden rush, bewildering him, startling him; it was as if his dead -childhood had come back to him, laughing and calling! What with plenty -to eat and fresh air and exercise that was taken as it pleased him, he -would waken from his sleep and start off not knowing what to do with -his energy, stretching his arms, laughing, singing old songs of home -that came back to him. Now and then, of course, he could not help but -think of little Antanas, whom he should never see again, whose little -voice he should never hear; and then he would have to battle with -himself. Sometimes at night he would waken dreaming of Ona, and stretch -out his arms to her, and wet the ground with his tears. But in the -morning he would get up and shake himself, and stride away again to -battle with the world. - -He never asked where he was nor where he was going; the country was big -enough, he knew, and there was no danger of his coming to the end of -it. And of course he could always have company for the -asking—everywhere he went there were men living just as he lived, and -whom he was welcome to join. He was a stranger at the business, but -they were not clannish, and they taught him all their tricks—what towns -and villages it was best to keep away from, and how to read the secret -signs upon the fences, and when to beg and when to steal, and just how -to do both. They laughed at his ideas of paying for anything with money -or with work—for they got all they wanted without either. Now and then -Jurgis camped out with a gang of them in some woodland haunt, and -foraged with them in the neighborhood at night. And then among them -some one would “take a shine” to him, and they would go off together -and travel for a week, exchanging reminiscences. - -Of these professional tramps a great many had, of course, been -shiftless and vicious all their lives. But the vast majority of them -had been workingmen, had fought the long fight as Jurgis had, and found -that it was a losing fight, and given up. Later on he encountered yet -another sort of men, those from whose ranks the tramps were recruited, -men who were homeless and wandering, but still seeking work—seeking it -in the harvest fields. Of these there was an army, the huge surplus -labor army of society; called into being under the stern system of -nature, to do the casual work of the world, the tasks which were -transient and irregular, and yet which had to be done. They did not -know that they were such, of course; they only knew that they sought -the job, and that the job was fleeting. In the early summer they would -be in Texas, and as the crops were ready they would follow north with -the season, ending with the fall in Manitoba. Then they would seek out -the big lumber camps, where there was winter work; or failing in this, -would drift to the cities, and live upon what they had managed to save, -with the help of such transient work as was there the loading and -unloading of steamships and drays, the digging of ditches and the -shoveling of snow. If there were more of them on hand than chanced to -be needed, the weaker ones died off of cold and hunger, again according -to the stern system of nature. - -It was in the latter part of July, when Jurgis was in Missouri, that he -came upon the harvest work. Here were crops that men had worked for -three or four months to prepare, and of which they would lose nearly -all unless they could find others to help them for a week or two. So -all over the land there was a cry for labor—agencies were set up and -all the cities were drained of men, even college boys were brought by -the carload, and hordes of frantic farmers would hold up trains and -carry off wagon-loads of men by main force. Not that they did not pay -them well—any man could get two dollars a day and his board, and the -best men could get two dollars and a half or three. - -The harvest-fever was in the very air, and no man with any spirit in -him could be in that region and not catch it. Jurgis joined a gang and -worked from dawn till dark, eighteen hours a day, for two weeks without -a break. Then he had a sum of money that would have been a fortune to -him in the old days of misery—but what could he do with it now? To be -sure he might have put it in a bank, and, if he were fortunate, get it -back again when he wanted it. But Jurgis was now a homeless man, -wandering over a continent; and what did he know about banking and -drafts and letters of credit? If he carried the money about with him, -he would surely be robbed in the end; and so what was there for him to -do but enjoy it while he could? On a Saturday night he drifted into a -town with his fellows; and because it was raining, and there was no -other place provided for him, he went to a saloon. And there were some -who treated him and whom he had to treat, and there was laughter and -singing and good cheer; and then out of the rear part of the saloon a -girl’s face, red-cheeked and merry, smiled at Jurgis, and his heart -thumped suddenly in his throat. He nodded to her, and she came and sat -by him, and they had more drink, and then he went upstairs into a room -with her, and the wild beast rose up within him and screamed, as it has -screamed in the Jungle from the dawn of time. And then because of his -memories and his shame, he was glad when others joined them, men and -women; and they had more drink and spent the night in wild rioting and -debauchery. In the van of the surplus-labor army, there followed -another, an army of women, they also struggling for life under the -stern system of nature. Because there were rich men who sought -pleasure, there had been ease and plenty for them so long as they were -young and beautiful; and later on, when they were crowded out by others -younger and more beautiful, they went out to follow upon the trail of -the workingmen. Sometimes they came of themselves, and the -saloon-keepers shared with them; or sometimes they were handled by -agencies, the same as the labor army. They were in the towns in harvest -time, near the lumber camps in the winter, in the cities when the men -came there; if a regiment were encamped, or a railroad or canal being -made, or a great exposition getting ready, the crowd of women were on -hand, living in shanties or saloons or tenement rooms, sometimes eight -or ten of them together. - -In the morning Jurgis had not a cent, and he went out upon the road -again. He was sick and disgusted, but after the new plan of his life, -he crushed his feelings down. He had made a fool of himself, but he -could not help it now—all he could do was to see that it did not happen -again. So he tramped on until exercise and fresh air banished his -headache, and his strength and joy returned. This happened to him every -time, for Jurgis was still a creature of impulse, and his pleasures had -not yet become business. It would be a long time before he could be -like the majority of these men of the road, who roamed until the hunger -for drink and for women mastered them, and then went to work with a -purpose in mind, and stopped when they had the price of a spree. - -On the contrary, try as he would, Jurgis could not help being made -miserable by his conscience. It was the ghost that would not down. It -would come upon him in the most unexpected places—sometimes it fairly -drove him to drink. - -One night he was caught by a thunderstorm, and he sought shelter in a -little house just outside of a town. It was a working-man’s home, and -the owner was a Slav like himself, a new emigrant from White Russia; he -bade Jurgis welcome in his home language, and told him to come to the -kitchen-fire and dry himself. He had no bed for him, but there was -straw in the garret, and he could make out. The man’s wife was cooking -the supper, and their children were playing about on the floor. Jurgis -sat and exchanged thoughts with him about the old country, and the -places where they had been and the work they had done. Then they ate, -and afterward sat and smoked and talked more about America, and how -they found it. In the middle of a sentence, however, Jurgis stopped, -seeing that the woman had brought a big basin of water and was -proceeding to undress her youngest baby. The rest had crawled into the -closet where they slept, but the baby was to have a bath, the -workingman explained. The nights had begun to be chilly, and his -mother, ignorant as to the climate in America, had sewed him up for the -winter; then it had turned warm again, and some kind of a rash had -broken out on the child. The doctor had said she must bathe him every -night, and she, foolish woman, believed him. - -Jurgis scarcely heard the explanation; he was watching the baby. He was -about a year old, and a sturdy little fellow, with soft fat legs, and a -round ball of a stomach, and eyes as black as coals. His pimples did -not seem to bother him much, and he was wild with glee over the bath, -kicking and squirming and chuckling with delight, pulling at his -mother’s face and then at his own little toes. When she put him into -the basin he sat in the midst of it and grinned, splashing the water -over himself and squealing like a little pig. He spoke in Russian, of -which Jurgis knew some; he spoke it with the quaintest of baby -accents—and every word of it brought back to Jurgis some word of his -own dead little one, and stabbed him like a knife. He sat perfectly -motionless, silent, but gripping his hands tightly, while a storm -gathered in his bosom and a flood heaped itself up behind his eyes. And -in the end he could bear it no more, but buried his face in his hands -and burst into tears, to the alarm and amazement of his hosts. Between -the shame of this and his woe Jurgis could not stand it, and got up and -rushed out into the rain. - -He went on and on down the road, finally coming to a black woods, where -he hid and wept as if his heart would break. Ah, what agony was that, -what despair, when the tomb of memory was rent open and the ghosts of -his old life came forth to scourge him! What terror to see what he had -been and now could never be—to see Ona and his child and his own dead -self stretching out their arms to him, calling to him across a -bottomless abyss—and to know that they were gone from him forever, and -he writhing and suffocating in the mire of his own vileness! - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - - -Early in the fall Jurgis set out for Chicago again. All the joy went -out of tramping as soon as a man could not keep warm in the hay; and, -like many thousands of others, he deluded himself with the hope that by -coming early he could avoid the rush. He brought fifteen dollars with -him, hidden away in one of his shoes, a sum which had been saved from -the saloon-keepers, not so much by his conscience, as by the fear which -filled him at the thought of being out of work in the city in the -winter time. - -He traveled upon the railroad with several other men, hiding in freight -cars at night, and liable to be thrown off at any time, regardless of -the speed of the train. When he reached the city he left the rest, for -he had money and they did not, and he meant to save himself in this -fight. He would bring to it all the skill that practice had brought -him, and he would stand, whoever fell. On fair nights he would sleep in -the park or on a truck or an empty barrel or box, and when it was rainy -or cold he would stow himself upon a shelf in a ten-cent lodging-house, -or pay three cents for the privileges of a “squatter” in a tenement -hallway. He would eat at free lunches, five cents a meal, and never a -cent more—so he might keep alive for two months and more, and in that -time he would surely find a job. He would have to bid farewell to his -summer cleanliness, of course, for he would come out of the first -night’s lodging with his clothes alive with vermin. There was no place -in the city where he could wash even his face, unless he went down to -the lake front—and there it would soon be all ice. - -First he went to the steel mill and the harvester works, and found that -his places there had been filled long ago. He was careful to keep away -from the stockyards—he was a single man now, he told himself, and he -meant to stay one, to have his wages for his own when he got a job. He -began the long, weary round of factories and warehouses, tramping all -day, from one end of the city to the other, finding everywhere from ten -to a hundred men ahead of him. He watched the newspapers, too—but no -longer was he to be taken in by smooth-spoken agents. He had been told -of all those tricks while “on the road.” - -In the end it was through a newspaper that he got a job, after nearly a -month of seeking. It was a call for a hundred laborers, and though he -thought it was a “fake,” he went because the place was near by. He -found a line of men a block long, but as a wagon chanced to come out of -an alley and break the line, he saw his chance and sprang to seize a -place. Men threatened him and tried to throw him out, but he cursed and -made a disturbance to attract a policeman, upon which they subsided, -knowing that if the latter interfered it would be to “fire” them all. - -An hour or two later he entered a room and confronted a big Irishman -behind a desk. - -“Ever worked in Chicago before?” the man inquired; and whether it was a -good angel that put it into Jurgis’s mind, or an intuition of his -sharpened wits, he was moved to answer, “No, sir.” - -“Where do you come from?” - -“Kansas City, sir.” - -“Any references?” - -“No, sir. I’m just an unskilled man. I’ve got good arms.” - -“I want men for hard work—it’s all underground, digging tunnels for -telephones. Maybe it won’t suit you.” - -“I’m willing, sir—anything for me. What’s the pay?” - -“Fifteen cents an hour.” - -“I’m willing, sir.” - -“All right; go back there and give your name.” - -So within half an hour he was at work, far underneath the streets of -the city. The tunnel was a peculiar one for telephone wires; it was -about eight feet high, and with a level floor nearly as wide. It had -innumerable branches—a perfect spider web beneath the city; Jurgis -walked over half a mile with his gang to the place where they were to -work. Stranger yet, the tunnel was lighted by electricity, and upon it -was laid a double-tracked, narrow-gauge railroad! - -But Jurgis was not there to ask questions, and he did not give the -matter a thought. It was nearly a year afterward that he finally -learned the meaning of this whole affair. The City Council had passed a -quiet and innocent little bill allowing a company to construct -telephone conduits under the city streets; and upon the strength of -this, a great corporation had proceeded to tunnel all Chicago with a -system of railway freight-subways. In the city there was a combination -of employers, representing hundreds of millions of capital, and formed -for the purpose of crushing the labor unions. The chief union which -troubled it was the teamsters’; and when these freight tunnels were -completed, connecting all the big factories and stores with the -railroad depots, they would have the teamsters’ union by the throat. -Now and then there were rumors and murmurs in the Board of Aldermen, -and once there was a committee to investigate—but each time another -small fortune was paid over, and the rumors died away; until at last -the city woke up with a start to find the work completed. There was a -tremendous scandal, of course; it was found that the city records had -been falsified and other crimes committed, and some of Chicago’s big -capitalists got into jail—figuratively speaking. The aldermen declared -that they had had no idea of it all, in spite of the fact that the main -entrance to the work had been in the rear of the saloon of one of them. - -It was in a newly opened cut that Jurgis worked, and so he knew that he -had an all-winter job. He was so rejoiced that he treated himself to a -spree that night, and with the balance of his money he hired himself a -place in a tenement room, where he slept upon a big homemade straw -mattress along with four other workingmen. This was one dollar a week, -and for four more he got his food in a boardinghouse near his work. -This would leave him four dollars extra each week, an unthinkable sum -for him. At the outset he had to pay for his digging tools, and also to -buy a pair of heavy boots, since his shoes were falling to pieces, and -a flannel shirt, since the one he had worn all summer was in shreds. He -spent a week meditating whether or not he should also buy an overcoat. -There was one belonging to a Hebrew collar button peddler, who had died -in the room next to him, and which the landlady was holding for her -rent; in the end, however, Jurgis decided to do without it, as he was -to be underground by day and in bed at night. - -This was an unfortunate decision, however, for it drove him more -quickly than ever into the saloons. From now on Jurgis worked from -seven o’clock until half-past five, with half an hour for dinner; which -meant that he never saw the sunlight on weekdays. In the evenings there -was no place for him to go except a barroom; no place where there was -light and warmth, where he could hear a little music or sit with a -companion and talk. He had now no home to go to; he had no affection -left in his life—only the pitiful mockery of it in the _camaraderie_ of -vice. On Sundays the churches were open—but where was there a church in -which an ill-smelling workingman, with vermin crawling upon his neck, -could sit without seeing people edge away and look annoyed? He had, of -course, his corner in a close though unheated room, with a window -opening upon a blank wall two feet away; and also he had the bare -streets, with the winter gales sweeping through them; besides this he -had only the saloons—and, of course, he had to drink to stay in them. -If he drank now and then he was free to make himself at home, to gamble -with dice or a pack of greasy cards, to play at a dingy pool table for -money, or to look at a beer-stained pink “sporting paper,” with -pictures of murderers and half-naked women. It was for such pleasures -as these that he spent his money; and such was his life during the six -weeks and a half that he toiled for the merchants of Chicago, to enable -them to break the grip of their teamsters’ union. - -In a work thus carried out, not much thought was given to the welfare -of the laborers. On an average, the tunneling cost a life a day and -several manglings; it was seldom, however, that more than a dozen or -two men heard of any one accident. The work was all done by the new -boring machinery, with as little blasting as possible; but there would -be falling rocks and crushed supports, and premature explosions—and in -addition all the dangers of railroading. So it was that one night, as -Jurgis was on his way out with his gang, an engine and a loaded car -dashed round one of the innumerable right-angle branches and struck him -upon the shoulder, hurling him against the concrete wall and knocking -him senseless. - -When he opened his eyes again it was to the clanging of the bell of an -ambulance. He was lying in it, covered by a blanket, and it was -threading its way slowly through the holiday-shopping crowds. They took -him to the county hospital, where a young surgeon set his arm; then he -was washed and laid upon a bed in a ward with a score or two more of -maimed and mangled men. - -Jurgis spent his Christmas in this hospital, and it was the pleasantest -Christmas he had had in America. Every year there were scandals and -investigations in this institution, the newspapers charging that -doctors were allowed to try fantastic experiments upon the patients; -but Jurgis knew nothing of this—his only complaint was that they used -to feed him upon tinned meat, which no man who had ever worked in -Packingtown would feed to his dog. Jurgis had often wondered just who -ate the canned corned beef and “roast beef” of the stockyards; now he -began to understand—that it was what you might call “graft meat,” put -up to be sold to public officials and contractors, and eaten by -soldiers and sailors, prisoners and inmates of institutions, -“shantymen” and gangs of railroad laborers. - -Jurgis was ready to leave the hospital at the end of two weeks. This -did not mean that his arm was strong and that he was able to go back to -work, but simply that he could get along without further attention, and -that his place was needed for some one worse off than he. That he was -utterly helpless, and had no means of keeping himself alive in the -meantime, was something which did not concern the hospital authorities, -nor any one else in the city. - -As it chanced, he had been hurt on a Monday, and had just paid for his -last week’s board and his room rent, and spent nearly all the balance -of his Saturday’s pay. He had less than seventy-five cents in his -pockets, and a dollar and a half due him for the day’s work he had done -before he was hurt. He might possibly have sued the company, and got -some damages for his injuries, but he did not know this, and it was not -the company’s business to tell him. He went and got his pay and his -tools, which he left in a pawnshop for fifty cents. Then he went to his -landlady, who had rented his place and had no other for him; and then -to his boardinghouse keeper, who looked him over and questioned him. As -he must certainly be helpless for a couple of months, and had boarded -there only six weeks, she decided very quickly that it would not be -worth the risk to keep him on trust. - -So Jurgis went out into the streets, in a most dreadful plight. It was -bitterly cold, and a heavy snow was falling, beating into his face. He -had no overcoat, and no place to go, and two dollars and sixty-five -cents in his pocket, with the certainty that he could not earn another -cent for months. The snow meant no chance to him now; he must walk -along and see others shoveling, vigorous and active—and he with his -left arm bound to his side! He could not hope to tide himself over by -odd jobs of loading trucks; he could not even sell newspapers or carry -satchels, because he was now at the mercy of any rival. Words could not -paint the terror that came over him as he realized all this. He was -like a wounded animal in the forest; he was forced to compete with his -enemies upon unequal terms. There would be no consideration for him -because of his weakness—it was no one’s business to help him in such -distress, to make the fight the least bit easier for him. Even if he -took to begging, he would be at a disadvantage, for reasons which he -was to discover in good time. - -In the beginning he could not think of anything except getting out of -the awful cold. He went into one of the saloons he had been wont to -frequent and bought a drink, and then stood by the fire shivering and -waiting to be ordered out. According to an unwritten law, the buying a -drink included the privilege of loafing for just so long; then one had -to buy another drink or move on. That Jurgis was an old customer -entitled him to a somewhat longer stop; but then he had been away two -weeks, and was evidently “on the bum.” He might plead and tell his -“hard luck story,” but that would not help him much; a saloon-keeper -who was to be moved by such means would soon have his place jammed to -the doors with “hoboes” on a day like this. - -So Jurgis went out into another place, and paid another nickel. He was -so hungry this time that he could not resist the hot beef stew, an -indulgence which cut short his stay by a considerable time. When he was -again told to move on, he made his way to a “tough” place in the -“Lêvée” district, where now and then he had gone with a certain -rat-eyed Bohemian workingman of his acquaintance, seeking a woman. It -was Jurgis’s vain hope that here the proprietor would let him remain as -a “sitter.” In low-class places, in the dead of winter, saloon-keepers -would often allow one or two forlorn-looking bums who came in covered -with snow or soaked with rain to sit by the fire and look miserable to -attract custom. A workingman would come in, feeling cheerful after his -day’s work was over, and it would trouble him to have to take his glass -with such a sight under his nose; and so he would call out: “Hello, -Bub, what’s the matter? You look as if you’d been up against it!” And -then the other would begin to pour out some tale of misery, and the man -would say, “Come have a glass, and maybe that’ll brace you up.” And so -they would drink together, and if the tramp was sufficiently -wretched-looking, or good enough at the “gab,” they might have two; and -if they were to discover that they were from the same country, or had -lived in the same city or worked at the same trade, they might sit down -at a table and spend an hour or two in talk—and before they got through -the saloon-keeper would have taken in a dollar. All of this might seem -diabolical, but the saloon-keeper was in no wise to blame for it. He -was in the same plight as the manufacturer who has to adulterate and -misrepresent his product. If he does not, some one else will; and the -saloon-keeper, unless he is also an alderman, is apt to be in debt to -the big brewers, and on the verge of being sold out. - -The market for “sitters” was glutted that afternoon, however, and there -was no place for Jurgis. In all he had to spend six nickels in keeping -a shelter over him that frightful day, and then it was just dark, and -the station houses would not open until midnight! At the last place, -however, there was a bartender who knew him and liked him, and let him -doze at one of the tables until the boss came back; and also, as he was -going out, the man gave him a tip—on the next block there was a -religious revival of some sort, with preaching and singing, and -hundreds of hoboes would go there for the shelter and warmth. - -Jurgis went straightway, and saw a sign hung out, saying that the door -would open at seven-thirty; then he walked, or half ran, a block, and -hid awhile in a doorway and then ran again, and so on until the hour. -At the end he was all but frozen, and fought his way in with the rest -of the throng (at the risk of having his arm broken again), and got -close to the big stove. - -By eight o’clock the place was so crowded that the speakers ought to -have been flattered; the aisles were filled halfway up, and at the door -men were packed tight enough to walk upon. There were three elderly -gentlemen in black upon the platform, and a young lady who played the -piano in front. First they sang a hymn, and then one of the three, a -tall, smooth-shaven man, very thin, and wearing black spectacles, began -an address. Jurgis heard smatterings of it, for the reason that terror -kept him awake—he knew that he snored abominably, and to have been put -out just then would have been like a sentence of death to him. - -The evangelist was preaching “sin and redemption,” the infinite grace -of God and His pardon for human frailty. He was very much in earnest, -and he meant well, but Jurgis, as he listened, found his soul filled -with hatred. What did he know about sin and suffering—with his smooth, -black coat and his neatly starched collar, his body warm, and his belly -full, and money in his pocket—and lecturing men who were struggling for -their lives, men at the death grapple with the demon powers of hunger -and cold!—This, of course, was unfair; but Jurgis felt that these men -were out of touch with the life they discussed, that they were unfitted -to solve its problems; nay, they themselves were part of the -problem—they were part of the order established that was crushing men -down and beating them! They were of the triumphant and insolent -possessors; they had a hall, and a fire, and food and clothing and -money, and so they might preach to hungry men, and the hungry men must -be humble and listen! They were trying to save their souls—and who but -a fool could fail to see that all that was the matter with their souls -was that they had not been able to get a decent existence for their -bodies? - -At eleven the meeting closed, and the desolate audience filed out into -the snow, muttering curses upon the few traitors who had got repentance -and gone up on the platform. It was yet an hour before the station -house would open, and Jurgis had no overcoat—and was weak from a long -illness. During that hour he nearly perished. He was obliged to run -hard to keep his blood moving at all—and then he came back to the -station house and found a crowd blocking the street before the door! -This was in the month of January, 1904, when the country was on the -verge of “hard times,” and the newspapers were reporting the shutting -down of factories every day—it was estimated that a million and a half -men were thrown out of work before the spring. So all the hiding places -of the city were crowded, and before that station house door men fought -and tore each other like savage beasts. When at last the place was -jammed and they shut the doors, half the crowd was still outside; and -Jurgis, with his helpless arm, was among them. There was no choice then -but to go to a lodging-house and spend another dime. It really broke -his heart to do this, at half-past twelve o’clock, after he had wasted -the night at the meeting and on the street. He would be turned out of -the lodging-house promptly at seven—they had the shelves which served -as bunks so contrived that they could be dropped, and any man who was -slow about obeying orders could be tumbled to the floor. - -This was one day, and the cold spell lasted for fourteen of them. At -the end of six days every cent of Jurgis’ money was gone; and then he -went out on the streets to beg for his life. - -He would begin as soon as the business of the city was moving. He would -sally forth from a saloon, and, after making sure there was no -policeman in sight, would approach every likely-looking person who -passed him, telling his woeful story and pleading for a nickel or a -dime. Then when he got one, he would dart round the corner and return -to his base to get warm; and his victim, seeing him do this, would go -away, vowing that he would never give a cent to a beggar again. The -victim never paused to ask where else Jurgis could have gone under the -circumstances—where he, the victim, would have gone. At the saloon -Jurgis could not only get more food and better food than he could buy -in any restaurant for the same money, but a drink in the bargain to -warm him up. Also he could find a comfortable seat by a fire, and could -chat with a companion until he was as warm as toast. At the saloon, -too, he felt at home. Part of the saloon-keeper’s business was to offer -a home and refreshments to beggars in exchange for the proceeds of -their foragings; and was there any one else in the whole city who would -do this—would the victim have done it himself? - -Poor Jurgis might have been expected to make a successful beggar. He -was just out of the hospital, and desperately sick-looking, and with a -helpless arm; also he had no overcoat, and shivered pitifully. But, -alas, it was again the case of the honest merchant, who finds that the -genuine and unadulterated article is driven to the wall by the artistic -counterfeit. Jurgis, as a beggar, was simply a blundering amateur in -competition with organized and scientific professionalism. He was just -out of the hospital—but the story was worn threadbare, and how could he -prove it? He had his arm in a sling—and it was a device a regular -beggar’s little boy would have scorned. He was pale and shivering—but -they were made up with cosmetics, and had studied the art of chattering -their teeth. As to his being without an overcoat, among them you would -meet men you could swear had on nothing but a ragged linen duster and a -pair of cotton trousers—so cleverly had they concealed the several -suits of all-wool underwear beneath. Many of these professional -mendicants had comfortable homes, and families, and thousands of -dollars in the bank; some of them had retired upon their earnings, and -gone into the business of fitting out and doctoring others, or working -children at the trade. There were some who had both their arms bound -tightly to their sides, and padded stumps in their sleeves, and a sick -child hired to carry a cup for them. There were some who had no legs, -and pushed themselves upon a wheeled platform—some who had been favored -with blindness, and were led by pretty little dogs. Some less fortunate -had mutilated themselves or burned themselves, or had brought horrible -sores upon themselves with chemicals; you might suddenly encounter upon -the street a man holding out to you a finger rotting and discolored -with gangrene—or one with livid scarlet wounds half escaped from their -filthy bandages. These desperate ones were the dregs of the city’s -cesspools, wretches who hid at night in the rain-soaked cellars of old -ramshackle tenements, in “stale-beer dives” and opium joints, with -abandoned women in the last stages of the harlot’s progress—women who -had been kept by Chinamen and turned away at last to die. Every day the -police net would drag hundreds of them off the streets, and in the -detention hospital you might see them, herded together in a miniature -inferno, with hideous, beastly faces, bloated and leprous with disease, -laughing, shouting, screaming in all stages of drunkenness, barking -like dogs, gibbering like apes, raving and tearing themselves in -delirium. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - - -In the face of all his handicaps, Jurgis was obliged to make the price -of a lodging, and of a drink every hour or two, under penalty of -freezing to death. Day after day he roamed about in the arctic cold, -his soul filled full of bitterness and despair. He saw the world of -civilization then more plainly than ever he had seen it before; a world -in which nothing counted but brutal might, an order devised by those -who possessed it for the subjugation of those who did not. He was one -of the latter; and all outdoors, all life, was to him one colossal -prison, which he paced like a pent-up tiger, trying one bar after -another, and finding them all beyond his power. He had lost in the -fierce battle of greed, and so was doomed to be exterminated; and all -society was busied to see that he did not escape the sentence. -Everywhere that he turned were prison bars, and hostile eyes following -him; the well-fed, sleek policemen, from whose glances he shrank, and -who seemed to grip their clubs more tightly when they saw him; the -saloon-keepers, who never ceased to watch him while he was in their -places, who were jealous of every moment he lingered after he had paid -his money; the hurrying throngs upon the streets, who were deaf to his -entreaties, oblivious of his very existence—and savage and contemptuous -when he forced himself upon them. They had their own affairs, and there -was no place for him among them. There was no place for him -anywhere—every direction he turned his gaze, this fact was forced upon -him: Everything was built to express it to him: the residences, with -their heavy walls and bolted doors, and basement windows barred with -iron; the great warehouses filled with the products of the whole world, -and guarded by iron shutters and heavy gates; the banks with their -unthinkable billions of wealth, all buried in safes and vaults of -steel. - -And then one day there befell Jurgis the one adventure of his life. It -was late at night, and he had failed to get the price of a lodging. -Snow was falling, and he had been out so long that he was covered with -it, and was chilled to the bone. He was working among the theater -crowds, flitting here and there, taking large chances with the police, -in his desperation half hoping to be arrested. When he saw a blue-coat -start toward him, however, his heart failed him, and he dashed down a -side street and fled a couple of blocks. When he stopped again he saw a -man coming toward him, and placed himself in his path. - -“Please, sir,” he began, in the usual formula, “will you give me the -price of a lodging? I’ve had a broken arm, and I can’t work, and I’ve -not a cent in my pocket. I’m an honest working-man, sir, and I never -begged before! It’s not my fault, sir—” - -Jurgis usually went on until he was interrupted, but this man did not -interrupt, and so at last he came to a breathless stop. The other had -halted, and Jurgis suddenly noticed that he stood a little unsteadily. -“Whuzzat you say?” he queried suddenly, in a thick voice. - -Jurgis began again, speaking more slowly and distinctly; before he was -half through the other put out his hand and rested it upon his -shoulder. “Poor ole chappie!” he said. “Been up—hic—up—against it, -hey?” - -Then he lurched toward Jurgis, and the hand upon his shoulder became an -arm about his neck. “Up against it myself, ole sport,” he said. “She’s -a hard ole world.” - -They were close to a lamppost, and Jurgis got a glimpse of the other. -He was a young fellow—not much over eighteen, with a handsome boyish -face. He wore a silk hat and a rich soft overcoat with a fur collar; -and he smiled at Jurgis with benignant sympathy. “I’m hard up, too, my -goo’ fren’,” he said. “I’ve got cruel parents, or I’d set you up. -Whuzzamatter whizyer?” - -“I’ve been in the hospital.” - -“Hospital!” exclaimed the young fellow, still smiling sweetly, “thass -too bad! Same’s my Aunt Polly—hic—my Aunt Polly’s in the hospital, -too—ole auntie’s been havin’ twins! Whuzzamatter whiz you?” - -“I’ve got a broken arm—” Jurgis began. - -“So,” said the other, sympathetically. “That ain’t so bad—you get over -that. I wish somebody’d break _my_ arm, ole chappie—damfidon’t! Then -they’d treat me better—hic—hole me up, ole sport! Whuzzit you wamme -do?” - -“I’m hungry, sir,” said Jurgis. - -“Hungry! Why don’t you hassome supper?” - -“I’ve got no money, sir.” - -“No money! Ho, ho—less be chums, ole boy—jess like me! No money, -either—a’most busted! Why don’t you go home, then, same’s me?” - -“I haven’t any home,” said Jurgis. - -“No home! Stranger in the city, hey? Goo’ God, thass bad! Better come -home wiz me—yes, by Harry, thass the trick, you’ll come home an’ -hassome supper—hic—wiz me! Awful lonesome—nobody home! Guv’ner gone -abroad—Bubby on’s honeymoon—Polly havin’ twins—every damn soul gone -away! Nuff—hic—nuff to drive a feller to drink, I say! Only ole Ham -standin’ by, passin’ plates—damfican eat like that, no sir! The club -for me every time, my boy, I say. But then they won’t lemme sleep -there—guv’ner’s orders, by Harry—home every night, sir! Ever hear -anythin’ like that? ‘Every mornin’ do?’ I asked him. ‘No, sir, every -night, or no allowance at all, sir.’ Thass my guv’ner—‘nice as nails, -by Harry! Tole ole Ham to watch me, too—servants spyin’ on me—whuzyer -think that, my fren’? A nice, quiet—hic—goodhearted young feller like -me, an’ his daddy can’t go to Europe—hup!—an’ leave him in peace! Ain’t -that a shame, sir? An’ I gotter go home every evenin’ an’ miss all the -fun, by Harry! Thass whuzzamatter now—thass why I’m here! Hadda come -away an’ leave Kitty—hic—left her cryin’, too—whujja think of that, ole -sport? ‘Lemme go, Kittens,’ says I—‘come early an’ often—I go where -duty—hic—calls me. Farewell, farewell, my own true love—farewell, -farewehell, my—own true—love!’” - -This last was a song, and the young gentleman’s voice rose mournful and -wailing, while he swung upon Jurgis’s neck. The latter was glancing -about nervously, lest some one should approach. They were still alone, -however. - -“But I came all right, all right,” continued the youngster, -aggressively, “I can—hic—I can have my own way when I want it, by -Harry—Freddie Jones is a hard man to handle when he gets goin’! ‘No, -sir,’ says I, ‘by thunder, and I don’t need anybody goin’ home with me, -either—whujja take me for, hey? Think I’m drunk, dontcha, hey?—I know -you! But I’m no more drunk than you are, Kittens,’ says I to her. And -then says she, ‘Thass true, Freddie dear’ (she’s a smart one, is -Kitty), ‘but I’m stayin’ in the flat, an’ you’re goin’ out into the -cold, cold night!’ ‘Put it in a pome, lovely Kitty,’ says I. ‘No -jokin’, Freddie, my boy,’ says she. ‘Lemme call a cab now, like a good -dear’—but I can call my own cabs, dontcha fool yourself—and I know what -I’m a-doin’, you bet! Say, my fren’, whatcha say—willye come home an’ -see me, an’ hassome supper? Come ’long like a good feller—don’t be -haughty! You’re up against it, same as me, an’ you can unerstan’ a -feller; your heart’s in the right place, by Harry—come ’long, ole -chappie, an’ we’ll light up the house, an’ have some fizz, an’ we’ll -raise hell, we will—whoop-la! S’long’s I’m inside the house I can do as -I please—the guv’ner’s own very orders, b’God! Hip! hip!” - -They had started down the street, arm in arm, the young man pushing -Jurgis along, half dazed. Jurgis was trying to think what to do—he knew -he could not pass any crowded place with his new acquaintance without -attracting attention and being stopped. It was only because of the -falling snow that people who passed here did not notice anything wrong. - -Suddenly, therefore, Jurgis stopped. “Is it very far?” he inquired. - -“Not very,” said the other, “Tired, are you, though? Well, we’ll -ride—whatcha say? Good! Call a cab!” - -And then, gripping Jurgis tight with one hand, the young fellow began -searching his pockets with the other. “You call, ole sport, an’ I’ll -pay,” he suggested. “How’s that, hey?” - -And he pulled out from somewhere a big roll of bills. It was more money -than Jurgis had ever seen in his life before, and he stared at it with -startled eyes. - -“Looks like a lot, hey?” said Master Freddie, fumbling with it. “Fool -you, though, ole chappie—they’re all little ones! I’ll be busted in one -week more, sure thing—word of honor. An’ not a cent more till the -first—hic—guv’ner’s orders—hic—not a _cent_, by Harry! Nuff to set a -feller crazy, it is. I sent him a cable, this af’noon—thass one reason -more why I’m goin’ home. ‘Hangin’ on the verge of starvation,’ I -says—‘for the honor of the family—hic—sen’ me some bread. Hunger will -compel me to join you—Freddie.’ Thass what I wired him, by Harry, an’ I -mean it—I’ll run away from school, b’God, if he don’t sen’ me some.” - -After this fashion the young gentleman continued to prattle on—and -meantime Jurgis was trembling with excitement. He might grab that wad -of bills and be out of sight in the darkness before the other could -collect his wits. Should he do it? What better had he to hope for, if -he waited longer? But Jurgis had never committed a crime in his life, -and now he hesitated half a second too long. “Freddie” got one bill -loose, and then stuffed the rest back into his trousers’ pocket. - -“Here, ole man,” he said, “you take it.” He held it out fluttering. -They were in front of a saloon; and by the light of the window Jurgis -saw that it was a hundred-dollar bill! “You take it,” the other -repeated. “Pay the cabbie an’ keep the change—I’ve got—hic—no head for -business! Guv’ner says so hisself, an’ the guv’ner knows—the guv’ner’s -got a head for business, you bet! ‘All right, guv’ner,’ I told him, -‘you run the show, and I’ll take the tickets!’ An’ so he set Aunt Polly -to watch me—hic—an’ now Polly’s off in the hospital havin’ twins, an’ -me out raisin’ Cain! Hello, there! Hey! Call him!” - -A cab was driving by; and Jurgis sprang and called, and it swung round -to the curb. Master Freddie clambered in with some difficulty, and -Jurgis had started to follow, when the driver shouted: “Hi, there! Get -out—you!” - -Jurgis hesitated, and was half obeying; but his companion broke out: -“Whuzzat? Whuzzamatter wiz you, hey?” - -And the cabbie subsided, and Jurgis climbed in. Then Freddie gave a -number on the Lake Shore Drive, and the carriage started away. The -youngster leaned back and snuggled up to Jurgis, murmuring contentedly; -in half a minute he was sound asleep, Jurgis sat shivering, speculating -as to whether he might not still be able to get hold of the roll of -bills. He was afraid to try to go through his companion’s pockets, -however; and besides the cabbie might be on the watch. He had the -hundred safe, and he would have to be content with that. - -At the end of half an hour or so the cab stopped. They were out on the -waterfront, and from the east a freezing gale was blowing off the -ice-bound lake. “Here we are,” called the cabbie, and Jurgis awakened -his companion. - -Master Freddie sat up with a start. - -“Hello!” he said. “Where are we? Whuzzis? Who are you, hey? Oh, yes, -sure nuff! Mos’ forgot you—hic—ole chappie! Home, are we? Lessee! -Br-r-r—it’s cold! Yes—come ’long—we’re home—it ever so—hic—humble!” - -Before them there loomed an enormous granite pile, set far back from -the street, and occupying a whole block. By the light of the driveway -lamps Jurgis could see that it had towers and huge gables, like a -mediæval castle. He thought that the young fellow must have made a -mistake—it was inconceivable to him that any person could have a home -like a hotel or the city hall. But he followed in silence, and they -went up the long flight of steps, arm in arm. - -“There’s a button here, ole sport,” said Master Freddie. “Hole my arm -while I find her! Steady, now—oh, yes, here she is! Saved!” - -A bell rang, and in a few seconds the door was opened. A man in blue -livery stood holding it, and gazing before him, silent as a statue. - -They stood for a moment blinking in the light. Then Jurgis felt his -companion pulling, and he stepped in, and the blue automaton closed the -door. Jurgis’s heart was beating wildly; it was a bold thing for him to -do—into what strange unearthly place he was venturing he had no idea. -Aladdin entering his cave could not have been more excited. - -The place where he stood was dimly lighted; but he could see a vast -hall, with pillars fading into the darkness above, and a great -staircase opening at the far end of it. The floor was of tesselated -marble, smooth as glass, and from the walls strange shapes loomed out, -woven into huge portieres in rich, harmonious colors, or gleaming from -paintings, wonderful and mysterious-looking in the half-light, purple -and red and golden, like sunset glimmers in a shadowy forest. - -The man in livery had moved silently toward them; Master Freddie took -off his hat and handed it to him, and then, letting go of Jurgis’ arm, -tried to get out of his overcoat. After two or three attempts he -accomplished this, with the lackey’s help, and meantime a second man -had approached, a tall and portly personage, solemn as an executioner. -He bore straight down upon Jurgis, who shrank away nervously; he seized -him by the arm without a word, and started toward the door with him. -Then suddenly came Master Freddie’s voice, “Hamilton! My fren’ will -remain wiz me.” - -The man paused and half released Jurgis. “Come ’long ole chappie,” said -the other, and Jurgis started toward him. - -“Master Frederick!” exclaimed the man. - -“See that the cabbie—hic—is paid,” was the other’s response; and he -linked his arm in Jurgis’. Jurgis was about to say, “I have the money -for him,” but he restrained himself. The stout man in uniform signaled -to the other, who went out to the cab, while he followed Jurgis and his -young master. - -They went down the great hall, and then turned. Before them were two -huge doors. - -“Hamilton,” said Master Freddie. - -“Well, sir?” said the other. - -“Whuzzamatter wizze dinin’-room doors?” - -“Nothing is the matter, sir.” - -“Then why dontcha openum?” - -The man rolled them back; another vista lost itself in the darkness. -“Lights,” commanded Master Freddie; and the butler pressed a button, -and a flood of brilliant incandescence streamed from above, -half-blinding Jurgis. He stared; and little by little he made out the -great apartment, with a domed ceiling from which the light poured, and -walls that were one enormous painting—nymphs and dryads dancing in a -flower-strewn glade—Diana with her hounds and horses, dashing headlong -through a mountain streamlet—a group of maidens bathing in a forest -pool—all life-size, and so real that Jurgis thought that it was some -work of enchantment, that he was in a dream palace. Then his eye passed -to the long table in the center of the hall, a table black as ebony, -and gleaming with wrought silver and gold. In the center of it was a -huge carven bowl, with the glistening gleam of ferns and the red and -purple of rare orchids, glowing from a light hidden somewhere in their -midst. - -“This’s the dinin’ room,” observed Master Freddie. “How you like it, -hey, ole sport?” - -He always insisted on having an answer to his remarks, leaning over -Jurgis and smiling into his face. Jurgis liked it. - -“Rummy ole place to feed in all ’lone, though,” was Freddie’s -comment—“rummy’s hell! Whuzya think, hey?” Then another idea occurred -to him and he went on, without waiting: “Maybe you never saw -anythin—hic—like this ’fore? Hey, ole chappie?” - -“No,” said Jurgis. - -“Come from country, maybe—hey?” - -“Yes,” said Jurgis. - -“Aha! I thosso! Lossa folks from country never saw such a place. -Guv’ner brings ’em—free show—hic—reg’lar circus! Go home tell folks -about it. Ole man Jones’s place—Jones the packer—beef-trust man. Made -it all out of hogs, too, damn ole scoundrel. Now we see where our -pennies go—rebates, an’ private car lines—hic—by Harry! Bully place, -though—worth seein’! Ever hear of Jones the packer, hey, ole chappie?” - -Jurgis had started involuntarily; the other, whose sharp eyes missed -nothing, demanded: “Whuzzamatter, hey? Heard of him?” - -And Jurgis managed to stammer out: “I have worked for him in the -yards.” - -“What!” cried Master Freddie, with a yell. “_You!_ In the yards? Ho, -ho! Why, say, thass good! Shake hands on it, ole man—by Harry! Guv’ner -ought to be here—glad to see you. Great fren’s with the men, -guv’ner—labor an’ capital, commun’ty ’f int’rests, an’ all that—hic! -Funny things happen in this world, don’t they, ole man? Hamilton, lemme -interduce you—fren’ the family—ole fren’ the guv’ner’s—works in the -yards. Come to spend the night wiz me, Hamilton—have a hot time. Me -fren’, Mr.—whuzya name, ole chappie? Tell us your name.” - -“Rudkus—Jurgis Rudkus.” - -“My fren’, Mr. Rednose, Hamilton—shake han’s.” - -The stately butler bowed his head, but made not a sound; and suddenly -Master Freddie pointed an eager finger at him. “I know whuzzamatter wiz -you, Hamilton—lay you a dollar I know! You think—hic—you think I’m -drunk! Hey, now?” - -And the butler again bowed his head. “Yes, sir,” he said, at which -Master Freddie hung tightly upon Jurgis’s neck and went into a fit of -laughter. “Hamilton, you damn ole scoundrel,” he roared, “I’ll ’scharge -you for impudence, you see ’f I don’t! Ho, ho, ho! I’m drunk! Ho, ho!” - -The two waited until his fit had spent itself, to see what new whim -would seize him. “Whatcha wanta do?” he queried suddenly. “Wanta see -the place, ole chappie? Wamme play the guv’ner—show you roun’? State -parlors—Looee Cans—Looee Sez—chairs cost three thousand apiece. Tea -room Maryanntnet—picture of shepherds dancing—Ruysdael—twenty-three -thousan’! Ballroom—balc’ny pillars—hic—imported—special -ship—sixty-eight thousan’! Ceilin’ painted in Rome—whuzzat feller’s -name, Hamilton—Mattatoni? Macaroni? Then this place—silver -bowl—Benvenuto Cellini—rummy ole Dago! An’ the organ—thirty thousan’ -dollars, sir—starter up, Hamilton, let Mr. Rednose hear it. No—never -mind—clean forgot—says he’s hungry, Hamilton—less have some supper. -Only—hic—don’t less have it here—come up to my place, ole sport—nice -an’ cosy. This way—steady now, don’t slip on the floor. Hamilton, we’ll -have a cole spread, an’ some fizz—don’t leave out the fizz, by Harry. -We’ll have some of the eighteen-thirty Madeira. Hear me, sir?” - -“Yes, sir,” said the butler, “but, Master Frederick, your father left -orders—” - -And Master Frederick drew himself up to a stately height. “My father’s -orders were left to me—hic—an’ not to you,” he said. Then, clasping -Jurgis tightly by the neck, he staggered out of the room; on the way -another idea occurred to him, and he asked: “Any—hic—cable message for -me, Hamilton?” - -“No, sir,” said the butler. - -“Guv’ner must be travelin’. An’ how’s the twins, Hamilton?” - -“They are doing well, sir.” - -“Good!” said Master Freddie; and added fervently: “God bless ’em, the -little lambs!” - -They went up the great staircase, one step at a time; at the top of it -there gleamed at them out of the shadows the figure of a nymph -crouching by a fountain, a figure ravishingly beautiful, the flesh warm -and glowing with the hues of life. Above was a huge court, with domed -roof, the various apartments opening into it. The butler had paused -below but a few minutes to give orders, and then followed them; now he -pressed a button, and the hall blazed with light. He opened a door -before them, and then pressed another button, as they staggered into -the apartment. - -It was fitted up as a study. In the center was a mahogany table, -covered with books, and smokers’ implements; the walls were decorated -with college trophies and colors—flags, posters, photographs and -knickknacks—tennis rackets, canoe paddles, golf clubs, and polo sticks. -An enormous moose head, with horns six feet across, faced a buffalo -head on the opposite wall, while bear and tiger skins covered the -polished floor. There were lounging chairs and sofas, window seats -covered with soft cushions of fantastic designs; there was one corner -fitted in Persian fashion, with a huge canopy and a jeweled lamp -beneath. Beyond, a door opened upon a bedroom, and beyond that was a -swimming pool of the purest marble, that had cost about forty thousand -dollars. - -Master Freddie stood for a moment or two, gazing about him; then out of -the next room a dog emerged, a monstrous bulldog, the most hideous -object that Jurgis had ever laid eyes upon. He yawned, opening a mouth -like a dragon’s; and he came toward the young man, wagging his tail. -“Hello, Dewey!” cried his master. “Been havin’ a snooze, ole boy? Well, -well—hello there, whuzzamatter?” (The dog was snarling at Jurgis.) -“Why, Dewey—this’ my fren’, Mr. Rednose—ole fren’ the guv’ner’s! Mr. -Rednose, Admiral Dewey; shake han’s—hic. Ain’t he a daisy, though—blue -ribbon at the New York show—eighty-five hundred at a clip! How’s that, -hey?” - -The speaker sank into one of the big armchairs, and Admiral Dewey -crouched beneath it; he did not snarl again, but he never took his eyes -off Jurgis. He was perfectly sober, was the Admiral. - -The butler had closed the door, and he stood by it, watching Jurgis -every second. Now there came footsteps outside, and, as he opened the -door a man in livery entered, carrying a folding table, and behind him -two men with covered trays. They stood like statues while the first -spread the table and set out the contents of the trays upon it. There -were cold pates, and thin slices of meat, tiny bread and butter -sandwiches with the crust cut off, a bowl of sliced peaches and cream -(in January), little fancy cakes, pink and green and yellow and white, -and half a dozen ice-cold bottles of wine. - -“Thass the stuff for you!” cried Master Freddie, exultantly, as he -spied them. “Come ’long, ole chappie, move up.” - -And he seated himself at the table; the waiter pulled a cork, and he -took the bottle and poured three glasses of its contents in succession -down his throat. Then he gave a long-drawn sigh, and cried again to -Jurgis to seat himself. - -The butler held the chair at the opposite side of the table, and Jurgis -thought it was to keep him out of it; but finally he understand that it -was the other’s intention to put it under him, and so he sat down, -cautiously and mistrustingly. Master Freddie perceived that the -attendants embarrassed him, and he remarked with a nod to them, “You -may go.” - -They went, all save the butler. - -“You may go too, Hamilton,” he said. - -“Master Frederick—” the man began. - -“Go!” cried the youngster, angrily. “Damn you, don’t you hear me?” - -The man went out and closed the door; Jurgis, who was as sharp as he, -observed that he took the key out of the lock, in order that he might -peer through the keyhole. - -Master Frederick turned to the table again. “Now,” he said, “go for -it.” - -Jurgis gazed at him doubtingly. “Eat!” cried the other. “Pile in, ole -chappie!” - -“Don’t you want anything?” Jurgis asked. - -“Ain’t hungry,” was the reply—“only thirsty. Kitty and me had some -candy—you go on.” - -So Jurgis began, without further parley. He ate as with two shovels, -his fork in one hand and his knife in the other; when he once got -started his wolf-hunger got the better of him, and he did not stop for -breath until he had cleared every plate. “Gee whiz!” said the other, -who had been watching him in wonder. - -Then he held Jurgis the bottle. “Lessee you drink now,” he said; and -Jurgis took the bottle and turned it up to his mouth, and a wonderfully -unearthly liquid ecstasy poured down his throat, tickling every nerve -of him, thrilling him with joy. He drank the very last drop of it, and -then he gave vent to a long-drawn “Ah!” - -“Good stuff, hey?” said Freddie, sympathetically; he had leaned back in -the big chair, putting his arm behind his head and gazing at Jurgis. - -And Jurgis gazed back at him. He was clad in spotless evening dress, -was Freddie, and looked very handsome—he was a beautiful boy, with -light golden hair and the head of an Antinous. He smiled at Jurgis -confidingly, and then started talking again, with his blissful -_insouciance_. This time he talked for ten minutes at a stretch, and in -the course of the speech he told Jurgis all of his family history. His -big brother Charlie was in love with the guileless maiden who played -the part of “Little Bright-Eyes” in “The Kaliph of Kamskatka.” He had -been on the verge of marrying her once, only “the guv’ner” had sworn to -disinherit him, and had presented him with a sum that would stagger the -imagination, and that had staggered the virtue of “Little Bright-Eyes.” -Now Charlie had got leave from college, and had gone away in his -automobile on the next best thing to a honeymoon. “The guv’ner” had -made threats to disinherit another of his children also, sister -Gwendolen, who had married an Italian marquis with a string of titles -and a dueling record. They lived in his chateau, or rather had, until -he had taken to firing the breakfast dishes at her; then she had cabled -for help, and the old gentleman had gone over to find out what were his -Grace’s terms. So they had left Freddie all alone, and he with less -than two thousand dollars in his pocket. Freddie was up in arms and -meant serious business, as they would find in the end—if there was no -other way of bringing them to terms he would have his “Kittens” wire -that she was about to marry him, and see what happened then. - -So the cheerful youngster rattled on, until he was tired out. He smiled -his sweetest smile at Jurgis, and then he closed his eyes, sleepily. -Then he opened them again, and smiled once more, and finally closed -them and forgot to open them. - -For several minutes Jurgis sat perfectly motionless, watching him, and -reveling in the strange sensation of the champagne. Once he stirred, -and the dog growled; after that he sat almost holding his breath—until -after a while the door of the room opened softly, and the butler came -in. - -He walked toward Jurgis upon tiptoe, scowling at him; and Jurgis rose -up, and retreated, scowling back. So until he was against the wall, and -then the butler came close, and pointed toward the door. “Get out of -here!” he whispered. - -Jurgis hesitated, giving a glance at Freddie, who was snoring softly. -“If you do, you son of a—” hissed the butler, “I’ll mash in your face -for you before you get out of here!” - -And Jurgis wavered but an instant more. He saw “Admiral Dewey” coming -up behind the man and growling softly, to back up his threats. Then he -surrendered and started toward the door. - -They went out without a sound, and down the great echoing staircase, -and through the dark hall. At the front door he paused, and the butler -strode close to him. - -“Hold up your hands,” he snarled. Jurgis took a step back, clinching -his one well fist. - -“What for?” he cried; and then understanding that the fellow proposed -to search him, he answered, “I’ll see you in hell first.” - -“Do you want to go to jail?” demanded the butler, menacingly. “I’ll -have the police—” - -“Have ’em!” roared Jurgis, with fierce passion. “But you won’t put your -hands on me till you do! I haven’t touched anything in your damned -house, and I’ll not have you touch me!” - -So the butler, who was terrified lest his young master should waken, -stepped suddenly to the door, and opened it. “Get out of here!” he -said; and then as Jurgis passed through the opening, he gave him a -ferocious kick that sent him down the great stone steps at a run, and -landed him sprawling in the snow at the bottom. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - - -Jurgis got up, wild with rage, but the door was shut and the great -castle was dark and impregnable. Then the icy teeth of the blast bit -into him, and he turned and went away at a run. - -When he stopped again it was because he was coming to frequented -streets and did not wish to attract attention. In spite of that last -humiliation, his heart was thumping fast with triumph. He had come out -ahead on that deal! He put his hand into his trousers’ pocket every now -and then, to make sure that the precious hundred-dollar bill was still -there. - -Yet he was in a plight—a curious and even dreadful plight, when he came -to realize it. He had not a single cent but that one bill! And he had -to find some shelter that night he had to change it! - -Jurgis spent half an hour walking and debating the problem. There was -no one he could go to for help—he had to manage it all alone. To get it -changed in a lodging-house would be to take his life in his hands—he -would almost certainly be robbed, and perhaps murdered, before morning. -He might go to some hotel or railroad depot and ask to have it changed; -but what would they think, seeing a “bum” like him with a hundred -dollars? He would probably be arrested if he tried it; and what story -could he tell? On the morrow Freddie Jones would discover his loss, and -there would be a hunt for him, and he would lose his money. The only -other plan he could think of was to try in a saloon. He might pay them -to change it, if it could not be done otherwise. - -He began peering into places as he walked; he passed several as being -too crowded—then finally, chancing upon one where the bartender was all -alone, he gripped his hands in sudden resolution and went in. - -“Can you change me a hundred-dollar bill?” he demanded. - -The bartender was a big, husky fellow, with the jaw of a prize fighter, -and a three weeks’ stubble of hair upon it. He stared at Jurgis. -“What’s that youse say?” he demanded. - -“I said, could you change me a hundred-dollar bill?” - -“Where’d youse get it?” he inquired incredulously. - -“Never mind,” said Jurgis; “I’ve got it, and I want it changed. I’ll -pay you if you’ll do it.” - -The other stared at him hard. “Lemme see it,” he said. - -“Will you change it?” Jurgis demanded, gripping it tightly in his -pocket. - -“How the hell can I know if it’s good or not?” retorted the bartender. -“Whatcher take me for, hey?” - -Then Jurgis slowly and warily approached him; he took out the bill, and -fumbled it for a moment, while the man stared at him with hostile eyes -across the counter. Then finally he handed it over. - -The other took it, and began to examine it; he smoothed it between his -fingers, and held it up to the light; he turned it over, and upside -down, and edgeways. It was new and rather stiff, and that made him -dubious. Jurgis was watching him like a cat all the time. - -“Humph,” he said, finally, and gazed at the stranger, sizing him up—a -ragged, ill-smelling tramp, with no overcoat and one arm in a sling—and -a hundred-dollar bill! “Want to buy anything?” he demanded. - -“Yes,” said Jurgis, “I’ll take a glass of beer.” - -“All right,” said the other, “I’ll change it.” And he put the bill in -his pocket, and poured Jurgis out a glass of beer, and set it on the -counter. Then he turned to the cash register, and punched up five -cents, and began to pull money out of the drawer. Finally, he faced -Jurgis, counting it out—two dimes, a quarter, and fifty cents. “There,” -he said. - -For a second Jurgis waited, expecting to see him turn again. “My -ninety-nine dollars,” he said. - -“What ninety-nine dollars?” demanded the bartender. - -“My change!” he cried—“the rest of my hundred!” - -“Go on,” said the bartender, “you’re nutty!” - -And Jurgis stared at him with wild eyes. For an instant horror reigned -in him—black, paralyzing, awful horror, clutching him at the heart; and -then came rage, in surging, blinding floods—he screamed aloud, and -seized the glass and hurled it at the other’s head. The man ducked, and -it missed him by half an inch; he rose again and faced Jurgis, who was -vaulting over the bar with his one well arm, and dealt him a smashing -blow in the face, hurling him backward upon the floor. Then, as Jurgis -scrambled to his feet again and started round the counter after him, he -shouted at the top of his voice, “Help! help!” - -Jurgis seized a bottle off the counter as he ran; and as the bartender -made a leap he hurled the missile at him with all his force. It just -grazed his head, and shivered into a thousand pieces against the post -of the door. Then Jurgis started back, rushing at the man again in the -middle of the room. This time, in his blind frenzy, he came without a -bottle, and that was all the bartender wanted—he met him halfway and -floored him with a sledgehammer drive between the eyes. An instant -later the screen doors flew open, and two men rushed in—just as Jurgis -was getting to his feet again, foaming at the mouth with rage, and -trying to tear his broken arm out of its bandages. - -“Look out!” shouted the bartender. “He’s got a knife!” Then, seeing -that the two were disposed to join the fray, he made another rush at -Jurgis, and knocked aside his feeble defense and sent him tumbling -again; and the three flung themselves upon him, rolling and kicking -about the place. - -A second later a policeman dashed in, and the bartender yelled once -more—“Look out for his knife!” Jurgis had fought himself half to his -knees, when the policeman made a leap at him, and cracked him across -the face with his club. Though the blow staggered him, the wild-beast -frenzy still blazed in him, and he got to his feet, lunging into the -air. Then again the club descended, full upon his head, and he dropped -like a log to the floor. - -The policeman crouched over him, clutching his stick, waiting for him -to try to rise again; and meantime the barkeeper got up, and put his -hand to his head. “Christ!” he said, “I thought I was done for that -time. Did he cut me?” - -“Don’t see anything, Jake,” said the policeman. “What’s the matter with -him?” - -“Just crazy drunk,” said the other. “A lame duck, too—but he ’most got -me under the bar. Youse had better call the wagon, Billy.” - -“No,” said the officer. “He’s got no more fight in him, I guess—and -he’s only got a block to go.” He twisted his hand in Jurgis’s collar -and jerked at him. “Git up here, you!” he commanded. - -But Jurgis did not move, and the bartender went behind the bar, and -after stowing the hundred-dollar bill away in a safe hiding place, came -and poured a glass of water over Jurgis. Then, as the latter began to -moan feebly, the policeman got him to his feet and dragged him out of -the place. The station house was just around the corner, and so in a -few minutes Jurgis was in a cell. - -He spent half the night lying unconscious, and the balance moaning in -torment, with a blinding headache and a racking thirst. Now and then he -cried aloud for a drink of water, but there was no one to hear him. -There were others in that same station house with split heads and a -fever; there were hundreds of them in the great city, and tens of -thousands of them in the great land, and there was no one to hear any -of them. - -In the morning Jurgis was given a cup of water and a piece of bread, -and then hustled into a patrol wagon and driven to the nearest police -court. He sat in the pen with a score of others until his turn came. - -The bartender—who proved to be a well-known bruiser—was called to the -stand. He took the oath and told his story. The prisoner had come into -his saloon after midnight, fighting drunk, and had ordered a glass of -beer and tendered a dollar bill in payment. He had been given -ninety-five cents’ change, and had demanded ninety-nine dollars more, -and before the plaintiff could even answer had hurled the glass at him -and then attacked him with a bottle of bitters, and nearly wrecked the -place. - -Then the prisoner was sworn—a forlorn object, haggard and unshorn, with -an arm done up in a filthy bandage, a cheek and head cut, and bloody, -and one eye purplish black and entirely closed. “What have you to say -for yourself?” queried the magistrate. - -“Your Honor,” said Jurgis, “I went into his place and asked the man if -he could change me a hundred-dollar bill. And he said he would if I -bought a drink. I gave him the bill and then he wouldn’t give me the -change.” - -The magistrate was staring at him in perplexity. “You gave him a -hundred-dollar bill!” he exclaimed. - -“Yes, your Honor,” said Jurgis. - -“Where did you get it?” - -“A man gave it to me, your Honor.” - -“A man? What man, and what for?” - -“A young man I met upon the street, your Honor. I had been begging.” - -There was a titter in the courtroom; the officer who was holding Jurgis -put up his hand to hide a smile, and the magistrate smiled without -trying to hide it. “It’s true, your Honor!” cried Jurgis, passionately. - -“You had been drinking as well as begging last night, had you not?” -inquired the magistrate. “No, your Honor—” protested Jurgis. “I—” - -“You had not had anything to drink?” - -“Why, yes, your Honor, I had—” - -“What did you have?” - -“I had a bottle of something—I don’t know what it was—something that -burned—” - -There was again a laugh round the courtroom, stopping suddenly as the -magistrate looked up and frowned. “Have you ever been arrested before?” -he asked abruptly. - -The question took Jurgis aback. “I—I—” he stammered. - -“Tell me the truth, now!” commanded the other, sternly. - -“Yes, your Honor,” said Jurgis. - -“How often?” - -“Only once, your Honor.” - -“What for?” - -“For knocking down my boss, your Honor. I was working in the -stockyards, and he—” - -“I see,” said his Honor; “I guess that will do. You ought to stop -drinking if you can’t control yourself. Ten days and costs. Next case.” - -Jurgis gave vent to a cry of dismay, cut off suddenly by the policeman, -who seized him by the collar. He was jerked out of the way, into a room -with the convicted prisoners, where he sat and wept like a child in his -impotent rage. It seemed monstrous to him that policemen and judges -should esteem his word as nothing in comparison with the -bartender’s—poor Jurgis could not know that the owner of the saloon -paid five dollars each week to the policeman alone for Sunday -privileges and general favors—nor that the pugilist bartender was one -of the most trusted henchmen of the Democratic leader of the district, -and had helped only a few months before to hustle out a record-breaking -vote as a testimonial to the magistrate, who had been made the target -of odious kid-gloved reformers. - -Jurgis was driven out to the Bridewell for the second time. In his -tumbling around he had hurt his arm again, and so could not work, but -had to be attended by the physician. Also his head and his eye had to -be tied up—and so he was a pretty-looking object when, the second day -after his arrival, he went out into the exercise court and -encountered—Jack Duane! - -The young fellow was so glad to see Jurgis that he almost hugged him. -“By God, if it isn’t ‘the Stinker’!” he cried. “And what is it—have you -been through a sausage machine?” - -“No,” said Jurgis, “but I’ve been in a railroad wreck and a fight.” And -then, while some of the other prisoners gathered round he told his wild -story; most of them were incredulous, but Duane knew that Jurgis could -never have made up such a yarn as that. - -“Hard luck, old man,” he said, when they were alone; “but maybe it’s -taught you a lesson.” - -“I’ve learned some things since I saw you last,” said Jurgis -mournfully. Then he explained how he had spent the last summer, -“hoboing it,” as the phrase was. “And you?” he asked finally. “Have you -been here ever since?” - -“Lord, no!” said the other. “I only came in the day before yesterday. -It’s the second time they’ve sent me up on a trumped-up charge—I’ve had -hard luck and can’t pay them what they want. Why don’t you quit Chicago -with me, Jurgis?” - -“I’ve no place to go,” said Jurgis, sadly. - -“Neither have I,” replied the other, laughing lightly. “But we’ll wait -till we get out and see.” - -In the Bridewell Jurgis met few who had been there the last time, but -he met scores of others, old and young, of exactly the same sort. It -was like breakers upon a beach; there was new water, but the wave -looked just the same. He strolled about and talked with them, and the -biggest of them told tales of their prowess, while those who were -weaker, or younger and inexperienced, gathered round and listened in -admiring silence. The last time he was there, Jurgis had thought of -little but his family; but now he was free to listen to these men, and -to realize that he was one of them—that their point of view was his -point of view, and that the way they kept themselves alive in the world -was the way he meant to do it in the future. - -And so, when he was turned out of prison again, without a penny in his -pocket, he went straight to Jack Duane. He went full of humility and -gratitude; for Duane was a gentleman, and a man with a profession—and -it was remarkable that he should be willing to throw in his lot with a -humble workingman, one who had even been a beggar and a tramp. Jurgis -could not see what help he could be to him; but he did not understand -that a man like himself—who could be trusted to stand by any one who -was kind to him—was as rare among criminals as among any other class of -men. - -The address Jurgis had was a garret room in the Ghetto district, the -home of a pretty little French girl, Duane’s mistress, who sewed all -day, and eked out her living by prostitution. He had gone elsewhere, -she told Jurgis—he was afraid to stay there now, on account of the -police. The new address was a cellar dive, whose proprietor said that -he had never heard of Duane; but after he had put Jurgis through a -catechism he showed him a back stairs which led to a “fence” in the -rear of a pawnbroker’s shop, and thence to a number of assignation -rooms, in one of which Duane was hiding. - -Duane was glad to see him; he was without a cent of money, he said, and -had been waiting for Jurgis to help him get some. He explained his -plan—in fact he spent the day in laying bare to his friend the criminal -world of the city, and in showing him how he might earn himself a -living in it. That winter he would have a hard time, on account of his -arm, and because of an unwonted fit of activity of the police; but so -long as he was unknown to them he would be safe if he were careful. -Here at “Papa” Hanson’s (so they called the old man who kept the dive) -he might rest at ease, for “Papa” Hanson was “square”—would stand by -him so long as he paid, and gave him an hour’s notice if there were to -be a police raid. Also Rosensteg, the pawnbroker, would buy anything he -had for a third of its value, and guarantee to keep it hidden for a -year. - -There was an oil stove in the little cupboard of a room, and they had -some supper; and then about eleven o’clock at night they sallied forth -together, by a rear entrance to the place, Duane armed with a -slingshot. They came to a residence district, and he sprang up a -lamppost and blew out the light, and then the two dodged into the -shelter of an area step and hid in silence. - -Pretty soon a man came by, a workingman—and they let him go. Then after -a long interval came the heavy tread of a policeman, and they held -their breath till he was gone. Though half-frozen, they waited a full -quarter of an hour after that—and then again came footsteps, walking -briskly. Duane nudged Jurgis, and the instant the man had passed they -rose up. Duane stole out as silently as a shadow, and a second later -Jurgis heard a thud and a stifled cry. He was only a couple of feet -behind, and he leaped to stop the man’s mouth, while Duane held him -fast by the arms, as they had agreed. But the man was limp and showed a -tendency to fall, and so Jurgis had only to hold him by the collar, -while the other, with swift fingers, went through his pockets—ripping -open, first his overcoat, and then his coat, and then his vest, -searching inside and outside, and transferring the contents into his -own pockets. At last, after feeling of the man’s fingers and in his -necktie, Duane whispered, “That’s all!” and they dragged him to the -area and dropped him in. Then Jurgis went one way and his friend the -other, walking briskly. - -The latter arrived first, and Jurgis found him examining the “swag.” -There was a gold watch, for one thing, with a chain and locket; there -was a silver pencil, and a matchbox, and a handful of small change, and -finally a card-case. This last Duane opened feverishly—there were -letters and checks, and two theater-tickets, and at last, in the back -part, a wad of bills. He counted them—there was a twenty, five tens, -four fives, and three ones. Duane drew a long breath. “That lets us -out!” he said. - -After further examination, they burned the card-case and its contents, -all but the bills, and likewise the picture of a little girl in the -locket. Then Duane took the watch and trinkets downstairs, and came -back with sixteen dollars. “The old scoundrel said the case was -filled,” he said. “It’s a lie, but he knows I want the money.” - -They divided up the spoils, and Jurgis got as his share fifty-five -dollars and some change. He protested that it was too much, but the -other had agreed to divide even. That was a good haul, he said, better -than average. - -When they got up in the morning, Jurgis was sent out to buy a paper; -one of the pleasures of committing a crime was the reading about it -afterward. “I had a pal that always did it,” Duane remarked, -laughing—“until one day he read that he had left three thousand dollars -in a lower inside pocket of his party’s vest!” - -There was a half-column account of the robbery—it was evident that a -gang was operating in the neighborhood, said the paper, for it was the -third within a week, and the police were apparently powerless. The -victim was an insurance agent, and he had lost a hundred and ten -dollars that did not belong to him. He had chanced to have his name -marked on his shirt, otherwise he would not have been identified yet. -His assailant had hit him too hard, and he was suffering from -concussion of the brain; and also he had been half-frozen when found, -and would lose three fingers on his right hand. The enterprising -newspaper reporter had taken all this information to his family, and -told how they had received it. - -Since it was Jurgis’s first experience, these details naturally caused -him some worriment; but the other laughed coolly—it was the way of the -game, and there was no helping it. Before long Jurgis would think no -more of it than they did in the yards of knocking out a bullock. “It’s -a case of us or the other fellow, and I say the other fellow, every -time,” he observed. - -“Still,” said Jurgis, reflectively, “he never did us any harm.” - -“He was doing it to somebody as hard as he could, you can be sure of -that,” said his friend. - -Duane had already explained to Jurgis that if a man of their trade were -known he would have to work all the time to satisfy the demands of the -police. Therefore it would be better for Jurgis to stay in hiding and -never be seen in public with his pal. But Jurgis soon got very tired of -staying in hiding. In a couple of weeks he was feeling strong and -beginning to use his arm, and then he could not stand it any longer. -Duane, who had done a job of some sort by himself, and made a truce -with the powers, brought over Marie, his little French girl, to share -with him; but even that did not avail for long, and in the end he had -to give up arguing, and take Jurgis out and introduce him to the -saloons and “sporting houses” where the big crooks and “holdup men” -hung out. - -And so Jurgis got a glimpse of the high-class criminal world of -Chicago. The city, which was owned by an oligarchy of business men, -being nominally ruled by the people, a huge army of graft was necessary -for the purpose of effecting the transfer of power. Twice a year, in -the spring and fall elections, millions of dollars were furnished by -the business men and expended by this army; meetings were held and -clever speakers were hired, bands played and rockets sizzled, tons of -documents and reservoirs of drinks were distributed, and tens of -thousands of votes were bought for cash. And this army of graft had, of -course, to be maintained the year round. The leaders and organizers -were maintained by the business men directly—aldermen and legislators -by means of bribes, party officials out of the campaign funds, -lobbyists and corporation lawyers in the form of salaries, contractors -by means of jobs, labor union leaders by subsidies, and newspaper -proprietors and editors by advertisements. The rank and file, however, -were either foisted upon the city, or else lived off the population -directly. There was the police department, and the fire and water -departments, and the whole balance of the civil list, from the meanest -office boy to the head of a city department; and for the horde who -could find no room in these, there was the world of vice and crime, -there was license to seduce, to swindle and plunder and prey. The law -forbade Sunday drinking; and this had delivered the saloon-keepers into -the hands of the police, and made an alliance between them necessary. -The law forbade prostitution; and this had brought the “madames” into -the combination. It was the same with the gambling-house keeper and the -poolroom man, and the same with any other man or woman who had a means -of getting “graft,” and was willing to pay over a share of it: the -green-goods man and the highwayman, the pickpocket and the sneak thief, -and the receiver of stolen goods, the seller of adulterated milk, of -stale fruit and diseased meat, the proprietor of unsanitary tenements, -the fake doctor and the usurer, the beggar and the “pushcart man,” the -prize fighter and the professional slugger, the race-track “tout,” the -procurer, the white-slave agent, and the expert seducer of young girls. -All of these agencies of corruption were banded together, and leagued -in blood brotherhood with the politician and the police; more often -than not they were one and the same person,—the police captain would -own the brothel he pretended to raid, the politician would open his -headquarters in his saloon. “Hinkydink” or “Bathhouse John,” or others -of that ilk, were proprietors of the most notorious dives in Chicago, -and also the “gray wolves” of the city council, who gave away the -streets of the city to the business men; and those who patronized their -places were the gamblers and prize fighters who set the law at -defiance, and the burglars and holdup men who kept the whole city in -terror. On election day all these powers of vice and crime were one -power; they could tell within one per cent what the vote of their -district would be, and they could change it at an hour’s notice. - -A month ago Jurgis had all but perished of starvation upon the streets; -and now suddenly, as by the gift of a magic key, he had entered into a -world where money and all the good things of life came freely. He was -introduced by his friend to an Irishman named “Buck” Halloran, who was -a political “worker” and on the inside of things. This man talked with -Jurgis for a while, and then told him that he had a little plan by -which a man who looked like a workingman might make some easy money; -but it was a private affair, and had to be kept quiet. Jurgis expressed -himself as agreeable, and the other took him that afternoon (it was -Saturday) to a place where city laborers were being paid off. The -paymaster sat in a little booth, with a pile of envelopes before him, -and two policemen standing by. Jurgis went, according to directions, -and gave the name of “Michael O’Flaherty,” and received an envelope, -which he took around the corner and delivered to Halloran, who was -waiting for him in a saloon. Then he went again; and gave the name of -“Johann Schmidt,” and a third time, and give the name of “Serge -Reminitsky.” Halloran had quite a list of imaginary workingmen, and -Jurgis got an envelope for each one. For this work he received five -dollars, and was told that he might have it every week, so long as he -kept quiet. As Jurgis was excellent at keeping quiet, he soon won the -trust of “Buck” Halloran, and was introduced to others as a man who -could be depended upon. - -This acquaintance was useful to him in another way, also before long -Jurgis made his discovery of the meaning of “pull,” and just why his -boss, Connor, and also the pugilist bartender, had been able to send -him to jail. One night there was given a ball, the “benefit” of -“One-eyed Larry,” a lame man who played the violin in one of the big -“high-class” houses of prostitution on Clark Street, and was a wag and -a popular character on the “Lêvée.” This ball was held in a big dance -hall, and was one of the occasions when the city’s powers of debauchery -gave themselves up to madness. Jurgis attended and got half insane with -drink, and began quarreling over a girl; his arm was pretty strong by -then, and he set to work to clean out the place, and ended in a cell in -the police station. The police station being crowded to the doors, and -stinking with “bums,” Jurgis did not relish staying there to sleep off -his liquor, and sent for Halloran, who called up the district leader -and had Jurgis bailed out by telephone at four o’clock in the morning. -When he was arraigned that same morning, the district leader had -already seen the clerk of the court and explained that Jurgis Rudkus -was a decent fellow, who had been indiscreet; and so Jurgis was fined -ten dollars and the fine was “suspended”—which meant that he did not -have to pay for it, and never would have to pay it, unless somebody -chose to bring it up against him in the future. - -Among the people Jurgis lived with now money was valued according to an -entirely different standard from that of the people of Packingtown; -yet, strange as it may seem, he did a great deal less drinking than he -had as a workingman. He had not the same provocations of exhaustion and -hopelessness; he had now something to work for, to struggle for. He -soon found that if he kept his wits about him, he would come upon new -opportunities; and being naturally an active man, he not only kept -sober himself, but helped to steady his friend, who was a good deal -fonder of both wine and women than he. - -One thing led to another. In the saloon where Jurgis met “Buck” -Halloran he was sitting late one night with Duane, when a “country -customer” (a buyer for an out-of-town merchant) came in, a little more -than half “piped.” There was no one else in the place but the -bartender, and as the man went out again Jurgis and Duane followed him; -he went round the corner, and in a dark place made by a combination of -the elevated railroad and an unrented building, Jurgis leaped forward -and shoved a revolver under his nose, while Duane, with his hat pulled -over his eyes, went through the man’s pockets with lightning fingers. -They got his watch and his “wad,” and were round the corner again and -into the saloon before he could shout more than once. The bartender, to -whom they had tipped the wink, had the cellar door open for them, and -they vanished, making their way by a secret entrance to a brothel next -door. From the roof of this there was access to three similar places -beyond. By means of these passages the customers of any one place could -be gotten out of the way, in case a falling out with the police chanced -to lead to a raid; and also it was necessary to have a way of getting a -girl out of reach in case of an emergency. Thousands of them came to -Chicago answering advertisements for “servants” and “factory hands,” -and found themselves trapped by fake employment agencies, and locked up -in a bawdy-house. It was generally enough to take all their clothes -away from them; but sometimes they would have to be “doped” and kept -prisoners for weeks; and meantime their parents might be telegraphing -the police, and even coming on to see why nothing was done. -Occasionally there was no way of satisfying them but to let them search -the place to which the girl had been traced. - -For his help in this little job, the bartender received twenty out of -the hundred and thirty odd dollars that the pair secured; and naturally -this put them on friendly terms with him, and a few days later he -introduced them to a little “sheeny” named Goldberger, one of the -“runners” of the “sporting house” where they had been hidden. After a -few drinks Goldberger began, with some hesitation, to narrate how he -had had a quarrel over his best girl with a professional “cardsharp,” -who had hit him in the jaw. The fellow was a stranger in Chicago, and -if he was found some night with his head cracked there would be no one -to care very much. Jurgis, who by this time would cheerfully have -cracked the heads of all the gamblers in Chicago, inquired what would -be coming to him; at which the Jew became still more confidential, and -said that he had some tips on the New Orleans races, which he got -direct from the police captain of the district, whom he had got out of -a bad scrape, and who “stood in” with a big syndicate of horse owners. -Duane took all this in at once, but Jurgis had to have the whole -race-track situation explained to him before he realized the importance -of such an opportunity. - -There was the gigantic Racing Trust. It owned the legislatures in every -state in which it did business; it even owned some of the big -newspapers, and made public opinion—there was no power in the land that -could oppose it unless, perhaps, it were the Poolroom Trust. It built -magnificent racing parks all over the country, and by means of enormous -purses it lured the people to come, and then it organized a gigantic -shell game, whereby it plundered them of hundreds of millions of -dollars every year. Horse racing had once been a sport, but nowadays it -was a business; a horse could be “doped” and doctored, undertrained or -overtrained; it could be made to fall at any moment—or its gait could -be broken by lashing it with the whip, which all the spectators would -take to be a desperate effort to keep it in the lead. There were scores -of such tricks; and sometimes it was the owners who played them and -made fortunes, sometimes it was the jockeys and trainers, sometimes it -was outsiders, who bribed them—but most of the time it was the chiefs -of the trust. Now for instance, they were having winter racing in New -Orleans and a syndicate was laying out each day’s program in advance, -and its agents in all the Northern cities were “milking” the poolrooms. -The word came by long-distance telephone in a cipher code, just a -little while before each race; and any man who could get the secret had -as good as a fortune. If Jurgis did not believe it, he could try it, -said the little Jew—let them meet at a certain house on the morrow and -make a test. Jurgis was willing, and so was Duane, and so they went to -one of the high-class poolrooms where brokers and merchants gambled -(with society women in a private room), and they put up ten dollars -each upon a horse called “Black Beldame,” a six to one shot, and won. -For a secret like that they would have done a good many sluggings—but -the next day Goldberger informed them that the offending gambler had -got wind of what was coming to him, and had skipped the town. - -There were ups and downs at the business; but there was always a -living, inside of a jail, if not out of it. Early in April the city -elections were due, and that meant prosperity for all the powers of -graft. Jurgis, hanging round in dives and gambling houses and brothels, -met with the heelers of both parties, and from their conversation he -came to understand all the ins and outs of the game, and to hear of a -number of ways in which he could make himself useful about election -time. “Buck” Halloran was a “Democrat,” and so Jurgis became a Democrat -also; but he was not a bitter one—the Republicans were good fellows, -too, and were to have a pile of money in this next campaign. At the -last election the Republicans had paid four dollars a vote to the -Democrats’ three; and “Buck” Halloran sat one night playing cards with -Jurgis and another man, who told how Halloran had been charged with the -job voting a “bunch” of thirty-seven newly landed Italians, and how he, -the narrator, had met the Republican worker who was after the very same -gang, and how the three had effected a bargain, whereby the Italians -were to vote half and half, for a glass of beer apiece, while the -balance of the fund went to the conspirators! - -Not long after this, Jurgis, wearying of the risks and vicissitudes of -miscellaneous crime, was moved to give up the career for that of a -politician. Just at this time there was a tremendous uproar being -raised concerning the alliance between the criminals and the police. -For the criminal graft was one in which the business men had no direct -part—it was what is called a “side line,” carried by the police. “Wide -open” gambling and debauchery made the city pleasing to “trade,” but -burglaries and holdups did not. One night it chanced that while Jack -Duane was drilling a safe in a clothing store he was caught red-handed -by the night watchman, and turned over to a policeman, who chanced to -know him well, and who took the responsibility of letting him make his -escape. Such a howl from the newspapers followed this that Duane was -slated for sacrifice, and barely got out of town in time. And just at -that juncture it happened that Jurgis was introduced to a man named -Harper whom he recognized as the night watchman at Brown’s, who had -been instrumental in making him an American citizen, the first year of -his arrival at the yards. The other was interested in the coincidence, -but did not remember Jurgis—he had handled too many “green ones” in his -time, he said. He sat in a dance hall with Jurgis and Halloran until -one or two in the morning, exchanging experiences. He had a long story -to tell of his quarrel with the superintendent of his department, and -how he was now a plain workingman, and a good union man as well. It was -not until some months afterward that Jurgis understood that the quarrel -with the superintendent had been prearranged, and that Harper was in -reality drawing a salary of twenty dollars a week from the packers for -an inside report of his union’s secret proceedings. The yards were -seething with agitation just then, said the man, speaking as a -unionist. The people of Packingtown had borne about all that they would -bear, and it looked as if a strike might begin any week. - -After this talk the man made inquiries concerning Jurgis, and a couple -of days later he came to him with an interesting proposition. He was -not absolutely certain, he said, but he thought that he could get him a -regular salary if he would come to Packingtown and do as he was told, -and keep his mouth shut. Harper—“Bush” Harper, he was called—was a -right-hand man of Mike Scully, the Democratic boss of the stockyards; -and in the coming election there was a peculiar situation. There had -come to Scully a proposition to nominate a certain rich brewer who -lived upon a swell boulevard that skirted the district, and who coveted -the big badge and the “honorable” of an alderman. The brewer was a Jew, -and had no brains, but he was harmless, and would put up a rare -campaign fund. Scully had accepted the offer, and then gone to the -Republicans with a proposition. He was not sure that he could manage -the “sheeny,” and he did not mean to take any chances with his -district; let the Republicans nominate a certain obscure but amiable -friend of Scully’s, who was now setting tenpins in the cellar of an -Ashland Avenue saloon, and he, Scully, would elect him with the -“sheeny’s” money, and the Republicans might have the glory, which was -more than they would get otherwise. In return for this the Republicans -would agree to put up no candidate the following year, when Scully -himself came up for reelection as the other alderman from the ward. To -this the Republicans had assented at once; but the hell of it was—so -Harper explained—that the Republicans were all of them fools—a man had -to be a fool to be a Republican in the stockyards, where Scully was -king. And they didn’t know how to work, and of course it would not do -for the Democratic workers, the noble redskins of the War Whoop League, -to support the Republican openly. The difficulty would not have been so -great except for another fact—there had been a curious development in -stockyards politics in the last year or two, a new party having leaped -into being. They were the Socialists; and it was a devil of a mess, -said “Bush” Harper. The one image which the word “Socialist” brought to -Jurgis was of poor little Tamoszius Kuszleika, who had called himself -one, and would go out with a couple of other men and a soap-box, and -shout himself hoarse on a street corner Saturday nights. Tamoszius had -tried to explain to Jurgis what it was all about, but Jurgis, who was -not of an imaginative turn, had never quite got it straight; at present -he was content with his companion’s explanation that the Socialists -were the enemies of American institutions—could not be bought, and -would not combine or make any sort of a “dicker.” Mike Scully was very -much worried over the opportunity which his last deal gave to them—the -stockyards Democrats were furious at the idea of a rich capitalist for -their candidate, and while they were changing they might possibly -conclude that a Socialist firebrand was preferable to a Republican bum. -And so right here was a chance for Jurgis to make himself a place in -the world, explained “Bush” Harper; he had been a union man, and he was -known in the yards as a workingman; he must have hundreds of -acquaintances, and as he had never talked politics with them he might -come out as a Republican now without exciting the least suspicion. -There were barrels of money for the use of those who could deliver the -goods; and Jurgis might count upon Mike Scully, who had never yet gone -back on a friend. Just what could he do? Jurgis asked, in some -perplexity, and the other explained in detail. To begin with, he would -have to go to the yards and work, and he mightn’t relish that; but he -would have what he earned, as well as the rest that came to him. He -would get active in the union again, and perhaps try to get an office, -as he, Harper, had; he would tell all his friends the good points of -Doyle, the Republican nominee, and the bad ones of the “sheeny”; and -then Scully would furnish a meeting place, and he would start the -“Young Men’s Republican Association,” or something of that sort, and -have the rich brewer’s best beer by the hogshead, and fireworks and -speeches, just like the War Whoop League. Surely Jurgis must know -hundreds of men who would like that sort of fun; and there would be the -regular Republican leaders and workers to help him out, and they would -deliver a big enough majority on election day. - -When he had heard all this explanation to the end, Jurgis demanded: -“But how can I get a job in Packingtown? I’m blacklisted.” - -At which “Bush” Harper laughed. “I’ll attend to that all right,” he -said. - -And the other replied, “It’s a go, then; I’m your man.” So Jurgis went -out to the stockyards again, and was introduced to the political lord -of the district, the boss of Chicago’s mayor. It was Scully who owned -the brick-yards and the dump and the ice pond—though Jurgis did not -know it. It was Scully who was to blame for the unpaved street in which -Jurgis’s child had been drowned; it was Scully who had put into office -the magistrate who had first sent Jurgis to jail; it was Scully who was -principal stockholder in the company which had sold him the ramshackle -tenement, and then robbed him of it. But Jurgis knew none of these -things—any more than he knew that Scully was but a tool and puppet of -the packers. To him Scully was a mighty power, the “biggest” man he had -ever met. - -He was a little, dried-up Irishman, whose hands shook. He had a brief -talk with his visitor, watching him with his ratlike eyes, and making -up his mind about him; and then he gave him a note to Mr. Harmon, one -of the head managers of Durham’s— - -“The bearer, Jurgis Rudkus, is a particular friend of mine, and I would -like you to find him a good place, for important reasons. He was once -indiscreet, but you will perhaps be so good as to overlook that.” - -Mr. Harmon looked up inquiringly when he read this. “What does he mean -by ‘indiscreet’?” he asked. - -“I was blacklisted, sir,” said Jurgis. - -At which the other frowned. “Blacklisted?” he said. “How do you mean?” -And Jurgis turned red with embarrassment. - -He had forgotten that a blacklist did not exist. “I—that is—I had -difficulty in getting a place,” he stammered. - -“What was the matter?” - -“I got into a quarrel with a foreman—not my own boss, sir—and struck -him.” - -“I see,” said the other, and meditated for a few moments. “What do you -wish to do?” he asked. - -“Anything, sir,” said Jurgis—“only I had a broken arm this winter, and -so I have to be careful.” - -“How would it suit you to be a night watchman?” - -“That wouldn’t do, sir. I have to be among the men at night.” - -“I see—politics. Well, would it suit you to trim hogs?” - -“Yes, sir,” said Jurgis. - -And Mr. Harmon called a timekeeper and said, “Take this man to Pat -Murphy and tell him to find room for him somehow.” - -And so Jurgis marched into the hog-killing room, a place where, in the -days gone by, he had come begging for a job. Now he walked jauntily, -and smiled to himself, seeing the frown that came to the boss’s face as -the timekeeper said, “Mr. Harmon says to put this man on.” It would -overcrowd his department and spoil the record he was trying to make—but -he said not a word except “All right.” - -And so Jurgis became a workingman once more; and straightway he sought -out his old friends, and joined the union, and began to “root” for -“Scotty” Doyle. Doyle had done him a good turn once, he explained, and -was really a bully chap; Doyle was a workingman himself, and would -represent the workingmen—why did they want to vote for a millionaire -“sheeny,” and what the hell had Mike Scully ever done for them that -they should back his candidates all the time? And meantime Scully had -given Jurgis a note to the Republican leader of the ward, and he had -gone there and met the crowd he was to work with. Already they had -hired a big hall, with some of the brewer’s money, and every night -Jurgis brought in a dozen new members of the “Doyle Republican -Association.” Pretty soon they had a grand opening night; and there was -a brass band, which marched through the streets, and fireworks and -bombs and red lights in front of the hall; and there was an enormous -crowd, with two overflow meetings—so that the pale and trembling -candidate had to recite three times over the little speech which one of -Scully’s henchmen had written, and which he had been a month learning -by heart. Best of all, the famous and eloquent Senator Spareshanks, -presidential candidate, rode out in an automobile to discuss the sacred -privileges of American citizenship, and protection and prosperity for -the American workingman. His inspiriting address was quoted to the -extent of half a column in all the morning newspapers, which also said -that it could be stated upon excellent authority that the unexpected -popularity developed by Doyle, the Republican candidate for alderman, -was giving great anxiety to Mr. Scully, the chairman of the Democratic -City Committee. - -The chairman was still more worried when the monster torchlight -procession came off, with the members of the Doyle Republican -Association all in red capes and hats, and free beer for every voter in -the ward—the best beer ever given away in a political campaign, as the -whole electorate testified. During this parade, and at innumerable -cart-tail meetings as well, Jurgis labored tirelessly. He did not make -any speeches—there were lawyers and other experts for that—but he -helped to manage things; distributing notices and posting placards and -bringing out the crowds; and when the show was on he attended to the -fireworks and the beer. Thus in the course of the campaign he handled -many hundreds of dollars of the Hebrew brewer’s money, administering it -with naïve and touching fidelity. Toward the end, however, he learned -that he was regarded with hatred by the rest of the “boys,” because he -compelled them either to make a poorer showing than he or to do without -their share of the pie. After that Jurgis did his best to please them, -and to make up for the time he had lost before he discovered the extra -bungholes of the campaign barrel. - -He pleased Mike Scully, also. On election morning he was out at four -o’clock, “getting out the vote”; he had a two-horse carriage to ride -in, and he went from house to house for his friends, and escorted them -in triumph to the polls. He voted half a dozen times himself, and voted -some of his friends as often; he brought bunch after bunch of the -newest foreigners—Lithuanians, Poles, Bohemians, Slovaks—and when he -had put them through the mill he turned them over to another man to -take to the next polling place. When Jurgis first set out, the captain -of the precinct gave him a hundred dollars, and three times in the -course of the day he came for another hundred, and not more than -twenty-five out of each lot got stuck in his own pocket. The balance -all went for actual votes, and on a day of Democratic landslides they -elected “Scotty” Doyle, the ex-tenpin setter, by nearly a thousand -plurality—and beginning at five o’clock in the afternoon, and ending at -three the next morning, Jurgis treated himself to a most unholy and -horrible “jag.” Nearly every one else in Packingtown did the same, -however, for there was universal exultation over this triumph of -popular government, this crushing defeat of an arrogant plutocrat by -the power of the common people. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - - -After the elections Jurgis stayed on in Packingtown and kept his job. -The agitation to break up the police protection of criminals was -continuing, and it seemed to him best to “lay low” for the present. He -had nearly three hundred dollars in the bank, and might have considered -himself entitled to a vacation; but he had an easy job, and force of -habit kept him at it. Besides, Mike Scully, whom he consulted, advised -him that something might “turn up” before long. - -Jurgis got himself a place in a boardinghouse with some congenial -friends. He had already inquired of Aniele, and learned that Elzbieta -and her family had gone downtown, and so he gave no further thought to -them. He went with a new set, now, young unmarried fellows who were -“sporty.” Jurgis had long ago cast off his fertilizer clothing, and -since going into politics he had donned a linen collar and a greasy red -necktie. He had some reason for thinking of his dress, for he was -making about eleven dollars a week, and two-thirds of it he might spend -upon his pleasures without ever touching his savings. - -Sometimes he would ride down-town with a party of friends to the cheap -theaters and the music halls and other haunts with which they were -familiar. Many of the saloons in Packingtown had pool tables, and some -of them bowling alleys, by means of which he could spend his evenings -in petty gambling. Also, there were cards and dice. One time Jurgis got -into a game on a Saturday night and won prodigiously, and because he -was a man of spirit he stayed in with the rest and the game continued -until late Sunday afternoon, and by that time he was “out” over twenty -dollars. On Saturday nights, also, a number of balls were generally -given in Packingtown; each man would bring his “girl” with him, paying -half a dollar for a ticket, and several dollars additional for drinks -in the course of the festivities, which continued until three or four -o’clock in the morning, unless broken up by fighting. During all this -time the same man and woman would dance together, half-stupefied with -sensuality and drink. - -Before long Jurgis discovered what Scully had meant by something -“turning up.” In May the agreement between the packers and the unions -expired, and a new agreement had to be signed. Negotiations were going -on, and the yards were full of talk of a strike. The old scale had -dealt with the wages of the skilled men only; and of the members of the -Meat Workers’ Union about two-thirds were unskilled men. In Chicago -these latter were receiving, for the most part, eighteen and a half -cents an hour, and the unions wished to make this the general wage for -the next year. It was not nearly so large a wage as it seemed—in the -course of the negotiations the union officers examined time checks to -the amount of ten thousand dollars, and they found that the highest -wages paid had been fourteen dollars a week, and the lowest two dollars -and five cents, and the average of the whole, six dollars and -sixty-five cents. And six dollars and sixty-five cents was hardly too -much for a man to keep a family on, considering the fact that the price -of dressed meat had increased nearly fifty per cent in the last five -years, while the price of “beef on the hoof” had decreased as much, it -would have seemed that the packers ought to be able to pay it; but the -packers were unwilling to pay it—they rejected the union demand, and to -show what their purpose was, a week or two after the agreement expired -they put down the wages of about a thousand men to sixteen and a half -cents, and it was said that old man Jones had vowed he would put them -to fifteen before he got through. There were a million and a half of -men in the country looking for work, a hundred thousand of them right -in Chicago; and were the packers to let the union stewards march into -their places and bind them to a contract that would lose them several -thousand dollars a day for a year? Not much! - -All this was in June; and before long the question was submitted to a -referendum in the unions, and the decision was for a strike. It was the -same in all the packing house cities; and suddenly the newspapers and -public woke up to face the gruesome spectacle of a meat famine. All -sorts of pleas for a reconsideration were made, but the packers were -obdurate; and all the while they were reducing wages, and heading off -shipments of cattle, and rushing in wagon-loads of mattresses and cots. -So the men boiled over, and one night telegrams went out from the union -headquarters to all the big packing centers—to St. Paul, South Omaha, -Sioux City, St. Joseph, Kansas City, East St. Louis, and New York—and -the next day at noon between fifty and sixty thousand men drew off -their working clothes and marched out of the factories, and the great -“Beef Strike” was on. - -Jurgis went to his dinner, and afterward he walked over to see Mike -Scully, who lived in a fine house, upon a street which had been -decently paved and lighted for his especial benefit. Scully had gone -into semi-retirement, and looked nervous and worried. “What do you -want?” he demanded, when he saw Jurgis. - -“I came to see if maybe you could get me a place during the strike,” -the other replied. - -And Scully knit his brows and eyed him narrowly. In that morning’s -papers Jurgis had read a fierce denunciation of the packers by Scully, -who had declared that if they did not treat their people better the -city authorities would end the matter by tearing down their plants. -Now, therefore, Jurgis was not a little taken aback when the other -demanded suddenly, “See here, Rudkus, why don’t you stick by your job?” - -Jurgis started. “Work as a scab?” he cried. - -“Why not?” demanded Scully. “What’s that to you?” - -“But—but—” stammered Jurgis. He had somehow taken it for granted that -he should go out with his union. “The packers need good men, and need -them bad,” continued the other, “and they’ll treat a man right that -stands by them. Why don’t you take your chance and fix yourself?” - -“But,” said Jurgis, “how could I ever be of any use to you—in -politics?” - -“You couldn’t be it anyhow,” said Scully, abruptly. - -“Why not?” asked Jurgis. - -“Hell, man!” cried the other. “Don’t you know you’re a Republican? And -do you think I’m always going to elect Republicans? My brewer has found -out already how we served him, and there is the deuce to pay.” - -Jurgis looked dumfounded. He had never thought of that aspect of it -before. “I could be a Democrat,” he said. - -“Yes,” responded the other, “but not right away; a man can’t change his -politics every day. And besides, I don’t need you—there’d be nothing -for you to do. And it’s a long time to election day, anyhow; and what -are you going to do meantime?” - -“I thought I could count on you,” began Jurgis. - -“Yes,” responded Scully, “so you could—I never yet went back on a -friend. But is it fair to leave the job I got you and come to me for -another? I have had a hundred fellows after me today, and what can I -do? I’ve put seventeen men on the city payroll to clean streets this -one week, and do you think I can keep that up forever? It wouldn’t do -for me to tell other men what I tell you, but you’ve been on the -inside, and you ought to have sense enough to see for yourself. What -have you to gain by a strike?” - -“I hadn’t thought,” said Jurgis. - -“Exactly,” said Scully, “but you’d better. Take my word for it, the -strike will be over in a few days, and the men will be beaten; and -meantime what you can get out of it will belong to you. Do you see?” - -And Jurgis saw. He went back to the yards, and into the workroom. The -men had left a long line of hogs in various stages of preparation, and -the foreman was directing the feeble efforts of a score or two of -clerks and stenographers and office boys to finish up the job and get -them into the chilling rooms. Jurgis went straight up to him and -announced, “I have come back to work, Mr. Murphy.” - -The boss’s face lighted up. “Good man!” he cried. “Come ahead!” - -“Just a moment,” said Jurgis, checking his enthusiasm. “I think I ought -to get a little more wages.” - -“Yes,” replied the other, “of course. What do you want?” - -Jurgis had debated on the way. His nerve almost failed him now, but he -clenched his hands. “I think I ought to have’ three dollars a day,” he -said. - -“All right,” said the other, promptly; and before the day was out our -friend discovered that the clerks and stenographers and office boys -were getting five dollars a day, and then he could have kicked himself! - -So Jurgis became one of the new “American heroes,” a man whose virtues -merited comparison with those of the martyrs of Lexington and Valley -Forge. The resemblance was not complete, of course, for Jurgis was -generously paid and comfortably clad, and was provided with a spring -cot and a mattress and three substantial meals a day; also he was -perfectly at ease, and safe from all peril of life and limb, save only -in the case that a desire for beer should lead him to venture outside -of the stockyards gates. And even in the exercise of this privilege he -was not left unprotected; a good part of the inadequate police force of -Chicago was suddenly diverted from its work of hunting criminals, and -rushed out to serve him. The police, and the strikers also, were -determined that there should be no violence; but there was another -party interested which was minded to the contrary—and that was the -press. On the first day of his life as a strikebreaker Jurgis quit work -early, and in a spirit of bravado he challenged three men of his -acquaintance to go outside and get a drink. They accepted, and went -through the big Halsted Street gate, where several policemen were -watching, and also some union pickets, scanning sharply those who -passed in and out. Jurgis and his companions went south on Halsted -Street; past the hotel, and then suddenly half a dozen men started -across the street toward them and proceeded to argue with them -concerning the error of their ways. As the arguments were not taken in -the proper spirit, they went on to threats; and suddenly one of them -jerked off the hat of one of the four and flung it over the fence. The -man started after it, and then, as a cry of “Scab!” was raised and a -dozen people came running out of saloons and doorways, a second man’s -heart failed him and he followed. Jurgis and the fourth stayed long -enough to give themselves the satisfaction of a quick exchange of -blows, and then they, too, took to their heels and fled back of the -hotel and into the yards again. Meantime, of course, policemen were -coming on a run, and as a crowd gathered other police got excited and -sent in a riot call. Jurgis knew nothing of this, but went back to -“Packers’ Avenue,” and in front of the “Central Time Station” he saw -one of his companions, breathless and wild with excitement, narrating -to an ever growing throng how the four had been attacked and surrounded -by a howling mob, and had been nearly torn to pieces. While he stood -listening, smiling cynically, several dapper young men stood by with -notebooks in their hands, and it was not more than two hours later that -Jurgis saw newsboys running about with armfuls of newspapers, printed -in red and black letters six inches high: - -VIOLENCE IN THE YARDS! STRIKEBREAKERS SURROUNDED BY FRENZIED MOB! - - -If he had been able to buy all of the newspapers of the United States -the next morning, he might have discovered that his beer-hunting -exploit was being perused by some two score millions of people, and had -served as a text for editorials in half the staid and solemn -business-men’s newspapers in the land. - -Jurgis was to see more of this as time passed. For the present, his -work being over, he was free to ride into the city, by a railroad -direct from the yards, or else to spend the night in a room where cots -had been laid in rows. He chose the latter, but to his regret, for all -night long gangs of strikebreakers kept arriving. As very few of the -better class of workingmen could be got for such work, these specimens -of the new American hero contained an assortment of the criminals and -thugs of the city, besides Negroes and the lowest foreigners—Greeks, -Roumanians, Sicilians, and Slovaks. They had been attracted more by the -prospect of disorder than by the big wages; and they made the night -hideous with singing and carousing, and only went to sleep when the -time came for them to get up to work. - -In the morning before Jurgis had finished his breakfast, “Pat” Murphy -ordered him to one of the superintendents, who questioned him as to his -experience in the work of the killing room. His heart began to thump -with excitement, for he divined instantly that his hour had come—that -he was to be a boss! - -Some of the foremen were union members, and many who were not had gone -out with the men. It was in the killing department that the packers had -been left most in the lurch, and precisely here that they could least -afford it; the smoking and canning and salting of meat might wait, and -all the by-products might be wasted—but fresh meats must be had, or the -restaurants and hotels and brownstone houses would feel the pinch, and -then “public opinion” would take a startling turn. - -An opportunity such as this would not come twice to a man; and Jurgis -seized it. Yes, he knew the work, the whole of it, and he could teach -it to others. But if he took the job and gave satisfaction he would -expect to keep it—they would not turn him off at the end of the strike? -To which the superintendent replied that he might safely trust Durham’s -for that—they proposed to teach these unions a lesson, and most of all -those foremen who had gone back on them. Jurgis would receive five -dollars a day during the strike, and twenty-five a week after it was -settled. - -So our friend got a pair of “slaughter pen” boots and “jeans,” and -flung himself at his task. It was a weird sight, there on the killing -beds—a throng of stupid black Negroes, and foreigners who could not -understand a word that was said to them, mixed with pale-faced, -hollow-chested bookkeepers and clerks, half-fainting for the tropical -heat and the sickening stench of fresh blood—and all struggling to -dress a dozen or two cattle in the same place where, twenty-four hours -ago, the old killing gang had been speeding, with their marvelous -precision, turning out four hundred carcasses every hour! - -The Negroes and the “toughs” from the Lêvée did not want to work, and -every few minutes some of them would feel obliged to retire and -recuperate. In a couple of days Durham and Company had electric fans up -to cool off the rooms for them, and even couches for them to rest on; -and meantime they could go out and find a shady corner and take a -“snooze,” and as there was no place for any one in particular, and no -system, it might be hours before their boss discovered them. As for the -poor office employees, they did their best, moved to it by terror; -thirty of them had been “fired” in a bunch that first morning for -refusing to serve, besides a number of women clerks and typewriters who -had declined to act as waitresses. - -It was such a force as this that Jurgis had to organize. He did his -best, flying here and there, placing them in rows and showing them the -tricks; he had never given an order in his life before, but he had -taken enough of them to know, and he soon fell into the spirit of it, -and roared and stormed like any old stager. He had not the most -tractable pupils, however. “See hyar, boss,” a big black “buck” would -begin, “ef you doan’ like de way Ah does dis job, you kin get somebody -else to do it.” Then a crowd would gather and listen, muttering -threats. After the first meal nearly all the steel knives had been -missing, and now every Negro had one, ground to a fine point, hidden in -his boots. - -There was no bringing order out of such a chaos, Jurgis soon -discovered; and he fell in with the spirit of the thing—there was no -reason why he should wear himself out with shouting. If hides and guts -were slashed and rendered useless there was no way of tracing it to any -one; and if a man lay off and forgot to come back there was nothing to -be gained by seeking him, for all the rest would quit in the meantime. -Everything went, during the strike, and the packers paid. Before long -Jurgis found that the custom of resting had suggested to some alert -minds the possibility of registering at more than one place and earning -more than one five dollars a day. When he caught a man at this he -“fired” him, but it chanced to be in a quiet corner, and the man -tendered him a ten-dollar bill and a wink, and he took them. Of course, -before long this custom spread, and Jurgis was soon making quite a good -income from it. - -In the face of handicaps such as these the packers counted themselves -lucky if they could kill off the cattle that had been crippled in -transit and the hogs that had developed disease. Frequently, in the -course of a two or three days’ trip, in hot weather and without water, -some hog would develop cholera, and die; and the rest would attack him -before he had ceased kicking, and when the car was opened there would -be nothing of him left but the bones. If all the hogs in this carload -were not killed at once, they would soon be down with the dread -disease, and there would be nothing to do but make them into lard. It -was the same with cattle that were gored and dying, or were limping -with broken bones stuck through their flesh—they must be killed, even -if brokers and buyers and superintendents had to take off their coats -and help drive and cut and skin them. And meantime, agents of the -packers were gathering gangs of Negroes in the country districts of the -far South, promising them five dollars a day and board, and being -careful not to mention there was a strike; already carloads of them -were on the way, with special rates from the railroads, and all traffic -ordered out of the way. Many towns and cities were taking advantage of -the chance to clear out their jails and workhouses—in Detroit the -magistrates would release every man who agreed to leave town within -twenty-four hours, and agents of the packers were in the courtrooms to -ship them right. And meantime trainloads of supplies were coming in for -their accommodation, including beer and whisky, so that they might not -be tempted to go outside. They hired thirty young girls in Cincinnati -to “pack fruit,” and when they arrived put them at work canning corned -beef, and put cots for them to sleep in a public hallway, through which -the men passed. As the gangs came in day and night, under the escort of -squads of police, they stowed away in unused workrooms and storerooms, -and in the car sheds, crowded so closely together that the cots -touched. In some places they would use the same room for eating and -sleeping, and at night the men would put their cots upon the tables, to -keep away from the swarms of rats. - -But with all their best efforts, the packers were demoralized. Ninety -per cent of the men had walked out; and they faced the task of -completely remaking their labor force—and with the price of meat up -thirty per cent, and the public clamoring for a settlement. They made -an offer to submit the whole question at issue to arbitration; and at -the end of ten days the unions accepted it, and the strike was called -off. It was agreed that all the men were to be re-employed within -forty-five days, and that there was to be “no discrimination against -union men.” - -This was an anxious time for Jurgis. If the men were taken back -“without discrimination,” he would lose his present place. He sought -out the superintendent, who smiled grimly and bade him “wait and see.” -Durham’s strikebreakers were few of them leaving. - -Whether or not the “settlement” was simply a trick of the packers to -gain time, or whether they really expected to break the strike and -cripple the unions by the plan, cannot be said; but that night there -went out from the office of Durham and Company a telegram to all the -big packing centers, “Employ no union leaders.” And in the morning, -when the twenty thousand men thronged into the yards, with their dinner -pails and working clothes, Jurgis stood near the door of the -hog-trimming room, where he had worked before the strike, and saw a -throng of eager men, with a score or two of policemen watching them; -and he saw a superintendent come out and walk down the line, and pick -out man after man that pleased him; and one after another came, and -there were some men up near the head of the line who were never -picked—they being the union stewards and delegates, and the men Jurgis -had heard making speeches at the meetings. Each time, of course, there -were louder murmurings and angrier looks. Over where the cattle -butchers were waiting, Jurgis heard shouts and saw a crowd, and he -hurried there. One big butcher, who was president of the Packing Trades -Council, had been passed over five times, and the men were wild with -rage; they had appointed a committee of three to go in and see the -superintendent, and the committee had made three attempts, and each -time the police had clubbed them back from the door. Then there were -yells and hoots, continuing until at last the superintendent came to -the door. “We all go back or none of us do!” cried a hundred voices. -And the other shook his fist at them, and shouted, “You went out of -here like cattle, and like cattle you’ll come back!” - -Then suddenly the big butcher president leaped upon a pile of stones -and yelled: “It’s off, boys. We’ll all of us quit again!” And so the -cattle butchers declared a new strike on the spot; and gathering their -members from the other plants, where the same trick had been played, -they marched down Packers’ Avenue, which was thronged with a dense mass -of workers, cheering wildly. Men who had already got to work on the -killing beds dropped their tools and joined them; some galloped here -and there on horseback, shouting the tidings, and within half an hour -the whole of Packingtown was on strike again, and beside itself with -fury. - -There was quite a different tone in Packingtown after this—the place -was a seething caldron of passion, and the “scab” who ventured into it -fared badly. There were one or two of these incidents each day, the -newspapers detailing them, and always blaming them upon the unions. Yet -ten years before, when there were no unions in Packingtown, there was a -strike, and national troops had to be called, and there were pitched -battles fought at night, by the light of blazing freight trains. -Packingtown was always a center of violence; in “Whisky Point,” where -there were a hundred saloons and one glue factory, there was always -fighting, and always more of it in hot weather. Any one who had taken -the trouble to consult the station house blotter would have found that -there was less violence that summer than ever before—and this while -twenty thousand men were out of work, and with nothing to do all day -but brood upon bitter wrongs. There was no one to picture the battle -the union leaders were fighting—to hold this huge army in rank, to keep -it from straggling and pillaging, to cheer and encourage and guide a -hundred thousand people, of a dozen different tongues, through six long -weeks of hunger and disappointment and despair. - -Meantime the packers had set themselves definitely to the task of -making a new labor force. A thousand or two of strikebreakers were -brought in every night, and distributed among the various plants. Some -of them were experienced workers,—butchers, salesmen, and managers from -the packers’ branch stores, and a few union men who had deserted from -other cities; but the vast majority were “green” Negroes from the -cotton districts of the far South, and they were herded into the -packing plants like sheep. There was a law forbidding the use of -buildings as lodginghouses unless they were licensed for the purpose, -and provided with proper windows, stairways, and fire escapes; but -here, in a “paint room,” reached only by an enclosed “chute,” a room -without a single window and only one door, a hundred men were crowded -upon mattresses on the floor. Up on the third story of the “hog house” -of Jones’s was a storeroom, without a window, into which they crowded -seven hundred men, sleeping upon the bare springs of cots, and with a -second shift to use them by day. And when the clamor of the public led -to an investigation into these conditions, and the mayor of the city -was forced to order the enforcement of the law, the packers got a judge -to issue an injunction forbidding him to do it! - -Just at this time the mayor was boasting that he had put an end to -gambling and prize fighting in the city; but here a swarm of -professional gamblers had leagued themselves with the police to fleece -the strikebreakers; and any night, in the big open space in front of -Brown’s, one might see brawny Negroes stripped to the waist and -pounding each other for money, while a howling throng of three or four -thousand surged about, men and women, young white girls from the -country rubbing elbows with big buck Negroes with daggers in their -boots, while rows of woolly heads peered down from every window of the -surrounding factories. The ancestors of these black people had been -savages in Africa; and since then they had been chattel slaves, or had -been held down by a community ruled by the traditions of slavery. Now -for the first time they were free—free to gratify every passion, free -to wreck themselves. They were wanted to break a strike, and when it -was broken they would be shipped away, and their present masters would -never see them again; and so whisky and women were brought in by the -carload and sold to them, and hell was let loose in the yards. Every -night there were stabbings and shootings; it was said that the packers -had blank permits, which enabled them to ship dead bodies from the city -without troubling the authorities. They lodged men and women on the -same floor; and with the night there began a saturnalia of -debauchery—scenes such as never before had been witnessed in America. -And as the women were the dregs from the brothels of Chicago, and the -men were for the most part ignorant country Negroes, the nameless -diseases of vice were soon rife; and this where food was being handled -which was sent out to every corner of the civilized world. - -The “Union Stockyards” were never a pleasant place; but now they were -not only a collection of slaughterhouses, but also the camping place of -an army of fifteen or twenty thousand human beasts. All day long the -blazing midsummer sun beat down upon that square mile of abominations: -upon tens of thousands of cattle crowded into pens whose wooden floors -stank and steamed contagion; upon bare, blistering, cinder-strewn -railroad tracks, and huge blocks of dingy meat factories, whose -labyrinthine passages defied a breath of fresh air to penetrate them; -and there were not merely rivers of hot blood, and car-loads of moist -flesh, and rendering vats and soap caldrons, glue factories and -fertilizer tanks, that smelt like the craters of hell—there were also -tons of garbage festering in the sun, and the greasy laundry of the -workers hung out to dry, and dining rooms littered with food and black -with flies, and toilet rooms that were open sewers. - -And then at night, when this throng poured out into the streets to -play—fighting, gambling, drinking and carousing, cursing and screaming, -laughing and singing, playing banjoes and dancing! They were worked in -the yards all the seven days of the week, and they had their prize -fights and crap games on Sunday nights as well; but then around the -corner one might see a bonfire blazing, and an old, gray-headed -Negress, lean and witchlike, her hair flying wild and her eyes blazing, -yelling and chanting of the fires of perdition and the blood of the -“Lamb,” while men and women lay down upon the ground and moaned and -screamed in convulsions of terror and remorse. - -Such were the stockyards during the strike; while the unions watched in -sullen despair, and the country clamored like a greedy child for its -food, and the packers went grimly on their way. Each day they added new -workers, and could be more stern with the old ones—could put them on -piecework, and dismiss them if they did not keep up the pace. Jurgis -was now one of their agents in this process; and he could feel the -change day by day, like the slow starting up of a huge machine. He had -gotten used to being a master of men; and because of the stifling heat -and the stench, and the fact that he was a “scab” and knew it and -despised himself. He was drinking, and developing a villainous temper, -and he stormed and cursed and raged at his men, and drove them until -they were ready to drop with exhaustion. - -Then one day late in August, a superintendent ran into the place and -shouted to Jurgis and his gang to drop their work and come. They -followed him outside, to where, in the midst of a dense throng, they -saw several two-horse trucks waiting, and three patrol-wagon loads of -police. Jurgis and his men sprang upon one of the trucks, and the -driver yelled to the crowd, and they went thundering away at a gallop. -Some steers had just escaped from the yards, and the strikers had got -hold of them, and there would be the chance of a scrap! - -They went out at the Ashland Avenue gate, and over in the direction of -the “dump.” There was a yell as soon as they were sighted, men and -women rushing out of houses and saloons as they galloped by. There were -eight or ten policemen on the truck, however, and there was no -disturbance until they came to a place where the street was blocked -with a dense throng. Those on the flying truck yelled a warning and the -crowd scattered pell-mell, disclosing one of the steers lying in its -blood. There were a good many cattle butchers about just then, with -nothing much to do, and hungry children at home; and so some one had -knocked out the steer—and as a first-class man can kill and dress one -in a couple of minutes, there were a good many steaks and roasts -already missing. This called for punishment, of course; and the police -proceeded to administer it by leaping from the truck and cracking at -every head they saw. There were yells of rage and pain, and the -terrified people fled into houses and stores, or scattered -helter-skelter down the street. Jurgis and his gang joined in the -sport, every man singling out his victim, and striving to bring him to -bay and punch him. If he fled into a house his pursuer would smash in -the flimsy door and follow him up the stairs, hitting every one who -came within reach, and finally dragging his squealing quarry from under -a bed or a pile of old clothes in a closet. - -Jurgis and two policemen chased some men into a bar-room. One of them -took shelter behind the bar, where a policeman cornered him and -proceeded to whack him over the back and shoulders, until he lay down -and gave a chance at his head. The others leaped a fence in the rear, -balking the second policeman, who was fat; and as he came back, furious -and cursing, a big Polish woman, the owner of the saloon, rushed in -screaming, and received a poke in the stomach that doubled her up on -the floor. Meantime Jurgis, who was of a practical temper, was helping -himself at the bar; and the first policeman, who had laid out his man, -joined him, handing out several more bottles, and filling his pockets -besides, and then, as he started to leave, cleaning off all the balance -with a sweep of his club. The din of the glass crashing to the floor -brought the fat Polish woman to her feet again, but another policeman -came up behind her and put his knee into her back and his hands over -her eyes—and then called to his companion, who went back and broke open -the cash drawer and filled his pockets with the contents. Then the -three went outside, and the man who was holding the woman gave her a -shove and dashed out himself. The gang having already got the carcass -on to the truck, the party set out at a trot, followed by screams and -curses, and a shower of bricks and stones from unseen enemies. These -bricks and stones would figure in the accounts of the “riot” which -would be sent out to a few thousand newspapers within an hour or two; -but the episode of the cash drawer would never be mentioned again, save -only in the heartbreaking legends of Packingtown. - -It was late in the afternoon when they got back, and they dressed out -the remainder of the steer, and a couple of others that had been -killed, and then knocked off for the day. Jurgis went downtown to -supper, with three friends who had been on the other trucks, and they -exchanged reminiscences on the way. Afterward they drifted into a -roulette parlor, and Jurgis, who was never lucky at gambling, dropped -about fifteen dollars. To console himself he had to drink a good deal, -and he went back to Packingtown about two o’clock in the morning, very -much the worse for his excursion, and, it must be confessed, entirely -deserving the calamity that was in store for him. - -As he was going to the place where he slept, he met a painted-cheeked -woman in a greasy “kimono,” and she put her arm about his waist to -steady him; they turned into a dark room they were passing—but scarcely -had they taken two steps before suddenly a door swung open, and a man -entered, carrying a lantern. “Who’s there?” he called sharply. And -Jurgis started to mutter some reply; but at the same instant the man -raised his light, which flashed in his face, so that it was possible to -recognize him. Jurgis stood stricken dumb, and his heart gave a leap -like a mad thing. The man was Connor! - -Connor, the boss of the loading gang! The man who had seduced his -wife—who had sent him to prison, and wrecked his home, ruined his life! -He stood there, staring, with the light shining full upon him. - -Jurgis had often thought of Connor since coming back to Packingtown, -but it had been as of something far off, that no longer concerned him. -Now, however, when he saw him, alive and in the flesh, the same thing -happened to him that had happened before—a flood of rage boiled up in -him, a blind frenzy seized him. And he flung himself at the man, and -smote him between the eyes—and then, as he fell, seized him by the -throat and began to pound his head upon the stones. - -The woman began screaming, and people came rushing in. The lantern had -been upset and extinguished, and it was so dark they could not see a -thing; but they could hear Jurgis panting, and hear the thumping of his -victim’s skull, and they rushed there and tried to pull him off. -Precisely as before, Jurgis came away with a piece of his enemy’s flesh -between his teeth; and, as before, he went on fighting with those who -had interfered with him, until a policeman had come and beaten him into -insensibility. - -And so Jurgis spent the balance of the night in the stockyards station -house. This time, however, he had money in his pocket, and when he came -to his senses he could get something to drink, and also a messenger to -take word of his plight to “Bush” Harper. Harper did not appear, -however, until after the prisoner, feeling very weak and ill, had been -hailed into court and remanded at five hundred dollars’ bail to await -the result of his victim’s injuries. Jurgis was wild about this, -because a different magistrate had chanced to be on the bench, and he -had stated that he had never been arrested before, and also that he had -been attacked first—and if only someone had been there to speak a good -word for him, he could have been let off at once. - -But Harper explained that he had been downtown, and had not got the -message. “What’s happened to you?” he asked. - -“I’ve been doing a fellow up,” said Jurgis, “and I’ve got to get five -hundred dollars’ bail.” - -“I can arrange that all right,” said the other—“though it may cost you -a few dollars, of course. But what was the trouble?” - -“It was a man that did me a mean trick once,” answered Jurgis. - -“Who is he?” - -“He’s a foreman in Brown’s or used to be. His name’s Connor.” - -And the other gave a start. “Connor!” he cried. “Not Phil Connor!” - -“Yes,” said Jurgis, “that’s the fellow. Why?” - -“Good God!” exclaimed the other, “then you’re in for it, old man! _I_ -can’t help you!” - -“Not help me! Why not?” - -“Why, he’s one of Scully’s biggest men—he’s a member of the War-Whoop -League, and they talked of sending him to the legislature! Phil Connor! -Great heavens!” - -Jurgis sat dumb with dismay. - -“Why, he can send you to Joliet, if he wants to!” declared the other. - -“Can’t I have Scully get me off before he finds out about it?” asked -Jurgis, at length. - -“But Scully’s out of town,” the other answered. “I don’t even know -where he is—he’s run away to dodge the strike.” - -That was a pretty mess, indeed. Poor Jurgis sat half-dazed. His pull -had run up against a bigger pull, and he was down and out! “But what am -I going to do?” he asked, weakly. - -“How should I know?” said the other. “I shouldn’t even dare to get bail -for you—why, I might ruin myself for life!” - -Again there was silence. “Can’t you do it for me,” Jurgis asked, “and -pretend that you didn’t know who I’d hit?” - -“But what good would that do you when you came to stand trial?” asked -Harper. Then he sat buried in thought for a minute or two. “There’s -nothing—unless it’s this,” he said. “I could have your bail reduced; -and then if you had the money you could pay it and skip.” - -“How much will it be?” Jurgis asked, after he had had this explained -more in detail. - -“I don’t know,” said the other. “How much do you own?” - -“I’ve got about three hundred dollars,” was the answer. - -“Well,” was Harper’s reply, “I’m not sure, but I’ll try and get you off -for that. I’ll take the risk for friendship’s sake—for I’d hate to see -you sent to state’s prison for a year or two.” - -And so finally Jurgis ripped out his bankbook—which was sewed up in his -trousers—and signed an order, which “Bush” Harper wrote, for all the -money to be paid out. Then the latter went and got it, and hurried to -the court, and explained to the magistrate that Jurgis was a decent -fellow and a friend of Scully’s, who had been attacked by a -strike-breaker. So the bail was reduced to three hundred dollars, and -Harper went on it himself; he did not tell this to Jurgis, however—nor -did he tell him that when the time for trial came it would be an easy -matter for him to avoid the forfeiting of the bail, and pocket the -three hundred dollars as his reward for the risk of offending Mike -Scully! All that he told Jurgis was that he was now free, and that the -best thing he could do was to clear out as quickly as possible; and so -Jurgis overwhelmed with gratitude and relief, took the dollar and -fourteen cents that was left him out of all his bank account, and put -it with the two dollars and quarter that was left from his last night’s -celebration, and boarded a streetcar and got off at the other end of -Chicago. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - - -Poor Jurgis was now an outcast and a tramp once more. He was -crippled—he was as literally crippled as any wild animal which has lost -its claws, or been torn out of its shell. He had been shorn, at one -cut, of all those mysterious weapons whereby he had been able to make a -living easily and to escape the consequences of his actions. He could -no longer command a job when he wanted it; he could no longer steal -with impunity—he must take his chances with the common herd. Nay worse, -he dared not mingle with the herd—he must hide himself, for he was one -marked out for destruction. His old companions would betray him, for -the sake of the influence they would gain thereby; and he would be made -to suffer, not merely for the offense he had committed, but for others -which would be laid at his door, just as had been done for some poor -devil on the occasion of that assault upon the “country customer” by -him and Duane. - -And also he labored under another handicap now. He had acquired new -standards of living, which were not easily to be altered. When he had -been out of work before, he had been content if he could sleep in a -doorway or under a truck out of the rain, and if he could get fifteen -cents a day for saloon lunches. But now he desired all sorts of other -things, and suffered because he had to do without them. He must have a -drink now and then, a drink for its own sake, and apart from the food -that came with it. The craving for it was strong enough to master every -other consideration—he would have it, though it were his last nickel -and he had to starve the balance of the day in consequence. - -Jurgis became once more a besieger of factory gates. But never since he -had been in Chicago had he stood less chance of getting a job than just -then. For one thing, there was the economic crisis, the million or two -of men who had been out of work in the spring and summer, and were not -yet all back, by any means. And then there was the strike, with seventy -thousand men and women all over the country idle for a couple of -months—twenty thousand in Chicago, and many of them now seeking work -throughout the city. It did not remedy matters that a few days later -the strike was given up and about half the strikers went back to work; -for every one taken on, there was a “scab” who gave up and fled. The -ten or fifteen thousand “green” Negroes, foreigners, and criminals were -now being turned loose to shift for themselves. Everywhere Jurgis went -he kept meeting them, and he was in an agony of fear lest some one of -them should know that he was “wanted.” He would have left Chicago, only -by the time he had realized his danger he was almost penniless; and it -would be better to go to jail than to be caught out in the country in -the winter time. - -At the end of about ten days Jurgis had only a few pennies left; and he -had not yet found a job—not even a day’s work at anything, not a chance -to carry a satchel. Once again, as when he had come out of the -hospital, he was bound hand and foot, and facing the grisly phantom of -starvation. Raw, naked terror possessed him, a maddening passion that -would never leave him, and that wore him down more quickly than the -actual want of food. He was going to die of hunger! The fiend reached -out its scaly arms for him—it touched him, its breath came into his -face; and he would cry out for the awfulness of it, he would wake up in -the night, shuddering, and bathed in perspiration, and start up and -flee. He would walk, begging for work, until he was exhausted; he could -not remain still—he would wander on, gaunt and haggard, gazing about -him with restless eyes. Everywhere he went, from one end of the vast -city to the other, there were hundreds of others like him; everywhere -was the sight of plenty and the merciless hand of authority waving them -away. There is one kind of prison where the man is behind bars, and -everything that he desires is outside; and there is another kind where -the things are behind the bars, and the man is outside. - -When he was down to his last quarter, Jurgis learned that before the -bakeshops closed at night they sold out what was left at half price, -and after that he would go and get two loaves of stale bread for a -nickel, and break them up and stuff his pockets with them, munching a -bit from time to time. He would not spend a penny save for this; and, -after two or three days more, he even became sparing of the bread, and -would stop and peer into the ash barrels as he walked along the -streets, and now and then rake out a bit of something, shake it free -from dust, and count himself just so many minutes further from the end. - -So for several days he had been going about, ravenous all the time, and -growing weaker and weaker, and then one morning he had a hideous -experience, that almost broke his heart. He was passing down a street -lined with warehouses, and a boss offered him a job, and then, after he -had started to work, turned him off because he was not strong enough. -And he stood by and saw another man put into his place, and then picked -up his coat, and walked off, doing all that he could to keep from -breaking down and crying like a baby. He was lost! He was doomed! There -was no hope for him! But then, with a sudden rush, his fear gave place -to rage. He fell to cursing. He would come back there after dark, and -he would show that scoundrel whether he was good for anything or not! - -He was still muttering this when suddenly, at the corner, he came upon -a green-grocery, with a tray full of cabbages in front of it. Jurgis, -after one swift glance about him, stooped and seized the biggest of -them, and darted round the corner with it. There was a hue and cry, and -a score of men and boys started in chase of him; but he came to an -alley, and then to another branching off from it and leading him into -another street, where he fell into a walk, and slipped his cabbage -under his coat and went off unsuspected in the crowd. When he had -gotten a safe distance away he sat down and devoured half the cabbage -raw, stowing the balance away in his pockets till the next day. - -Just about this time one of the Chicago newspapers, which made much of -the “common people,” opened a “free-soup kitchen” for the benefit of -the unemployed. Some people said that they did this for the sake of the -advertising it gave them, and some others said that their motive was a -fear lest all their readers should be starved off; but whatever the -reason, the soup was thick and hot, and there was a bowl for every man, -all night long. When Jurgis heard of this, from a fellow “hobo,” he -vowed that he would have half a dozen bowls before morning; but, as it -proved, he was lucky to get one, for there was a line of men two blocks -long before the stand, and there was just as long a line when the place -was finally closed up. - -This depot was within the danger line for Jurgis—in the “Lêvée” -district, where he was known; but he went there, all the same, for he -was desperate, and beginning to think of even the Bridewell as a place -of refuge. So far the weather had been fair, and he had slept out every -night in a vacant lot; but now there fell suddenly a shadow of the -advancing winter, a chill wind from the north and a driving storm of -rain. That day Jurgis bought two drinks for the sake of the shelter, -and at night he spent his last two pennies in a “stale-beer dive.” This -was a place kept by a Negro, who went out and drew off the old dregs of -beer that lay in barrels set outside of the saloons; and after he had -doctored it with chemicals to make it “fizz,” he sold it for two cents -a can, the purchase of a can including the privilege of sleeping the -night through upon the floor, with a mass of degraded outcasts, men and -women. - -All these horrors afflicted Jurgis all the more cruelly, because he was -always contrasting them with the opportunities he had lost. For -instance, just now it was election time again—within five or six weeks -the voters of the country would select a President; and he heard the -wretches with whom he associated discussing it, and saw the streets of -the city decorated with placards and banners—and what words could -describe the pangs of grief and despair that shot through him? - -For instance, there was a night during this cold spell. He had begged -all day, for his very life, and found not a soul to heed him, until -toward evening he saw an old lady getting off a streetcar and helped -her down with her umbrellas and bundles and then told her his -“hard-luck story,” and after answering all her suspicious questions -satisfactorily, was taken to a restaurant and saw a quarter paid down -for a meal. And so he had soup and bread, and boiled beef and potatoes -and beans, and pie and coffee, and came out with his skin stuffed tight -as a football. And then, through the rain and the darkness, far down -the street he saw red lights flaring and heard the thumping of a bass -drum; and his heart gave a leap, and he made for the place on the -run—knowing without the asking that it meant a political meeting. - -The campaign had so far been characterized by what the newspapers -termed “apathy.” For some reason the people refused to get excited over -the struggle, and it was almost impossible to get them to come to -meetings, or to make any noise when they did come. Those which had been -held in Chicago so far had proven most dismal failures, and tonight, -the speaker being no less a personage than a candidate for the -vice-presidency of the nation, the political managers had been -trembling with anxiety. But a merciful providence had sent this storm -of cold rain—and now all it was necessary to do was to set off a few -fireworks, and thump awhile on a drum, and all the homeless wretches -from a mile around would pour in and fill the hall! And then on the -morrow the newspapers would have a chance to report the tremendous -ovation, and to add that it had been no “silk-stocking” audience, -either, proving clearly that the high tariff sentiments of the -distinguished candidate were pleasing to the wage-earners of the -nation. - -So Jurgis found himself in a large hall, elaborately decorated with -flags and bunting; and after the chairman had made his little speech, -and the orator of the evening rose up, amid an uproar from the -band—only fancy the emotions of Jurgis upon making the discovery that -the personage was none other than the famous and eloquent Senator -Spareshanks, who had addressed the “Doyle Republican Association” at -the stockyards, and helped to elect Mike Scully’s tenpin setter to the -Chicago Board of Aldermen! - -In truth, the sight of the senator almost brought the tears into -Jurgis’s eyes. What agony it was to him to look back upon those golden -hours, when he, too, had a place beneath the shadow of the plum tree! -When he, too, had been of the elect, through whom the country is -governed—when he had had a bung in the campaign barrel for his own! And -this was another election in which the Republicans had all the money; -and but for that one hideous accident he might have had a share of it, -instead of being where he was! - -The eloquent senator was explaining the system of protection; an -ingenious device whereby the workingman permitted the manufacturer to -charge him higher prices, in order that he might receive higher wages; -thus taking his money out of his pocket with one hand, and putting a -part of it back with the other. To the senator this unique arrangement -had somehow become identified with the higher verities of the universe. -It was because of it that Columbia was the gem of the ocean; and all -her future triumphs, her power and good repute among the nations, -depended upon the zeal and fidelity with which each citizen held up the -hands of those who were toiling to maintain it. The name of this heroic -company was “the Grand Old Party”— - -And here the band began to play, and Jurgis sat up with a violent -start. Singular as it may seem, Jurgis was making a desperate effort to -understand what the senator was saying—to comprehend the extent of -American prosperity, the enormous expansion of American commerce, and -the Republic’s future in the Pacific and in South America, and wherever -else the oppressed were groaning. The reason for it was that he wanted -to keep awake. He knew that if he allowed himself to fall asleep he -would begin to snore loudly; and so he must listen—he must be -interested! But he had eaten such a big dinner, and he was so -exhausted, and the hall was so warm, and his seat was so comfortable! -The senator’s gaunt form began to grow dim and hazy, to tower before -him and dance about, with figures of exports and imports. Once his -neighbor gave him a savage poke in the ribs, and he sat up with a start -and tried to look innocent; but then he was at it again, and men began -to stare at him with annoyance, and to call out in vexation. Finally -one of them called a policeman, who came and grabbed Jurgis by the -collar, and jerked him to his feet, bewildered and terrified. Some of -the audience turned to see the commotion, and Senator Spareshanks -faltered in his speech; but a voice shouted cheerily: “We’re just -firing a bum! Go ahead, old sport!” And so the crowd roared, and the -senator smiled genially, and went on; and in a few seconds poor Jurgis -found himself landed out in the rain, with a kick and a string of -curses. - -He got into the shelter of a doorway and took stock of himself. He was -not hurt, and he was not arrested—more than he had any right to expect. -He swore at himself and his luck for a while, and then turned his -thoughts to practical matters. He had no money, and no place to sleep; -he must begin begging again. - -He went out, hunching his shoulders together and shivering at the touch -of the icy rain. Coming down the street toward him was a lady, well -dressed, and protected by an umbrella; and he turned and walked beside -her. “Please, ma’am,” he began, “could you lend me the price of a -night’s lodging? I’m a poor working-man—” - -Then, suddenly, he stopped short. By the light of a street lamp he had -caught sight of the lady’s face. He knew her. - -It was Alena Jasaityte, who had been the belle of his wedding feast! -Alena Jasaityte, who had looked so beautiful, and danced with such a -queenly air, with Juozas Raczius, the teamster! Jurgis had only seen -her once or twice afterward, for Juozas had thrown her over for another -girl, and Alena had gone away from Packingtown, no one knew where. And -now he met her here! - -She was as much surprised as he was. “Jurgis Rudkus!” she gasped. “And -what in the world is the matter with you?” - -“I—I’ve had hard luck,” he stammered. “I’m out of work, and I’ve no -home and no money. And you, Alena—are you married?” - -“No,” she answered, “I’m not married, but I’ve got a good place.” - -They stood staring at each other for a few moments longer. Finally -Alena spoke again. “Jurgis,” she said, “I’d help you if I could, upon -my word I would, but it happens that I’ve come out without my purse, -and I honestly haven’t a penny with me: I can do something better for -you, though—I can tell you how to get help. I can tell you where Marija -is.” - -Jurgis gave a start. “Marija!” he exclaimed. - -“Yes,” said Alena; “and she’ll help you. She’s got a place, and she’s -doing well; she’ll be glad to see you.” - -It was not much more than a year since Jurgis had left Packingtown, -feeling like one escaped from jail; and it had been from Marija and -Elzbieta that he was escaping. But now, at the mere mention of them, -his whole being cried out with joy. He wanted to see them; he wanted to -go home! They would help him—they would be kind to him. In a flash he -had thought over the situation. He had a good excuse for running -away—his grief at the death of his son; and also he had a good excuse -for not returning—the fact that they had left Packingtown. “All right,” -he said, “I’ll go.” - -So she gave him a number on Clark Street, adding, “There’s no need to -give you my address, because Marija knows it.” And Jurgis set out, -without further ado. He found a large brownstone house of aristocratic -appearance, and rang the basement bell. A young colored girl came to -the door, opening it about an inch, and gazing at him suspiciously. - -“What do you want?” she demanded. - -“Does Marija Berczynskas live here?” he inquired. - -“I dunno,” said the girl. “What you want wid her?” - -“I want to see her,” said he; “she’s a relative of mine.” - -The girl hesitated a moment. Then she opened the door and said, “Come -in.” Jurgis came and stood in the hall, and she continued: “I’ll go -see. What’s yo’ name?” - -“Tell her it’s Jurgis,” he answered, and the girl went upstairs. She -came back at the end of a minute or two, and replied, “Dey ain’t no -sich person here.” - -Jurgis’s heart went down into his boots. “I was told this was where she -lived!” he cried. But the girl only shook her head. “De lady says dey -ain’t no sich person here,” she said. - -And he stood for a moment, hesitating, helpless with dismay. Then he -turned to go to the door. At the same instant, however, there came a -knock upon it, and the girl went to open it. Jurgis heard the shuffling -of feet, and then heard her give a cry; and the next moment she sprang -back, and past him, her eyes shining white with terror, and bounded up -the stairway, screaming at the top of her lungs: “_Police! Police! -We’re pinched!_” - -Jurgis stood for a second, bewildered. Then, seeing blue-coated forms -rushing upon him, he sprang after the Negress. Her cries had been the -signal for a wild uproar above; the house was full of people, and as he -entered the hallway he saw them rushing hither and thither, crying and -screaming with alarm. There were men and women, the latter clad for the -most part in wrappers, the former in all stages of _déshabille_. At one -side Jurgis caught a glimpse of a big apartment with plush-covered -chairs, and tables covered with trays and glasses. There were playing -cards scattered all over the floor—one of the tables had been upset, -and bottles of wine were rolling about, their contents running out upon -the carpet. There was a young girl who had fainted, and two men who -were supporting her; and there were a dozen others crowding toward the -front door. - -Suddenly, however, there came a series of resounding blows upon it, -causing the crowd to give back. At the same instant a stout woman, with -painted cheeks and diamonds in her ears, came running down the stairs, -panting breathlessly: “To the rear! Quick!” - -She led the way to a back staircase, Jurgis following; in the kitchen -she pressed a spring, and a cupboard gave way and opened, disclosing a -dark passageway. “Go in!” she cried to the crowd, which now amounted to -twenty or thirty, and they began to pass through. Scarcely had the last -one disappeared, however, before there were cries from in front, and -then the panic-stricken throng poured out again, exclaiming: “They’re -there too! We’re trapped!” - -“Upstairs!” cried the woman, and there was another rush of the mob, -women and men cursing and screaming and fighting to be first. One -flight, two, three—and then there was a ladder to the roof, with a -crowd packed at the foot of it, and one man at the top, straining and -struggling to lift the trap door. It was not to be stirred, however, -and when the woman shouted up to unhook it, he answered: “It’s already -unhooked. There’s somebody sitting on it!” - -And a moment later came a voice from downstairs: “You might as well -quit, you people. We mean business, this time.” - -So the crowd subsided; and a few moments later several policemen came -up, staring here and there, and leering at their victims. Of the latter -the men were for the most part frightened and sheepish-looking. The -women took it as a joke, as if they were used to it—though if they had -been pale, one could not have told, for the paint on their cheeks. One -black-eyed young girl perched herself upon the top of the balustrade, -and began to kick with her slippered foot at the helmets of the -policemen, until one of them caught her by the ankle and pulled her -down. On the floor below four or five other girls sat upon trunks in -the hall, making fun of the procession which filed by them. They were -noisy and hilarious, and had evidently been drinking; one of them, who -wore a bright red kimono, shouted and screamed in a voice that drowned -out all the other sounds in the hall—and Jurgis took a glance at her, -and then gave a start, and a cry, “Marija!” - -She heard him, and glanced around; then she shrank back and half sprang -to her feet in amazement. “Jurgis!” she gasped. - -For a second or two they stood staring at each other. “How did you come -here?” Marija exclaimed. - -“I came to see you,” he answered. - -“When?” - -“Just now.” - -“But how did you know—who told you I was here?” - -“Alena Jasaityte. I met her on the street.” - -Again there was a silence, while they gazed at each other. The rest of -the crowd was watching them, and so Marija got up and came closer to -him. “And you?” Jurgis asked. “You live here?” - -“Yes,” said Marija, “I live here.” Then suddenly came a hail from -below: “Get your clothes on now, girls, and come along. You’d best -begin, or you’ll be sorry—it’s raining outside.” - -“Br-r-r!” shivered some one, and the women got up and entered the -various doors which lined the hallway. - -“Come,” said Marija, and took Jurgis into her room, which was a tiny -place about eight by six, with a cot and a chair and a dressing stand -and some dresses hanging behind the door. There were clothes scattered -about on the floor, and hopeless confusion everywhere—boxes of rouge -and bottles of perfume mixed with hats and soiled dishes on the -dresser, and a pair of slippers and a clock and a whisky bottle on a -chair. - -Marija had nothing on but a kimono and a pair of stockings; yet she -proceeded to dress before Jurgis, and without even taking the trouble -to close the door. He had by this time divined what sort of a place he -was in; and he had seen a great deal of the world since he had left -home, and was not easy to shock—and yet it gave him a painful start -that Marija should do this. They had always been decent people at home, -and it seemed to him that the memory of old times ought to have ruled -her. But then he laughed at himself for a fool. What was he, to be -pretending to decency! - -“How long have you been living here?” he asked. - -“Nearly a year,” she answered. - -“Why did you come?” - -“I had to live,” she said; “and I couldn’t see the children starve.” - -He paused for a moment, watching her. “You were out of work?” he asked, -finally. - -“I got sick,” she replied, “and after that I had no money. And then -Stanislovas died—” - -“Stanislovas dead!” - -“Yes,” said Marija, “I forgot. You didn’t know about it.” - -“How did he die?” - -“Rats killed him,” she answered. - -Jurgis gave a gasp. “_Rats_ killed him!” - -“Yes,” said the other; she was bending over, lacing her shoes as she -spoke. “He was working in an oil factory—at least he was hired by the -men to get their beer. He used to carry cans on a long pole; and he’d -drink a little out of each can, and one day he drank too much, and fell -asleep in a corner, and got locked up in the place all night. When they -found him the rats had killed him and eaten him nearly all up.” - -Jurgis sat, frozen with horror. Marija went on lacing up her shoes. -There was a long silence. - -Suddenly a big policeman came to the door. “Hurry up, there,” he said. - -“As quick as I can,” said Marija, and she stood up and began putting on -her corsets with feverish haste. - -“Are the rest of the people alive?” asked Jurgis, finally. - -“Yes,” she said. - -“Where are they?” - -“They live not far from here. They’re all right now.” - -“They are working?” he inquired. - -“Elzbieta is,” said Marija, “when she can. I take care of them most of -the time—I’m making plenty of money now.” - -Jurgis was silent for a moment. “Do they know you live here—how you -live?” he asked. - -“Elzbieta knows,” answered Marija. “I couldn’t lie to her. And maybe -the children have found out by this time. It’s nothing to be ashamed -of—we can’t help it.” - -“And Tamoszius?” he asked. “Does _he_ know?” - -Marija shrugged her shoulders. “How do I know?” she said. “I haven’t -seen him for over a year. He got blood poisoning and lost one finger, -and couldn’t play the violin any more; and then he went away.” - -Marija was standing in front of the glass fastening her dress. Jurgis -sat staring at her. He could hardly believe that she was the same woman -he had known in the old days; she was so quiet—so hard! It struck fear -to his heart to watch her. - -Then suddenly she gave a glance at him. “You look as if you had been -having a rough time of it yourself,” she said. - -“I have,” he answered. “I haven’t a cent in my pockets, and nothing to -do.” - -“Where have you been?” - -“All over. I’ve been hoboing it. Then I went back to the yards—just -before the strike.” He paused for a moment, hesitating. “I asked for -you,” he added. “I found you had gone away, no one knew where. Perhaps -you think I did you a dirty trick running away as I did, Marija—” - -“No,” she answered, “I don’t blame you. We never have—any of us. You -did your best—the job was too much for us.” She paused a moment, then -added: “We were too ignorant—that was the trouble. We didn’t stand any -chance. If I’d known what I know now we’d have won out.” - -“You’d have come here?” said Jurgis. - -“Yes,” she answered; “but that’s not what I meant. I meant you—how -differently you would have behaved—about Ona.” - -Jurgis was silent; he had never thought of that aspect of it. - -“When people are starving,” the other continued, “and they have -anything with a price, they ought to sell it, I say. I guess you -realize it now when it’s too late. Ona could have taken care of us all, -in the beginning.” Marija spoke without emotion, as one who had come to -regard things from the business point of view. - -“I—yes, I guess so,” Jurgis answered hesitatingly. He did not add that -he had paid three hundred dollars, and a foreman’s job, for the -satisfaction of knocking down “Phil” Connor a second time. - -The policeman came to the door again just then. “Come on, now,” he -said. “Lively!” - -“All right,” said Marija, reaching for her hat, which was big enough to -be a drum major’s, and full of ostrich feathers. She went out into the -hall and Jurgis followed, the policeman remaining to look under the bed -and behind the door. - -“What’s going to come of this?” Jurgis asked, as they started down the -steps. - -“The raid, you mean? Oh, nothing—it happens to us every now and then. -The madame’s having some sort of time with the police; I don’t know -what it is, but maybe they’ll come to terms before morning. Anyhow, -they won’t do anything to you. They always let the men off.” - -“Maybe so,” he responded, “but not me—I’m afraid I’m in for it.” - -“How do you mean?” - -“I’m wanted by the police,” he said, lowering his voice, though of -course their conversation was in Lithuanian. “They’ll send me up for a -year or two, I’m afraid.” - -“Hell!” said Marija. “That’s too bad. I’ll see if I can’t get you off.” - -Downstairs, where the greater part of the prisoners were now massed, -she sought out the stout personage with the diamond earrings, and had a -few whispered words with her. The latter then approached the police -sergeant who was in charge of the raid. “Billy,” she said, pointing to -Jurgis, “there’s a fellow who came in to see his sister. He’d just got -in the door when you knocked. You aren’t taking hoboes, are you?” - -The sergeant laughed as he looked at Jurgis. “Sorry,” he said, “but the -orders are every one but the servants.” - -So Jurgis slunk in among the rest of the men, who kept dodging behind -each other like sheep that have smelled a wolf. There were old men and -young men, college boys and gray-beards old enough to be their -grandfathers; some of them wore evening dress—there was no one among -them save Jurgis who showed any signs of poverty. - -When the roundup was completed, the doors were opened and the party -marched out. Three patrol wagons were drawn up at the curb, and the -whole neighborhood had turned out to see the sport; there was much -chaffing, and a universal craning of necks. The women stared about them -with defiant eyes, or laughed and joked, while the men kept their heads -bowed, and their hats pulled over their faces. They were crowded into -the patrol wagons as if into streetcars, and then off they went amid a -din of cheers. At the station house Jurgis gave a Polish name and was -put into a cell with half a dozen others; and while these sat and -talked in whispers, he lay down in a corner and gave himself up to his -thoughts. - -Jurgis had looked into the deepest reaches of the social pit, and grown -used to the sights in them. Yet when he had thought of all humanity as -vile and hideous, he had somehow always excepted his own family that he -had loved; and now this sudden horrible discovery—Marija a whore, and -Elzbieta and the children living off her shame! Jurgis might argue with -himself all he chose, that he had done worse, and was a fool for -caring—but still he could not get over the shock of that sudden -unveiling, he could not help being sunk in grief because of it. The -depths of him were troubled and shaken, memories were stirred in him -that had been sleeping so long he had counted them dead. Memories of -the old life—his old hopes and his old yearnings, his old dreams of -decency and independence! He saw Ona again, he heard her gentle voice -pleading with him. He saw little Antanas, whom he had meant to make a -man. He saw his trembling old father, who had blessed them all with his -wonderful love. He lived again through that day of horror when he had -discovered Ona’s shame—God, how he had suffered, what a madman he had -been! How dreadful it had all seemed to him; and now, today, he had sat -and listened, and half agreed when Marija told him he had been a fool! -Yes—told him that he ought to have sold his wife’s honor and lived by -it!—And then there was Stanislovas and his awful fate—that brief story -which Marija had narrated so calmly, with such dull indifference! The -poor little fellow, with his frostbitten fingers and his terror of the -snow—his wailing voice rang in Jurgis’s ears, as he lay there in the -darkness, until the sweat started on his forehead. Now and then he -would quiver with a sudden spasm of horror, at the picture of little -Stanislovas shut up in the deserted building and fighting for his life -with the rats! - -All these emotions had become strangers to the soul of Jurgis; it was -so long since they had troubled him that he had ceased to think they -might ever trouble him again. Helpless, trapped, as he was, what good -did they do him—why should he ever have allowed them to torment him? It -had been the task of his recent life to fight them down, to crush them -out of him; never in his life would he have suffered from them again, -save that they had caught him unawares, and overwhelmed him before he -could protect himself. He heard the old voices of his soul, he saw its -old ghosts beckoning to him, stretching out their arms to him! But they -were far-off and shadowy, and the gulf between them was black and -bottomless; they would fade away into the mists of the past once more. -Their voices would die, and never again would he hear them—and so the -last faint spark of manhood in his soul would flicker out. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - - -After breakfast Jurgis was driven to the court, which was crowded with -the prisoners and those who had come out of curiosity or in the hope of -recognizing one of the men and getting a case for blackmail. The men -were called up first, and reprimanded in a bunch, and then dismissed; -but, Jurgis, to his terror, was called separately, as being a -suspicious-looking case. It was in this very same court that he had -been tried, that time when his sentence had been “suspended”; it was -the same judge, and the same clerk. The latter now stared at Jurgis, as -if he half thought that he knew him; but the judge had no -suspicions—just then his thoughts were upon a telephone message he was -expecting from a friend of the police captain of the district, telling -what disposition he should make of the case of “Polly” Simpson, as the -“madame” of the house was known. Meantime, he listened to the story of -how Jurgis had been looking for his sister, and advised him dryly to -keep his sister in a better place; then he let him go, and proceeded to -fine each of the girls five dollars, which fines were paid in a bunch -from a wad of bills which Madame Polly extracted from her stocking. - -Jurgis waited outside and walked home with Marija. The police had left -the house, and already there were a few visitors; by evening the place -would be running again, exactly as if nothing had happened. Meantime, -Marija took Jurgis upstairs to her room, and they sat and talked. By -daylight, Jurgis was able to observe that the color on her cheeks was -not the old natural one of abounding health; her complexion was in -reality a parchment yellow, and there were black rings under her eyes. - -“Have you been sick?” he asked. - -“Sick?” she said. “Hell!” (Marija had learned to scatter her -conversation with as many oaths as a longshoreman or a mule driver.) -“How can I ever be anything but sick, at this life?” - -She fell silent for a moment, staring ahead of her gloomily. “It’s -morphine,” she said, at last. “I seem to take more of it every day.” - -“What’s that for?” he asked. - -“It’s the way of it; I don’t know why. If it isn’t that, it’s drink. If -the girls didn’t booze they couldn’t stand it any time at all. And the -madame always gives them dope when they first come, and they learn to -like it; or else they take it for headaches and such things, and get -the habit that way. I’ve got it, I know; I’ve tried to quit, but I -never will while I’m here.” - -“How long are you going to stay?” he asked. - -“I don’t know,” she said. “Always, I guess. What else could I do?” - -“Don’t you save any money?” - -“Save!” said Marija. “Good Lord, no! I get enough, I suppose, but it -all goes. I get a half share, two dollars and a half for each customer, -and sometimes I make twenty-five or thirty dollars a night, and you’d -think I ought to save something out of that! But then I am charged for -my room and my meals—and such prices as you never heard of; and then -for extras, and drinks—for everything I get, and some I don’t. My -laundry bill is nearly twenty dollars each week alone—think of that! -Yet what can I do? I either have to stand it or quit, and it would be -the same anywhere else. It’s all I can do to save the fifteen dollars I -give Elzbieta each week, so the children can go to school.” - -Marija sat brooding in silence for a while; then, seeing that Jurgis -was interested, she went on: “That’s the way they keep the girls—they -let them run up debts, so they can’t get away. A young girl comes from -abroad, and she doesn’t know a word of English, and she gets into a -place like this, and when she wants to go the madame shows her that she -is a couple of hundred dollars in debt, and takes all her clothes away, -and threatens to have her arrested if she doesn’t stay and do as she’s -told. So she stays, and the longer she stays, the more in debt she -gets. Often, too, they are girls that didn’t know what they were coming -to, that had hired out for housework. Did you notice that little French -girl with the yellow hair, that stood next to me in the court?” - -Jurgis answered in the affirmative. - -“Well, she came to America about a year ago. She was a store clerk, and -she hired herself to a man to be sent here to work in a factory. There -were six of them, all together, and they were brought to a house just -down the street from here, and this girl was put into a room alone, and -they gave her some dope in her food, and when she came to she found -that she had been ruined. She cried, and screamed, and tore her hair, -but she had nothing but a wrapper, and couldn’t get away, and they kept -her half insensible with drugs all the time, until she gave up. She -never got outside of that place for ten months, and then they sent her -away, because she didn’t suit. I guess they’ll put her out of here, -too—she’s getting to have crazy fits, from drinking absinthe. Only one -of the girls that came out with her got away, and she jumped out of a -second-story window one night. There was a great fuss about that—maybe -you heard of it.” - -“I did,” said Jurgis, “I heard of it afterward.” (It had happened in -the place where he and Duane had taken refuge from their “country -customer.” The girl had become insane, fortunately for the police.) - -“There’s lots of money in it,” said Marija—“they get as much as forty -dollars a head for girls, and they bring them from all over. There are -seventeen in this place, and nine different countries among them. In -some places you might find even more. We have half a dozen French -girls—I suppose it’s because the madame speaks the language. French -girls are bad, too, the worst of all, except for the Japanese. There’s -a place next door that’s full of Japanese women, but I wouldn’t live in -the same house with one of them.” - -Marija paused for a moment or two, and then she added: “Most of the -women here are pretty decent—you’d be surprised. I used to think they -did it because they liked to; but fancy a woman selling herself to -every kind of man that comes, old or young, black or white—and doing it -because she likes to!” - -“Some of them say they do,” said Jurgis. - -“I know,” said she; “they say anything. They’re in, and they know they -can’t get out. But they didn’t like it when they began—you’d find -out—it’s always misery! There’s a little Jewish girl here who used to -run errands for a milliner, and got sick and lost her place; and she -was four days on the streets without a mouthful of food, and then she -went to a place just around the corner and offered herself, and they -made her give up her clothes before they would give her a bite to eat!” - -Marija sat for a minute or two, brooding somberly. “Tell me about -yourself, Jurgis,” she said, suddenly. “Where have you been?” - -So he told her the long story of his adventures since his flight from -home; his life as a tramp, and his work in the freight tunnels, and the -accident; and then of Jack Duane, and of his political career in the -stockyards, and his downfall and subsequent failures. Marija listened -with sympathy; it was easy to believe the tale of his late starvation, -for his face showed it all. “You found me just in the nick of time,” -she said. “I’ll stand by you—I’ll help you till you can get some work.” - -“I don’t like to let you—” he began. - -“Why not? Because I’m here?” - -“No, not that,” he said. “But I went off and left you—” - -“Nonsense!” said Marija. “Don’t think about it. I don’t blame you.” - -“You must be hungry,” she said, after a minute or two. “You stay here -to lunch—I’ll have something up in the room.” - -She pressed a button, and a colored woman came to the door and took her -order. “It’s nice to have somebody to wait on you,” she observed, with -a laugh, as she lay back on the bed. - -As the prison breakfast had not been liberal, Jurgis had a good -appetite, and they had a little feast together, talking meanwhile of -Elzbieta and the children and old times. Shortly before they were -through, there came another colored girl, with the message that the -“madame” wanted Marija—“Lithuanian Mary,” as they called her here. - -“That means you have to go,” she said to Jurgis. - -So he got up, and she gave him the new address of the family, a -tenement over in the Ghetto district. “You go there,” she said. -“They’ll be glad to see you.” - -But Jurgis stood hesitating. - -“I—I don’t like to,” he said. “Honest, Marija, why don’t you just give -me a little money and let me look for work first?” - -“How do you need money?” was her reply. “All you want is something to -eat and a place to sleep, isn’t it?” - -“Yes,” he said; “but then I don’t like to go there after I left -them—and while I have nothing to do, and while you—you—” - -“Go on!” said Marija, giving him a push. “What are you talking?—I won’t -give you money,” she added, as she followed him to the door, “because -you’ll drink it up, and do yourself harm. Here’s a quarter for you now, -and go along, and they’ll be so glad to have you back, you won’t have -time to feel ashamed. Good-by!” - -So Jurgis went out, and walked down the street to think it over. He -decided that he would first try to get work, and so he put in the rest -of the day wandering here and there among factories and warehouses -without success. Then, when it was nearly dark, he concluded to go -home, and set out; but he came to a restaurant, and went in and spent -his quarter for a meal; and when he came out he changed his mind—the -night was pleasant, and he would sleep somewhere outside, and put in -the morrow hunting, and so have one more chance of a job. So he started -away again, when suddenly he chanced to look about him, and found that -he was walking down the same street and past the same hall where he had -listened to the political speech the night before. There was no red -fire and no band now, but there was a sign out, announcing a meeting, -and a stream of people pouring in through the entrance. In a flash -Jurgis had decided that he would chance it once more, and sit down and -rest while making up his mind what to do. There was no one taking -tickets, so it must be a free show again. - -He entered. There were no decorations in the hall this time; but there -was quite a crowd upon the platform, and almost every seat in the place -was filled. He took one of the last, far in the rear, and straightway -forgot all about his surroundings. Would Elzbieta think that he had -come to sponge off her, or would she understand that he meant to get to -work again and do his share? Would she be decent to him, or would she -scold him? If only he could get some sort of a job before he went—if -that last boss had only been willing to try him! - -—Then suddenly Jurgis looked up. A tremendous roar had burst from the -throats of the crowd, which by this time had packed the hall to the -very doors. Men and women were standing up, waving handkerchiefs, -shouting, yelling. Evidently the speaker had arrived, thought Jurgis; -what fools they were making of themselves! What were they expecting to -get out of it anyhow—what had they to do with elections, with governing -the country? Jurgis had been behind the scenes in politics. - -He went back to his thoughts, but with one further fact to reckon -with—that he was caught here. The hall was now filled to the doors; and -after the meeting it would be too late for him to go home, so he would -have to make the best of it outside. Perhaps it would be better to go -home in the morning, anyway, for the children would be at school, and -he and Elzbieta could have a quiet explanation. She always had been a -reasonable person; and he really did mean to do right. He would manage -to persuade her of it—and besides, Marija was willing, and Marija was -furnishing the money. If Elzbieta were ugly, he would tell her that in -so many words. - -So Jurgis went on meditating; until finally, when he had been an hour -or two in the hall, there began to prepare itself a repetition of the -dismal catastrophe of the night before. Speaking had been going on all -the time, and the audience was clapping its hands and shouting, -thrilling with excitement; and little by little the sounds were -beginning to blur in Jurgis’s ears, and his thoughts were beginning to -run together, and his head to wobble and nod. He caught himself many -times, as usual, and made desperate resolutions; but the hall was hot -and close, and his long walk and his dinner were too much for him—in -the end his head sank forward and he went off again. - -And then again someone nudged him, and he sat up with his old terrified -start! He had been snoring again, of course! And now what? He fixed his -eyes ahead of him, with painful intensity, staring at the platform as -if nothing else ever had interested him, or ever could interest him, -all his life. He imagined the angry exclamations, the hostile glances; -he imagined the policeman striding toward him—reaching for his neck. Or -was he to have one more chance? Were they going to let him alone this -time? He sat trembling; waiting— - -And then suddenly came a voice in his ear, a woman’s voice, gentle and -sweet, “If you would try to listen, comrade, perhaps you would be -interested.” - -Jurgis was more startled by that than he would have been by the touch -of a policeman. He still kept his eyes fixed ahead, and did not stir; -but his heart gave a great leap. Comrade! Who was it that called him -“comrade”? - -He waited long, long; and at last, when he was sure that he was no -longer watched, he stole a glance out of the corner of his eyes at the -woman who sat beside him. She was young and beautiful; she wore fine -clothes, and was what is called a “lady.” And she called him “comrade”! - -He turned a little, carefully, so that he could see her better; then he -began to watch her, fascinated. She had apparently forgotten all about -him, and was looking toward the platform. A man was speaking -there—Jurgis heard his voice vaguely; but all his thoughts were for -this woman’s face. A feeling of alarm stole over him as he stared at -her. It made his flesh creep. What was the matter with her, what could -be going on, to affect any one like that? She sat as one turned to -stone, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, so tightly that he could -see the cords standing out in her wrists. There was a look of -excitement upon her face, of tense effort, as of one struggling -mightily, or witnessing a struggle. There was a faint quivering of her -nostrils; and now and then she would moisten her lips with feverish -haste. Her bosom rose and fell as she breathed, and her excitement -seemed to mount higher and higher, and then to sink away again, like a -boat tossing upon ocean surges. What was it? What was the matter? It -must be something that the man was saying, up there on the platform. -What sort of a man was he? And what sort of thing was this, anyhow?—So -all at once it occurred to Jurgis to look at the speaker. - -It was like coming suddenly upon some wild sight of nature—a mountain -forest lashed by a tempest, a ship tossed about upon a stormy sea. -Jurgis had an unpleasant sensation, a sense of confusion, of disorder, -of wild and meaningless uproar. The man was tall and gaunt, as haggard -as his auditor himself; a thin black beard covered half of his face, -and one could see only two black hollows where the eyes were. He was -speaking rapidly, in great excitement; he used many gestures—as he -spoke he moved here and there upon the stage, reaching with his long -arms as if to seize each person in his audience. His voice was deep, -like an organ; it was some time, however, before Jurgis thought of the -voice—he was too much occupied with his eyes to think of what the man -was saying. But suddenly it seemed as if the speaker had begun pointing -straight at him, as if he had singled him out particularly for his -remarks; and so Jurgis became suddenly aware of his voice, trembling, -vibrant with emotion, with pain and longing, with a burden of things -unutterable, not to be compassed by words. To hear it was to be -suddenly arrested, to be gripped, transfixed. - -“You listen to these things,” the man was saying, “and you say, ‘Yes, -they are true, but they have been that way always.’ Or you say, ‘Maybe -it will come, but not in my time—it will not help me.’ And so you -return to your daily round of toil, you go back to be ground up for -profits in the world-wide mill of economic might! To toil long hours -for another’s advantage; to live in mean and squalid homes, to work in -dangerous and unhealthful places; to wrestle with the specters of -hunger and privation, to take your chances of accident, disease, and -death. And each day the struggle becomes fiercer, the pace more cruel; -each day you have to toil a little harder, and feel the iron hand of -circumstance close upon you a little tighter. Months pass, years -maybe—and then you come again; and again I am here to plead with you, -to know if want and misery have yet done their work with you, if -injustice and oppression have yet opened your eyes! I shall still be -waiting—there is nothing else that I can do. There is no wilderness -where I can hide from these things, there is no haven where I can -escape them; though I travel to the ends of the earth, I find the same -accursed system—I find that all the fair and noble impulses of -humanity, the dreams of poets and the agonies of martyrs, are shackled -and bound in the service of organized and predatory Greed! And -therefore I cannot rest, I cannot be silent; therefore I cast aside -comfort and happiness, health and good repute—and go out into the world -and cry out the pain of my spirit! Therefore I am not to be silenced by -poverty and sickness, not by hatred and obloquy, by threats and -ridicule—not by prison and persecution, if they should come—not by any -power that is upon the earth or above the earth, that was, or is, or -ever can be created. If I fail tonight, I can only try tomorrow; -knowing that the fault must be mine—that if once the vision of my soul -were spoken upon earth, if once the anguish of its defeat were uttered -in human speech, it would break the stoutest barriers of prejudice, it -would shake the most sluggish soul to action! It would abash the most -cynical, it would terrify the most selfish; and the voice of mockery -would be silenced, and fraud and falsehood would slink back into their -dens, and the truth would stand forth alone! For I speak with the voice -of the millions who are voiceless! Of them that are oppressed and have -no comforter! Of the disinherited of life, for whom there is no respite -and no deliverance, to whom the world is a prison, a dungeon of -torture, a tomb! With the voice of the little child who toils tonight -in a Southern cotton mill, staggering with exhaustion, numb with agony, -and knowing no hope but the grave! Of the mother who sews by -candlelight in her tenement garret, weary and weeping, smitten with the -mortal hunger of her babes! Of the man who lies upon a bed of rags, -wrestling in his last sickness and leaving his loved ones to perish! Of -the young girl who, somewhere at this moment, is walking the streets of -this horrible city, beaten and starving, and making her choice between -the brothel and the lake! With the voice of those, whoever and wherever -they may be, who are caught beneath the wheels of the Juggernaut of -Greed! With the voice of humanity, calling for deliverance! Of the -everlasting soul of Man, arising from the dust; breaking its way out of -its prison—rending the bands of oppression and ignorance—groping its -way to the light!” - -The speaker paused. There was an instant of silence, while men caught -their breaths, and then like a single sound there came a cry from a -thousand people. Through it all Jurgis sat still, motionless and rigid, -his eyes fixed upon the speaker; he was trembling, smitten with wonder. - -Suddenly the man raised his hands, and silence fell, and he began -again. - -“I plead with you,” he said, “whoever you may be, provided that you -care about the truth; but most of all I plead with working-man, with -those to whom the evils I portray are not mere matters of sentiment, to -be dallied and toyed with, and then perhaps put aside and forgotten—to -whom they are the grim and relentless realities of the daily grind, the -chains upon their limbs, the lash upon their backs, the iron in their -souls. To you, working-men! To you, the toilers, who have made this -land, and have no voice in its councils! To you, whose lot it is to sow -that others may reap, to labor and obey, and ask no more than the wages -of a beast of burden, the food and shelter to keep you alive from day -to day. It is to you that I come with my message of salvation, it is to -you that I appeal. I know how much it is to ask of you—I know, for I -have been in your place, I have lived your life, and there is no man -before me here tonight who knows it better. I have known what it is to -be a street-waif, a bootblack, living upon a crust of bread and -sleeping in cellar stairways and under empty wagons. I have known what -it is to dare and to aspire, to dream mighty dreams and to see them -perish—to see all the fair flowers of my spirit trampled into the mire -by the wild-beast powers of my life. I know what is the price that a -working-man pays for knowledge—I have paid for it with food and sleep, -with agony of body and mind, with health, almost with life itself; and -so, when I come to you with a story of hope and freedom, with the -vision of a new earth to be created, of a new labor to be dared, I am -not surprised that I find you sordid and material, sluggish and -incredulous. That I do not despair is because I know also the forces -that are driving behind you—because I know the raging lash of poverty, -the sting of contempt and mastership, ‘the insolence of office and the -spurns.’ Because I feel sure that in the crowd that has come to me -tonight, no matter how many may be dull and heedless, no matter how -many may have come out of idle curiosity, or in order to ridicule—there -will be some one man whom pain and suffering have made desperate, whom -some chance vision of wrong and horror has startled and shocked into -attention. And to him my words will come like a sudden flash of -lightning to one who travels in darkness—revealing the way before him, -the perils and the obstacles—solving all problems, making all -difficulties clear! The scales will fall from his eyes, the shackles -will be torn from his limbs—he will leap up with a cry of thankfulness, -he will stride forth a free man at last! A man delivered from his -self-created slavery! A man who will never more be trapped—whom no -blandishments will cajole, whom no threats will frighten; who from -tonight on will move forward, and not backward, who will study and -understand, who will gird on his sword and take his place in the army -of his comrades and brothers. Who will carry the good tidings to -others, as I have carried them to him—priceless gift of liberty and -light that is neither mine nor his, but is the heritage of the soul of -man! Working-men, working-men—comrades! open your eyes and look about -you! You have lived so long in the toil and heat that your senses are -dulled, your souls are numbed; but realize once in your lives this -world in which you dwell—tear off the rags of its customs and -conventions—behold it as it is, in all its hideous nakedness! Realize -it, _realize it!_ Realize that out upon the plains of Manchuria tonight -two hostile armies are facing each other—that now, while we are seated -here, a million human beings may be hurled at each other’s throats, -striving with the fury of maniacs to tear each other to pieces! And -this in the twentieth century, nineteen hundred years since the Prince -of Peace was born on earth! Nineteen hundred years that his words have -been preached as divine, and here two armies of men are rending and -tearing each other like the wild beasts of the forest! Philosophers -have reasoned, prophets have denounced, poets have wept and pleaded—and -still this hideous Monster roams at large! We have schools and -colleges, newspapers and books; we have searched the heavens and the -earth, we have weighed and probed and reasoned—and all to equip men to -destroy each other! We call it War, and pass it by—but do not put me -off with platitudes and conventions—come with me, come with me—_realize -it!_ See the bodies of men pierced by bullets, blown into pieces by -bursting shells! Hear the crunching of the bayonet, plunged into human -flesh; hear the groans and shrieks of agony, see the faces of men -crazed by pain, turned into fiends by fury and hate! Put your hand upon -that piece of flesh—it is hot and quivering—just now it was a part of a -man! This blood is still steaming—it was driven by a human heart! -Almighty God! and this goes on—it is systematic, organized, -premeditated! And we know it, and read of it, and take it for granted; -our papers tell of it, and the presses are not stopped—our churches -know of it, and do not close their doors—the people behold it, and do -not rise up in horror and revolution! - -“Or perhaps Manchuria is too far away for you—come home with me then, -come here to Chicago. Here in this city to-night ten thousand women are -shut up in foul pens, and driven by hunger to sell their bodies to -live. And we know it, we make it a jest! And these women are made in -the image of your mothers, they may be your sisters, your daughters; -the child whom you left at home tonight, whose laughing eyes will greet -you in the morning—that fate may be waiting for her! To-night in -Chicago there are ten thousand men, homeless and wretched, willing to -work and begging for a chance, yet starving, and fronting in terror the -awful winter cold! Tonight in Chicago there are a hundred thousand -children wearing out their strength and blasting their lives in the -effort to earn their bread! There are a hundred thousand mothers who -are living in misery and squalor, struggling to earn enough to feed -their little ones! There are a hundred thousand old people, cast off -and helpless, waiting for death to take them from their torments! There -are a million people, men and women and children, who share the curse -of the wage-slave; who toil every hour they can stand and see, for just -enough to keep them alive; who are condemned till the end of their days -to monotony and weariness, to hunger and misery, to heat and cold, to -dirt and disease, to ignorance and drunkenness and vice! And then turn -over the page with me, and gaze upon the other side of the picture. -There are a thousand—ten thousand, maybe—who are the masters of these -slaves, who own their toil. They do nothing to earn what they receive, -they do not even have to ask for it—it comes to them of itself, their -only care is to dispose of it. They live in palaces, they riot in -luxury and extravagance—such as no words can describe, as makes the -imagination reel and stagger, makes the soul grow sick and faint. They -spend hundreds of dollars for a pair of shoes, a handkerchief, a -garter; they spend millions for horses and automobiles and yachts, for -palaces and banquets, for little shiny stones with which to deck their -bodies. Their life is a contest among themselves for supremacy in -ostentation and recklessness, in the destroying of useful and necessary -things, in the wasting of the labor and the lives of their fellow -creatures, the toil and anguish of the nations, the sweat and tears and -blood of the human race! It is all theirs—it comes to them; just as all -the springs pour into streamlets, and the streamlets into rivers, and -the rivers into the oceans—so, automatically and inevitably, all the -wealth of society comes to them. The farmer tills the soil, the miner -digs in the earth, the weaver tends the loom, the mason carves the -stone; the clever man invents, the shrewd man directs, the wise man -studies, the inspired man sings—and all the result, the products of the -labor of brain and muscle, are gathered into one stupendous stream and -poured into their laps! The whole of society is in their grip, the -whole labor of the world lies at their mercy—and like fierce wolves -they rend and destroy, like ravening vultures they devour and tear! The -whole power of mankind belongs to them, forever and beyond recall—do -what it can, strive as it will, humanity lives for them and dies for -them! They own not merely the labor of society, they have bought the -governments; and everywhere they use their raped and stolen power to -intrench themselves in their privileges, to dig wider and deeper the -channels through which the river of profits flows to them!—And you, -workingmen, workingmen! You have been brought up to it, you plod on -like beasts of burden, thinking only of the day and its pain—yet is -there a man among you who can believe that such a system will continue -forever—is there a man here in this audience tonight so hardened and -debased that he dare rise up before me and say that he believes it can -continue forever; that the product of the labor of society, the means -of existence of the human race, will always belong to idlers and -parasites, to be spent for the gratification of vanity and lust—to be -spent for any purpose whatever, to be at the disposal of any individual -will whatever—that somehow, somewhere, the labor of humanity will not -belong to humanity, to be used for the purposes of humanity, to be -controlled by the will of humanity? And if this is ever to be, how is -it to be—what power is there that will bring it about? Will it be the -task of your masters, do you think—will they write the charter of your -liberties? Will they forge you the sword of your deliverance, will they -marshal you the army and lead it to the fray? Will their wealth be -spent for the purpose—will they build colleges and churches to teach -you, will they print papers to herald your progress, and organize -political parties to guide and carry on the struggle? Can you not see -that the task is your task—yours to dream, yours to resolve, yours to -execute? That if ever it is carried out, it will be in the face of -every obstacle that wealth and mastership can oppose—in the face of -ridicule and slander, of hatred and persecution, of the bludgeon and -the jail? That it will be by the power of your naked bosoms, opposed to -the rage of oppression! By the grim and bitter teaching of blind and -merciless affliction! By the painful gropings of the untutored mind, by -the feeble stammerings of the uncultured voice! By the sad and lonely -hunger of the spirit; by seeking and striving and yearning, by -heartache and despairing, by agony and sweat of blood! It will be by -money paid for with hunger, by knowledge stolen from sleep, by thoughts -communicated under the shadow of the gallows! It will be a movement -beginning in the far-off past, a thing obscure and unhonored, a thing -easy to ridicule, easy to despise; a thing unlovely, wearing the aspect -of vengeance and hate—but to you, the working-man, the wage-slave, -calling with a voice insistent, imperious—with a voice that you cannot -escape, wherever upon the earth you may be! With the voice of all your -wrongs, with the voice of all your desires; with the voice of your duty -and your hope—of everything in the world that is worth while to you! -The voice of the poor, demanding that poverty shall cease! The voice of -the oppressed, pronouncing the doom of oppression! The voice of power, -wrought out of suffering—of resolution, crushed out of weakness—of joy -and courage, born in the bottomless pit of anguish and despair! The -voice of Labor, despised and outraged; a mighty giant, lying -prostrate—mountainous, colossal, but blinded, bound, and ignorant of -his strength. And now a dream of resistance haunts him, hope battling -with fear; until suddenly he stirs, and a fetter snaps—and a thrill -shoots through him, to the farthest ends of his huge body, and in a -flash the dream becomes an act! He starts, he lifts himself; and the -bands are shattered, the burdens roll off him—he rises—towering, -gigantic; he springs to his feet, he shouts in his newborn exultation—” - -And the speaker’s voice broke suddenly, with the stress of his -feelings; he stood with his arms stretched out above him, and the power -of his vision seemed to lift him from the floor. The audience came to -its feet with a yell; men waved their arms, laughing aloud in their -excitement. And Jurgis was with them, he was shouting to tear his -throat; shouting because he could not help it, because the stress of -his feeling was more than he could bear. It was not merely the man’s -words, the torrent of his eloquence. It was his presence, it was his -voice: a voice with strange intonations that rang through the chambers -of the soul like the clanging of a bell—that gripped the listener like -a mighty hand about his body, that shook him and startled him with -sudden fright, with a sense of things not of earth, of mysteries never -spoken before, of presences of awe and terror! There was an unfolding -of vistas before him, a breaking of the ground beneath him, an -upheaving, a stirring, a trembling; he felt himself suddenly a mere man -no longer—there were powers within him undreamed of, there were demon -forces contending, age-long wonders struggling to be born; and he sat -oppressed with pain and joy, while a tingling stole down into his -finger tips, and his breath came hard and fast. The sentences of this -man were to Jurgis like the crashing of thunder in his soul; a flood of -emotions surged up in him—all his old hopes and longings, his old -griefs and rages and despairs. All that he had ever felt in his whole -life seemed to come back to him at once, and with one new emotion, -hardly to be described. That he should have suffered such oppressions -and such horrors was bad enough; but that he should have been crushed -and beaten by them, that he should have submitted, and forgotten, and -lived in peace—ah, truly that was a thing not to be put into words, a -thing not to be borne by a human creature, a thing of terror and -madness! “What,” asks the prophet, “is the murder of them that kill the -body, to the murder of them that kill the soul?” And Jurgis was a man -whose soul had been murdered, who had ceased to hope and to -struggle—who had made terms with degradation and despair; and now, -suddenly, in one awful convulsion, the black and hideous fact was made -plain to him! There was a falling in of all the pillars of his soul, -the sky seemed to split above him—he stood there, with his clenched -hands upraised, his eyes bloodshot, and the veins standing out purple -in his face, roaring in the voice of a wild beast, frantic, incoherent, -maniacal. And when he could shout no more he still stood there, -gasping, and whispering hoarsely to himself: “By God! By God! By God!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - - -The man had gone back to a seat upon the platform, and Jurgis realized -that his speech was over. The applause continued for several minutes; -and then some one started a song, and the crowd took it up, and the -place shook with it. Jurgis had never heard it, and he could not make -out the words, but the wild and wonderful spirit of it seized upon -him—it was the “Marseillaise!” As stanza after stanza of it thundered -forth, he sat with his hands clasped, trembling in every nerve. He had -never been so stirred in his life—it was a miracle that had been -wrought in him. He could not think at all, he was stunned; yet he knew -that in the mighty upheaval that had taken place in his soul, a new man -had been born. He had been torn out of the jaws of destruction, he had -been delivered from the thraldom of despair; the whole world had been -changed for him—he was free, he was free! Even if he were to suffer as -he had before, even if he were to beg and starve, nothing would be the -same to him; he would understand it, and bear it. He would no longer be -the sport of circumstances, he would be a man, with a will and a -purpose; he would have something to fight for, something to die for, if -need be! Here were men who would show him and help him; and he would -have friends and allies, he would dwell in the sight of justice, and -walk arm in arm with power. - -The audience subsided again, and Jurgis sat back. The chairman of the -meeting came forward and began to speak. His voice sounded thin and -futile after the other’s, and to Jurgis it seemed a profanation. Why -should any one else speak, after that miraculous man—why should they -not all sit in silence? The chairman was explaining that a collection -would now be taken up to defray the expenses of the meeting, and for -the benefit of the campaign fund of the party. Jurgis heard; but he had -not a penny to give, and so his thoughts went elsewhere again. - -He kept his eyes fixed on the orator, who sat in an armchair, his head -leaning on his hand and his attitude indicating exhaustion. But -suddenly he stood up again, and Jurgis heard the chairman of the -meeting saying that the speaker would now answer any questions which -the audience might care to put to him. The man came forward, and some -one—a woman—arose and asked about some opinion the speaker had -expressed concerning Tolstoy. Jurgis had never heard of Tolstoy, and -did not care anything about him. Why should any one want to ask such -questions, after an address like that? The thing was not to talk, but -to do; the thing was to get bold of others and rouse them, to organize -them and prepare for the fight! But still the discussion went on, in -ordinary conversational tones, and it brought Jurgis back to the -everyday world. A few minutes ago he had felt like seizing the hand of -the beautiful lady by his side, and kissing it; he had felt like -flinging his arms about the neck of the man on the other side of him. -And now he began to realize again that he was a “hobo,” that he was -ragged and dirty, and smelled bad, and had no place to sleep that -night! - -And so, at last, when the meeting broke up, and the audience started to -leave, poor Jurgis was in an agony of uncertainty. He had not thought -of leaving—he had thought that the vision must last forever, that he -had found comrades and brothers. But now he would go out, and the thing -would fade away, and he would never be able to find it again! He sat in -his seat, frightened and wondering; but others in the same row wanted -to get out, and so he had to stand up and move along. As he was swept -down the aisle he looked from one person to another, wistfully; they -were all excitedly discussing the address—but there was nobody who -offered to discuss it with him. He was near enough to the door to feel -the night air, when desperation seized him. He knew nothing at all -about that speech he had heard, not even the name of the orator; and he -was to go away—no, no, it was preposterous, he must speak to some one; -he must find that man himself and tell him. He would not despise him, -tramp as he was! - -So he stepped into an empty row of seats and watched, and when the -crowd had thinned out, he started toward the platform. The speaker was -gone; but there was a stage door that stood open, with people passing -in and out, and no one on guard. Jurgis summoned up his courage and -went in, and down a hallway, and to the door of a room where many -people were crowded. No one paid any attention to him, and he pushed -in, and in a corner he saw the man he sought. The orator sat in a -chair, with his shoulders sunk together and his eyes half closed; his -face was ghastly pale, almost greenish in hue, and one arm lay limp at -his side. A big man with spectacles on stood near him, and kept pushing -back the crowd, saying, “Stand away a little, please; can’t you see the -comrade is worn out?” - -So Jurgis stood watching, while five or ten minutes passed. Now and -then the man would look up, and address a word or two to those who were -near him; and, at last, on one of these occasions, his glance rested on -Jurgis. There seemed to be a slight hint of inquiry about it, and a -sudden impulse seized the other. He stepped forward. - -“I wanted to thank you, sir!” he began, in breathless haste. “I could -not go away without telling you how much—how glad I am I heard you. I—I -didn’t know anything about it all—” - -The big man with the spectacles, who had moved away, came back at this -moment. “The comrade is too tired to talk to any one—” he began; but -the other held up his hand. - -“Wait,” he said. “He has something to say to me.” And then he looked -into Jurgis’s face. “You want to know more about Socialism?” he asked. - -Jurgis started. “I—I—” he stammered. “Is it Socialism? I didn’t know. I -want to know about what you spoke of—I want to help. I have been -through all that.” - -“Where do you live?” asked the other. - -“I have no home,” said Jurgis, “I am out of work.” - -“You are a foreigner, are you not?” - -“Lithuanian, sir.” - -The man thought for a moment, and then turned to his friend. “Who is -there, Walters?” he asked. “There is Ostrinski—but he is a Pole—” - -“Ostrinski speaks Lithuanian,” said the other. “All right, then; would -you mind seeing if he has gone yet?” - -The other started away, and the speaker looked at Jurgis again. He had -deep, black eyes, and a face full of gentleness and pain. “You must -excuse me, comrade,” he said. “I am just tired out—I have spoken every -day for the last month. I will introduce you to some one who will be -able to help you as well as I could—” - -The messenger had had to go no further than the door, he came back, -followed by a man whom he introduced to Jurgis as “Comrade Ostrinski.” -Comrade Ostrinski was a little man, scarcely up to Jurgis’s shoulder, -wizened and wrinkled, very ugly, and slightly lame. He had on a -long-tailed black coat, worn green at the seams and the buttonholes; -his eyes must have been weak, for he wore green spectacles that gave -him a grotesque appearance. But his handclasp was hearty, and he spoke -in Lithuanian, which warmed Jurgis to him. - -“You want to know about Socialism?” he said. “Surely. Let us go out and -take a stroll, where we can be quiet and talk some.” - -And so Jurgis bade farewell to the master wizard, and went out. -Ostrinski asked where he lived, offering to walk in that direction; and -so he had to explain once more that he was without a home. At the -other’s request he told his story; how he had come to America, and what -had happened to him in the stockyards, and how his family had been -broken up, and how he had become a wanderer. So much the little man -heard, and then he pressed Jurgis’s arm tightly. “You have been through -the mill, comrade!” he said. “We will make a fighter out of you!” - -Then Ostrinski in turn explained his circumstances. He would have asked -Jurgis to his home—but he had only two rooms, and had no bed to offer. -He would have given up his own bed, but his wife was ill. Later on, -when he understood that otherwise Jurgis would have to sleep in a -hallway, he offered him his kitchen floor, a chance which the other was -only too glad to accept. “Perhaps tomorrow we can do better,” said -Ostrinski. “We try not to let a comrade starve.” - -Ostrinski’s home was in the Ghetto district, where he had two rooms in -the basement of a tenement. There was a baby crying as they entered, -and he closed the door leading into the bedroom. He had three young -children, he explained, and a baby had just come. He drew up two chairs -near the kitchen stove, adding that Jurgis must excuse the disorder of -the place, since at such a time one’s domestic arrangements were upset. -Half of the kitchen was given up to a workbench, which was piled with -clothing, and Ostrinski explained that he was a “pants finisher.” He -brought great bundles of clothing here to his home, where he and his -wife worked on them. He made a living at it, but it was getting harder -all the time, because his eyes were failing. What would come when they -gave out he could not tell; there had been no saving anything—a man -could barely keep alive by twelve or fourteen hours’ work a day. The -finishing of pants did not take much skill, and anybody could learn it, -and so the pay was forever getting less. That was the competitive wage -system; and if Jurgis wanted to understand what Socialism was, it was -there he had best begin. The workers were dependent upon a job to exist -from day to day, and so they bid against each other, and no man could -get more than the lowest man would consent to work for. And thus the -mass of the people were always in a life-and-death struggle with -poverty. That was “competition,” so far as it concerned the -wage-earner, the man who had only his labor to sell; to those on top, -the exploiters, it appeared very differently, of course—there were few -of them, and they could combine and dominate, and their power would be -unbreakable. And so all over the world two classes were forming, with -an unbridged chasm between them—the capitalist class, with its enormous -fortunes, and the proletariat, bound into slavery by unseen chains. The -latter were a thousand to one in numbers, but they were ignorant and -helpless, and they would remain at the mercy of their exploiters until -they were organized—until they had become “class-conscious.” It was a -slow and weary process, but it would go on—it was like the movement of -a glacier, once it was started it could never be stopped. Every -Socialist did his share, and lived upon the vision of the “good time -coming,”—when the working class should go to the polls and seize the -powers of government, and put an end to private property in the means -of production. No matter how poor a man was, or how much he suffered, -he could never be really unhappy while he knew of that future; even if -he did not live to see it himself, his children would, and, to a -Socialist, the victory of his class was his victory. Also he had always -the progress to encourage him; here in Chicago, for instance, the -movement was growing by leaps and bounds. Chicago was the industrial -center of the country, and nowhere else were the unions so strong; but -their organizations did the workers little good, for the employers were -organized, also; and so the strikes generally failed, and as fast as -the unions were broken up the men were coming over to the Socialists. - -Ostrinski explained the organization of the party, the machinery by -which the proletariat was educating itself. There were “locals” in -every big city and town, and they were being organized rapidly in the -smaller places; a local had anywhere from six to a thousand members, -and there were fourteen hundred of them in all, with a total of about -twenty-five thousand members, who paid dues to support the -organization. “Local Cook County,” as the city organization was called, -had eighty branch locals, and it alone was spending several thousand -dollars in the campaign. It published a weekly in English, and one each -in Bohemian and German; also there was a monthly published in Chicago, -and a cooperative publishing house, that issued a million and a half of -Socialist books and pamphlets every year. All this was the growth of -the last few years—there had been almost nothing of it when Ostrinski -first came to Chicago. - -Ostrinski was a Pole, about fifty years of age. He had lived in -Silesia, a member of a despised and persecuted race, and had taken part -in the proletarian movement in the early seventies, when Bismarck, -having conquered France, had turned his policy of blood and iron upon -the “International.” Ostrinski himself had twice been in jail, but he -had been young then, and had not cared. He had had more of his share of -the fight, though, for just when Socialism had broken all its barriers -and become the great political force of the empire, he had come to -America, and begun all over again. In America every one had laughed at -the mere idea of Socialism then—in America all men were free. As if -political liberty made wage slavery any the more tolerable! said -Ostrinski. - -The little tailor sat tilted back in his stiff kitchen chair, with his -feet stretched out upon the empty stove, and speaking in low whispers, -so as not to waken those in the next room. To Jurgis he seemed a -scarcely less wonderful person than the speaker at the meeting; he was -poor, the lowest of the low, hunger-driven and miserable—and yet how -much he knew, how much he had dared and achieved, what a hero he had -been! There were others like him, too—thousands like him, and all of -them workingmen! That all this wonderful machinery of progress had been -created by his fellows—Jurgis could not believe it, it seemed too good -to be true. - -That was always the way, said Ostrinski; when a man was first converted -to Socialism he was like a crazy person—he could not understand how -others could fail to see it, and he expected to convert all the world -the first week. After a while he would realize how hard a task it was; -and then it would be fortunate that other new hands kept coming, to -save him from settling down into a rut. Just now Jurgis would have -plenty of chance to vent his excitement, for a presidential campaign -was on, and everybody was talking politics. Ostrinski would take him to -the next meeting of the branch local, and introduce him, and he might -join the party. The dues were five cents a week, but any one who could -not afford this might be excused from paying. The Socialist party was a -really democratic political organization—it was controlled absolutely -by its own membership, and had no bosses. All of these things Ostrinski -explained, as also the principles of the party. You might say that -there was really but one Socialist principle—that of “no compromise,” -which was the essence of the proletarian movement all over the world. -When a Socialist was elected to office he voted with old party -legislators for any measure that was likely to be of help to the -working class, but he never forgot that these concessions, whatever -they might be, were trifles compared with the great purpose—the -organizing of the working class for the revolution. So far, the rule in -America had been that one Socialist made another Socialist once every -two years; and if they should maintain the same rate they would carry -the country in 1912—though not all of them expected to succeed as -quickly as that. - -The Socialists were organized in every civilized nation; it was an -international political party, said Ostrinski, the greatest the world -had ever known. It numbered thirty million of adherents, and it cast -eight million votes. It had started its first newspaper in Japan, and -elected its first deputy in Argentina; in France it named members of -cabinets, and in Italy and Australia it held the balance of power and -turned out ministries. In Germany, where its vote was more than a third -of the total vote of the empire, all other parties and powers had -united to fight it. It would not do, Ostrinski explained, for the -proletariat of one nation to achieve the victory, for that nation would -be crushed by the military power of the others; and so the Socialist -movement was a world movement, an organization of all mankind to -establish liberty and fraternity. It was the new religion of -humanity—or you might say it was the fulfillment of the old religion, -since it implied but the literal application of all the teachings of -Christ. - -Until long after midnight Jurgis sat lost in the conversation of his -new acquaintance. It was a most wonderful experience to him—an almost -supernatural experience. It was like encountering an inhabitant of the -fourth dimension of space, a being who was free from all one’s own -limitations. For four years, now, Jurgis had been wondering and -blundering in the depths of a wilderness; and here, suddenly, a hand -reached down and seized him, and lifted him out of it, and set him upon -a mountain-top, from which he could survey it all—could see the paths -from which he had wandered, the morasses into which he had stumbled, -the hiding places of the beasts of prey that had fallen upon him. There -were his Packingtown experiences, for instance—what was there about -Packingtown that Ostrinski could not explain! To Jurgis the packers had -been equivalent to fate; Ostrinski showed him that they were the Beef -Trust. They were a gigantic combination of capital, which had crushed -all opposition, and overthrown the laws of the land, and was preying -upon the people. Jurgis recollected how, when he had first come to -Packingtown, he had stood and watched the hog-killing, and thought how -cruel and savage it was, and come away congratulating himself that he -was not a hog; now his new acquaintance showed him that a hog was just -what he had been—one of the packers’ hogs. What they wanted from a hog -was all the profits that could be got out of him; and that was what -they wanted from the workingman, and also that was what they wanted -from the public. What the hog thought of it, and what he suffered, were -not considered; and no more was it with labor, and no more with the -purchaser of meat. That was true everywhere in the world, but it was -especially true in Packingtown; there seemed to be something about the -work of slaughtering that tended to ruthlessness and ferocity—it was -literally the fact that in the methods of the packers a hundred human -lives did not balance a penny of profit. When Jurgis had made himself -familiar with the Socialist literature, as he would very quickly, he -would get glimpses of the Beef Trust from all sorts of aspects, and he -would find it everywhere the same; it was the incarnation of blind and -insensate Greed. It was a monster devouring with a thousand mouths, -trampling with a thousand hoofs; it was the Great Butcher—it was the -spirit of Capitalism made flesh. Upon the ocean of commerce it sailed -as a pirate ship; it had hoisted the black flag and declared war upon -civilization. Bribery and corruption were its everyday methods. In -Chicago the city government was simply one of its branch offices; it -stole billions of gallons of city water openly, it dictated to the -courts the sentences of disorderly strikers, it forbade the mayor to -enforce the building laws against it. In the national capital it had -power to prevent inspection of its product, and to falsify government -reports; it violated the rebate laws, and when an investigation was -threatened it burned its books and sent its criminal agents out of the -country. In the commercial world it was a Juggernaut car; it wiped out -thousands of businesses every year, it drove men to madness and -suicide. It had forced the price of cattle so low as to destroy the -stock-raising industry, an occupation upon which whole states existed; -it had ruined thousands of butchers who had refused to handle its -products. It divided the country into districts, and fixed the price of -meat in all of them; and it owned all the refrigerator cars, and levied -an enormous tribute upon all poultry and eggs and fruit and vegetables. -With the millions of dollars a week that poured in upon it, it was -reaching out for the control of other interests, railroads and trolley -lines, gas and electric light franchises—it already owned the leather -and the grain business of the country. The people were tremendously -stirred up over its encroachments, but nobody had any remedy to -suggest; it was the task of Socialists to teach and organize them, and -prepare them for the time when they were to seize the huge machine -called the Beef Trust, and use it to produce food for human beings and -not to heap up fortunes for a band of pirates. It was long after -midnight when Jurgis lay down upon the floor of Ostrinski’s kitchen; -and yet it was an hour before he could get to sleep, for the glory of -that joyful vision of the people of Packingtown marching in and taking -possession of the Union Stockyards! - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - - -Jurgis had breakfast with Ostrinski and his family, and then he went -home to Elzbieta. He was no longer shy about it—when he went in, -instead of saying all the things he had been planning to say, he -started to tell Elzbieta about the revolution! At first she thought he -was out of his mind, and it was hours before she could really feel -certain that he was himself. When, however, she had satisfied herself -that he was sane upon all subjects except politics, she troubled -herself no further about it. Jurgis was destined to find that -Elzbieta’s armor was absolutely impervious to Socialism. Her soul had -been baked hard in the fire of adversity, and there was no altering it -now; life to her was the hunt for daily bread, and ideas existed for -her only as they bore upon that. All that interested her in regard to -this new frenzy which had seized hold of her son-in-law was whether or -not it had a tendency to make him sober and industrious; and when she -found he intended to look for work and to contribute his share to the -family fund, she gave him full rein to convince her of anything. A -wonderfully wise little woman was Elzbieta; she could think as quickly -as a hunted rabbit, and in half an hour she had chosen her -life-attitude to the Socialist movement. She agreed in everything with -Jurgis, except the need of his paying his dues; and she would even go -to a meeting with him now and then, and sit and plan her next day’s -dinner amid the storm. - -For a week after he became a convert Jurgis continued to wander about -all day, looking for work; until at last he met with a strange fortune. -He was passing one of Chicago’s innumerable small hotels, and after -some hesitation he concluded to go in. A man he took for the proprietor -was standing in the lobby, and he went up to him and tackled him for a -job. - -“What can you do?” the man asked. - -“Anything, sir,” said Jurgis, and added quickly: “I’ve been out of work -for a long time, sir. I’m an honest man, and I’m strong and willing—” - -The other was eying him narrowly. “Do you drink?” he asked. - -“No, sir,” said Jurgis. - -“Well, I’ve been employing a man as a porter, and he drinks. I’ve -discharged him seven times now, and I’ve about made up my mind that’s -enough. Would you be a porter?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“It’s hard work. You’ll have to clean floors and wash spittoons and -fill lamps and handle trunks—” - -“I’m willing, sir.” - -“All right. I’ll pay you thirty a month and board, and you can begin -now, if you feel like it. You can put on the other fellow’s rig.” - -And so Jurgis fell to work, and toiled like a Trojan till night. Then -he went and told Elzbieta, and also, late as it was, he paid a visit to -Ostrinski to let him know of his good fortune. Here he received a great -surprise, for when he was describing the location of the hotel -Ostrinski interrupted suddenly, “Not Hinds’s!” - -“Yes,” said Jurgis, “that’s the name.” - -To which the other replied, “Then you’ve got the best boss in -Chicago—he’s a state organizer of our party, and one of our best-known -speakers!” - -So the next morning Jurgis went to his employer and told him; and the -man seized him by the hand and shook it. “By Jove!” he cried, “that -lets me out. I didn’t sleep all last night because I had discharged a -good Socialist!” - -So, after that, Jurgis was known to his “boss” as “Comrade Jurgis,” and -in return he was expected to call him “Comrade Hinds.” “Tommy” Hinds, -as he was known to his intimates, was a squat little man, with broad -shoulders and a florid face, decorated with gray side whiskers. He was -the kindest-hearted man that ever lived, and the -liveliest—inexhaustible in his enthusiasm, and talking Socialism all -day and all night. He was a great fellow to jolly along a crowd, and -would keep a meeting in an uproar; when once he got really waked up, -the torrent of his eloquence could be compared with nothing save -Niagara. - -Tommy Hinds had begun life as a blacksmith’s helper, and had run away -to join the Union army, where he had made his first acquaintance with -“graft,” in the shape of rotten muskets and shoddy blankets. To a -musket that broke in a crisis he always attributed the death of his -only brother, and upon worthless blankets he blamed all the agonies of -his own old age. Whenever it rained, the rheumatism would get into his -joints, and then he would screw up his face and mutter: “Capitalism, my -boy, capitalism! ‘_Écrasez l’Infâme!_’” He had one unfailing remedy for -all the evils of this world, and he preached it to every one; no matter -whether the person’s trouble was failure in business, or dyspepsia, or -a quarrelsome mother-in-law, a twinkle would come into his eyes and he -would say, “You know what to do about it—vote the Socialist ticket!” - -Tommy Hinds had set out upon the trail of the Octopus as soon as the -war was over. He had gone into business, and found himself in -competition with the fortunes of those who had been stealing while he -had been fighting. The city government was in their hands and the -railroads were in league with them, and honest business was driven to -the wall; and so Hinds had put all his savings into Chicago real -estate, and set out singlehanded to dam the river of graft. He had been -a reform member of the city council, he had been a Greenbacker, a Labor -Unionist, a Populist, a Bryanite—and after thirty years of fighting, -the year 1896 had served to convince him that the power of concentrated -wealth could never be controlled, but could only be destroyed. He had -published a pamphlet about it, and set out to organize a party of his -own, when a stray Socialist leaflet had revealed to him that others had -been ahead of him. Now for eight years he had been fighting for the -party, anywhere, everywhere—whether it was a G.A.R. reunion, or a -hotel-keepers’ convention, or an Afro-American business-men’s banquet, -or a Bible society picnic, Tommy Hinds would manage to get himself -invited to explain the relations of Socialism to the subject in hand. -After that he would start off upon a tour of his own, ending at some -place between New York and Oregon; and when he came back from there, he -would go out to organize new locals for the state committee; and -finally he would come home to rest—and talk Socialism in Chicago. -Hinds’s hotel was a very hot-bed of the propaganda; all the employees -were party men, and if they were not when they came, they were quite -certain to be before they went away. The proprietor would get into a -discussion with some one in the lobby, and as the conversation grew -animated, others would gather about to listen, until finally every one -in the place would be crowded into a group, and a regular debate would -be under way. This went on every night—when Tommy Hinds was not there -to do it, his clerk did it; and when his clerk was away campaigning, -the assistant attended to it, while Mrs. Hinds sat behind the desk and -did the work. The clerk was an old crony of the proprietor’s, an -awkward, rawboned giant of a man, with a lean, sallow face, a broad -mouth, and whiskers under his chin, the very type and body of a prairie -farmer. He had been that all his life—he had fought the railroads in -Kansas for fifty years, a Granger, a Farmers’ Alliance man, a -“middle-of-the-road” Populist. Finally, Tommy Hinds had revealed to him -the wonderful idea of using the trusts instead of destroying them, and -he had sold his farm and come to Chicago. - -That was Amos Struver; and then there was Harry Adams, the assistant -clerk, a pale, scholarly-looking man, who came from Massachusetts, of -Pilgrim stock. Adams had been a cotton operative in Fall River, and the -continued depression in the industry had worn him and his family out, -and he had emigrated to South Carolina. In Massachusetts the percentage -of white illiteracy is eight-tenths of one per cent, while in South -Carolina it is thirteen and six-tenths per cent; also in South Carolina -there is a property qualification for voters—and for these and other -reasons child labor is the rule, and so the cotton mills were driving -those of Massachusetts out of the business. Adams did not know this, he -only knew that the Southern mills were running; but when he got there -he found that if he was to live, all his family would have to work, and -from six o’clock at night to six o’clock in the morning. So he had set -to work to organize the mill hands, after the fashion in Massachusetts, -and had been discharged; but he had gotten other work, and stuck at it, -and at last there had been a strike for shorter hours, and Harry Adams -had attempted to address a street meeting, which was the end of him. In -the states of the far South the labor of convicts is leased to -contractors, and when there are not convicts enough they have to be -supplied. Harry Adams was sent up by a judge who was a cousin of the -mill owner with whose business he had interfered; and though the life -had nearly killed him, he had been wise enough not to murmur, and at -the end of his term he and his family had left the state of South -Carolina—hell’s back yard, as he called it. He had no money for -carfare, but it was harvest-time, and they walked one day and worked -the next; and so Adams got at last to Chicago, and joined the Socialist -party. He was a studious man, reserved, and nothing of an orator; but -he always had a pile of books under his desk in the hotel, and articles -from his pen were beginning to attract attention in the party press. - -Contrary to what one would have expected, all this radicalism did not -hurt the hotel business; the radicals flocked to it, and the commercial -travelers all found it diverting. Of late, also, the hotel had become a -favorite stopping place for Western cattlemen. Now that the Beef Trust -had adopted the trick of raising prices to induce enormous shipments of -cattle, and then dropping them again and scooping in all they needed, a -stock raiser was very apt to find himself in Chicago without money -enough to pay his freight bill; and so he had to go to a cheap hotel, -and it was no drawback to him if there was an agitator talking in the -lobby. These Western fellows were just “meat” for Tommy Hinds—he would -get a dozen of them around him and paint little pictures of “the -System.” Of course, it was not a week before he had heard Jurgis’s -story, and after that he would not have let his new porter go for the -world. “See here,” he would say, in the middle of an argument, “I’ve -got a fellow right here in my place who’s worked there and seen every -bit of it!” And then Jurgis would drop his work, whatever it was, and -come, and the other would say, “Comrade Jurgis, just tell these -gentlemen what you saw on the killing-beds.” At first this request -caused poor Jurgis the most acute agony, and it was like pulling teeth -to get him to talk; but gradually he found out what was wanted, and in -the end he learned to stand up and speak his piece with enthusiasm. His -employer would sit by and encourage him with exclamations and shakes of -the head; when Jurgis would give the formula for “potted ham,” or tell -about the condemned hogs that were dropped into the “destructors” at -the top and immediately taken out again at the bottom, to be shipped -into another state and made into lard, Tommy Hinds would bang his knee -and cry, “Do you think a man could make up a thing like that out of his -head?” - -And then the hotel-keeper would go on to show how the Socialists had -the only real remedy for such evils, how they alone “meant business” -with the Beef Trust. And when, in answer to this, the victim would say -that the whole country was getting stirred up, that the newspapers were -full of denunciations of it, and the government taking action against -it, Tommy Hinds had a knock-out blow all ready. “Yes,” he would say, -“all that is true—but what do you suppose is the reason for it? Are you -foolish enough to believe that it’s done for the public? There are -other trusts in the country just as illegal and extortionate as the -Beef Trust: there is the Coal Trust, that freezes the poor in -winter—there is the Steel Trust, that doubles the price of every nail -in your shoes—there is the Oil Trust, that keeps you from reading at -night—and why do you suppose it is that all the fury of the press and -the government is directed against the Beef Trust?” And when to this -the victim would reply that there was clamor enough over the Oil Trust, -the other would continue: “Ten years ago Henry D. Lloyd told all the -truth about the Standard Oil Company in his Wealth versus Commonwealth; -and the book was allowed to die, and you hardly ever hear of it. And -now, at last, two magazines have the courage to tackle ‘Standard Oil’ -again, and what happens? The newspapers ridicule the authors, the -churches defend the criminals, and the government—does nothing. And -now, why is it all so different with the Beef Trust?” - -Here the other would generally admit that he was “stuck”; and Tommy -Hinds would explain to him, and it was fun to see his eyes open. “If -you were a Socialist,” the hotel-keeper would say, “you would -understand that the power which really governs the United States today -is the Railroad Trust. It is the Railroad Trust that runs your state -government, wherever you live, and that runs the United States Senate. -And all of the trusts that I have named are railroad trusts—save only -the Beef Trust! The Beef Trust has defied the railroads—it is -plundering them day by day through the Private Car; and so the public -is roused to fury, and the papers clamor for action, and the government -goes on the war-path! And you poor common people watch and applaud the -job, and think it’s all done for you, and never dream that it is really -the grand climax of the century-long battle of commercial -competition—the final death grapple between the chiefs of the Beef -Trust and ‘Standard Oil,’ for the prize of the mastery and ownership of -the United States of America!” - -Such was the new home in which Jurgis lived and worked, and in which -his education was completed. Perhaps you would imagine that he did not -do much work there, but that would be a great mistake. He would have -cut off one hand for Tommy Hinds; and to keep Hinds’s hotel a thing of -beauty was his joy in life. That he had a score of Socialist arguments -chasing through his brain in the meantime did not interfere with this; -on the contrary, Jurgis scrubbed the spittoons and polished the -banisters all the more vehemently because at the same time he was -wrestling inwardly with an imaginary recalcitrant. It would be pleasant -to record that he swore off drinking immediately, and all the rest of -his bad habits with it; but that would hardly be exact. These -revolutionists were not angels; they were men, and men who had come up -from the social pit, and with the mire of it smeared over them. Some of -them drank, and some of them swore, and some of them ate pie with their -knives; there was only one difference between them and all the rest of -the populace—that they were men with a hope, with a cause to fight for -and suffer for. There came times to Jurgis when the vision seemed -far-off and pale, and a glass of beer loomed large in comparison; but -if the glass led to another glass, and to too many glasses, he had -something to spur him to remorse and resolution on the morrow. It was -so evidently a wicked thing to spend one’s pennies for drink, when the -working class was wandering in darkness, and waiting to be delivered; -the price of a glass of beer would buy fifty copies of a leaflet, and -one could hand these out to the unregenerate, and then get drunk upon -the thought of the good that was being accomplished. That was the way -the movement had been made, and it was the only way it would progress; -it availed nothing to know of it, without fighting for it—it was a -thing for all, not for a few! A corollary of this proposition of course -was, that any one who refused to receive the new gospel was personally -responsible for keeping Jurgis from his heart’s desire; and this, alas, -made him uncomfortable as an acquaintance. He met some neighbors with -whom Elzbieta had made friends in her neighborhood, and he set out to -make Socialists of them by wholesale, and several times he all but got -into a fight. - -It was all so painfully obvious to Jurgis! It was so incomprehensible -how a man could fail to see it! Here were all the opportunities of the -country, the land, and the buildings upon the land, the railroads, the -mines, the factories, and the stores, all in the hands of a few private -individuals, called capitalists, for whom the people were obliged to -work for wages. The whole balance of what the people produced went to -heap up the fortunes of these capitalists, to heap, and heap again, and -yet again—and that in spite of the fact that they, and every one about -them, lived in unthinkable luxury! And was it not plain that if the -people cut off the share of those who merely “owned,” the share of -those who worked would be much greater? That was as plain as two and -two makes four; and it was the whole of it, absolutely the whole of it; -and yet there were people who could not see it, who would argue about -everything else in the world. They would tell you that governments -could not manage things as economically as private individuals; they -would repeat and repeat that, and think they were saying something! -They could not see that “economical” management by masters meant simply -that they, the people, were worked harder and ground closer and paid -less! They were wage-earners and servants, at the mercy of exploiters -whose one thought was to get as much out of them as possible; and they -were taking an interest in the process, were anxious lest it should not -be done thoroughly enough! Was it not honestly a trial to listen to an -argument such as that? - -And yet there were things even worse. You would begin talking to some -poor devil who had worked in one shop for the last thirty years, and -had never been able to save a penny; who left home every morning at six -o’clock, to go and tend a machine, and come back at night too tired to -take his clothes off; who had never had a week’s vacation in his life, -had never traveled, never had an adventure, never learned anything, -never hoped anything—and when you started to tell him about Socialism -he would sniff and say, “I’m not interested in that—I’m an -individualist!” And then he would go on to tell you that Socialism was -“paternalism,” and that if it ever had its way the world would stop -progressing. It was enough to make a mule laugh, to hear arguments like -that; and yet it was no laughing matter, as you found out—for how many -millions of such poor deluded wretches there were, whose lives had been -so stunted by capitalism that they no longer knew what freedom was! And -they really thought that it was “individualism” for tens of thousands -of them to herd together and obey the orders of a steel magnate, and -produce hundreds of millions of dollars of wealth for him, and then let -him give them libraries; while for them to take the industry, and run -it to suit themselves, and build their own libraries—that would have -been “Paternalism”! - -Sometimes the agony of such things as this was almost more than Jurgis -could bear; yet there was no way of escape from it, there was nothing -to do but to dig away at the base of this mountain of ignorance and -prejudice. You must keep at the poor fellow; you must hold your temper, -and argue with him, and watch for your chance to stick an idea or two -into his head. And the rest of the time you must sharpen up your -weapons—you must think out new replies to his objections, and provide -yourself with new facts to prove to him the folly of his ways. - -So Jurgis acquired the reading habit. He would carry in his pocket a -tract or a pamphlet which some one had loaned him, and whenever he had -an idle moment during the day he would plod through a paragraph, and -then think about it while he worked. Also he read the newspapers, and -asked questions about them. One of the other porters at Hinds’s was a -sharp little Irishman, who knew everything that Jurgis wanted to know; -and while they were busy he would explain to him the geography of -America, and its history, its constitution and its laws; also he gave -him an idea of the business system of the country, the great railroads -and corporations, and who owned them, and the labor unions, and the big -strikes, and the men who had led them. Then at night, when he could get -off, Jurgis would attend the Socialist meetings. During the campaign -one was not dependent upon the street corner affairs, where the weather -and the quality of the orator were equally uncertain; there were hall -meetings every night, and one could hear speakers of national -prominence. These discussed the political situation from every point of -view, and all that troubled Jurgis was the impossibility of carrying -off but a small part of the treasures they offered him. - -There was a man who was known in the party as the “Little Giant.” The -Lord had used up so much material in the making of his head that there -had not been enough to complete his legs; but he got about on the -platform, and when he shook his raven whiskers the pillars of -capitalism rocked. He had written a veritable encyclopedia upon the -subject, a book that was nearly as big as himself—And then there was a -young author, who came from California, and had been a salmon fisher, -an oyster-pirate, a longshoreman, a sailor; who had tramped the country -and been sent to jail, had lived in the Whitechapel slums, and been to -the Klondike in search of gold. All these things he pictured in his -books, and because he was a man of genius he forced the world to hear -him. Now he was famous, but wherever he went he still preached the -gospel of the poor. And then there was one who was known at the -“millionaire Socialist.” He had made a fortune in business, and spent -nearly all of it in building up a magazine, which the post office -department had tried to suppress, and had driven to Canada. He was a -quiet-mannered man, whom you would have taken for anything in the world -but a Socialist agitator. His speech was simple and informal—he could -not understand why any one should get excited about these things. It -was a process of economic evolution, he said, and he exhibited its laws -and methods. Life was a struggle for existence, and the strong overcame -the weak, and in turn were overcome by the strongest. Those who lost in -the struggle were generally exterminated; but now and then they had -been known to save themselves by combination—which was a new and higher -kind of strength. It was so that the gregarious animals had overcome -the predaceous; it was so, in human history, that the people had -mastered the kings. The workers were simply the citizens of industry, -and the Socialist movement was the expression of their will to survive. -The inevitability of the revolution depended upon this fact, that they -had no choice but to unite or be exterminated; this fact, grim and -inexorable, depended upon no human will, it was the law of the economic -process, of which the editor showed the details with the most marvelous -precision. - -And later on came the evening of the great meeting of the campaign, -when Jurgis heard the two standard-bearers of his party. Ten years -before there had been in Chicago a strike of a hundred and fifty -thousand railroad employees, and thugs had been hired by the railroads -to commit violence, and the President of the United States had sent in -troops to break the strike, by flinging the officers of the union into -jail without trial. The president of the union came out of his cell a -ruined man; but also he came out a Socialist; and now for just ten -years he had been traveling up and down the country, standing face to -face with the people, and pleading with them for justice. He was a man -of electric presence, tall and gaunt, with a face worn thin by struggle -and suffering. The fury of outraged manhood gleamed in it—and the tears -of suffering little children pleaded in his voice. When he spoke he -paced the stage, lithe and eager, like a panther. He leaned over, -reaching out for his audience; he pointed into their souls with an -insistent finger. His voice was husky from much speaking, but the great -auditorium was as still as death, and every one heard him. - -And then, as Jurgis came out from this meeting, some one handed him a -paper which he carried home with him and read; and so he became -acquainted with the “Appeal to Reason.” About twelve years previously a -Colorado real-estate speculator had made up his mind that it was wrong -to gamble in the necessities of life of human beings: and so he had -retired and begun the publication of a Socialist weekly. There had come -a time when he had to set his own type, but he had held on and won out, -and now his publication was an institution. It used a carload of paper -every week, and the mail trains would be hours loading up at the depot -of the little Kansas town. It was a four-page weekly, which sold for -less than half a cent a copy; its regular subscription list was a -quarter of a million, and it went to every crossroads post office in -America. - -The “Appeal” was a “propaganda” paper. It had a manner all its own—it -was full of ginger and spice, of Western slang and hustle: It collected -news of the doings of the “plutes,” and served it up for the benefit of -the “American working-mule.” It would have columns of the deadly -parallel—the million dollars’ worth of diamonds, or the fancy -pet-poodle establishment of a society dame, beside the fate of Mrs. -Murphy of San Francisco, who had starved to death on the streets, or of -John Robinson, just out of the hospital, who had hanged himself in New -York because he could not find work. It collected the stories of graft -and misery from the daily press, and made a little pungent paragraphs -out of them. “Three banks of Bungtown, South Dakota, failed, and more -savings of the workers swallowed up!” “The mayor of Sandy Creek, -Oklahoma, has skipped with a hundred thousand dollars. That’s the kind -of rulers the old partyites give you!” “The president of the Florida -Flying Machine Company is in jail for bigamy. He was a prominent -opponent of Socialism, which he said would break up the home!” The -“Appeal” had what it called its “Army,” about thirty thousand of the -faithful, who did things for it; and it was always exhorting the “Army” -to keep its dander up, and occasionally encouraging it with a prize -competition, for anything from a gold watch to a private yacht or an -eighty-acre farm. Its office helpers were all known to the “Army” by -quaint titles—“Inky Ike,” “the Bald-headed Man,” “the Redheaded Girl,” -“the Bulldog,” “the Office Goat,” and “the One Hoss.” - -But sometimes, again, the “Appeal” would be desperately serious. It -sent a correspondent to Colorado, and printed pages describing the -overthrow of American institutions in that state. In a certain city of -the country it had over forty of its “Army” in the headquarters of the -Telegraph Trust, and no message of importance to Socialists ever went -through that a copy of it did not go to the “Appeal.” It would print -great broadsides during the campaign; one copy that came to Jurgis was -a manifesto addressed to striking workingmen, of which nearly a million -copies had been distributed in the industrial centers, wherever the -employers’ associations had been carrying out their “open shop” -program. “You have lost the strike!” it was headed. “And now what are -you going to do about it?” It was what is called an “incendiary” -appeal—it was written by a man into whose soul the iron had entered. -When this edition appeared, twenty thousand copies were sent to the -stockyards district; and they were taken out and stowed away in the -rear of a little cigar store, and every evening, and on Sundays, the -members of the Packingtown locals would get armfuls and distribute them -on the streets and in the houses. The people of Packingtown had lost -their strike, if ever a people had, and so they read these papers -gladly, and twenty thousand were hardly enough to go round. Jurgis had -resolved not to go near his old home again, but when he heard of this -it was too much for him, and every night for a week he would get on the -car and ride out to the stockyards, and help to undo his work of the -previous year, when he had sent Mike Scully’s ten-pin setter to the -city Board of Aldermen. - -It was quite marvelous to see what a difference twelve months had made -in Packingtown—the eyes of the people were getting opened! The -Socialists were literally sweeping everything before them that -election, and Scully and the Cook County machine were at their wits’ -end for an “issue.” At the very close of the campaign they bethought -themselves of the fact that the strike had been broken by Negroes, and -so they sent for a South Carolina fire-eater, the “pitchfork senator,” -as he was called, a man who took off his coat when he talked to -workingmen, and damned and swore like a Hessian. This meeting they -advertised extensively, and the Socialists advertised it too—with the -result that about a thousand of them were on hand that evening. The -“pitchfork senator” stood their fusillade of questions for about an -hour, and then went home in disgust, and the balance of the meeting was -a strictly party affair. Jurgis, who had insisted upon coming, had the -time of his life that night; he danced about and waved his arms in his -excitement—and at the very climax he broke loose from his friends, and -got out into the aisle, and proceeded to make a speech himself! The -senator had been denying that the Democratic party was corrupt; it was -always the Republicans who bought the votes, he said—and here was -Jurgis shouting furiously, “It’s a lie! It’s a lie!” After which he -went on to tell them how he knew it—that he knew it because he had -bought them himself! And he would have told the “pitchfork senator” all -his experiences, had not Harry Adams and a friend grabbed him about the -neck and shoved him into a seat. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI - - -One of the first things that Jurgis had done after he got a job was to -go and see Marija. She came down into the basement of the house to meet -him, and he stood by the door with his hat in his hand, saying, “I’ve -got work now, and so you can leave here.” - -But Marija only shook her head. There was nothing else for her to do, -she said, and nobody to employ her. She could not keep her past a -secret—girls had tried it, and they were always found out. There were -thousands of men who came to this place, and sooner or later she would -meet one of them. “And besides,” Marija added, “I can’t do anything. -I’m no good—I take dope. What could you do with me?” - -“Can’t you stop?” Jurgis cried. - -“No,” she answered, “I’ll never stop. What’s the use of talking about -it—I’ll stay here till I die, I guess. It’s all I’m fit for.” And that -was all that he could get her to say—there was no use trying. When he -told her he would not let Elzbieta take her money, she answered -indifferently: “Then it’ll be wasted here—that’s all.” Her eyelids -looked heavy and her face was red and swollen; he saw that he was -annoying her, that she only wanted him to go away. So he went, -disappointed and sad. - -Poor Jurgis was not very happy in his home-life. Elzbieta was sick a -good deal now, and the boys were wild and unruly, and very much the -worse for their life upon the streets. But he stuck by the family -nevertheless, for they reminded him of his old happiness; and when -things went wrong he could solace himself with a plunge into the -Socialist movement. Since his life had been caught up into the current -of this great stream, things which had before been the whole of life to -him came to seem of relatively slight importance; his interests were -elsewhere, in the world of ideas. His outward life was commonplace and -uninteresting; he was just a hotel-porter, and expected to remain one -while he lived; but meantime, in the realm of thought, his life was a -perpetual adventure. There was so much to know—so many wonders to be -discovered! Never in all his life did Jurgis forget the day before -election, when there came a telephone message from a friend of Harry -Adams, asking him to bring Jurgis to see him that night; and Jurgis -went, and met one of the minds of the movement. - -The invitation was from a man named Fisher, a Chicago millionaire who -had given up his life to settlement work, and had a little home in the -heart of the city’s slums. He did not belong to the party, but he was -in sympathy with it; and he said that he was to have as his guest that -night the editor of a big Eastern magazine, who wrote against -Socialism, but really did not know what it was. The millionaire -suggested that Adams bring Jurgis along, and then start up the subject -of “pure food,” in which the editor was interested. - -Young Fisher’s home was a little two-story brick house, dingy and -weather-beaten outside, but attractive within. The room that Jurgis saw -was half lined with books, and upon the walls were many pictures, dimly -visible in the soft, yellow light; it was a cold, rainy night, so a log -fire was crackling in the open hearth. Seven or eight people were -gathered about it when Adams and his friend arrived, and Jurgis saw to -his dismay that three of them were ladies. He had never talked to -people of this sort before, and he fell into an agony of embarrassment. -He stood in the doorway clutching his hat tightly in his hands, and -made a deep bow to each of the persons as he was introduced; then, when -he was asked to have a seat, he took a chair in a dark corner, and sat -down upon the edge of it, and wiped the perspiration off his forehead -with his sleeve. He was terrified lest they should expect him to talk. - -There was the host himself, a tall, athletic young man, clad in evening -dress, as also was the editor, a dyspeptic-looking gentleman named -Maynard. There was the former’s frail young wife, and also an elderly -lady, who taught kindergarten in the settlement, and a young college -student, a beautiful girl with an intense and earnest face. She only -spoke once or twice while Jurgis was there—the rest of the time she sat -by the table in the center of the room, resting her chin in her hands -and drinking in the conversation. There were two other men, whom young -Fisher had introduced to Jurgis as Mr. Lucas and Mr. Schliemann; he -heard them address Adams as “Comrade,” and so he knew that they were -Socialists. - -The one called Lucas was a mild and meek-looking little gentleman of -clerical aspect; he had been an itinerant evangelist, it transpired, -and had seen the light and become a prophet of the new dispensation. He -traveled all over the country, living like the apostles of old, upon -hospitality, and preaching upon street-corners when there was no hall. -The other man had been in the midst of a discussion with the editor -when Adams and Jurgis came in; and at the suggestion of the host they -resumed it after the interruption. Jurgis was soon sitting spellbound, -thinking that here was surely the strangest man that had ever lived in -the world. - -Nicholas Schliemann was a Swede, a tall, gaunt person, with hairy hands -and bristling yellow beard; he was a university man, and had been a -professor of philosophy—until, as he said, he had found that he was -selling his character as well as his time. Instead he had come to -America, where he lived in a garret room in this slum district, and -made volcanic energy take the place of fire. He studied the composition -of food-stuffs, and knew exactly how many proteids and carbohydrates -his body needed; and by scientific chewing he said that he tripled the -value of all he ate, so that it cost him eleven cents a day. About the -first of July he would leave Chicago for his vacation, on foot; and -when he struck the harvest fields he would set to work for two dollars -and a half a day, and come home when he had another year’s supply—a -hundred and twenty-five dollars. That was the nearest approach to -independence a man could make “under capitalism,” he explained; he -would never marry, for no sane man would allow himself to fall in love -until after the revolution. - -He sat in a big arm-chair, with his legs crossed, and his head so far -in the shadow that one saw only two glowing lights, reflected from the -fire on the hearth. He spoke simply, and utterly without emotion; with -the manner of a teacher setting forth to a group of scholars an axiom -in geometry, he would enunciate such propositions as made the hair of -an ordinary person rise on end. And when the auditor had asserted his -non-comprehension, he would proceed to elucidate by some new -proposition, yet more appalling. To Jurgis the Herr Dr. Schliemann -assumed the proportions of a thunderstorm or an earthquake. And yet, -strange as it might seem, there was a subtle bond between them, and he -could follow the argument nearly all the time. He was carried over the -difficult places in spite of himself; and he went plunging away in mad -career—a very Mazeppa-ride upon the wild horse Speculation. - -Nicholas Schliemann was familiar with all the universe, and with man as -a small part of it. He understood human institutions, and blew them -about like soap bubbles. It was surprising that so much destructiveness -could be contained in one human mind. Was it government? The purpose of -government was the guarding of property-rights, the perpetuation of -ancient force and modern fraud. Or was it marriage? Marriage and -prostitution were two sides of one shield, the predatory man’s -exploitation of the sex-pleasure. The difference between them was a -difference of class. If a woman had money she might dictate her own -terms: equality, a life contract, and the legitimacy—that is, the -property-rights—of her children. If she had no money, she was a -proletarian, and sold herself for an existence. And then the subject -became Religion, which was the Archfiend’s deadliest weapon. Government -oppressed the body of the wage-slave, but Religion oppressed his mind, -and poisoned the stream of progress at its source. The working-man was -to fix his hopes upon a future life, while his pockets were picked in -this one; he was brought up to frugality, humility, obedience—in short -to all the pseudo-virtues of capitalism. The destiny of civilization -would be decided in one final death struggle between the Red -International and the Black, between Socialism and the Roman Catholic -Church; while here at home, “the stygian midnight of American -evangelicalism—” - -And here the ex-preacher entered the field, and there was a lively -tussle. “Comrade” Lucas was not what is called an educated man; he knew -only the Bible, but it was the Bible interpreted by real experience. -And what was the use, he asked, of confusing Religion with men’s -perversions of it? That the church was in the hands of the merchants at -the moment was obvious enough; but already there were signs of -rebellion, and if Comrade Schliemann could come back a few years from -now— - -“Ah, yes,” said the other, “of course, I have no doubt that in a -hundred years the Vatican will be denying that it ever opposed -Socialism, just as at present it denies that it ever tortured Galileo.” - -“I am not defending the Vatican,” exclaimed Lucas, vehemently. “I am -defending the word of God—which is one long cry of the human spirit for -deliverance from the sway of oppression. Take the twenty-fourth chapter -of the Book of Job, which I am accustomed to quote in my addresses as -‘the Bible upon the Beef Trust’; or take the words of Isaiah—or of the -Master himself! Not the elegant prince of our debauched and vicious -art, not the jeweled idol of our society churches—but the Jesus of the -awful reality, the man of sorrow and pain, the outcast, despised of the -world, who had nowhere to lay his head—” - -“I will grant you Jesus,” interrupted the other. - -“Well, then,” cried Lucas, “and why should Jesus have nothing to do -with his church—why should his words and his life be of no authority -among those who profess to adore him? Here is a man who was the world’s -first revolutionist, the true founder of the Socialist movement; a man -whose whole being was one flame of hatred for wealth, and all that -wealth stands for,—for the pride of wealth, and the luxury of wealth, -and the tyranny of wealth; who was himself a beggar and a tramp, a man -of the people, an associate of saloon-keepers and women of the town; -who again and again, in the most explicit language, denounced wealth -and the holding of wealth: ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures on -earth!’—‘Sell that ye have and give alms!’—‘Blessed are ye poor, for -yours is the kingdom of Heaven!’—‘Woe unto you that are rich, for ye -have received your consolation!’—‘Verily, I say unto you, that a rich -man shall hardly enter into the kingdom of Heaven!’ Who denounced in -unmeasured terms the exploiters of his own time: ‘Woe unto you, scribes -and pharisees, hypocrites!’—‘Woe unto you also, you lawyers!’—‘Ye -serpents, ye generation of vipers, how can ye escape the damnation of -hell?’ Who drove out the business men and brokers from the temple with -a whip! Who was crucified—think of it—for an incendiary and a disturber -of the social order! And this man they have made into the high priest -of property and smug respectability, a divine sanction of all the -horrors and abominations of modern commercial civilization! Jeweled -images are made of him, sensual priests burn incense to him, and modern -pirates of industry bring their dollars, wrung from the toil of -helpless women and children, and build temples to him, and sit in -cushioned seats and listen to his teachings expounded by doctors of -dusty divinity—” - -“Bravo!” cried Schliemann, laughing. But the other was in full -career—he had talked this subject every day for five years, and had -never yet let himself be stopped. “This Jesus of Nazareth!” he cried. -“This class-conscious working-man! This union carpenter! This agitator, -law-breaker, firebrand, anarchist! He, the sovereign lord and master of -a world which grinds the bodies and souls of human beings into -dollars—if he could come into the world this day and see the things -that men have made in his name, would it not blast his soul with -horror? Would he not go mad at the sight of it, he the Prince of Mercy -and Love! That dreadful night when he lay in the Garden of Gethsemane -and writhed in agony until he sweat blood—do you think that he saw -anything worse than he might see tonight upon the plains of Manchuria, -where men march out with a jeweled image of him before them, to do -wholesale murder for the benefit of foul monsters of sensuality and -cruelty? Do you not know that if he were in St. Petersburg now, he -would take the whip with which he drove out the bankers from his -temple—” - -Here the speaker paused an instant for breath. “No, comrade,” said the -other, dryly, “for he was a practical man. He would take pretty little -imitation lemons, such as are now being shipped into Russia, handy for -carrying in the pockets, and strong enough to blow a whole temple out -of sight.” - -Lucas waited until the company had stopped laughing over this; then he -began again: “But look at it from the point of view of practical -politics, comrade. Here is an historical figure whom all men reverence -and love, whom some regard as divine; and who was one of us—who lived -our life, and taught our doctrine. And now shall we leave him in the -hands of his enemies—shall we allow them to stifle and stultify his -example? We have his words, which no one can deny; and shall we not -quote them to the people, and prove to them what he was, and what he -taught, and what he did? No, no, a thousand times no!—we shall use his -authority to turn out the knaves and sluggards from his ministry, and -we shall yet rouse the people to action!—” - -Lucas halted again; and the other stretched out his hand to a paper on -the table. “Here, comrade,” he said, with a laugh, “here is a place for -you to begin. A bishop whose wife has just been robbed of fifty -thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds! And a most unctuous and oily of -bishops! An eminent and scholarly bishop! A philanthropist and friend -of labor bishop—a Civic Federation decoy duck for the chloroforming of -the wage-working-man!” - -To this little passage of arms the rest of the company sat as -spectators. But now Mr. Maynard, the editor, took occasion to remark, -somewhat naïvely, that he had always understood that Socialists had a -cut-and-dried program for the future of civilization; whereas here were -two active members of the party, who, from what he could make out, were -agreed about nothing at all. Would the two, for his enlightenment, try -to ascertain just what they had in common, and why they belonged to the -same party? This resulted, after much debating, in the formulating of -two carefully worded propositions: First, that a Socialist believes in -the common ownership and democratic management of the means of -producing the necessities of life; and, second, that a Socialist -believes that the means by which this is to be brought about is the -class conscious political organization of the wage-earners. Thus far -they were at one; but no farther. To Lucas, the religious zealot, the -co-operative commonwealth was the New Jerusalem, the kingdom of Heaven, -which is “within you.” To the other, Socialism was simply a necessary -step toward a far-distant goal, a step to be tolerated with impatience. -Schliemann called himself a “philosophic anarchist”; and he explained -that an anarchist was one who believed that the end of human existence -was the free development of every personality, unrestricted by laws -save those of its own being. Since the same kind of match would light -every one’s fire and the same-shaped loaf of bread would fill every -one’s stomach, it would be perfectly feasible to submit industry to the -control of a majority vote. There was only one earth, and the quantity -of material things was limited. Of intellectual and moral things, on -the other hand, there was no limit, and one could have more without -another’s having less; hence “Communism in material production, -anarchism in intellectual,” was the formula of modern proletarian -thought. As soon as the birth agony was over, and the wounds of society -had been healed, there would be established a simple system whereby -each man was credited with his labor and debited with his purchases; -and after that the processes of production, exchange, and consumption -would go on automatically, and without our being conscious of them, any -more than a man is conscious of the beating of his heart. And then, -explained Schliemann, society would break up into independent, -self-governing communities of mutually congenial persons; examples of -which at present were clubs, churches, and political parties. After the -revolution, all the intellectual, artistic, and spiritual activities of -men would be cared for by such “free associations”; romantic novelists -would be supported by those who liked to read romantic novels, and -impressionist painters would be supported by those who liked to look at -impressionist pictures—and the same with preachers and scientists, -editors and actors and musicians. If any one wanted to work or paint or -pray, and could find no one to maintain him, he could support himself -by working part of the time. That was the case at present, the only -difference being that the competitive wage system compelled a man to -work all the time to live, while, after the abolition of privilege and -exploitation, any one would be able to support himself by an hour’s -work a day. Also the artist’s audience of the present was a small -minority of people, all debased and vulgarized by the effort it had -cost them to win in the commercial battle, of the intellectual and -artistic activities which would result when the whole of mankind was -set free from the nightmare of competition, we could at present form no -conception whatever. - -And then the editor wanted to know upon what ground Dr. Schliemann -asserted that it might be possible for a society to exist upon an -hour’s toil by each of its members. “Just what,” answered the other, -“would be the productive capacity of society if the present resources -of science were utilized, we have no means of ascertaining; but we may -be sure it would exceed anything that would sound reasonable to minds -inured to the ferocious barbarities of capitalism. After the triumph of -the international proletariat, war would of course be inconceivable; -and who can figure the cost of war to humanity—not merely the value of -the lives and the material that it destroys, not merely the cost of -keeping millions of men in idleness, of arming and equipping them for -battle and parade, but the drain upon the vital energies of society by -the war attitude and the war terror, the brutality and ignorance, the -drunkenness, prostitution, and crime it entails, the industrial -impotence and the moral deadness? Do you think that it would be too -much to say that two hours of the working time of every efficient -member of a community goes to feed the red fiend of war?” - -And then Schliemann went on to outline some of the wastes of -competition: the losses of industrial warfare; the ceaseless worry and -friction; the vices—such as drink, for instance, the use of which had -nearly doubled in twenty years, as a consequence of the intensification -of the economic struggle; the idle and unproductive members of the -community, the frivolous rich and the pauperized poor; the law and the -whole machinery of repression; the wastes of social ostentation, the -milliners and tailors, the hairdressers, dancing masters, chefs and -lackeys. “You understand,” he said, “that in a society dominated by the -fact of commercial competition, money is necessarily the test of -prowess, and wastefulness the sole criterion of power. So we have, at -the present moment, a society with, say, thirty per cent of the -population occupied in producing useless articles, and one per cent -occupied in destroying them. And this is not all; for the servants and -panders of the parasites are also parasites, the milliners and the -jewelers and the lackeys have also to be supported by the useful -members of the community. And bear in mind also that this monstrous -disease affects not merely the idlers and their menials, its poison -penetrates the whole social body. Beneath the hundred thousand women of -the elite are a million middle-class women, miserable because they are -not of the elite, and trying to appear of it in public; and beneath -them, in turn, are five million farmers’ wives reading ‘fashion papers’ -and trimming bonnets, and shop-girls and serving-maids selling -themselves into brothels for cheap jewelry and imitation seal-skin -robes. And then consider that, added to this competition in display, -you have, like oil on the flames, a whole system of competition in -selling! You have manufacturers contriving tens of thousands of -catchpenny devices, storekeepers displaying them, and newspapers and -magazines filled up with advertisements of them!” - -“And don’t forget the wastes of fraud,” put in young Fisher. - -“When one comes to the ultra-modern profession of advertising,” -responded Schliemann—“the science of persuading people to buy what they -do not want—he is in the very center of the ghastly charnel house of -capitalist destructiveness, and he scarcely knows which of a dozen -horrors to point out first. But consider the waste in time and energy -incidental to making ten thousand varieties of a thing for purposes of -ostentation and snobbishness, where one variety would do for use! -Consider all the waste incidental to the manufacture of cheap qualities -of goods, of goods made to sell and deceive the ignorant; consider the -wastes of adulteration,—the shoddy clothing, the cotton blankets, the -unstable tenements, the ground-cork life-preservers, the adulterated -milk, the aniline soda water, the potato-flour sausages—” - -“And consider the moral aspects of the thing,” put in the ex-preacher. - -“Precisely,” said Schliemann; “the low knavery and the ferocious -cruelty incidental to them, the plotting and the lying and the bribing, -the blustering and bragging, the screaming egotism, the hurrying and -worrying. Of course, imitation and adulteration are the essence of -competition—they are but another form of the phrase ‘to buy in the -cheapest market and sell in the dearest.’ A government official has -stated that the nation suffers a loss of a billion and a quarter -dollars a year through adulterated foods; which means, of course, not -only materials wasted that might have been useful outside of the human -stomach, but doctors and nurses for people who would otherwise have -been well, and undertakers for the whole human race ten or twenty years -before the proper time. Then again, consider the waste of time and -energy required to sell these things in a dozen stores, where one would -do. There are a million or two of business firms in the country, and -five or ten times as many clerks; and consider the handling and -rehandling, the accounting and reaccounting, the planning and worrying, -the balancing of petty profit and loss. Consider the whole machinery of -the civil law made necessary by these processes; the libraries of -ponderous tomes, the courts and juries to interpret them, the lawyers -studying to circumvent them, the pettifogging and chicanery, the -hatreds and lies! Consider the wastes incidental to the blind and -haphazard production of commodities—the factories closed, the workers -idle, the goods spoiling in storage; consider the activities of the -stock manipulator, the paralyzing of whole industries, the -overstimulation of others, for speculative purposes; the assignments -and bank failures, the crises and panics, the deserted towns and the -starving populations! Consider the energies wasted in the seeking of -markets, the sterile trades, such as drummer, solicitor, bill-poster, -advertising agent. Consider the wastes incidental to the crowding into -cities, made necessary by competition and by monopoly railroad rates; -consider the slums, the bad air, the disease and the waste of vital -energies; consider the office buildings, the waste of time and material -in the piling of story upon story, and the burrowing underground! Then -take the whole business of insurance, the enormous mass of -administrative and clerical labor it involves, and all utter waste—” - -“I do not follow that,” said the editor. “The Cooperative Commonwealth -is a universal automatic insurance company and savings bank for all its -members. Capital being the property of all, injury to it is shared by -all and made up by all. The bank is the universal government -credit-account, the ledger in which every individual’s earnings and -spendings are balanced. There is also a universal government bulletin, -in which are listed and precisely described everything which the -commonwealth has for sale. As no one makes any profit by the sale, -there is no longer any stimulus to extravagance, and no -misrepresentation; no cheating, no adulteration or imitation, no -bribery or ‘grafting.’” - -“How is the price of an article determined?” - -“The price is the labor it has cost to make and deliver it, and it is -determined by the first principles of arithmetic. The million workers -in the nation’s wheat fields have worked a hundred days each, and the -total product of the labor is a billion bushels, so the value of a -bushel of wheat is the tenth part of a farm labor-day. If we employ an -arbitrary symbol, and pay, say, five dollars a day for farm work, then -the cost of a bushel of wheat is fifty cents.” - -“You say ‘for farm work,’” said Mr. Maynard. “Then labor is not to be -paid alike?” - -“Manifestly not, since some work is easy and some hard, and we should -have millions of rural mail carriers, and no coal miners. Of course the -wages may be left the same, and the hours varied; one or the other will -have to be varied continually, according as a greater or less number of -workers is needed in any particular industry. That is precisely what is -done at present, except that the transfer of the workers is -accomplished blindly and imperfectly, by rumors and advertisements, -instead of instantly and completely, by a universal government -bulletin.” - -“How about those occupations in which time is difficult to calculate? -What is the labor cost of a book?” - -“Obviously it is the labor cost of the paper, printing, and binding of -it—about a fifth of its present cost.” - -“And the author?” - -“I have already said that the state could not control intellectual -production. The state might say that it had taken a year to write the -book, and the author might say it had taken thirty. Goethe said that -every _bon mot_ of his had cost a purse of gold. What I outline here is -a national, or rather international, system for the providing of the -material needs of men. Since a man has intellectual needs also, he will -work longer, earn more, and provide for them to his own taste and in -his own way. I live on the same earth as the majority, I wear the same -kind of shoes and sleep in the same kind of bed; but I do not think the -same kind of thoughts, and I do not wish to pay for such thinkers as -the majority selects. I wish such things to be left to free effort, as -at present. If people want to listen to a certain preacher, they get -together and contribute what they please, and pay for a church and -support the preacher, and then listen to him; I, who do not want to -listen to him, stay away, and it costs me nothing. In the same way -there are magazines about Egyptian coins, and Catholic saints, and -flying machines, and athletic records, and I know nothing about any of -them. On the other hand, if wage slavery were abolished, and I could -earn some spare money without paying tribute to an exploiting -capitalist, then there would be a magazine for the purpose of -interpreting and popularizing the gospel of Friedrich Nietzsche, the -prophet of Evolution, and also of Horace Fletcher, the inventor of the -noble science of clean eating; and incidentally, perhaps, for the -discouraging of long skirts, and the scientific breeding of men and -women, and the establishing of divorce by mutual consent.” - -Dr. Schliemann paused for a moment. “That was a lecture,” he said with -a laugh, “and yet I am only begun!” - -“What else is there?” asked Maynard. - -“I have pointed out some of the negative wastes of competition,” -answered the other. “I have hardly mentioned the positive economies of -co-operation. Allowing five to a family, there are fifteen million -families in this country; and at least ten million of these live -separately, the domestic drudge being either the wife or a wage slave. -Now set aside the modern system of pneumatic house-cleaning, and the -economies of co-operative cooking; and consider one single item, the -washing of dishes. Surely it is moderate to say that the dish-washing -for a family of five takes half an hour a day; with ten hours as a -day’s work, it takes, therefore, half a million able-bodied -persons—mostly women to do the dish-washing of the country. And note -that this is most filthy and deadening and brutalizing work; that it is -a cause of anemia, nervousness, ugliness, and ill-temper; of -prostitution, suicide, and insanity; of drunken husbands and degenerate -children—for all of which things the community has naturally to pay. -And now consider that in each of my little free communities there would -be a machine which would wash and dry the dishes, and do it, not merely -to the eye and the touch, but scientifically—sterilizing them—and do it -at a saving of all the drudgery and nine-tenths of the time! All of -these things you may find in the books of Mrs. Gilman; and then take -Kropotkin’s Fields, Factories, and Workshops, and read about the new -science of agriculture, which has been built up in the last ten years; -by which, with made soils and intensive culture, a gardener can raise -ten or twelve crops in a season, and two hundred tons of vegetables -upon a single acre; by which the population of the whole globe could be -supported on the soil now cultivated in the United States alone! It is -impossible to apply such methods now, owing to the ignorance and -poverty of our scattered farming population; but imagine the problem of -providing the food supply of our nation once taken in hand -systematically and rationally, by scientists! All the poor and rocky -land set apart for a national timber reserve, in which our children -play, and our young men hunt, and our poets dwell! The most favorable -climate and soil for each product selected; the exact requirements of -the community known, and the acreage figured accordingly; the most -improved machinery employed, under the direction of expert agricultural -chemists! I was brought up on a farm, and I know the awful deadliness -of farm work; and I like to picture it all as it will be after the -revolution. To picture the great potato-planting machine, drawn by four -horses, or an electric motor, ploughing the furrow, cutting and -dropping and covering the potatoes, and planting a score of acres a -day! To picture the great potato-digging machine, run by electricity, -perhaps, and moving across a thousand-acre field, scooping up earth and -potatoes, and dropping the latter into sacks! To every other kind of -vegetable and fruit handled in the same way—apples and oranges picked -by machinery, cows milked by electricity—things which are already done, -as you may know. To picture the harvest fields of the future, to which -millions of happy men and women come for a summer holiday, brought by -special trains, the exactly needful number to each place! And to -contrast all this with our present agonizing system of independent -small farming,—a stunted, haggard, ignorant man, mated with a yellow, -lean, and sad-eyed drudge, and toiling from four o’clock in the morning -until nine at night, working the children as soon as they are able to -walk, scratching the soil with its primitive tools, and shut out from -all knowledge and hope, from all their benefits of science and -invention, and all the joys of the spirit—held to a bare existence by -competition in labor, and boasting of his freedom because he is too -blind to see his chains!” - -Dr. Schliemann paused a moment. “And then,” he continued, “place beside -this fact of an unlimited food supply, the newest discovery of -physiologists, that most of the ills of the human system are due to -overfeeding! And then again, it has been proven that meat is -unnecessary as a food; and meat is obviously more difficult to produce -than vegetable food, less pleasant to prepare and handle, and more -likely to be unclean. But what of that, so long as it tickles the -palate more strongly?” - -“How would Socialism change that?” asked the girl-student, quickly. It -was the first time she had spoken. - -“So long as we have wage slavery,” answered Schliemann, “it matters not -in the least how debasing and repulsive a task may be, it is easy to -find people to perform it. But just as soon as labor is set free, then -the price of such work will begin to rise. So one by one the old, -dingy, and unsanitary factories will come down—it will be cheaper to -build new; and so the steamships will be provided with stoking -machinery, and so the dangerous trades will be made safe, or -substitutes will be found for their products. In exactly the same way, -as the citizens of our Industrial Republic become refined, year by year -the cost of slaughterhouse products will increase; until eventually -those who want to eat meat will have to do their own killing—and how -long do you think the custom would survive then?—To go on to another -item—one of the necessary accompaniments of capitalism in a democracy -is political corruption; and one of the consequences of civic -administration by ignorant and vicious politicians, is that preventable -diseases kill off half our population. And even if science were allowed -to try, it could do little, because the majority of human beings are -not yet human beings at all, but simply machines for the creating of -wealth for others. They are penned up in filthy houses and left to rot -and stew in misery, and the conditions of their life make them ill -faster than all the doctors in the world could heal them; and so, of -course, they remain as centers of contagion, poisoning the lives of all -of us, and making happiness impossible for even the most selfish. For -this reason I would seriously maintain that all the medical and -surgical discoveries that science can make in the future will be of -less importance than the application of the knowledge we already -possess, when the disinherited of the earth have established their -right to a human existence.” - -And here the Herr Doctor relapsed into silence again. Jurgis had -noticed that the beautiful young girl who sat by the center-table was -listening with something of the same look that he himself had worn, the -time when he had first discovered Socialism. Jurgis would have liked to -talk to her, he felt sure that she would have understood him. Later on -in the evening, when the group broke up, he heard Mrs. Fisher say to -her, in a low voice, “I wonder if Mr. Maynard will still write the same -things about Socialism”; to which she answered, “I don’t know—but if he -does we shall know that he is a knave!” - - -And only a few hours after this came election day—when the long -campaign was over, and the whole country seemed to stand still and hold -its breath, awaiting the issue. Jurgis and the rest of the staff of -Hinds’s Hotel could hardly stop to finish their dinner, before they -hurried off to the big hall which the party had hired for that evening. - -But already there were people waiting, and already the telegraph -instrument on the stage had begun clicking off the returns. When the -final accounts were made up, the Socialist vote proved to be over four -hundred thousand—an increase of something like three hundred and fifty -per cent in four years. And that was doing well; but the party was -dependent for its early returns upon messages from the locals, and -naturally those locals which had been most successful were the ones -which felt most like reporting; and so that night every one in the hall -believed that the vote was going to be six, or seven, or even eight -hundred thousand. Just such an incredible increase had actually been -made in Chicago, and in the state; the vote of the city had been 6,700 -in 1900, and now it was 47,000; that of Illinois had been 9,600, and -now it was 69,000! So, as the evening waxed, and the crowd piled in, -the meeting was a sight to be seen. Bulletins would be read, and the -people would shout themselves hoarse—and then some one would make a -speech, and there would be more shouting; and then a brief silence, and -more bulletins. There would come messages from the secretaries of -neighboring states, reporting their achievements; the vote of Indiana -had gone from 2,300 to 12,000, of Wisconsin from 7,000 to 28,000; of -Ohio from 4,800 to 36,000! There were telegrams to the national office -from enthusiastic individuals in little towns which had made amazing -and unprecedented increases in a single year: Benedict, Kansas, from 26 -to 260; Henderson, Kentucky, from 19 to 111; Holland, Michigan, from 14 -to 208; Cleo, Oklahoma, from 0 to 104; Martin’s Ferry, Ohio, from 0 to -296—and many more of the same kind. There were literally hundreds of -such towns; there would be reports from half a dozen of them in a -single batch of telegrams. And the men who read the despatches off to -the audience were old campaigners, who had been to the places and -helped to make the vote, and could make appropriate comments: Quincy, -Illinois, from 189 to 831—that was where the mayor had arrested a -Socialist speaker! Crawford County, Kansas, from 285 to 1,975; that was -the home of the “Appeal to Reason”! Battle Creek, Michigan, from 4,261 -to 10,184; that was the answer of labor to the Citizens’ Alliance -Movement! - -And then there were official returns from the various precincts and -wards of the city itself! Whether it was a factory district or one of -the “silk-stocking” wards seemed to make no particular difference in -the increase; but one of the things which surprised the party leaders -most was the tremendous vote that came rolling in from the stockyards. -Packingtown comprised three wards of the city, and the vote in the -spring of 1903 had been 500, and in the fall of the same year, 1,600. -Now, only one year later, it was over 6,300—and the Democratic vote -only 8,800! There were other wards in which the Democratic vote had -been actually surpassed, and in two districts, members of the state -legislature had been elected. Thus Chicago now led the country; it had -set a new standard for the party, it had shown the workingmen the way! - -—So spoke an orator upon the platform; and two thousand pairs of eyes -were fixed upon him, and two thousand voices were cheering his every -sentence. The orator had been the head of the city’s relief bureau in -the stockyards, until the sight of misery and corruption had made him -sick. He was young, hungry-looking, full of fire; and as he swung his -long arms and beat up the crowd, to Jurgis he seemed the very spirit of -the revolution. “Organize! Organize! Organize!”—that was his cry. He -was afraid of this tremendous vote, which his party had not expected, -and which it had not earned. “These men are not Socialists!” he cried. -“This election will pass, and the excitement will die, and people will -forget about it; and if you forget about it, too, if you sink back and -rest upon your oars, we shall lose this vote that we have polled -to-day, and our enemies will laugh us to scorn! It rests with you to -take your resolution—now, in the flush of victory, to find these men -who have voted for us, and bring them to our meetings, and organize -them and bind them to us! We shall not find all our campaigns as easy -as this one. Everywhere in the country tonight the old party -politicians are studying this vote, and setting their sails by it; and -nowhere will they be quicker or more cunning than here in our own city. -Fifty thousand Socialist votes in Chicago means a municipal-ownership -Democracy in the spring! And then they will fool the voters once more, -and all the powers of plunder and corruption will be swept into office -again! But whatever they may do when they get in, there is one thing -they will not do, and that will be the thing for which they were -elected! They will not give the people of our city municipal -ownership—they will not mean to do it, they will not try to do it; all -that they will do is give our party in Chicago the greatest opportunity -that has ever come to Socialism in America! We shall have the sham -reformers self-stultified and self-convicted; we shall have the radical -Democracy left without a lie with which to cover its nakedness! And -then will begin the rush that will never be checked, the tide that will -never turn till it has reached its flood—that will be irresistible, -overwhelming—the rallying of the outraged workingmen of Chicago to our -standard! And we shall organize them, we shall drill them, we shall -marshal them for the victory! We shall bear down the opposition, we -shall sweep if before us—and _Chicago will be ours!_ Chicago will be -ours! CHICAGO WILL BE OURS!” - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JUNGLE *** - -***** This file should be named 140-0.txt or 140-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - https://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/140/ - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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