Chapter 40 Chapter 40 Open Disagreements: The Final Job Search

As far as Carrie was concerned, however, there was no after-show fun. She went straight home, still thinking about the fact that she hadn't come home for dinner. Hurstwood was asleep, but as she crossed the room toward As he was walking to his own bed, he woke up and looked around. "Is that you?" he said. "Yes," she answered. At breakfast the next day she wanted to apologize. "I couldn't go home for dinner last night," she said. "Oh, Carrie," he answered, "what's the use of saying that? I don't care. But you don't have to tell me that."

"I can't help it," said Carrie, blushing still more. Then, seeing that he looked as if to say "I know," she exclaimed: "Oh, well. I don't care." After that, she became more indifferent to the family. There seemed to be no common ground for any mutual conversation between them. She always waited for him to ask her for the money. Reluctant to do it. He preferred to hide from the butcher and baker. He put a 16-dollar groceries credit on Oslag and stockpiled staples so they wouldn't have to buy them for a while. Then he changed to a grocery store. He did the same thing with the butcher and several others. Carrie never heard him speak of all this directly. He only asked if he could Counting on something, getting deeper and deeper into a situation where there is only one possible ending.

And just like that, September passed. "Isn't Mr. Drake going to open a hotel?" asked Carrie several times. "Yes, but now he won't open until October." Carrie was beginning to feel disgusted. "Such a man," she used to say to herself. Her visits were increasing. She spent most of her extra money on clothes, which were not after all What an astounding amount, it was finally announced that the opera she was in was going to be out of town within four weeks. Before she made a move, all the billboards and papers were reading: "The masterpiece of the great comic opera is at last Two weeks..."Go to the cloud.

"I'm not going on tour," said Miss Osborne. Carrie followed her to apply to another manager. "Any experience?" was one of his questions. "Now, I'm an actor in a troupe that plays at the Casino." "Oh, yes?" he said. The result of the negotiation was to sign another contract with a weekly salary of 20 yuan. Carrie was delighted. She was beginning to feel that she had a place in the world. People still appreciate talent. Her situation had changed so drastically that the atmosphere in the house became intolerable. There was only poverty and trouble in the house, or so it seemed, because it was a burden. It became a place to be avoided. But she still sleeps there, does a fair amount of housework, and keeps the house tidy. For Hurstwood, this is where he can sit. He sits and shakes and shakes and reads the newspaper, Sunk in his miserable fate. October passed, and November. Hardly he knew it, and it was winter, and he sat there.

Carrie was doing better and better, he knew that. Her clothes were much prettier, even gorgeous, now. He watched her go in and out, and sometimes he imagined to himself her success. He ate little, and was thin. He had no appetite. His clothes were worn out. The talk about finding something to do seemed tedious even to himself. So he waited with fingers crossed.  ..What are you waiting for? He can't predict it either. In the end, however, the troubles piled up too much. The pursuit of the creditors. Carrie's indifference. The silence of the house and the approach of winter all combined to bring the troubles to a head. It was Oslag's own visit. It was triggered by debt collection, and Carrie was also at home at the time.

"I've come to collect the debt," said Mr. Oslager. Carrie was only slightly startled. "How much is owed?" she asked. "Sixteen dollars," he replied. "Oh, is there that much?" said Carrie. "Is that right?" she asked, turning to Hurstwood. "Yes," he said. "But I never heard of that account." She looked as if she thought his debts were unnecessary expenses. "Oh, we owe the bill," he answered. Then he went to the door. "But I can't pay you a penny today," he said mildly. "Well, when will you be able to pay?" said the grocer.

"Not before Saturday, anyway," said Hurstwood. "Hey!" replied the grocer. "That's a good thing to say. But I must get the money. I want it." Carrie was standing in the room some way from the door, and heard all this. She was distressed. It was too bad. It was boring. Hurstwood was angry too. "Well," said he, "it's no use saying anything now. I'll pay you some if you come on Saturday." The food store owner has gone away. "How are we going to pay this bill?" asked Carrie, surprised at the bill. "I can't afford it."

"Oh, you don't have to pay," said he; "whatever he doesn't pay he never pays. He has to wait." "I wonder how we owed such a large sum?" said Carrie. "Oh, we ate it," said Hurstwood. "Strange," she answered, still incredulous. "What's the use of you standing there now talking about it?" he asked. "Do you think I ate it all alone? You sound like I stole something." "But, anyway, it's too much," said Carrie, "and I shouldn't be required to pay it. I'm beyond my means now."

"Well," answered Hurstwood, and sat down in silence. It was a tormenting business, and he had had enough. Carrie went out, and he sat there, determined to do something. About this time, rumors and announcements of an imminent strike by Brooklyn streetcar workers kept appearing in the papers. The workers were generally dissatisfied with their hours and wages. As usual . . . and for some There is an unexplainable reason...workers choose winter to force management to take a stand and solve their difficulties. Hurstwood had already heard about it from the newspapers, and had been thinking of the massive traffic paralysis that would follow the strike. A day or two before this quarrel with Carrie, the strike had begun. One cold afternoon , the sky was gloomy, and snow was about to fall, and the newspaper announced that the tram workers had gone on strike.

Hurstwood was bored, his head full of predictions about labor shortages this winter and panic in the financial markets, and he watched the strike news with interest. He noted that the striking drivers and conductors had proposed They said that in the past they had been paid 2 yuan a day, but in the past year or so, "temporary workers" appeared, and their chances of earning a living were reduced by half, while their working hours were reduced from ten to ten. Hours have increased to twelve hours, or even fourteen hours. These "temporary workers" are workers who come to drive a tram temporarily during busy and peak hours. The salary for driving a tram in this way is only 25 cents. etc. They are fired as soon as the rush hour or busy hour is over. The worst part is that no one knows when he will have a car. When I got him. Waiting for so long, I only have the opportunity to drive twice on average... a little over three hours of work, and I get paid 50 cents. The waiting time is not paid.

The workers complained that the system was spreading, and that before long only a few out of 7,000 hired laborers would actually be able to keep a regular job for $2 a day. They demanded that the system be abolished and that, apart from the inevitable In addition, they only work ten hours a day, and their wages are 2 yuan and 25 cents. They asked the management to accept these conditions immediately, but they were rejected by various tram companies. Hurstwood was initially sympathetic to the demands of these workers, and it is difficult to say, of course, that he was not sympathetic to them from beginning to end, although his actions contradicted this. He read almost all the news, and it was the "Le Monde" that attracted him at first. He then read the full text, including the names of the seven companies involved in the strike and the number of people on strike. "It's foolish for them to strike in this weather," thought he, "but if they can win, I hope they will." The next day, there were more reports of the incident. "Brooklyn residents take to the streets on foot," said the Le Monde. "The Knights of Labor interrupted all streetcar lines crossing the bridge." "About seven thousand People are on strike." Hurstwood read the news and formed his own opinion of how the matter would turn out. He was a man who believed in the power of the Corporation. "They can't win," he said, referring to the workers. "They don't get paid. The police will protect the company, they have to. The masses have to have trams." He has no sympathy for corporations, but power belongs to them. Industry and utilities belong to them too. "Those workers can't win," he thought. In other news, he noticed a notice from one of the companies, which said: "Atlantic Tramway Company Special Announcement In view of the sudden absence of the company's drivers, conductors and other employees, all loyal employees who were forced to go on strike will be given a chance to apply for reinstatement today. Those who apply before 12:00 noon on Wednesday, January 16 will be received according to the application According to the chronological order, they will be rehired (and ensure safety), and the train numbers and positions will be assigned accordingly, otherwise they will be dismissed. New recruits will be recruited and each vacancy will be filled. This is the announcement. General manager Benjamin Norton (signed) He also saw this ad in a job advertisement: "Recruiting...fifty skilled drivers, who are good at driving Westinghouse locomotives, in the urban area of ​​Brooklyn. They specialize in driving mail vehicles to ensure safety." He noticed the words "safety" in two places in particular. This showed him the unquestionable power of the company. "They've got the National Guard on their side," he thought, "there's nothing the workers can do." While these things were still in his mind, the incident with Oslager and Carrie had occurred. There had been many incidents that had annoyed him before, but this incident seemed to be the worst. She had never accused him of stealing money before... or even close to it. She wondered if such a large debt was normal. And he had gone to great lengths to make the expenses look like Less. He's been cheating on the butcher and the baker just so he doesn't ask her for money. He eats very little... hardly anything. "Damn it!" he said, "I can find something to do. I'm not done yet." He thought he must really do something now. It's not very self-respecting to sit around at home after such an insinuation. Well, after a while like this, he'll have to bear everything. He stood up and looked out the window at the cold street. Standing there, a thought slowly occurred to him, to go to Brooklyn. "Why not?" he said to himself. "Anyone can get a job there. They'll make two dollars a day." "But what if there is an accident?" said a voice, "you might be hurt." "Oh, there's not much of that sort of thing," he answered; "they've got the police out there. Anyone who drives is well protected." But you can't drive," said the voice again. "I'm not applying to be a driver," he replied. "I'll sell tickets anyway." "What they need most is a driver." "They'll want everybody, I know that." He debated for hours with the adviser in his mind, and he was in no hurry to act on such a sure money-making matter. The next morning he put on his best clothes ... shabby enough, indeed, and bustled about, wrapping some bread and meat in a newspaper. Carrie watched him, and wondered This new move of his generated interest. "Where are you going?" she asked. "To Brooklyn," he answered. Then, seeing that she still wanted to ask, he added, "I think I might find something to do there." "On the tram line?" said Carrie, startled. "Yes," he replied. "Aren't you afraid?" she asked. "What's there to be afraid of?" he answered, "with the police guarding you." "The papers say four people were wounded yesterday." "Yes," he answered, "but you can't believe what the papers say. They'll drive safely." At this moment, his expression was determined, but somewhat sad, and Carrie felt very sorry. There was something in the old Hurstwood here, and there was a faint trace of the shrewd and cheerful strength of the past. Shadow. The sky outside is cloudy with a few flakes of snow floating. "Choose such bad weather to go there," thought Carrie. This time he was ahead of her, which was an unusual event. He walked east to the corner of Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, where he took a stagecoach. Ten people were applying for jobs and being hired at the offices of the Brooklyn Municipal Streetcar Company building. He, a gloomy, silent man, traveled by stagecoach and ferry all the way to the aforementioned office. It was a long journey. , because the trolleys were closed and the weather was cold, but he was tenacious. Hard to drive. As soon as he arrived in Brooklyn, he clearly saw and felt that the strike was going on. This was seen in the attitude of the people. .On some tram tracks, there was no traffic along the lines. On some street corners and around nearby hotels, small groups of workmen loitered. A few open vans passed him, with plain wooden chairs marked " Flat bushes" or "Prospect Park, a dime fare." He noticed the cold, even gloomy faces. The workers were engaged in a little war. As he approached the aforementioned office, he saw several people standing around, and some policemen. There were other people watching on the far corner...he guessed that they were strikers. All the houses here are small and wooden, and the streets are poorly paved. Compared with New York, Brooklyn really looks shabby and poor. He came into the middle of a small group, and the policemen and those who had arrived first watched him. One of the policemen stopped him. "What are you looking for?" "I want to see if I can find work." "Up those steps is the office," said the policeman. From his face he was impartial. But in his heart he sympathized with the strike and hated the "scab." Yet, Also deep in his heart, he also felt the dignity and role of the police, the purpose of the police is to maintain order. As for the real social significance of the police, he had never thought about it. His kind of mind would not have thought of these things. Two feelings mingled in him, counteracting each other, leading him to a neutral attitude. He would fight as resolutely for this man as for himself, but only as he was told. Once he took off his uniform, he would Step over to your sympathetic side immediately. Hurstwood went up a flight of dusty steps into a gray office with a railing. A long desk and several clerks. "Hello, sir," said a middle-aged man, looking up at him from the long desk. "Are you hiring?" asked Hurstwood. "What are you...a driver?" "No, I'm nothing," said Hurstwood. He was not at all embarrassed by his position. He knew these men needed men. If one didn't hire him, the other would. Whether this one hired him or not was up to him. "Well, we'd rather have experience, of course," said the man. He paused, while Hurstwood smiled nonchalantly. Then he added, "I suppose you can learn, though." .what's your name?" "Wheeler," said Hurstwood. The man wrote an order on a little card. "Take this to our yard," he said, "give it to the foreman. He'll tell you what to do." Hurstwood descended the steps and went out. He immediately followed the direction indicated, the policeman watching him from behind. "Here's another one I want to try." Police Keeley said to Police Macy. "I think he's going to have a hard time," answered the latter quietly and softly. They've been through strikes before.