Chapter 41 Chapter 41 Strike

The yard where Hurstwood applied for employment was so understaffed that it was actually run by three men who were there to direct it. There were a lot of novices in the yard, hungry-looking eccentrics who looked as if poverty had driven them into No way out. They want to lift their spirits and look optimistic. But this place has an atmosphere that makes people feel ashamed and ashamed to look up. Hurstwood walked back, through the shed, and out into a large walled field. The field had a series of tracks and loops. There were six trams, each driven by a trainer, next to the lever of each car. Each has an apprentice. There are still some apprentices waiting at one of the back doors of the yard.

Hurstwood watched the scene in silence, waiting. For a moment his companions attracted his attention, though they did not interest him any more than the trams. Still, the look of the group was unpleasant. One or two were very thin. A few were rather stout. A few were scrawny and sallow, as if they had been struck by every kind of adversity. "Did you read in the paper that they're going to call out the National Guard?" Hurstwood heard one of them say. "Oh, they do," replied another, "that's what they always do." "Do you think we're going to be in a lot of trouble?" said another, whom Hurstwood didn't see.

"Not many." "That Scotchman who drove out in a car," interposed a voice, "tells me they hit him in the ear with a cinder." Accompanied by these words was a soft, nervous laugh. "One of those fellows on the Fifth Avenue trolley line must have had a hard time by the paper," another voice drawled, "and they broke his window and dragged him down the street. on, until the police came and stopped them." "Yes, but the police were added today," added another. Hurstwood listened attentively, indecisively. It seemed to him that the speakers were terrified. They chattered feverishly . . . talking to quiet their minds. He watched Inside, waiting.

Two people came very close to him, but behind his back. They were very fond of talking, and he listened to their conversation. "Are you a tram worker?" said one. "Me? No. I've been working in a paper mill." "I had a job in Newark until October last year," replied the other, feeling that there must be a back and forth. A few words were spoken too quietly for him to hear. Then the conversation grew louder. "I don't blame these fellows for striking," said one, "they have every right to do so, but I must find something to do." "Me too," said the other, "if I had a job in Newark, I wouldn't come here and take the risk."

"It's a terrible time these days, don't you think?" said the man. "The poor have nowhere to go. By God, if you starve to death in the streets, no one will help you." "You're right," said the other, "I lost my old job because they stopped. They worked all summer, built up a lot of stock, and then stopped." This remark only caught Hurstwood's attention a little. Somehow he felt himself a little better... a little better off these two men. They seemed to him ignorant, mediocre, like shepherds. Poor sheep in human hands. "The poor wretches," he thought, expressing the thoughts and feelings of his former glory days.

"Next," said one of the trainers. "You're next," said a man next to him, touching him. He went out and climbed onto the bridge. The trainer, of course, didn't think there was any need for any prologue. "Look at this handle," he said, reaching for a switch that's fastened to the roof. "This thing cuts or connects the current. If you want to reverse, go here, if you want the car to go forward, go here." Go here. Go to the middle if you want to cut the power." Hearing the introduction of such simple knowledge, Hurstwood smiled. "Look, this handle is for speed. Turn it here," he said, pointing with his finger, about four miles an hour. Here eight miles. Full drive about fourteen miles an hour."

Hurstwood looked at him calmly. He had seen drivers drive before. He knew almost how they drove, and was sure that with a little practice he could do it too. The coach explained a few more details, and then said: "Now, let's back up the car." Hurstwood stood calmly aside as the car drove back to the field. "One thing you have to watch out for is to start it smoothly. After you start a gear, wait for it to stabilize before changing gears to accelerate. A common problem of most people is that they always want to open it all at once. Full speed. That's bad, and dangerous. It'll damage the motor. You don't want to do that."

"I see," said Hurstwood. The man kept talking, and he waited and waited. "Now you drive," he said at last. The ex-manager put his hands on the lever and thought he gave it a slight push. But the thing started more easily than he had imagined, and the car darted forward with a jerk, sending him toward the He flung himself against the door of the car. He straightened up embarrassingly as the trainer braked the car to a halt. "You've got to be careful," was all he said. However, Hurstwood found that using the brakes and controlling the speed were not as immediate as he thought. Once or twice, if the trainer hadn't reminded him and reached out to help him, he would have plowed through the rear fence. Yes. The coach was patient with him, but he never smiled.

"You have to get the knack of using both arms at the same time," he said. "It takes practice." One o'clock came, while he was still practicing in the car, and he was beginning to feel hungry. It was snowing and he felt cold. He was beginning to get a little tired of driving up and down the short track. They drove the tram to the end of the track, and they both alighted. Hurstwood went into the yard, found a trolley step, sat down, and took a newspaper-wrapped lunch from his pocket. There was no water, and the bread was dry, But he ate with gusto. Eating here can be informal. As he swallowed, he looked around, thinking how dull and uninspiring the job was. It was a nuisance in every way. Yes, very annoying. Not because it's bitter, but because it's hard. He thought everyone would find it hard.

After dinner, he stood aside as before, waiting for his turn. Originally, I wanted to ask him to practice all afternoon, but most of the time was spent waiting. It was night at last, and with it hunger and the question of how to sleep, he thought. It was half-past five, and he had to eat right away. If he was going home, he would have to walk and hitchhike to freeze. Two and a half hours. Besides, he was ordered to report at seven o'clock the next morning, and going home meant getting up when he shouldn't and didn't feel like getting up. He had only about A dollar and a quarter, which he had intended to pay for two weeks' coal bills before he thought of coming here.

"They must have somewhere around here to spend the night," he thought, "where's the guy from Newark staying?" Finally, he decided to ask. There was a lad standing in the cold by one of the gates in the yard, waiting for his last turn. He was only a kid for his age...about twenty-one... ..but because of poverty, the figure is thin and long. A little better life will make the young man plump and airy. "If someone is penniless, what do they do with him?" asked Hurstwood cautiously. The young man turned his face towards the interrogator with a sharp and alert expression. "Did you mean meals?" he answered. "Yes. And sleep. I can't go back to New York tonight." "I think if you ask the foreman he'll arrange it. He's already arranged it for me." "Is that right?" "Yes. I just told him I didn't have a penny. Why, I can't go home. My house is far away in Hoboken." Hurstwood merely cleared his throat as a token of thanks. "I know they have a place upstairs for the night. But I don't know what kind of place it is. I think it must be very bad. He gave me a meal voucher for lunch today. I know the meal is not very good. " Hurstwood smiled sadly, and the lad laughed loudly. "It's not fun, is it?" he asked, expecting a cheerful answer, but there was none. "Not very fun," replied Hurstwood. "If I were to go to him now," offered the young man, "he might go away." Hurstwood went looking for it. "Is there anywhere near here where I can spend the night?" he asked. "If I have to go back to New York, I'm afraid I can't..." "If you would like to sleep," said the man, interrupting him, "there are some cots upstairs." "That will do," he agreed. He wanted a meal coupon, but it seemed that there was no suitable opportunity, so he decided to pay for it himself this evening. "I'll ask him again in the morning." He ate at a cheap restaurant nearby, and because it was cold and lonely, he went directly to the attic mentioned above. The company stopped sending cars after dark. This was the advice of the police. This room looked like a resting place for night workers. There were about nine cots in it, two or three wooden chairs, a soap box, and a small round-bellied stove with a fire in it. Although he came early, there were already people. Came before him. The man was sitting by the stove warming his hands. Hurstwood approached the stove, and stretched out his hand to warm the fire. Everything he encountered when he was looking for work this time seemed to be poor, which made him a little upset, but he still insisted on it. He thought he could still persist for a while. "It's cold, isn't it?" said the first comer. "Pretty cold." There was a long silence. "This isn't much of a sleeping place, is it?" said the man. "Better than nothing," replied Hurstwood. There was another silence. "I want to go to bed," said the man. He got up and went to a cot, took off only his shoes, lay down on his back, and pulled the blanket and the dirty old quilt over him, and wrapped himself up. The sight made Hurstwood sick. , but he did not think of it, but stared at the stove, thinking of other things. Presently he resolved to go to bed, chose a bed, and took off his shoes. He was getting ready for bed when the young man who had suggested him here came in, saw Hurstwood, and wanted to be friendly. "Better than nothing," he said, looking around. Hurstwood did not take this addressed to him. He thought it was only the man's own satisfaction, and made no reply. The lad thought he was in a bad mood, and whistled softly. When he saw that there was another When a person fell asleep, he stopped whistling and kept silent. Hurstwood tried to make himself as comfortable as he could in the harsh surroundings. He lay down fully clothed, and pushed back the dirty coverlet from his head. But at last he dozed off from exhaustion. He began to feel The quilt became more and more comfortable, forgot that it was dirty, pulled it up to cover the neck, and fell asleep. In the morning, he was still having a pleasant dream, awakened by the movement of people in the cold and dreary room. In his dream he was back in Chicago, in the comfort of his own home. Jessica He was preparing to go somewhere, and he had been talking about it with her. The scene in his mind was so clear, and the comparison with the current room surprised him. He looked up, this cold, painful The reality made him suddenly sober. "I reckon I'd better get up," he said. There was no water on this floor. He put on his shoes in the cold, stood up, and shook his stiff body. He felt disheveled and disheveled. "Damn!" he murmured as he put on his hat. Downstairs was buzzing again. He found a water tap, under which was a water trough used to drink horses. But there was no towel, and his handkerchief was soiled yesterday. He just wiped his eyes with cold water and washed himself. on the foreman. "Have you had your breakfast?" asked the big man. "No," said Hurstwood. "Then go eat, your car won't be ready until a while." Hurstwood hesitated. "Can you give me a meal ticket?" he asked with difficulty. "Here you are," said the man, handing him a meal ticket. His breakfast was as bad as his supper the day before, just fried steak and bad coffee. Then he came back. "Well," said the foreman, pointing to him when he came in, "you'll get out in this car in a minute." He climbed up on the bridge in the dark of the carport, waiting for the signal to start. He was nervous, but it was a relief to drive out. Anything was better than staying in the carport. This is the fourth day of the strike, and the situation has deteriorated. The strikers have been fighting peacefully, following the advice of their leaders and the newspapers. There has been no major violence. Trams have been stopped, that is true, and it is not the same as driving. People debated. Some drivers and conductors were fought over and taken away, some car windows were smashed, and there were also jeers and shouts, but there were no more than five or six clashes in which someone was seriously injured. These actions were carried out by onlookers. , strike leaders have denied responsibility. But the striking workers had nothing to do, and they were annoyed at the sight of the company, backed by the police, with a high-handed look. They saw more vehicles running every day, and more announcements from the company authorities every day, Said that the effective resistance of the striking workers had been crushed. This forced the striking workers to have desperate ideas. They saw that the peaceful way would mean that the company would soon be full of traffic and the striking workers who complained would be forgotten. Nothing It is more beneficial to the company than a peaceful way. Suddenly, they went berserk, and the storm lasted for a week. Attacked the trams, beat the passengers, clashed with the police, overturned the tracks, and shot, and ended up with frequent street fights and mobs, the National Guard Densely covered the whole city. Hurstwood was ignorant of these changes in the situation. "Get your car out," cried the foreman, waving a hand vigorously at him. A novice conductor jumped into the car from behind and rang the bell twice as the signal to drive. Hurstwood turned the lever. , drove out from the gate, and went onto the street in front of the parking lot. At this moment, two strong policemen came up, one on each side, and stood beside him on the driver's platform. A gong was heard at the gate of the yard, the conductor rang the bell twice, and Hurstwood started the tram. The two policemen looked around calmly. "It's cold this morning," said the one on the left, with a heavy Irish accent. "I had enough yesterday," said another, "I don't want to keep doing this." "me too." Neither of them paid any attention to Hurstwood, who stood there, chilled by the wind, still thinking of his instructions. "Keep a steady pace," said the foreman, "and don't stop for anyone who doesn't look like a real passenger. You don't stop for a crowd anyway." The two policemen were silent for a while. "The man in the preceding car must have passed safely," said the policeman on the left, "and his car is nowhere to be seen." "Who's in that car?" asked the second policeman, who, of course, was guarding the car. "Shafer and Ryan." There was another silence, during which time the trolley moved steadily on. There were not many houses along the stretch of the road. Hurstwood saw not many people. The situation did not look too bad to him. Had he not If it's so cold, he thinks he can drive very well. Suddenly, unexpectedly, there was a detour ahead of him, which dispelled his feeling. He cut off the power and gave a sharp turn on the brakes, but it was too late to avoid an unnatural sharp turn. It scared him Jumping, he wanted to say something sorry, but held back. "You have to watch out for these turns," said the policeman on the left condescendingly. "You're quite right," agreed Hurstwood shamefully. "There are many such turns on this line," said the policeman on the right. After turning a corner, there appeared a street with more residents. One or two pedestrians could be seen ahead. A boy came out from the gate of a house with a tin milk bucket. From his mouth, Hurstwood saw for the first time Taste of unwelcome. "Scab!" he yelled, "scab!" Hurstwood heard the abuse, but tried to keep it quiet, even inwardly. He knew he would receive it, and might hear more like it. At the corner ahead, a man stood by the track and motioned for the car to stop. "Don't pay attention to him," said one of the policemen, "he's going to play tricks." Hurstwood obeyed. At the corner he saw that it was wise to do so. The man shook his fist as soon as he realized that they were going to ignore him. "Oh, you bloody coward!" he cried. Five or six people standing at the corner uttered insults and ridicules towards the passing tram. Hurstwood flinched a little. The situation was worse than he had imagined. At this time, I could see a pile of things on the track at the place where there were three or four cross-roads ahead. "Well, they've played tricks here," said one of the policemen. "Perhaps we shall have an argument," said another. Hurstwood brought the car to a stop nearby. But before he had come to a complete stop, a crowd gathered around him. Some of these people were the original driver and conductor, and some were their friends and sympathizers. By. "Get out of the car, man," said one of them in a calm tone. "You don't want to take food out of other people's mouths, do you?" Hurstwood held on to the brake and control levers, his face was pale, and he really didn't know what to do. "Stand back," cried a policeman, leaning over the bridge rail. "Get these things out of the way at once. Give the man a chance to do his job." "Listen, man," said the leader, ignoring the policeman, to Hurstwood. "We're all workmen, like you. If you were a regular driver, and treated as we are, you wouldn't You'd like someone to step in and take your job, would you? You wouldn't want someone to deprive you of the chance to claim what you're entitled to, would you?" "Turn off the engine! Turn off the engine!" urged another policeman gruffly. "Get the hell out of here," he said, leaping over the railing, down from the station in front of the crowd, and began to push the crowd back. Another policeman got off the station immediately and joined him. "Stand back quickly," they cried, "get out of your way. What are you doing? Go away, hurry up." A crowd is like a swarm of bees. "Don't push me," said one of the strikers firmly, "I didn't do anything." "Go away!" shouted the policeman, waving his baton. "I'm going to give you a stick in the forehead. Back off." "Damn it!" cried another striker, pushing back and adding some venomous oaths. With a snap, he received a truncheon on the forehead. His eyes blinked a few times, his legs trembled, and he raised his hands, and staggered back. In return, the policeman received a blow to the neck. A quick punch. Enraged by the blow, the policeman dashed left and right, swinging his baton frantically around. He was well supported by his blue-uniformed counterpart, who added fuel to the fire by swearing loudly The angry crowd. As the strikers dodged quickly, they could have caused serious injuries. Now, they stand on the sidewalk and laugh. "Where's the conductor?" cried a policeman, his eyes fixed on the man, who had already stepped forward nervously and stood beside Hurstwood. Hurstwood had been standing there watching This dispute is not so much fear as surprise. "Why don't you get out of the car and come here and move these stones from the track?" asked the policeman. "What are you doing standing there? Do you want to stay here all day? Come down!" Hurstwood, panting with excitement, jumped out with the nervous conductor, as if calling him. "Hey, come on," said another policeman. Although it was cold, the two policemen were hot and mad. Hurstwood worked with the conductor, removing stones one by one. He himself was feverish. "Ah, you scabs, you!" cried the crowd, "you cowards! Take other people's jobs, don't you? Take the poor's jobs, don't you? You thieves. Well, we'll catch you Yes. Just wait." These words did not come from one person. They were said everywhere, many similar words mixed together, mixed with curses. "Go to work, you rascals!" cried a voice, "do your vile work. You are vampires who oppress the poor!" "May God starve you," cried an old Irish woman, as she opened a nearby window and stuck her head out. "Yes, and you," she added, meeting the eyes of a policeman. "You cruel robber! You hit my son on the head, didn't you? You cruel murderer. Ah, you... ..." But the police fell on deaf ears. "To hell with you, you old hag," he murmured, gazing at the scattered crowd about him. By this time the stones had been removed, and Hurstwood climbed onto the bridge again amidst a continual babble of invective. Just as the two policemen had joined him at the station, the conductor rang the bell, bang! bang! Stones and stones were thrown from the windows and doors. One nearly scratched Hurstwood's head. Another shattered the glass of the rear window. "Pull up the lever," cried a policeman, reaching for the handle himself. Hurstwood complied, and the tram set off at a gallop, followed by a clatter of stones and a stream of oaths. "That bastard hit me in the neck," said one of the policemen, "but I paid him back with a stick." "I reckon I must have knocked blood out of a few people," said another. "I know that big guy who called us a _____," said the first, "and I won't let him go for that." "As soon as we got there, I knew we were going to be in trouble," said the second. Hurstwood was hot and excited, his eyes fixed on the front. It was a startling experience for him. He had seen such things in the newspapers before, but it was completely different when he was there. It was a new thing. Mentally he was not timid. What he had just experienced now inspired him to make up his mind to see it through. He didn't think about New York or his apartment anymore. He did his best and didn't have time to think about anything else. Now they drove unimpeded into the heart of Brooklyn. People stared at the smashed windows and Hurstwood in civilian clothes. Here and there were voices calling "scab" and other insults, but There was no crowd attacking the tram. At the tram terminal in the business district, a policeman telephoned his police station to report the trouble on the way. "There's a bunch of fellows out there," he said, "waiting in wait for us. Better send someone out there and drive them out." As the tram turned back, it was much quieter along the way... There were abuses, some watching, some throwing stones, but no one attacked the tram. Hurstwood breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the yard. "Well," he said to himself, "I've come safe and sound at last." The tram pulled into the yard, and he was allowed to take a break, but then he was called out again. This time, a new pair of policemen came on board. With a little more confidence, he drove fast, past the usual But on the other hand, he suffered a lot. It was a wet and cold day, with scattered snowflakes in the sky, and a cold wind, which was unbearably cold because of the speed of the tram. His clothes were not for this kind of work. He shivered with cold, and stamped his feet and slapped his arms, as he had seen other drivers do before, but said nothing. His present The novelty and danger of the situation softened his disgust and pain at being compelled to some extent, but not enough to keep him from feeling unhappy. It was a dog's life, he thought. Being compelled to come Doing this kind of work is really hard work. The only thought that sustained him was Carrie's insult to him. He had not yet fallen so low as to be insulted by her, he thought. He could do something...even this kind of thing.. ...will work for a while. Things will get better. He'll save some money. While he was thinking this, a boy threw a lump of mud and hit him in the arm. The blow hurt badly, and he was more enraged than he had been at any time since this morning. "Little bastard!" he muttered. "Have you been hurt?" asked a policeman. "No," he replied. At a corner, the tram slowed down for turning. A strike driver stood on the pavement and shouted at him: "Man, why don't you get out of the car and be a real man? Remember, we're fighting for a decent wage and that's all. We've got a family to support." The man seemed inclined toward peace. The way. Hurstwood pretended not to see him. He stared straight ahead, and fully pulled the lever. There was something pleading in the voice. This was the case throughout the morning and into the afternoon. He drove out like this three times. The food he ate could not withstand the work, and the cold also affected him. Every time he reached the terminal, he had to stop to warm up, But he felt like moaning. One of the yard workers took pity on him and lent him a thick hat and a pair of sheepskin gloves. This time, he was very grateful. When he left the car for the second time in the afternoon, he met a group of people halfway through the car. They blocked the way of the tram with an old telephone pole. "Get that thing off the track," shouted the two policemen. "Yo, yo, yo!" cried the crowd, "move it yourselves." The two policemen got out of the car, and Hurstwood was about to follow. "You stay there," cried a policeman, "and someone will take your car away." Amid the confusion, Hurstwood heard a voice speaking beside him. "Come on down, man, and be a real man. Don't fight the poor. Let the company do it." He recognized the man who was calling to him at the corner. This time he did the same as before. Pretended not to hear. "Come down," the man repeated softly. "You don't want to fight the poor. Not at all." It was a very eloquent and cunning driver. Another policeman came from somewhere, joining the two, and someone called for more. Hurstwood looked around, determined but terrified. Someone grabbed his coat. "Get out of the car," cried the man, pulling him hard, trying to drag him off the railing. "Let go," said Hurstwood fiercely. "I'm going to show you something...you scab!" cried an Irish lad, jumping into the car, and threw a blow at Hurstwood. Hurstwood dodged it, but the blow Hit the shoulder instead of the jaw. "Go away," cried a policeman, hastening to the rescue, with the customary expletives of course. Hurstwood regained his composure, pale and trembling. Now the situation before him became serious. People looked up at him, and laughed at him. A girl was making faces. His resolve began to waver. At this moment a patrol car pulled up and more police officers got out of it. The track was thus quickly cleared and the roadblock cleared. "Drive now, hurry up," said the policeman, and he drove off again. At last they came across a real mob. The mob stopped the tram as it turned back and was within a mile or two of the yard. The area looked very poor. He tried to drive across, but the track was blocked again. .He was still five or six cross streets away when he saw someone here moving something onto the tracks. "They're at it again!" cried a policeman. "I'm going to give them some seriousness this time," said the second policeman, who was about to lose his patience. Hurstwood felt uneasy all over as the tram drove up. As before, the crowd began to shout and curse. But, This time they didn't come, but threw things. A window or two was shattered, and Hurstwood dodged a rock. The two policemen rushed into the crowd together, but people ran towards the tram instead. One of the women... looked like a little girl... was holding a thick stick. She was very angry, Hurstwood was struck with a stick, and Hurstwood dodged it. Encouraged by this, her companions jumped into the car, and dragged Hurstwood out. Before he could speak or cry out, he was fall down. "Let me go," he said, falling to one side. "Ah, you vampire," he heard someone say. Punches and kicks rained down on him. He seemed to be suffocating. Then, two figures seemed to drag him away, and he struggled to get free. "Stay still," said a voice, "you're all right. Get up." When he was released, he regained consciousness. At this time, he recognized the two policemen. He was so exhausted that he was about to faint. He felt something wet on his chin. He raised his hand to feel Touch it, and look, it's blood. "They wounded me," he said dully, reaching for his handkerchief. "Well, well," said one of the policemen, "it's just scratched." Now that he was conscious, he looked around. He was standing in a small shop where they had left him temporarily. As he stood there wiping his chin, he saw the tram outside and the commotion of the crowd .There's a patrol car there, and another car. He went to the door and looked out. It was an ambulance, backing up. He saw the police charge several times into the crowd, arresting some. "If you want to take the car back, do it now," said a policeman, opening the door of the shop and looking in. He came out, really not knowing what to do with himself. He was cold and frightened. "Where's the conductor?" he asked. "Oh, he's not here now," said the policeman. Hurstwood made his way to the tram, and climbed nervously aboard. Just as he was on board there was a pistol shot, and he felt something prick his shoulder. "Who fired it?" he heard a policeman exclaim. "My God! Who fired it?" The two left him and ran toward a building. He stopped for a moment, then got out of the car. "My God!" cried Hurstwood, weakly. "I can't stand this." He walked nervously to the corner, turned into a side street, and hurried on. "Ouch!" he groaned, taking a breath. Not far from here, there's a little girl staring at him "You'd better get away," she cried. He braved the blizzard on his way home, and the blizzard blinded his eyes. When he reached the ferry, it was dusk. The cabin was full of comfortable people, and they looked at him curiously. His His head was still turning around, making him confused. The lights on the river flickered in the white and heavy snow, such a magnificent scenery, but he did not attract his attention. He walked tenaciously and with difficulty, Walked all the way back to the apartment. He entered the apartment and found it very warm. Carrie had gone out. There were two evening papers she had left there on the table. He lit the gas, sat down, then stood up again. He got up, took off his clothes and looked at his shoulders. It was just a small scratch. He washed his hands and face, obviously still in a daze, and combed his hair again. Then, he found something to eat, and finally, he couldn't Feeling hungry again, he sat down in his comfortable rocking chair. It was a great relief. He rested his chin on his hand and forgot about the newspaper for the moment. "Hey," he said after a while, coming back to himself, "it's a tough job over there." Then he looked back and saw the papers. He sighed slightly and picked up the Le Monde. "The strike is spreading in Brooklyn," he read, "and there are riots all over the city." He picked up some newspapers and read them comfortably. This was the news that interested him most.