"Chapter 1\n\n\nIt was four o'clock when the ceremony was over and the carriages began\nto arrive. There had been a crowd following all the way, owing to the\nexuberance of Marija Berczynskas. The occasion rested heavily upon\nMarija's broad shoulders--it was her task to see that all things went in\ndue form, and after the best home traditions; and, flying wildly\nhither and thither, bowling every one out of the way, and scolding and\nexhorting all day with her tremendous voice, Marija was too eager to see\nthat others conformed to the proprieties to consider them herself. She\nhad left the church last of all, and, desiring to arrive first at the\nhall, had issued orders to the coachman to drive faster. When that\npersonage had developed a will of his own in the matter, Marija had\nflung up the window of the carriage, and, leaning out, proceeded to\ntell him her opinion of him, first in Lithuanian, which he did not\nunderstand, and then in Polish, which he did. Having the advantage of\nher in altitude, the driver had stood his ground and even ventured to\nattempt to speak; and the result had been a furious altercation, which,\ncontinuing all the way down Ashland Avenue, had added a new swarm of\nurchins to the cortege at each side street for half a mile.\n\nThis was unfortunate, for already there was a throng before the door.\nThe music had started up, and half a block away you could hear the dull\n\"broom, broom\" of a cello, with the squeaking of two fiddles which vied\nwith each other in intricate and altitudinous gymnastics. Seeing\nthe throng, Marija abandoned precipitately the debate concerning the\nancestors of her coachman, and, springing from the moving carriage,\nplunged in and proceeded to clear a way to the hall. Once within, she\nturned and began to push the other way, roaring, meantime, \"Eik! Eik!\nUzdaryk-duris!\" in tones which made the orchestral uproar sound like\nfairy music.\n\n\"Z. Graiczunas, Pasilinksminimams darzas. Vynas. Sznapsas. Wines and\nLiquors. Union Headquarters\"--that was the way the signs ran. The\nreader, who perhaps has never held much converse in the language of\nfar-off Lithuania, will be glad of the explanation that the place was\nthe rear room of a saloon in that part of Chicago known as \"back of the\nyards.\" This information is definite and suited to the matter of fact;\nbut how pitifully inadequate it would have seemed to one who understood\nthat it was also the supreme hour of ecstasy in the life of one of\nGod's gentlest creatures, the scene of the wedding feast and the\njoy-transfiguration of little Ona Lukoszaite!\n\nShe stood in the doorway, shepherded by Cousin Marija, breathless from\npushing through the crowd, and in her happiness painful to look upon.\nThere was a light of wonder in her eyes and her lids trembled, and\nher otherwise wan little face was flushed. She wore a muslin dress,\nconspicuously white, and a stiff little veil coming to her shoulders.\nThere were five pink paper roses twisted in the veil, and eleven bright\ngreen rose leaves. There were new white cotton gloves upon her hands,\nand as she stood staring about her she twisted them together feverishly.\nIt was almost too much for her--you could see the pain of too great\nemotion in her face, and all the tremor of her form. She was so\nyoung--not quite sixteen--and small for her age, a mere child; and she\nhad just been married--and married to Jurgis,* (*Pronounced Yoorghis) of\nall men, to Jurgis Rudkus, he with the white flower in the buttonhole of\nhis new black suit, he with the mighty shoulders and the giant hands.\n\nOna was blue-eyed and fair, while Jurgis had great black eyes with\nbeetling brows, and thick black hair that curled in waves about his\nears--in short, they were one of those incongruous and impossible\nmarried couples with which Mother Nature so often wills to\nconfound all prophets, before and after. Jurgis could take up a\ntwo-hundred-and-fifty-pound quarter of beef and carry it into a car\nwithout a stagger, or even a thought; and now he stood in a far corner,\nfrightened as a hunted animal, and obliged to moisten his lips with\nhis tongue each time before he could answer the congratulations of his\nfriends.\n\nGradually there was effected a separation between the spectators and\nthe guests--a separation at least sufficiently complete for working\npurposes. There was no time during the festivities which ensued when\nthere were not groups of onlookers in the doorways and the corners;\nand if any one of these onlookers came sufficiently close, or looked\nsufficiently hungry, a chair was offered him, and he was invited to the\nfeast. It was one of the laws of the veselija that no one goes hungry;\nand, while a rule made in the forests of Lithuania is hard to apply\nin the stockyards district of Chicago, with its quarter of a million\ninhabitants, still they did their best, and the children who ran in\nfrom the street, and even the dogs, went out again happier. A charming\ninformality was one of the characteristics of this celebration. The men\nwore their hats, or, if they wished, they took them off, and their coats\nwith them; they ate when and where they pleased, and moved as often as\nthey pleased. There were to be speeches and singing, but no one had to\nlisten who did not care to; if he wished, meantime, to speak or sing\nhimself, he was perfectly free. The resulting medley of sound distracted\nno one, save possibly alone the babies, of which there were present a\nnumber equal to the total possessed by all the guests invited. There was\nno other place for the babies to be, and so part of the preparations\nfor the evening consisted of a collection of cribs and carriages in one\ncorner. In these the babies slept, three or four together, or wakened\ntogether, as the case might be. Those who were still older, and could\nreach the tables, marched about munching contentedly at meat bones and\nbologna sausages.\n\n\nThe room is about thirty feet square, with whitewashed walls, bare save\nfor a calendar, a picture of a race horse, and a family tree in a gilded\nframe. To the right there is a door from the saloon, with a few loafers\nin the doorway, and in the corner beyond it a bar, with a presiding\ngenius clad in soiled white, with waxed black mustaches and a carefully\noiled curl plastered against one side of his forehead. In the opposite\ncorner are two tables, filling a third of the room and laden with\ndishes and cold viands, which a few of the hungrier guests are already\nmunching. At the head, where sits the bride, is a snow-white cake, with\nan Eiffel tower of constructed decoration, with sugar roses and two\nangels upon it, and a generous sprinkling of pink and green and yellow\ncandies. Beyond opens a door into the kitchen, where there is a glimpse\nto be had of a range with much steam ascending from it, and many women,\nold and young, rushing hither and thither. In the corner to the left are\nthe three musicians, upon a little platform, toiling heroically to make\nsome impression upon the hubbub; also the babies, similarly occupied,\nand an open window whence the populace imbibes the sights and sounds and\nodors.\n\nSuddenly some of the steam begins to advance, and, peering through it,\nyou discern Aunt Elizabeth, Ona's stepmother--Teta Elzbieta, as they\ncall her--bearing aloft a great platter of stewed duck. Behind her is\nKotrina, making her way cautiously, staggering beneath a similar burden;\nand half a minute later there appears old Grandmother Majauszkiene, with\na big yellow bowl of smoking potatoes, nearly as big as herself. So, bit\nby bit, the feast takes form--there is a ham and a dish of sauerkraut,\nboiled rice, macaroni, bologna sausages, great piles of penny buns,\nbowls of milk, and foaming pitchers of beer. There is also, not six feet\nfrom your back, the bar, where you may order all you please and do not\nhave to pay for it. \"Eiksz! Graicziau!\" screams Marija Berczynskas, and\nfalls to work herself--for there is more upon the stove inside that will\nbe spoiled if it be not eaten.\n\nSo, with laughter and shouts and endless badinage and merriment, the\nguests take their places. The young men, who for the most part have\nbeen huddled near the door, summon their resolution and advance; and the\nshrinking Jurgis is poked and scolded by the old folks until he consents\nto seat himself at the right hand of the bride. The two bridesmaids,\nwhose insignia of office are paper wreaths, come next, and after them\nthe rest of the guests, old and young, boys and girls. The spirit of the\noccasion takes hold of the stately bartender, who condescends to a plate\nof stewed duck; even the fat policeman--whose duty it will be, later in\nthe evening, to break up the fights--draws up a chair to the foot of the\ntable. And the children shout and the babies yell, and every one laughs\nand sings and chatters--while above all the deafening clamor Cousin\nMarija shouts orders to the musicians.\n\nThe musicians--how shall one begin to describe them? All this time they\nhave been there, playing in a mad frenzy--all of this scene must be\nread, or said, or sung, to music. It is the music which makes it what\nit is; it is the music which changes the place from the rear room of\na saloon in back of the yards to a fairy place, a wonderland, a little\ncorner of the high mansions of the sky.\n\nThe little person who leads this trio is an inspired man. His fiddle\nis out of tune, and there is no rosin on his bow, but still he is an\ninspired man--the hands of the muses have been laid upon him. He plays\nlike one possessed by a demon, by a whole horde of demons. You can\nfeel them in the air round about him, capering frenetically; with their\ninvisible feet they set the pace, and the hair of the leader of the\norchestra rises on end, and his eyeballs start from their sockets, as he\ntoils to keep up with them.\n\nTamoszius Kuszleika is his name, and he has taught himself to play the\nviolin by practicing all night, after working all day on the \"killing\nbeds.\" He is in his shirt sleeves, with a vest figured with faded gold\nhorseshoes, and a pink-striped shirt, suggestive of peppermint candy.\nA pair of military trousers, light blue with a yellow stripe, serve to\ngive that suggestion of authority proper to the leader of a band. He is\nonly about five feet high, but even so these trousers are about eight\ninches short of the ground. You wonder where he can have gotten them or\nrather you would wonder, if the excitement of being in his presence left\nyou time to think of such things.\n\nFor he is an inspired man. Every inch of him is inspired--you might\nalmost say inspired separately. He stamps with his feet, he tosses his\nhead, he sways and swings to and fro; he has a wizened-up little face,\nirresistibly comical; and, when he executes a turn or a flourish, his\nbrows knit and his lips work and his eyelids wink--the very ends of\nhis necktie bristle out. And every now and then he turns upon his\ncompanions, nodding, signaling, beckoning frantically--with every inch\nof him appealing, imploring, in behalf of the muses and their call.\n\nFor they are hardly worthy of Tamoszius, the other two members of\nthe orchestra. The second violin is a Slovak, a tall, gaunt man with\nblack-rimmed spectacles and the mute and patient look of an overdriven\nmule; he responds to the whip but feebly, and then always falls\nback into his old rut. The third man is very fat, with a round, red,\nsentimental nose, and he plays with his eyes turned up to the sky and a\nlook of infinite yearning. He is playing a bass part upon his cello,\nand so the excitement is nothing to him; no matter what happens in the\ntreble, it is his task to saw out one long-drawn and lugubrious note\nafter another, from four o'clock in the afternoon until nearly the same\nhour next morning, for his third of the total income of one dollar per\nhour.\n\nBefore the feast has been five minutes under way, Tamoszius Kuszleika\nhas risen in his excitement; a minute or two more and you see that he is\nbeginning to edge over toward the tables. His nostrils are dilated and\nhis breath comes fast--his demons are driving him. He nods and shakes\nhis head at his companions, jerking at them with his violin, until at\nlast the long form of the second violinist also rises up. In the end\nall three of them begin advancing, step by step, upon the banqueters,\nValentinavyczia, the cellist, bumping along with his instrument between\nnotes. Finally all three are gathered at the foot of the tables, and\nthere Tamoszius mounts upon a stool.\n\nNow he is in his glory, dominating the scene. Some of the people are\neating, some are laughing and talking--but you will make a great mistake\nif you think there is one of them who does not hear him. His notes\nare never true, and his fiddle buzzes on the low ones and squeaks and\nscratches on the high; but these things they heed no more than they heed\nthe dirt and noise and squalor about them--it is out of this material\nthat they have to build their lives, with it that they have to utter\ntheir souls. And this is their utterance; merry and boisterous, or\nmournful and wailing, or passionate and rebellious, this music is their\nmusic, music of home. It stretches out its arms to them, they have\nonly to give themselves up. Chicago and its saloons and its slums fade\naway--there are green meadows and sunlit rivers, mighty forests and\nsnow-clad hills. They behold home landscapes and childhood scenes\nreturning; old loves and friendships begin to waken, old joys and griefs\nto laugh and weep. Some fall back and close their eyes, some beat upon\nthe table. Now and then one leaps up with a cry and calls for this song\nor that; and then the fire leaps brighter in Tamoszius' eyes, and he\nflings up his fiddle and shouts to his companions, and away they go in\nmad career. The company takes up the choruses, and men and women cry out\nlike all possessed; some leap to their feet and stamp upon the floor,\nlifting their glasses and pledging each other. Before long it occurs to\nsome one to demand an old wedding song, which celebrates the beauty of\nthe bride and the joys of love. In the excitement of this masterpiece\nTamoszius Kuszleika begins to edge in between the tables, making his\nway toward the head, where sits the bride. There is not a foot of space\nbetween the chairs of the guests, and Tamoszius is so short that he\npokes them with his bow whenever he reaches over for the low notes; but\nstill he presses in, and insists relentlessly that his companions must\nfollow. During their progress, needless to say, the sounds of the cello\nare pretty well extinguished; but at last the three are at the head, and\nTamoszius takes his station at the right hand of the bride and begins to\npour out his soul in melting strains.\n\nLittle Ona is too excited to eat. Once in a while she tastes a little\nsomething, when Cousin Marija pinches her elbow and reminds her; but,\nfor the most part, she sits gazing with the same fearful eyes of wonder.\nTeta Elzbieta is all in a flutter, like a hummingbird; her sisters,\ntoo, keep running up behind her, whispering, breathless. But Ona seems\nscarcely to hear them--the music keeps calling, and the far-off look\ncomes back, and she sits with her hands pressed together over her heart.\nThen the tears begin to come into her eyes; and as she is ashamed to\nwipe them away, and ashamed to let them run down her cheeks, she turns\nand shakes her head a little, and then flushes red when she sees that\nJurgis is watching her. When in the end Tamoszius Kuszleika has reached\nher side, and is waving his magic wand above her, Ona's cheeks are\nscarlet, and she looks as if she would have to get up and run away.\n\nIn this crisis, however, she is saved by Marija Berczynskas, whom\nthe muses suddenly visit. Marija is fond of a song, a song of lovers'\nparting; she wishes to hear it, and, as the musicians do not know it,\nshe has risen, and is proceeding to teach them. Marija is short, but\npowerful in build. She works in a canning factory, and all day long she\nhandles cans of beef that weigh fourteen pounds. She has a broad\nSlavic face, with prominent red cheeks. When she opens her mouth, it\nis tragical, but you cannot help thinking of a horse. She wears a blue\nflannel shirt-waist, which is now rolled up at the sleeves, disclosing\nher brawny arms; she has a carving fork in her hand, with which she\npounds on the table to mark the time. As she roars her song, in a voice\nof which it is enough to say that it leaves no portion of the room\nvacant, the three musicians follow her, laboriously and note by note,\nbut averaging one note behind; thus they toil through stanza after\nstanza of a lovesick swain's lamentation:--\n\n     \"Sudiev' kvietkeli, tu brangiausis;\n     Sudiev' ir laime, man biednam,\n     Matau--paskyre teip Aukszcziausis,\n     Jog vargt ant svieto reik vienam!\"\n\nWhen the song is over, it is time for the speech, and old Dede Antanas\nrises to his feet. Grandfather Anthony, Jurgis' father, is not more than\nsixty years of age, but you would think that he was eighty. He has been\nonly six months in America, and the change has not done him good. In his\nmanhood he worked in a cotton mill, but then a coughing fell upon him,\nand he had to leave; out in the country the trouble disappeared, but he\nhas been working in the pickle rooms at Durham's, and the breathing of\nthe cold, damp air all day has brought it back. Now as he rises he is\nseized with a coughing fit, and holds himself by his chair and turns\naway his wan and battered face until it passes.\n\nGenerally it is the custom for the speech at a veselija to be taken out\nof one of the books and learned by heart; but in his youthful days Dede\nAntanas used to be a scholar, and really make up all the love letters\nof his friends. Now it is understood that he has composed an original\nspeech of congratulation and benediction, and this is one of the events\nof the day. Even the boys, who are romping about the room, draw near and\nlisten, and some of the women sob and wipe their aprons in their eyes.\nIt is very solemn, for Antanas Rudkus has become possessed of the idea\nthat he has not much longer to stay with his children. His speech leaves\nthem all so tearful that one of the guests, Jokubas Szedvilas, who keeps\na delicatessen store on Halsted Street, and is fat and hearty, is moved\nto rise and say that things may not be as bad as that, and then to go on\nand make a little speech of his own, in which he showers congratulations\nand prophecies of happiness upon the bride and groom, proceeding to\nparticulars which greatly delight the young men, but which cause Ona\nto blush more furiously than ever. Jokubas possesses what his\nwife complacently describes as \"poetiszka vaidintuve\"--a poetical\nimagination.\n\nNow a good many of the guests have finished, and, since there is no\npretense of ceremony, the banquet begins to break up. Some of the men\ngather about the bar; some wander about, laughing and singing; here\nand there will be a little group, chanting merrily, and in sublime\nindifference to the others and to the orchestra as well. Everybody is\nmore or less restless--one would guess that something is on their minds.\nAnd so it proves. The last tardy diners are scarcely given time to\nfinish, before the tables and the debris are shoved into the corner, and\nthe chairs and the babies piled out of the way, and the real celebration\nof the evening begins. Then Tamoszius Kuszleika, after replenishing\nhimself with a pot of beer, returns to his platform, and, standing up,\nreviews the scene; he taps authoritatively upon the side of his violin,\nthen tucks it carefully under his chin, then waves his bow in an\nelaborate flourish, and finally smites the sounding strings and closes\nhis eyes, and floats away in spirit upon the wings of a dreamy waltz.\nHis companion follows, but with his eyes open, watching where he treads,\nso to speak; and finally Valentinavyczia, after waiting for a little and\nbeating with his foot to get the time, casts up his eyes to the ceiling\nand begins to saw--\"Broom! broom! broom!\"\n\nThe company pairs off quickly, and the whole room is soon in motion.\nApparently nobody knows how to waltz, but that is nothing of any\nconsequence--there is music, and they dance, each as he pleases, just\nas before they sang. Most of them prefer the \"two-step,\" especially the\nyoung, with whom it is the fashion. The older people have dances from\nhome, strange and complicated steps which they execute with grave\nsolemnity. Some do not dance anything at all, but simply hold each\nother's hands and allow the undisciplined joy of motion to express\nitself with their feet. Among these are Jokubas Szedvilas and his wife,\nLucija, who together keep the delicatessen store, and consume nearly\nas much as they sell; they are too fat to dance, but they stand in the\nmiddle of the floor, holding each other fast in their arms, rocking\nslowly from side to side and grinning seraphically, a picture of\ntoothless and perspiring ecstasy.\n\nOf these older people many wear clothing reminiscent in some detail\nof home--an embroidered waistcoat or stomacher, or a gaily colored\nhandkerchief, or a coat with large cuffs and fancy buttons. All these\nthings are carefully avoided by the young, most of whom have learned to\nspeak English and to affect the latest style of clothing. The girls wear\nready-made dresses or shirt waists, and some of them look quite pretty.\nSome of the young men you would take to be Americans, of the type of\nclerks, but for the fact that they wear their hats in the room. Each of\nthese younger couples affects a style of its own in dancing. Some hold\neach other tightly, some at a cautious distance. Some hold their\nhands out stiffly, some drop them loosely at their sides. Some dance\nspringily, some glide softly, some move with grave dignity. There are\nboisterous couples, who tear wildly about the room, knocking every one\nout of their way. There are nervous couples, whom these frighten, and\nwho cry, \"Nusfok! Kas yra?\" at them as they pass. Each couple is paired\nfor the evening--you will never see them change about. There is Alena\nJasaityte, for instance, who has danced unending hours with Juozas\nRaczius, to whom she is engaged. Alena is the beauty of the evening,\nand she would be really beautiful if she were not so proud. She wears\na white shirtwaist, which represents, perhaps, half a week's labor\npainting cans. She holds her skirt with her hand as she dances, with\nstately precision, after the manner of the grandes dames. Juozas is\ndriving one of Durham's wagons, and is making big wages. He affects a\n\"tough\" aspect, wearing his hat on one side and keeping a cigarette in\nhis mouth all the evening. Then there is Jadvyga Marcinkus, who is also\nbeautiful, but humble. Jadvyga likewise paints cans, but then she has\nan invalid mother and three little sisters to support by it, and so she\ndoes not spend her wages for shirtwaists. Jadvyga is small and delicate,\nwith jet-black eyes and hair, the latter twisted into a little knot and\ntied on the top of her head. She wears an old white dress which she\nhas made herself and worn to parties for the past five years; it is\nhigh-waisted--almost under her arms, and not very becoming,--but that\ndoes not trouble Jadvyga, who is dancing with her Mikolas. She is small,\nwhile he is big and powerful; she nestles in his arms as if she would\nhide herself from view, and leans her head upon his shoulder. He in turn\nhas clasped his arms tightly around her, as if he would carry her away;\nand so she dances, and will dance the entire evening, and would dance\nforever, in ecstasy of bliss. You would smile, perhaps, to see them--but\nyou would not smile if you knew all the story. This is the fifth year,\nnow, that Jadvyga has been engaged to Mikolas, and her heart is sick.\nThey would have been married in the beginning, only Mikolas has a father\nwho is drunk all day, and he is the only other man in a large family.\nEven so they might have managed it (for Mikolas is a skilled man) but\nfor cruel accidents which have almost taken the heart out of them. He is\na beef-boner, and that is a dangerous trade, especially when you are on\npiecework and trying to earn a bride. Your hands are slippery, and your\nknife is slippery, and you are toiling like mad, when somebody happens\nto speak to you, or you strike a bone. Then your hand slips up on the\nblade, and there is a fearful gash. And that would not be so bad, only\nfor the deadly contagion. The cut may heal, but you never can tell.\nTwice now; within the last three years, Mikolas has been lying at home\nwith blood poisoning--once for three months and once for nearly seven.\nThe last time, too, he lost his job, and that meant six weeks more of\nstanding at the doors of the packing houses, at six o'clock on bitter\nwinter mornings, with a foot of snow on the ground and more in the air.\nThere are learned people who can tell you out of the statistics that\nbeef-boners make forty cents an hour, but, perhaps, these people have\nnever looked into a beef-boner's hands.\n\nWhen Tamoszius and his companions stop for a rest, as perforce they\nmust, now and then, the dancers halt where they are and wait patiently.\nThey never seem to tire; and there is no place for them to sit down\nif they did. It is only for a minute, anyway, for the leader starts up\nagain, in spite of all the protests of the other two. This time it is\nanother sort of a dance, a Lithuanian dance. Those who prefer to, go on\nwith the two-step, but the majority go through an intricate series of\nmotions, resembling more fancy skating than a dance. The climax of it is\na furious prestissimo, at which the couples seize hands and begin a mad\nwhirling. This is quite irresistible, and every one in the room joins\nin, until the place becomes a maze of flying skirts and bodies quite\ndazzling to look upon. But the sight of sights at this moment is\nTamoszius Kuszleika. The old fiddle squeaks and shrieks in protest, but\nTamoszius has no mercy. The sweat starts out on his forehead, and he\nbends over like a cyclist on the last lap of a race. His body shakes and\nthrobs like a runaway steam engine, and the ear cannot follow the flying\nshowers of notes--there is a pale blue mist where you look to see his\nbowing arm. With a most wonderful rush he comes to the end of the tune,\nand flings up his hands and staggers back exhausted; and with a final\nshout of delight the dancers fly apart, reeling here and there, bringing\nup against the walls of the room.\n\nAfter this there is beer for every one, the musicians included, and\nthe revelers take a long breath and prepare for the great event of the\nevening, which is the acziavimas. The acziavimas is a ceremony which,\nonce begun, will continue for three or four hours, and it involves one\nuninterrupted dance. The guests form a great ring, locking hands, and,\nwhen the music starts up, begin to move around in a circle. In the\ncenter stands the bride, and, one by one, the men step into the\nenclosure and dance with her. Each dances for several minutes--as long\nas he pleases; it is a very merry proceeding, with laughter and singing,\nand when the guest has finished, he finds himself face to face with Teta\nElzbieta, who holds the hat. Into it he drops a sum of money--a dollar,\nor perhaps five dollars, according to his power, and his estimate of\nthe value of the privilege. The guests are expected to pay for this\nentertainment; if they be proper guests, they will see that there is a\nneat sum left over for the bride and bridegroom to start life upon.\n\nMost fearful they are to contemplate, the expenses of this\nentertainment. They will certainly be over two hundred dollars and maybe\nthree hundred; and three hundred dollars is more than the year's income\nof many a person in this room. There are able-bodied men here who work\nfrom early morning until late at night, in ice-cold cellars with a\nquarter of an inch of water on the floor--men who for six or seven\nmonths in the year never see the sunlight from Sunday afternoon till\nthe next Sunday morning--and who cannot earn three hundred dollars in\na year. There are little children here, scarce in their teens, who can\nhardly see the top of the work benches--whose parents have lied to get\nthem their places--and who do not make the half of three hundred dollars\na year, and perhaps not even the third of it. And then to spend such\na sum, all in a single day of your life, at a wedding feast! (For\nobviously it is the same thing, whether you spend it at once for your\nown wedding, or in a long time, at the weddings of all your friends.)\n\nIt is very imprudent, it is tragic--but, ah, it is so beautiful! Bit by\nbit these poor people have given up everything else; but to this\nthey cling with all the power of their souls--they cannot give up the\nveselija! To do that would mean, not merely to be defeated, but to\nacknowledge defeat--and the difference between these two things is what\nkeeps the world going. The veselija has come down to them from a far-off\ntime; and the meaning of it was that one might dwell within the cave\nand gaze upon shadows, provided only that once in his lifetime he could\nbreak his chains, and feel his wings, and behold the sun; provided that\nonce in his lifetime he might testify to the fact that life, with all\nits cares and its terrors, is no such great thing after all, but merely\na bubble upon the surface of a river, a thing that one may toss about\nand play with as a juggler tosses his golden balls, a thing that one may\nquaff, like a goblet of rare red wine. Thus having known himself for\nthe master of things, a man could go back to his toil and live upon the\nmemory all his days.\n\n\nEndlessly the dancers swung round and round--when they were dizzy they\nswung the other way. Hour after hour this had continued--the darkness\nhad fallen and the room was dim from the light of two smoky oil lamps.\nThe musicians had spent all their fine frenzy by now, and played only\none tune, wearily, ploddingly. There were twenty bars or so of it, and\nwhen they came to the end they began again. Once every ten minutes or so\nthey would fail to begin again, but instead would sink back exhausted; a\ncircumstance which invariably brought on a painful and terrifying scene,\nthat made the fat policeman stir uneasily in his sleeping place behind\nthe door.\n\nIt was all Marija Berczynskas. Marija was one of those hungry souls who\ncling with desperation to the skirts of the retreating muse. All day\nlong she had been in a state of wonderful exaltation; and now it was\nleaving--and she would not let it go. Her soul cried out in the words of\nFaust, \"Stay, thou art fair!\" Whether it was by beer, or by shouting, or\nby music, or by motion, she meant that it should not go. And she would\ngo back to the chase of it--and no sooner be fairly started than her\nchariot would be thrown off the track, so to speak, by the stupidity of\nthose thrice accursed musicians. Each time, Marija would emit a howl and\nfly at them, shaking her fists in their faces, stamping upon the floor,\npurple and incoherent with rage. In vain the frightened Tamoszius would\nattempt to speak, to plead the limitations of the flesh; in vain would\nthe puffing and breathless ponas Jokubas insist, in vain would Teta\nElzbieta implore. \"Szalin!\" Marija would scream. \"Palauk! isz kelio!\nWhat are you paid for, children of hell?\" And so, in sheer terror, the\norchestra would strike up again, and Marija would return to her place\nand take up her task.\n\nShe bore all the burden of the festivities now. Ona was kept up by her\nexcitement, but all of the women and most of the men were tired--the\nsoul of Marija was alone unconquered. She drove on the dancers--what had\nonce been the ring had now the shape of a pear, with Marija at the stem,\npulling one way and pushing the other, shouting, stamping, singing, a\nvery volcano of energy. Now and then some one coming in or out would\nleave the door open, and the night air was chill; Marija as she passed\nwould stretch out her foot and kick the doorknob, and slam would go\nthe door! Once this procedure was the cause of a calamity of which\nSebastijonas Szedvilas was the hapless victim. Little Sebastijonas, aged\nthree, had been wandering about oblivious to all things, holding turned\nup over his mouth a bottle of liquid known as \"pop,\" pink-colored,\nice-cold, and delicious. Passing through the doorway the door smote\nhim full, and the shriek which followed brought the dancing to a halt.\nMarija, who threatened horrid murder a hundred times a day, and would\nweep over the injury of a fly, seized little Sebastijonas in her arms\nand bid fair to smother him with kisses. There was a long rest for the\norchestra, and plenty of refreshments, while Marija was making her peace\nwith her victim, seating him upon the bar, and standing beside him and\nholding to his lips a foaming schooner of beer.\n\nIn the meantime there was going on in another corner of the room an\nanxious conference between Teta Elzbieta and Dede Antanas, and a few of\nthe more intimate friends of the family. A trouble was come upon them.\nThe veselija is a compact, a compact not expressed, but therefore only\nthe more binding upon all. Every one's share was different--and yet\nevery one knew perfectly well what his share was, and strove to give a\nlittle more. Now, however, since they had come to the new country, all\nthis was changing; it seemed as if there must be some subtle poison in\nthe air that one breathed here--it was affecting all the young men at\nonce. They would come in crowds and fill themselves with a fine dinner,\nand then sneak off. One would throw another's hat out of the window, and\nboth would go out to get it, and neither could be seen again. Or now\nand then half a dozen of them would get together and march out openly,\nstaring at you, and making fun of you to your face. Still others, worse\nyet, would crowd about the bar, and at the expense of the host drink\nthemselves sodden, paying not the least attention to any one, and\nleaving it to be thought that either they had danced with the bride\nalready, or meant to later on.\n\nAll these things were going on now, and the family was helpless with\ndismay. So long they had toiled, and such an outlay they had made! Ona\nstood by, her eyes wide with terror. Those frightful bills--how they had\nhaunted her, each item gnawing at her soul all day and spoiling her rest\nat night. How often she had named them over one by one and figured\non them as she went to work--fifteen dollars for the hall, twenty-two\ndollars and a quarter for the ducks, twelve dollars for the musicians,\nfive dollars at the church, and a blessing of the Virgin besides--and so\non without an end! Worst of all was the frightful bill that was still to\ncome from Graiczunas for the beer and liquor that might be consumed.\nOne could never get in advance more than a guess as to this from\na saloon-keeper--and then, when the time came he always came to you\nscratching his head and saying that he had guessed too low, but that he\nhad done his best--your guests had gotten so very drunk. By him you\nwere sure to be cheated unmercifully, and that even though you thought\nyourself the dearest of the hundreds of friends he had. He would begin\nto serve your guests out of a keg that was half full, and finish with\none that was half empty, and then you would be charged for two kegs of\nbeer. He would agree to serve a certain quality at a certain price, and\nwhen the time came you and your friends would be drinking some horrible\npoison that could not be described. You might complain, but you would\nget nothing for your pains but a ruined evening; while, as for going to\nlaw about it, you might as well go to heaven at once. The saloon-keeper\nstood in with all the big politics men in the district; and when you had\nonce found out what it meant to get into trouble with such people, you\nwould know enough to pay what you were told to pay and shut up.\n\nWhat made all this the more painful was that it was so hard on the few\nthat had really done their best. There was poor old ponas Jokubas, for\ninstance--he had already given five dollars, and did not every one know\nthat Jokubas Szedvilas had just mortgaged his delicatessen store for two\nhundred dollars to meet several months' overdue rent? And then there was\nwithered old poni Aniele--who was a widow, and had three children, and\nthe rheumatism besides, and did washing for the tradespeople on Halsted\nStreet at prices it would break your heart to hear named. Aniele had\ngiven the entire profit of her chickens for several months. Eight of\nthem she owned, and she kept them in a little place fenced around on her\nbackstairs. All day long the children of Aniele were raking in the dump\nfor food for these chickens; and sometimes, when the competition there\nwas too fierce, you might see them on Halsted Street walking close to\nthe gutters, and with their mother following to see that no one robbed\nthem of their finds. Money could not tell the value of these chickens\nto old Mrs. Jukniene--she valued them differently, for she had a feeling\nthat she was getting something for nothing by means of them--that with\nthem she was getting the better of a world that was getting the better\nof her in so many other ways. So she watched them every hour of the day,\nand had learned to see like an owl at night to watch them then. One of\nthem had been stolen long ago, and not a month passed that some one\ndid not try to steal another. As the frustrating of this one attempt\ninvolved a score of false alarms, it will be understood what a tribute\nold Mrs. Jukniene brought, just because Teta Elzbieta had once loaned\nher some money for a few days and saved her from being turned out of her\nhouse.\n\nMore and more friends gathered round while the lamentation about\nthese things was going on. Some drew nearer, hoping to overhear the\nconversation, who were themselves among the guilty--and surely that was\na thing to try the patience of a saint. Finally there came Jurgis,\nurged by some one, and the story was retold to him. Jurgis listened in\nsilence, with his great black eyebrows knitted. Now and then there would\ncome a gleam underneath them and he would glance about the room. Perhaps\nhe would have liked to go at some of those fellows with his big clenched\nfists; but then, doubtless, he realized how little good it would do him.\nNo bill would be any less for turning out any one at this time; and then\nthere would be the scandal--and Jurgis wanted nothing except to get away\nwith Ona and to let the world go its own way. So his hands relaxed and\nhe merely said quietly: \"It is done, and there is no use in weeping,\nTeta Elzbieta.\" Then his look turned toward Ona, who stood close to his\nside, and he saw the wide look of terror in her eyes. \"Little one,\" he\nsaid, in a low voice, \"do not worry--it will not matter to us. We will\npay them all somehow. I will work harder.\" That was always what Jurgis\nsaid. Ona had grown used to it as the solution of all difficulties--\"I\nwill work harder!\" He had said that in Lithuania when one official had\ntaken his passport from him, and another had arrested him for being\nwithout it, and the two had divided a third of his belongings. He had\nsaid it again in New York, when the smooth-spoken agent had taken them\nin hand and made them pay such high prices, and almost prevented their\nleaving his place, in spite of their paying. Now he said it a third\ntime, and Ona drew a deep breath; it was so wonderful to have a husband,\njust like a grown woman--and a husband who could solve all problems, and\nwho was so big and strong!\n\nThe last sob of little Sebastijonas has been stifled, and the orchestra\nhas once more been reminded of its duty. The ceremony begins again--but\nthere are few now left to dance with, and so very soon the collection is\nover and promiscuous dances once more begin. It is now after midnight,\nhowever, and things are not as they were before. The dancers are dull\nand heavy--most of them have been drinking hard, and have long ago\npassed the stage of exhilaration. They dance in monotonous measure,\nround after round, hour after hour, with eyes fixed upon vacancy, as if\nthey were only half conscious, in a constantly growing stupor. The men\ngrasp the women very tightly, but there will be half an hour together\nwhen neither will see the other's face. Some couples do not care to\ndance, and have retired to the corners, where they sit with their arms\nenlaced. Others, who have been drinking still more, wander about the\nroom, bumping into everything; some are in groups of two or three,\nsinging, each group its own song. As time goes on there is a variety\nof drunkenness, among the younger men especially. Some stagger about in\neach other's arms, whispering maudlin words--others start quarrels upon\nthe slightest pretext, and come to blows and have to be pulled apart.\nNow the fat policeman wakens definitely, and feels of his club to\nsee that it is ready for business. He has to be prompt--for these\ntwo-o'clock-in-the-morning fights, if they once get out of hand, are\nlike a forest fire, and may mean the whole reserves at the station. The\nthing to do is to crack every fighting head that you see, before there\nare so many fighting heads that you cannot crack any of them. There is\nbut scant account kept of cracked heads in back of the yards, for men\nwho have to crack the heads of animals all day seem to get into the\nhabit, and to practice on their friends, and even on their families,\nbetween times. This makes it a cause for congratulation that by\nmodern methods a very few men can do the painfully necessary work of\nhead-cracking for the whole of the cultured world.\n\nThere is no fight that night--perhaps because Jurgis, too, is\nwatchful--even more so than the policeman. Jurgis has drunk a great\ndeal, as any one naturally would on an occasion when it all has to be\npaid for, whether it is drunk or not; but he is a very steady man, and\ndoes not easily lose his temper. Only once there is a tight shave--and\nthat is the fault of Marija Berczynskas. Marija has apparently concluded\nabout two hours ago that if the altar in the corner, with the deity in\nsoiled white, be not the true home of the muses, it is, at any rate,\nthe nearest substitute on earth attainable. And Marija is just fighting\ndrunk when there come to her ears the facts about the villains who have\nnot paid that night. Marija goes on the warpath straight off, without\neven the preliminary of a good cursing, and when she is pulled off it\nis with the coat collars of two villains in her hands. Fortunately, the\npoliceman is disposed to be reasonable, and so it is not Marija who is\nflung out of the place.\n\nAll this interrupts the music for not more than a minute or two. Then\nagain the merciless tune begins--the tune that has been played for the\nlast half-hour without one single change. It is an American tune this\ntime, one which they have picked up on the streets; all seem to know the\nwords of it--or, at any rate, the first line of it, which they hum\nto themselves, over and over again without rest: \"In the good old\nsummertime--in the good old summertime! In the good old summertime--in\nthe good old summertime!\" There seems to be something hypnotic about\nthis, with its endlessly recurring dominant. It has put a stupor upon\nevery one who hears it, as well as upon the men who are playing it. No\none can get away from it, or even think of getting away from it; it is\nthree o'clock in the morning, and they have danced out all their joy,\nand danced out all their strength, and all the strength that unlimited\ndrink can lend them--and still there is no one among them who has the\npower to think of stopping. Promptly at seven o'clock this same Monday\nmorning they will every one of them have to be in their places at\nDurham's or Brown's or Jones's, each in his working clothes. If one of\nthem be a minute late, he will be docked an hour's pay, and if he be\nmany minutes late, he will be apt to find his brass check turned to the\nwall, which will send him out to join the hungry mob that waits every\nmorning at the gates of the packing houses, from six o'clock until\nnearly half-past eight. There is no exception to this rule, not even\nlittle Ona--who has asked for a holiday the day after her wedding day,\na holiday without pay, and been refused. While there are so many who\nare anxious to work as you wish, there is no occasion for incommoding\nyourself with those who must work otherwise.\n\nLittle Ona is nearly ready to faint--and half in a stupor herself,\nbecause of the heavy scent in the room. She has not taken a drop, but\nevery one else there is literally burning alcohol, as the lamps are\nburning oil; some of the men who are sound asleep in their chairs or\non the floor are reeking of it so that you cannot go near them. Now\nand then Jurgis gazes at her hungrily--he has long since forgotten his\nshyness; but then the crowd is there, and he still waits and watches the\ndoor, where a carriage is supposed to come. It does not, and finally he\nwill wait no longer, but comes up to Ona, who turns white and trembles.\nHe puts her shawl about her and then his own coat. They live only two\nblocks away, and Jurgis does not care about the carriage.\n\nThere is almost no farewell--the dancers do not notice them, and all\nof the children and many of the old folks have fallen asleep of sheer\nexhaustion. Dede Antanas is asleep, and so are the Szedvilases, husband\nand wife, the former snoring in octaves. There is Teta Elzbieta, and\nMarija, sobbing loudly; and then there is only the silent night, with\nthe stars beginning to pale a little in the east. Jurgis, without a\nword, lifts Ona in his arms, and strides out with her, and she sinks her\nhead upon his shoulder with a moan. When he reaches home he is not sure\nwhether she has fainted or is asleep, but when he has to hold her with\none hand while he unlocks the door, he sees that she has opened her\neyes.\n\n\"You shall not go to Brown's today, little one,\" he whispers, as he\nclimbs the stairs; and she catches his arm in terror, gasping: \"No! No!\nI dare not! It will ruin us!\"\n\nBut he answers her again: \"Leave it to me; leave it to me. I will earn\nmore money--I will work harder.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 2\n\n\nJurgis talked lightly about work, because he was young. They told him\nstories about the breaking down of men, there in the stockyards of\nChicago, and of what had happened to them afterward--stories to make\nyour flesh creep, but Jurgis would only laugh. He had only been there\nfour months, and he was young, and a giant besides. There was too much\nhealth in him. He could not even imagine how it would feel to be beaten.\n\"That is well enough for men like you,\" he would say, \"silpnas, puny\nfellows--but my back is broad.\"\n\nJurgis was like a boy, a boy from the country. He was the sort of man\nthe bosses like to get hold of, the sort they make it a grievance they\ncannot get hold of. When he was told to go to a certain place, he would\ngo there on the run. When he had nothing to do for the moment, he would\nstand round fidgeting, dancing, with the overflow of energy that was\nin him. If he were working in a line of men, the line always moved\ntoo slowly for him, and you could pick him out by his impatience and\nrestlessness. That was why he had been picked out on one important\noccasion; for Jurgis had stood outside of Brown and Company's \"Central\nTime Station\" not more than half an hour, the second day of his arrival\nin Chicago, before he had been beckoned by one of the bosses. Of this he\nwas very proud, and it made him more disposed than ever to laugh at the\npessimists. In vain would they all tell him that there were men in that\ncrowd from which he had been chosen who had stood there a month--yes,\nmany months--and not been chosen yet. \"Yes,\" he would say, \"but what\nsort of men? Broken-down tramps and good-for-nothings, fellows who have\nspent all their money drinking, and want to get more for it. Do you want\nme to believe that with these arms\"--and he would clench his fists and\nhold them up in the air, so that you might see the rolling muscles--\"that\nwith these arms people will ever let me starve?\"\n\n\"It is plain,\" they would answer to this, \"that you have come from the\ncountry, and from very far in the country.\" And this was the fact, for\nJurgis had never seen a city, and scarcely even a fair-sized town, until\nhe had set out to make his fortune in the world and earn his right\nto Ona. His father, and his father's father before him, and as many\nancestors back as legend could go, had lived in that part of Lithuania\nknown as Brelovicz, the Imperial Forest. This is a great tract of a\nhundred thousand acres, which from time immemorial has been a hunting\npreserve of the nobility. There are a very few peasants settled in it,\nholding title from ancient times; and one of these was Antanas Rudkus,\nwho had been reared himself, and had reared his children in turn, upon\nhalf a dozen acres of cleared land in the midst of a wilderness. There\nhad been one son besides Jurgis, and one sister. The former had been\ndrafted into the army; that had been over ten years ago, but since that\nday nothing had ever been heard of him. The sister was married, and her\nhusband had bought the place when old Antanas had decided to go with his\nson.\n\nIt was nearly a year and a half ago that Jurgis had met Ona, at a\nhorse fair a hundred miles from home. Jurgis had never expected to get\nmarried--he had laughed at it as a foolish trap for a man to walk into;\nbut here, without ever having spoken a word to her, with no more than\nthe exchange of half a dozen smiles, he found himself, purple in the\nface with embarrassment and terror, asking her parents to sell her to\nhim for his wife--and offering his father's two horses he had been sent\nto the fair to sell. But Ona's father proved as a rock--the girl was yet\na child, and he was a rich man, and his daughter was not to be had in\nthat way. So Jurgis went home with a heavy heart, and that spring and\nsummer toiled and tried hard to forget. In the fall, after the harvest\nwas over, he saw that it would not do, and tramped the full fortnight's\njourney that lay between him and Ona.\n\nHe found an unexpected state of affairs--for the girl's father had died,\nand his estate was tied up with creditors; Jurgis' heart leaped as he\nrealized that now the prize was within his reach. There was Elzbieta\nLukoszaite, Teta, or Aunt, as they called her, Ona's stepmother, and\nthere were her six children, of all ages. There was also her brother\nJonas, a dried-up little man who had worked upon the farm. They were\npeople of great consequence, as it seemed to Jurgis, fresh out of the\nwoods; Ona knew how to read, and knew many other things that he did\nnot know, and now the farm had been sold, and the whole family was\nadrift--all they owned in the world being about seven hundred rubles\nwhich is half as many dollars. They would have had three times that, but\nit had gone to court, and the judge had decided against them, and it had\ncost the balance to get him to change his decision.\n\nOna might have married and left them, but she would not, for she loved\nTeta Elzbieta. It was Jonas who suggested that they all go to America,\nwhere a friend of his had gotten rich. He would work, for his part, and\nthe women would work, and some of the children, doubtless--they would\nlive somehow. Jurgis, too, had heard of America. That was a country\nwhere, they said, a man might earn three rubles a day; and Jurgis\nfigured what three rubles a day would mean, with prices as they were\nwhere he lived, and decided forthwith that he would go to America and\nmarry, and be a rich man in the bargain. In that country, rich or poor,\na man was free, it was said; he did not have to go into the army, he did\nnot have to pay out his money to rascally officials--he might do as he\npleased, and count himself as good as any other man. So America was a\nplace of which lovers and young people dreamed. If one could only manage\nto get the price of a passage, he could count his troubles at an end.\n\nIt was arranged that they should leave the following spring, and\nmeantime Jurgis sold himself to a contractor for a certain time, and\ntramped nearly four hundred miles from home with a gang of men to work\nupon a railroad in Smolensk. This was a fearful experience, with filth\nand bad food and cruelty and overwork; but Jurgis stood it and came out\nin fine trim, and with eighty rubles sewed up in his coat. He did not\ndrink or fight, because he was thinking all the time of Ona; and for the\nrest, he was a quiet, steady man, who did what he was told to, did not\nlose his temper often, and when he did lose it made the offender anxious\nthat he should not lose it again. When they paid him off he dodged the\ncompany gamblers and dramshops, and so they tried to kill him; but he\nescaped, and tramped it home, working at odd jobs, and sleeping always\nwith one eye open.\n\nSo in the summer time they had all set out for America. At the last\nmoment there joined them Marija Berczynskas, who was a cousin of Ona's.\nMarija was an orphan, and had worked since childhood for a rich farmer\nof Vilna, who beat her regularly. It was only at the age of twenty that\nit had occurred to Marija to try her strength, when she had risen up and\nnearly murdered the man, and then come away.\n\nThere were twelve in all in the party, five adults and six children--and\nOna, who was a little of both. They had a hard time on the passage;\nthere was an agent who helped them, but he proved a scoundrel, and got\nthem into a trap with some officials, and cost them a good deal of\ntheir precious money, which they clung to with such horrible fear. This\nhappened to them again in New York--for, of course, they knew nothing\nabout the country, and had no one to tell them, and it was easy for a\nman in a blue uniform to lead them away, and to take them to a hotel and\nkeep them there, and make them pay enormous charges to get away. The law\nsays that the rate card shall be on the door of a hotel, but it does not\nsay that it shall be in Lithuanian.\n\n\nIt was in the stockyards that Jonas' friend had gotten rich, and so to\nChicago the party was bound. They knew that one word, Chicago and that\nwas all they needed to know, at least, until they reached the city.\nThen, tumbled out of the cars without ceremony, they were no better off\nthan before; they stood staring down the vista of Dearborn Street, with\nits big black buildings towering in the distance, unable to realize that\nthey had arrived, and why, when they said \"Chicago,\" people no longer\npointed in some direction, but instead looked perplexed, or laughed,\nor went on without paying any attention. They were pitiable in their\nhelplessness; above all things they stood in deadly terror of any sort\nof person in official uniform, and so whenever they saw a policeman they\nwould cross the street and hurry by. For the whole of the first day they\nwandered about in the midst of deafening confusion, utterly lost; and\nit was only at night that, cowering in the doorway of a house, they\nwere finally discovered and taken by a policeman to the station. In the\nmorning an interpreter was found, and they were taken and put upon a\ncar, and taught a new word--\"stockyards.\" Their delight at discovering\nthat they were to get out of this adventure without losing another share\nof their possessions it would not be possible to describe.\n\nThey sat and stared out of the window. They were on a street which\nseemed to run on forever, mile after mile--thirty-four of them, if they\nhad known it--and each side of it one uninterrupted row of wretched\nlittle two-story frame buildings. Down every side street they could see,\nit was the same--never a hill and never a hollow, but always the same\nendless vista of ugly and dirty little wooden buildings. Here and there\nwould be a bridge crossing a filthy creek, with hard-baked mud shores\nand dingy sheds and docks along it; here and there would be a railroad\ncrossing, with a tangle of switches, and locomotives puffing, and\nrattling freight cars filing by; here and there would be a great\nfactory, a dingy building with innumerable windows in it, and immense\nvolumes of smoke pouring from the chimneys, darkening the air above and\nmaking filthy the earth beneath. But after each of these interruptions,\nthe desolate procession would begin again--the procession of dreary\nlittle buildings.\n\nA full hour before the party reached the city they had begun to note the\nperplexing changes in the atmosphere. It grew darker all the time, and\nupon the earth the grass seemed to grow less green. Every minute, as\nthe train sped on, the colors of things became dingier; the fields were\ngrown parched and yellow, the landscape hideous and bare. And along\nwith the thickening smoke they began to notice another circumstance, a\nstrange, pungent odor. They were not sure that it was unpleasant, this\nodor; some might have called it sickening, but their taste in odors was\nnot developed, and they were only sure that it was curious. Now, sitting\nin the trolley car, they realized that they were on their way to the\nhome of it--that they had traveled all the way from Lithuania to it.\nIt was now no longer something far off and faint, that you caught in\nwhiffs; you could literally taste it, as well as smell it--you could\ntake hold of it, almost, and examine it at your leisure. They were\ndivided in their opinions about it. It was an elemental odor, raw and\ncrude; it was rich, almost rancid, sensual, and strong. There were some\nwho drank it in as if it were an intoxicant; there were others who put\ntheir handkerchiefs to their faces. The new emigrants were still tasting\nit, lost in wonder, when suddenly the car came to a halt, and the door\nwas flung open, and a voice shouted--\"Stockyards!\"\n\nThey were left standing upon the corner, staring; down a side street\nthere were two rows of brick houses, and between them a vista: half\na dozen chimneys, tall as the tallest of buildings, touching the very\nsky--and leaping from them half a dozen columns of smoke, thick, oily,\nand black as night. It might have come from the center of the world,\nthis smoke, where the fires of the ages still smolder. It came as if\nself-impelled, driving all before it, a perpetual explosion. It was\ninexhaustible; one stared, waiting to see it stop, but still the great\nstreams rolled out. They spread in vast clouds overhead, writhing,\ncurling; then, uniting in one giant river, they streamed away down the\nsky, stretching a black pall as far as the eye could reach.\n\nThen the party became aware of another strange thing. This, too, like\nthe color, was a thing elemental; it was a sound, a sound made up of ten\nthousand little sounds. You scarcely noticed it at first--it sunk into\nyour consciousness, a vague disturbance, a trouble. It was like the\nmurmuring of the bees in the spring, the whisperings of the forest; it\nsuggested endless activity, the rumblings of a world in motion. It was\nonly by an effort that one could realize that it was made by animals,\nthat it was the distant lowing of ten thousand cattle, the distant\ngrunting of ten thousand swine.\n\nThey would have liked to follow it up, but, alas, they had no time for\nadventures just then. The policeman on the corner was beginning to watch\nthem; and so, as usual, they started up the street. Scarcely had they\ngone a block, however, before Jonas was heard to give a cry, and began\npointing excitedly across the street. Before they could gather the\nmeaning of his breathless ejaculations he had bounded away, and they saw\nhim enter a shop, over which was a sign: \"J. Szedvilas, Delicatessen.\"\nWhen he came out again it was in company with a very stout gentleman in\nshirt sleeves and an apron, clasping Jonas by both hands and laughing\nhilariously. Then Teta Elzbieta recollected suddenly that Szedvilas\nhad been the name of the mythical friend who had made his fortune in\nAmerica. To find that he had been making it in the delicatessen business\nwas an extraordinary piece of good fortune at this juncture; though it\nwas well on in the morning, they had not breakfasted, and the children\nwere beginning to whimper.\n\nThus was the happy ending to a woeful voyage. The two families literally\nfell upon each other's necks--for it had been years since Jokubas\nSzedvilas had met a man from his part of Lithuania. Before half the day\nthey were lifelong friends. Jokubas understood all the pitfalls of this\nnew world, and could explain all of its mysteries; he could tell them\nthe things they ought to have done in the different emergencies--and\nwhat was still more to the point, he could tell them what to do now. He\nwould take them to poni Aniele, who kept a boardinghouse the other side\nof the yards; old Mrs. Jukniene, he explained, had not what one would\ncall choice accommodations, but they might do for the moment. To this\nTeta Elzbieta hastened to respond that nothing could be too cheap to\nsuit them just then; for they were quite terrified over the sums they\nhad had to expend. A very few days of practical experience in this land\nof high wages had been sufficient to make clear to them the cruel fact\nthat it was also a land of high prices, and that in it the poor man\nwas almost as poor as in any other corner of the earth; and so there\nvanished in a night all the wonderful dreams of wealth that had been\nhaunting Jurgis. What had made the discovery all the more painful was\nthat they were spending, at American prices, money which they had earned\nat home rates of wages--and so were really being cheated by the world!\nThe last two days they had all but starved themselves--it made them\nquite sick to pay the prices that the railroad people asked them for\nfood.\n\nYet, when they saw the home of the Widow Jukniene they could not but\nrecoil, even so, in all their journey they had seen nothing so bad as\nthis. Poni Aniele had a four-room flat in one of that wilderness of\ntwo-story frame tenements that lie \"back of the yards.\" There were four\nsuch flats in each building, and each of the four was a \"boardinghouse\"\nfor the occupancy of foreigners--Lithuanians, Poles, Slovaks, or\nBohemians. Some of these places were kept by private persons, some were\ncooperative. There would be an average of half a dozen boarders to each\nroom--sometimes there were thirteen or fourteen to one room, fifty\nor sixty to a flat. Each one of the occupants furnished his own\naccommodations--that is, a mattress and some bedding. The mattresses\nwould be spread upon the floor in rows--and there would be nothing else\nin the place except a stove. It was by no means unusual for two men\nto own the same mattress in common, one working by day and using it by\nnight, and the other working at night and using it in the daytime. Very\nfrequently a lodging house keeper would rent the same beds to double\nshifts of men.\n\nMrs. Jukniene was a wizened-up little woman, with a wrinkled face. Her\nhome was unthinkably filthy; you could not enter by the front door at\nall, owing to the mattresses, and when you tried to go up the backstairs\nyou found that she had walled up most of the porch with old boards\nto make a place to keep her chickens. It was a standing jest of the\nboarders that Aniele cleaned house by letting the chickens loose in\nthe rooms. Undoubtedly this did keep down the vermin, but it seemed\nprobable, in view of all the circumstances, that the old lady regarded\nit rather as feeding the chickens than as cleaning the rooms. The truth\nwas that she had definitely given up the idea of cleaning anything,\nunder pressure of an attack of rheumatism, which had kept her doubled up\nin one corner of her room for over a week; during which time eleven of\nher boarders, heavily in her debt, had concluded to try their chances of\nemployment in Kansas City. This was July, and the fields were green. One\nnever saw the fields, nor any green thing whatever, in Packingtown; but\none could go out on the road and \"hobo it,\" as the men phrased it, and\nsee the country, and have a long rest, and an easy time riding on the\nfreight cars.\n\n\nSuch was the home to which the new arrivals were welcomed. There was\nnothing better to be had--they might not do so well by looking further,\nfor Mrs. Jukniene had at least kept one room for herself and her three\nlittle children, and now offered to share this with the women and the\ngirls of the party. They could get bedding at a secondhand store,\nshe explained; and they would not need any, while the weather was so\nhot--doubtless they would all sleep on the sidewalk such nights as this,\nas did nearly all of her guests. \"Tomorrow,\" Jurgis said, when they were\nleft alone, \"tomorrow I will get a job, and perhaps Jonas will get one\nalso; and then we can get a place of our own.\"\n\nLater that afternoon he and Ona went out to take a walk and look about\nthem, to see more of this district which was to be their home. In back\nof the yards the dreary two-story frame houses were scattered farther\napart, and there were great spaces bare--that seemingly had been\noverlooked by the great sore of a city as it spread itself over the\nsurface of the prairie. These bare places were grown up with dingy,\nyellow weeds, hiding innumerable tomato cans; innumerable children\nplayed upon them, chasing one another here and there, screaming and\nfighting. The most uncanny thing about this neighborhood was the number\nof the children; you thought there must be a school just out, and it was\nonly after long acquaintance that you were able to realize that\nthere was no school, but that these were the children of the\nneighborhood--that there were so many children to the block in\nPackingtown that nowhere on its streets could a horse and buggy move\nfaster than a walk!\n\nIt could not move faster anyhow, on account of the state of the streets.\nThose through which Jurgis and Ona were walking resembled streets less\nthan they did a miniature topographical map. The roadway was commonly\nseveral feet lower than the level of the houses, which were sometimes\njoined by high board walks; there were no pavements--there were\nmountains and valleys and rivers, gullies and ditches, and great hollows\nfull of stinking green water. In these pools the children played, and\nrolled about in the mud of the streets; here and there one noticed them\ndigging in it, after trophies which they had stumbled on. One wondered\nabout this, as also about the swarms of flies which hung about the\nscene, literally blackening the air, and the strange, fetid odor which\nassailed one's nostrils, a ghastly odor, of all the dead things of the\nuniverse. It impelled the visitor to questions and then the residents\nwould explain, quietly, that all this was \"made\" land, and that it had\nbeen \"made\" by using it as a dumping ground for the city garbage. After\na few years the unpleasant effect of this would pass away, it was said;\nbut meantime, in hot weather--and especially when it rained--the flies\nwere apt to be annoying. Was it not unhealthful? the stranger would ask,\nand the residents would answer, \"Perhaps; but there is no telling.\"\n\nA little way farther on, and Jurgis and Ona, staring open-eyed and\nwondering, came to the place where this \"made\" ground was in process of\nmaking. Here was a great hole, perhaps two city blocks square, and with\nlong files of garbage wagons creeping into it. The place had an odor\nfor which there are no polite words; and it was sprinkled over with\nchildren, who raked in it from dawn till dark. Sometimes visitors from\nthe packing houses would wander out to see this \"dump,\" and they would\nstand by and debate as to whether the children were eating the food they\ngot, or merely collecting it for the chickens at home. Apparently none\nof them ever went down to find out.\n\nBeyond this dump there stood a great brickyard, with smoking chimneys.\nFirst they took out the soil to make bricks, and then they filled it\nup again with garbage, which seemed to Jurgis and Ona a felicitous\narrangement, characteristic of an enterprising country like America. A\nlittle way beyond was another great hole, which they had emptied and not\nyet filled up. This held water, and all summer it stood there, with the\nnear-by soil draining into it, festering and stewing in the sun; and\nthen, when winter came, somebody cut the ice on it, and sold it to the\npeople of the city. This, too, seemed to the newcomers an economical\narrangement; for they did not read the newspapers, and their heads were\nnot full of troublesome thoughts about \"germs.\"\n\nThey stood there while the sun went down upon this scene, and the sky in\nthe west turned blood-red, and the tops of the houses shone like fire.\nJurgis and Ona were not thinking of the sunset, however--their backs\nwere turned to it, and all their thoughts were of Packingtown, which\nthey could see so plainly in the distance. The line of the buildings\nstood clear-cut and black against the sky; here and there out of the\nmass rose the great chimneys, with the river of smoke streaming away to\nthe end of the world. It was a study in colors now, this smoke; in the\nsunset light it was black and brown and gray and purple. All the sordid\nsuggestions of the place were gone--in the twilight it was a vision of\npower. To the two who stood watching while the darkness swallowed it up,\nit seemed a dream of wonder, with its talc of human energy, of things\nbeing done, of employment for thousands upon thousands of men, of\nopportunity and freedom, of life and love and joy. When they came away,\narm in arm, Jurgis was saying, \"Tomorrow I shall go there and get a\njob!\"\n\n\n\nChapter 3\n\n\nIn his capacity as delicatessen vender, Jokubas Szedvilas had many\nacquaintances. Among these was one of the special policemen employed\nby Durham, whose duty it frequently was to pick out men for employment.\nJokubas had never tried it, but he expressed a certainty that he could\nget some of his friends a job through this man. It was agreed, after\nconsultation, that he should make the effort with old Antanas and with\nJonas. Jurgis was confident of his ability to get work for himself,\nunassisted by any one. As we have said before, he was not mistaken in\nthis. He had gone to Brown's and stood there not more than half an hour\nbefore one of the bosses noticed his form towering above the rest, and\nsignaled to him. The colloquy which followed was brief and to the point:\n\n\"Speak English?\"\n\n\"No; Lit-uanian.\" (Jurgis had studied this word carefully.)\n\n\"Job?\"\n\n\"Je.\" (A nod.)\n\n\"Worked here before?\"\n\n\"No 'stand.\"\n\n(Signals and gesticulations on the part of the boss. Vigorous shakes of\nthe head by Jurgis.)\n\n\"Shovel guts?\"\n\n\"No 'stand.\" (More shakes of the head.)\n\n\"Zarnos. Pagaiksztis. Szluofa!\" (Imitative motions.)\n\n\"Je.\"\n\n\"See door. Durys?\" (Pointing.)\n\n\"Je.\"\n\n\"To-morrow, seven o'clock. Understand? Rytoj! Prieszpietys! Septyni!\"\n\n\"Dekui, tamistai!\" (Thank you, sir.) And that was all. Jurgis turned\naway, and then in a sudden rush the full realization of his triumph\nswept over him, and he gave a yell and a jump, and started off on a\nrun. He had a job! He had a job! And he went all the way home as if\nupon wings, and burst into the house like a cyclone, to the rage of the\nnumerous lodgers who had just turned in for their daily sleep.\n\nMeantime Jokubas had been to see his friend the policeman, and received\nencouragement, so it was a happy party. There being no more to be done\nthat day, the shop was left under the care of Lucija, and her husband\nsallied forth to show his friends the sights of Packingtown. Jokubas did\nthis with the air of a country gentleman escorting a party of visitors\nover his estate; he was an old-time resident, and all these wonders\nhad grown up under his eyes, and he had a personal pride in them. The\npackers might own the land, but he claimed the landscape, and there was\nno one to say nay to this.\n\n\nThey passed down the busy street that led to the yards. It was still\nearly morning, and everything was at its high tide of activity. A steady\nstream of employees was pouring through the gate--employees of the\nhigher sort, at this hour, clerks and stenographers and such. For the\nwomen there were waiting big two-horse wagons, which set off at a gallop\nas fast as they were filled. In the distance there was heard again\nthe lowing of the cattle, a sound as of a far-off ocean calling. They\nfollowed it, this time, as eager as children in sight of a circus\nmenagerie--which, indeed, the scene a good deal resembled. They crossed\nthe railroad tracks, and then on each side of the street were the pens\nfull of cattle; they would have stopped to look, but Jokubas hurried\nthem on, to where there was a stairway and a raised gallery, from which\neverything could be seen. Here they stood, staring, breathless with\nwonder.\n\nThere is over a square mile of space in the yards, and more than half\nof it is occupied by cattle pens; north and south as far as the eye can\nreach there stretches a sea of pens. And they were all filled--so many\ncattle no one had ever dreamed existed in the world. Red cattle, black,\nwhite, and yellow cattle; old cattle and young cattle; great bellowing\nbulls and little calves not an hour born; meek-eyed milch cows and\nfierce, long-horned Texas steers. The sound of them here was as of all\nthe barnyards of the universe; and as for counting them--it would have\ntaken all day simply to count the pens. Here and there ran long alleys,\nblocked at intervals by gates; and Jokubas told them that the number of\nthese gates was twenty-five thousand. Jokubas had recently been reading\na newspaper article which was full of statistics such as that, and he\nwas very proud as he repeated them and made his guests cry out with\nwonder. Jurgis too had a little of this sense of pride. Had he not just\ngotten a job, and become a sharer in all this activity, a cog in this\nmarvelous machine? Here and there about the alleys galloped men upon\nhorseback, booted, and carrying long whips; they were very busy, calling\nto each other, and to those who were driving the cattle. They were\ndrovers and stock raisers, who had come from far states, and brokers and\ncommission merchants, and buyers for all the big packing houses.\n\nHere and there they would stop to inspect a bunch of cattle, and there\nwould be a parley, brief and businesslike. The buyer would nod or drop\nhis whip, and that would mean a bargain; and he would note it in his\nlittle book, along with hundreds of others he had made that morning.\nThen Jokubas pointed out the place where the cattle were driven to be\nweighed, upon a great scale that would weigh a hundred thousand pounds\nat once and record it automatically. It was near to the east entrance\nthat they stood, and all along this east side of the yards ran the\nrailroad tracks, into which the cars were run, loaded with cattle.\nAll night long this had been going on, and now the pens were full; by\ntonight they would all be empty, and the same thing would be done again.\n\n\"And what will become of all these creatures?\" cried Teta Elzbieta.\n\n\"By tonight,\" Jokubas answered, \"they will all be killed and cut up;\nand over there on the other side of the packing houses are more railroad\ntracks, where the cars come to take them away.\"\n\nThere were two hundred and fifty miles of track within the yards, their\nguide went on to tell them. They brought about ten thousand head of\ncattle every day, and as many hogs, and half as many sheep--which meant\nsome eight or ten million live creatures turned into food every year.\nOne stood and watched, and little by little caught the drift of the\ntide, as it set in the direction of the packing houses. There were\ngroups of cattle being driven to the chutes, which were roadways about\nfifteen feet wide, raised high above the pens. In these chutes the\nstream of animals was continuous; it was quite uncanny to watch them,\npressing on to their fate, all unsuspicious a very river of death. Our\nfriends were not poetical, and the sight suggested to them no metaphors\nof human destiny; they thought only of the wonderful efficiency of it\nall. The chutes into which the hogs went climbed high up--to the very\ntop of the distant buildings; and Jokubas explained that the hogs went\nup by the power of their own legs, and then their weight carried them\nback through all the processes necessary to make them into pork.\n\n\"They don't waste anything here,\" said the guide, and then he laughed\nand added a witticism, which he was pleased that his unsophisticated\nfriends should take to be his own: \"They use everything about the hog\nexcept the squeal.\" In front of Brown's General Office building there\ngrows a tiny plot of grass, and this, you may learn, is the only bit\nof green thing in Packingtown; likewise this jest about the hog and his\nsqueal, the stock in trade of all the guides, is the one gleam of humor\nthat you will find there.\n\nAfter they had seen enough of the pens, the party went up the street,\nto the mass of buildings which occupy the center of the yards. These\nbuildings, made of brick and stained with innumerable layers of\nPackingtown smoke, were painted all over with advertising signs, from\nwhich the visitor realized suddenly that he had come to the home of many\nof the torments of his life. It was here that they made those products\nwith the wonders of which they pestered him so--by placards that defaced\nthe landscape when he traveled, and by staring advertisements in the\nnewspapers and magazines--by silly little jingles that he could not get\nout of his mind, and gaudy pictures that lurked for him around every\nstreet corner. Here was where they made Brown's Imperial Hams and\nBacon, Brown's Dressed Beef, Brown's Excelsior Sausages! Here was the\nheadquarters of Durham's Pure Leaf Lard, of Durham's Breakfast Bacon,\nDurham's Canned Beef, Potted Ham, Deviled Chicken, Peerless Fertilizer!\n\nEntering one of the Durham buildings, they found a number of other\nvisitors waiting; and before long there came a guide, to escort them\nthrough the place. They make a great feature of showing strangers\nthrough the packing plants, for it is a good advertisement. But Ponas\nJokubas whispered maliciously that the visitors did not see any more\nthan the packers wanted them to. They climbed a long series of stairways\noutside of the building, to the top of its five or six stories. Here was\nthe chute, with its river of hogs, all patiently toiling upward; there\nwas a place for them to rest to cool off, and then through another\npassageway they went into a room from which there is no returning for\nhogs.\n\nIt was a long, narrow room, with a gallery along it for visitors. At the\nhead there was a great iron wheel, about twenty feet in circumference,\nwith rings here and there along its edge. Upon both sides of this wheel\nthere was a narrow space, into which came the hogs at the end of their\njourney; in the midst of them stood a great burly Negro, bare-armed and\nbare-chested. He was resting for the moment, for the wheel had stopped\nwhile men were cleaning up. In a minute or two, however, it began slowly\nto revolve, and then the men upon each side of it sprang to work. They\nhad chains which they fastened about the leg of the nearest hog, and the\nother end of the chain they hooked into one of the rings upon the wheel.\nSo, as the wheel turned, a hog was suddenly jerked off his feet and\nborne aloft.\n\nAt the same instant the car was assailed by a most terrifying shriek;\nthe visitors started in alarm, the women turned pale and shrank back.\nThe shriek was followed by another, louder and yet more agonizing--for\nonce started upon that journey, the hog never came back; at the top of\nthe wheel he was shunted off upon a trolley, and went sailing down the\nroom. And meantime another was swung up, and then another, and another,\nuntil there was a double line of them, each dangling by a foot and\nkicking in frenzy--and squealing. The uproar was appalling, perilous\nto the eardrums; one feared there was too much sound for the room to\nhold--that the walls must give way or the ceiling crack. There were high\nsqueals and low squeals, grunts, and wails of agony; there would come a\nmomentary lull, and then a fresh outburst, louder than ever, surging up\nto a deafening climax. It was too much for some of the visitors--the men\nwould look at each other, laughing nervously, and the women would stand\nwith hands clenched, and the blood rushing to their faces, and the tears\nstarting in their eyes.\n\nMeantime, heedless of all these things, the men upon the floor were\ngoing about their work. Neither squeals of hogs nor tears of visitors\nmade any difference to them; one by one they hooked up the hogs, and\none by one with a swift stroke they slit their throats. There was a long\nline of hogs, with squeals and lifeblood ebbing away together; until at\nlast each started again, and vanished with a splash into a huge vat of\nboiling water.\n\nIt was all so very businesslike that one watched it fascinated. It was\nporkmaking by machinery, porkmaking by applied mathematics. And yet\nsomehow the most matter-of-fact person could not help thinking of the\nhogs; they were so innocent, they came so very trustingly; and they were\nso very human in their protests--and so perfectly within their rights!\nThey had done nothing to deserve it; and it was adding insult to injury,\nas the thing was done here, swinging them up in this cold-blooded,\nimpersonal way, without a pretense of apology, without the homage of\na tear. Now and then a visitor wept, to be sure; but this slaughtering\nmachine ran on, visitors or no visitors. It was like some horrible crime\ncommitted in a dungeon, all unseen and unheeded, buried out of sight and\nof memory.\n\nOne could not stand and watch very long without becoming philosophical,\nwithout beginning to deal in symbols and similes, and to hear the hog\nsqueal of the universe. Was it permitted to believe that there was\nnowhere upon the earth, or above the earth, a heaven for hogs, where\nthey were requited for all this suffering? Each one of these hogs was\na separate creature. Some were white hogs, some were black; some were\nbrown, some were spotted; some were old, some young; some were long and\nlean, some were monstrous. And each of them had an individuality of his\nown, a will of his own, a hope and a heart's desire; each was full\nof self-confidence, of self-importance, and a sense of dignity. And\ntrusting and strong in faith he had gone about his business, the while a\nblack shadow hung over him and a horrid Fate waited in his pathway.\nNow suddenly it had swooped upon him, and had seized him by the leg.\nRelentless, remorseless, it was; all his protests, his screams, were\nnothing to it--it did its cruel will with him, as if his wishes, his\nfeelings, had simply no existence at all; it cut his throat and watched\nhim gasp out his life. And now was one to believe that there was nowhere\na god of hogs, to whom this hog personality was precious, to whom these\nhog squeals and agonies had a meaning? Who would take this hog into his\narms and comfort him, reward him for his work well done, and show him\nthe meaning of his sacrifice? Perhaps some glimpse of all this was in\nthe thoughts of our humble-minded Jurgis, as he turned to go on with the\nrest of the party, and muttered: \"Dieve--but I'm glad I'm not a hog!\"\n\nThe carcass hog was scooped out of the vat by machinery, and then it\nfell to the second floor, passing on the way through a wonderful machine\nwith numerous scrapers, which adjusted themselves to the size and shape\nof the animal, and sent it out at the other end with nearly all of its\nbristles removed. It was then again strung up by machinery, and sent\nupon another trolley ride; this time passing between two lines of men,\nwho sat upon a raised platform, each doing a certain single thing to\nthe carcass as it came to him. One scraped the outside of a leg; another\nscraped the inside of the same leg. One with a swift stroke cut the\nthroat; another with two swift strokes severed the head, which fell\nto the floor and vanished through a hole. Another made a slit down\nthe body; a second opened the body wider; a third with a saw cut the\nbreastbone; a fourth loosened the entrails; a fifth pulled them out--and\nthey also slid through a hole in the floor. There were men to scrape\neach side and men to scrape the back; there were men to clean the\ncarcass inside, to trim it and wash it. Looking down this room, one saw,\ncreeping slowly, a line of dangling hogs a hundred yards in length; and\nfor every yard there was a man, working as if a demon were after him. At\nthe end of this hog's progress every inch of the carcass had been gone\nover several times; and then it was rolled into the chilling room, where\nit stayed for twenty-four hours, and where a stranger might lose himself\nin a forest of freezing hogs.\n\nBefore the carcass was admitted here, however, it had to pass a\ngovernment inspector, who sat in the doorway and felt of the glands in\nthe neck for tuberculosis. This government inspector did not have the\nmanner of a man who was worked to death; he was apparently not haunted\nby a fear that the hog might get by him before he had finished his\ntesting. If you were a sociable person, he was quite willing to enter\ninto conversation with you, and to explain to you the deadly nature\nof the ptomaines which are found in tubercular pork; and while he was\ntalking with you you could hardly be so ungrateful as to notice that a\ndozen carcasses were passing him untouched. This inspector wore a blue\nuniform, with brass buttons, and he gave an atmosphere of authority to\nthe scene, and, as it were, put the stamp of official approval upon the\nthings which were done in Durham's.\n\nJurgis went down the line with the rest of the visitors, staring\nopen-mouthed, lost in wonder. He had dressed hogs himself in the forest\nof Lithuania; but he had never expected to live to see one hog dressed\nby several hundred men. It was like a wonderful poem to him, and he\ntook it all in guilelessly--even to the conspicuous signs demanding\nimmaculate cleanliness of the employees. Jurgis was vexed when the\ncynical Jokubas translated these signs with sarcastic comments, offering\nto take them to the secret rooms where the spoiled meats went to be\ndoctored.\n\nThe party descended to the next floor, where the various waste materials\nwere treated. Here came the entrails, to be scraped and washed clean for\nsausage casings; men and women worked here in the midst of a sickening\nstench, which caused the visitors to hasten by, gasping. To another room\ncame all the scraps to be \"tanked,\" which meant boiling and pumping off\nthe grease to make soap and lard; below they took out the refuse, and\nthis, too, was a region in which the visitors did not linger. In still\nother places men were engaged in cutting up the carcasses that had been\nthrough the chilling rooms. First there were the \"splitters,\" the most\nexpert workmen in the plant, who earned as high as fifty cents an hour,\nand did not a thing all day except chop hogs down the middle. Then there\nwere \"cleaver men,\" great giants with muscles of iron; each had two men\nto attend him--to slide the half carcass in front of him on the table,\nand hold it while he chopped it, and then turn each piece so that he\nmight chop it once more. His cleaver had a blade about two feet long,\nand he never made but one cut; he made it so neatly, too, that his\nimplement did not smite through and dull itself--there was just enough\nforce for a perfect cut, and no more. So through various yawning\nholes there slipped to the floor below--to one room hams, to another\nforequarters, to another sides of pork. One might go down to this floor\nand see the pickling rooms, where the hams were put into vats, and the\ngreat smoke rooms, with their airtight iron doors. In other rooms they\nprepared salt pork--there were whole cellars full of it, built up in\ngreat towers to the ceiling. In yet other rooms they were putting up\nmeats in boxes and barrels, and wrapping hams and bacon in oiled paper,\nsealing and labeling and sewing them. From the doors of these rooms went\nmen with loaded trucks, to the platform where freight cars were waiting\nto be filled; and one went out there and realized with a start that he\nhad come at last to the ground floor of this enormous building.\n\nThen the party went across the street to where they did the killing\nof beef--where every hour they turned four or five hundred cattle into\nmeat. Unlike the place they had left, all this work was done on one\nfloor; and instead of there being one line of carcasses which moved to\nthe workmen, there were fifteen or twenty lines, and the men moved\nfrom one to another of these. This made a scene of intense activity, a\npicture of human power wonderful to watch. It was all in one great room,\nlike a circus amphitheater, with a gallery for visitors running over the\ncenter.\n\nAlong one side of the room ran a narrow gallery, a few feet from the\nfloor; into which gallery the cattle were driven by men with goads which\ngave them electric shocks. Once crowded in here, the creatures were\nprisoned, each in a separate pen, by gates that shut, leaving them no\nroom to turn around; and while they stood bellowing and plunging, over\nthe top of the pen there leaned one of the \"knockers,\" armed with a\nsledge hammer, and watching for a chance to deal a blow. The room echoed\nwith the thuds in quick succession, and the stamping and kicking of the\nsteers. The instant the animal had fallen, the \"knocker\" passed on to\nanother; while a second man raised a lever, and the side of the pen was\nraised, and the animal, still kicking and struggling, slid out to\nthe \"killing bed.\" Here a man put shackles about one leg, and pressed\nanother lever, and the body was jerked up into the air. There were\nfifteen or twenty such pens, and it was a matter of only a couple of\nminutes to knock fifteen or twenty cattle and roll them out. Then once\nmore the gates were opened, and another lot rushed in; and so out of\neach pen there rolled a steady stream of carcasses, which the men upon\nthe killing beds had to get out of the way.\n\nThe manner in which they did this was something to be seen and never\nforgotten. They worked with furious intensity, literally upon the\nrun--at a pace with which there is nothing to be compared except a\nfootball game. It was all highly specialized labor, each man having his\ntask to do; generally this would consist of only two or three specific\ncuts, and he would pass down the line of fifteen or twenty carcasses,\nmaking these cuts upon each. First there came the \"butcher,\" to bleed\nthem; this meant one swift stroke, so swift that you could not see\nit--only the flash of the knife; and before you could realize it, the\nman had darted on to the next line, and a stream of bright red was\npouring out upon the floor. This floor was half an inch deep with blood,\nin spite of the best efforts of men who kept shoveling it through holes;\nit must have made the floor slippery, but no one could have guessed this\nby watching the men at work.\n\nThe carcass hung for a few minutes to bleed; there was no time lost,\nhowever, for there were several hanging in each line, and one was always\nready. It was let down to the ground, and there came the \"headsman,\"\nwhose task it was to sever the head, with two or three swift strokes.\nThen came the \"floorsman,\" to make the first cut in the skin; and then\nanother to finish ripping the skin down the center; and then half a\ndozen more in swift succession, to finish the skinning. After they were\nthrough, the carcass was again swung up; and while a man with a stick\nexamined the skin, to make sure that it had not been cut, and another\nrolled it up and tumbled it through one of the inevitable holes in the\nfloor, the beef proceeded on its journey. There were men to cut it, and\nmen to split it, and men to gut it and scrape it clean inside. There\nwere some with hose which threw jets of boiling water upon it, and\nothers who removed the feet and added the final touches. In the end, as\nwith the hogs, the finished beef was run into the chilling room, to hang\nits appointed time.\n\nThe visitors were taken there and shown them, all neatly hung in rows,\nlabeled conspicuously with the tags of the government inspectors--and\nsome, which had been killed by a special process, marked with the\nsign of the kosher rabbi, certifying that it was fit for sale to the\northodox. And then the visitors were taken to the other parts of the\nbuilding, to see what became of each particle of the waste material\nthat had vanished through the floor; and to the pickling rooms, and the\nsalting rooms, the canning rooms, and the packing rooms, where choice\nmeat was prepared for shipping in refrigerator cars, destined to be\neaten in all the four corners of civilization. Afterward they went\noutside, wandering about among the mazes of buildings in which was done\nthe work auxiliary to this great industry. There was scarcely a\nthing needed in the business that Durham and Company did not make for\nthemselves. There was a great steam power plant and an electricity\nplant. There was a barrel factory, and a boiler-repair shop. There was a\nbuilding to which the grease was piped, and made into soap and lard; and\nthen there was a factory for making lard cans, and another for making\nsoap boxes. There was a building in which the bristles were cleaned\nand dried, for the making of hair cushions and such things; there was a\nbuilding where the skins were dried and tanned, there was another where\nheads and feet were made into glue, and another where bones were made\ninto fertilizer. No tiniest particle of organic matter was wasted in\nDurham's. Out of the horns of the cattle they made combs, buttons,\nhairpins, and imitation ivory; out of the shinbones and other big bones\nthey cut knife and toothbrush handles, and mouthpieces for pipes; out of\nthe hoofs they cut hairpins and buttons, before they made the rest into\nglue. From such things as feet, knuckles, hide clippings, and sinews\ncame such strange and unlikely products as gelatin, isinglass,\nand phosphorus, bone black, shoe blacking, and bone oil. They had\ncurled-hair works for the cattle tails, and a \"wool pullery\" for the\nsheepskins; they made pepsin from the stomachs of the pigs, and albumen\nfrom the blood, and violin strings from the ill-smelling entrails. When\nthere was nothing else to be done with a thing, they first put it into a\ntank and got out of it all the tallow and grease, and then they made it\ninto fertilizer. All these industries were gathered into buildings near\nby, connected by galleries and railroads with the main establishment;\nand it was estimated that they had handled nearly a quarter of a\nbillion of animals since the founding of the plant by the elder Durham\na generation and more ago. If you counted with it the other big\nplants--and they were now really all one--it was, so Jokubas informed\nthem, the greatest aggregation of labor and capital ever gathered in\none place. It employed thirty thousand men; it supported directly two\nhundred and fifty thousand people in its neighborhood, and indirectly it\nsupported half a million. It sent its products to every country in\nthe civilized world, and it furnished the food for no less than thirty\nmillion people!\n\nTo all of these things our friends would listen open-mouthed--it seemed\nto them impossible of belief that anything so stupendous could have been\ndevised by mortal man. That was why to Jurgis it seemed almost profanity\nto speak about the place as did Jokubas, skeptically; it was a thing\nas tremendous as the universe--the laws and ways of its working no more\nthan the universe to be questioned or understood. All that a mere man\ncould do, it seemed to Jurgis, was to take a thing like this as he found\nit, and do as he was told; to be given a place in it and a share in\nits wonderful activities was a blessing to be grateful for, as one was\ngrateful for the sunshine and the rain. Jurgis was even glad that he had\nnot seen the place before meeting with his triumph, for he felt that the\nsize of it would have overwhelmed him. But now he had been admitted--he\nwas a part of it all! He had the feeling that this whole huge\nestablishment had taken him under its protection, and had become\nresponsible for his welfare. So guileless was he, and ignorant of the\nnature of business, that he did not even realize that he had become an\nemployee of Brown's, and that Brown and Durham were supposed by all the\nworld to be deadly rivals--were even required to be deadly rivals by the\nlaw of the land, and ordered to try to ruin each other under penalty of\nfine and imprisonment!\n\n\n\nChapter 4\n\n\nPromptly at seven the next morning Jurgis reported for work. He came\nto the door that had been pointed out to him, and there he waited for\nnearly two hours. The boss had meant for him to enter, but had not said\nthis, and so it was only when on his way out to hire another man that\nhe came upon Jurgis. He gave him a good cursing, but as Jurgis did not\nunderstand a word of it he did not object. He followed the boss, who\nshowed him where to put his street clothes, and waited while he donned\nthe working clothes he had bought in a secondhand shop and brought with\nhim in a bundle; then he led him to the \"killing beds.\" The work which\nJurgis was to do here was very simple, and it took him but a few minutes\nto learn it. He was provided with a stiff besom, such as is used by\nstreet sweepers, and it was his place to follow down the line the man\nwho drew out the smoking entrails from the carcass of the steer; this\nmass was to be swept into a trap, which was then closed, so that no one\nmight slip into it. As Jurgis came in, the first cattle of the morning\nwere just making their appearance; and so, with scarcely time to look\nabout him, and none to speak to any one, he fell to work. It was a\nsweltering day in July, and the place ran with steaming hot blood--one\nwaded in it on the floor. The stench was almost overpowering, but to\nJurgis it was nothing. His whole soul was dancing with joy--he was at\nwork at last! He was at work and earning money! All day long he was\nfiguring to himself. He was paid the fabulous sum of seventeen and a\nhalf cents an hour; and as it proved a rush day and he worked until\nnearly seven o'clock in the evening, he went home to the family with\nthe tidings that he had earned more than a dollar and a half in a single\nday!\n\nAt home, also, there was more good news; so much of it at once that\nthere was quite a celebration in Aniele's hall bedroom. Jonas had been\nto have an interview with the special policeman to whom Szedvilas had\nintroduced him, and had been taken to see several of the bosses, with\nthe result that one had promised him a job the beginning of the next\nweek. And then there was Marija Berczynskas, who, fired with jealousy by\nthe success of Jurgis, had set out upon her own responsibility to get a\nplace. Marija had nothing to take with her save her two brawny arms\nand the word \"job,\" laboriously learned; but with these she had marched\nabout Packingtown all day, entering every door where there were signs of\nactivity. Out of some she had been ordered with curses; but Marija was\nnot afraid of man or devil, and asked every one she saw--visitors and\nstrangers, or work-people like herself, and once or twice even high and\nlofty office personages, who stared at her as if they thought she was\ncrazy. In the end, however, she had reaped her reward. In one of the\nsmaller plants she had stumbled upon a room where scores of women and\ngirls were sitting at long tables preparing smoked beef in cans; and\nwandering through room after room, Marija came at last to the place\nwhere the sealed cans were being painted and labeled, and here she had\nthe good fortune to encounter the \"forelady.\" Marija did not understand\nthen, as she was destined to understand later, what there was attractive\nto a \"forelady\" about the combination of a face full of boundless good\nnature and the muscles of a dray horse; but the woman had told her to\ncome the next day and she would perhaps give her a chance to learn the\ntrade of painting cans. The painting of cans being skilled piecework,\nand paying as much as two dollars a day, Marija burst in upon the family\nwith the yell of a Comanche Indian, and fell to capering about the room\nso as to frighten the baby almost into convulsions.\n\nBetter luck than all this could hardly have been hoped for; there was\nonly one of them left to seek a place. Jurgis was determined that Teta\nElzbieta should stay at home to keep house, and that Ona should help\nher. He would not have Ona working--he was not that sort of a man, he\nsaid, and she was not that sort of a woman. It would be a strange thing\nif a man like him could not support the family, with the help of\nthe board of Jonas and Marija. He would not even hear of letting the\nchildren go to work--there were schools here in America for children,\nJurgis had heard, to which they could go for nothing. That the priest\nwould object to these schools was something of which he had as yet no\nidea, and for the present his mind was made up that the children of Teta\nElzbieta should have as fair a chance as any other children. The oldest\nof them, little Stanislovas, was but thirteen, and small for his age\nat that; and while the oldest son of Szedvilas was only twelve, and had\nworked for over a year at Jones's, Jurgis would have it that Stanislovas\nshould learn to speak English, and grow up to be a skilled man.\n\nSo there was only old Dede Antanas; Jurgis would have had him rest\ntoo, but he was forced to acknowledge that this was not possible, and,\nbesides, the old man would not hear it spoken of--it was his whim to\ninsist that he was as lively as any boy. He had come to America as\nfull of hope as the best of them; and now he was the chief problem that\nworried his son. For every one that Jurgis spoke to assured him that it\nwas a waste of time to seek employment for the old man in Packingtown.\nSzedvilas told him that the packers did not even keep the men who had\ngrown old in their own service--to say nothing of taking on new ones.\nAnd not only was it the rule here, it was the rule everywhere in\nAmerica, so far as he knew. To satisfy Jurgis he had asked the\npoliceman, and brought back the message that the thing was not to be\nthought of. They had not told this to old Anthony, who had consequently\nspent the two days wandering about from one part of the yards to\nanother, and had now come home to hear about the triumph of the others,\nsmiling bravely and saying that it would be his turn another day.\n\nTheir good luck, they felt, had given them the right to think about a\nhome; and sitting out on the doorstep that summer evening, they held\nconsultation about it, and Jurgis took occasion to broach a weighty\nsubject. Passing down the avenue to work that morning he had seen two\nboys leaving an advertisement from house to house; and seeing that there\nwere pictures upon it, Jurgis had asked for one, and had rolled it up\nand tucked it into his shirt. At noontime a man with whom he had been\ntalking had read it to him and told him a little about it, with the\nresult that Jurgis had conceived a wild idea.\n\nHe brought out the placard, which was quite a work of art. It was nearly\ntwo feet long, printed on calendered paper, with a selection of colors\nso bright that they shone even in the moonlight. The center of the\nplacard was occupied by a house, brilliantly painted, new, and dazzling.\nThe roof of it was of a purple hue, and trimmed with gold; the house\nitself was silvery, and the doors and windows red. It was a two-story\nbuilding, with a porch in front, and a very fancy scrollwork around the\nedges; it was complete in every tiniest detail, even the doorknob, and\nthere was a hammock on the porch and white lace curtains in the windows.\nUnderneath this, in one corner, was a picture of a husband and wife\nin loving embrace; in the opposite corner was a cradle, with\nfluffy curtains drawn over it, and a smiling cherub hovering upon\nsilver-colored wings. For fear that the significance of all this should\nbe lost, there was a label, in Polish, Lithuanian, and German--\"Dom.\nNamai. Heim.\" \"Why pay rent?\" the linguistic circular went on to demand.\n\"Why not own your own home? Do you know that you can buy one for less\nthan your rent? We have built thousands of homes which are now occupied\nby happy families.\"--So it became eloquent, picturing the blissfulness\nof married life in a house with nothing to pay. It even quoted \"Home,\nSweet Home,\" and made bold to translate it into Polish--though for some\nreason it omitted the Lithuanian of this. Perhaps the translator found\nit a difficult matter to be sentimental in a language in which a sob is\nknown as a gukcziojimas and a smile as a nusiszypsojimas.\n\nOver this document the family pored long, while Ona spelled out its\ncontents. It appeared that this house contained four rooms, besides a\nbasement, and that it might be bought for fifteen hundred dollars, the\nlot and all. Of this, only three hundred dollars had to be paid down,\nthe balance being paid at the rate of twelve dollars a month. These were\nfrightful sums, but then they were in America, where people talked about\nsuch without fear. They had learned that they would have to pay a\nrent of nine dollars a month for a flat, and there was no way of doing\nbetter, unless the family of twelve was to exist in one or two rooms, as\nat present. If they paid rent, of course, they might pay forever, and be\nno better off; whereas, if they could only meet the extra expense in the\nbeginning, there would at last come a time when they would not have any\nrent to pay for the rest of their lives.\n\nThey figured it up. There was a little left of the money belonging to\nTeta Elzbieta, and there was a little left to Jurgis. Marija had about\nfifty dollars pinned up somewhere in her stockings, and Grandfather\nAnthony had part of the money he had gotten for his farm. If they all\ncombined, they would have enough to make the first payment; and if\nthey had employment, so that they could be sure of the future, it might\nreally prove the best plan. It was, of course, not a thing even to be\ntalked of lightly; it was a thing they would have to sift to the bottom.\nAnd yet, on the other hand, if they were going to make the venture, the\nsooner they did it the better, for were they not paying rent all the\ntime, and living in a most horrible way besides? Jurgis was used to\ndirt--there was nothing could scare a man who had been with a railroad\ngang, where one could gather up the fleas off the floor of the sleeping\nroom by the handful. But that sort of thing would not do for Ona. They\nmust have a better place of some sort soon--Jurgis said it with all the\nassurance of a man who had just made a dollar and fifty-seven cents in\na single day. Jurgis was at a loss to understand why, with wages as they\nwere, so many of the people of this district should live the way they\ndid.\n\nThe next day Marija went to see her \"forelady,\" and was told to report\nthe first of the week, and learn the business of can-painter. Marija\nwent home, singing out loud all the way, and was just in time to join\nOna and her stepmother as they were setting out to go and make inquiry\nconcerning the house. That evening the three made their report to the\nmen--the thing was altogether as represented in the circular, or at any\nrate so the agent had said. The houses lay to the south, about a mile\nand a half from the yards; they were wonderful bargains, the gentleman\nhad assured them--personally, and for their own good. He could do this,\nso he explained to them, for the reason that he had himself no interest\nin their sale--he was merely the agent for a company that had built\nthem. These were the last, and the company was going out of business, so\nif any one wished to take advantage of this wonderful no-rent plan, he\nwould have to be very quick. As a matter of fact there was just a little\nuncertainty as to whether there was a single house left; for the agent\nhad taken so many people to see them, and for all he knew the company\nmight have parted with the last. Seeing Teta Elzbieta's evident grief at\nthis news, he added, after some hesitation, that if they really intended\nto make a purchase, he would send a telephone message at his own\nexpense, and have one of the houses kept. So it had finally been\narranged--and they were to go and make an inspection the following\nSunday morning.\n\nThat was Thursday; and all the rest of the week the killing gang\nat Brown's worked at full pressure, and Jurgis cleared a dollar\nseventy-five every day. That was at the rate of ten and one-half dollars\na week, or forty-five a month. Jurgis was not able to figure, except it\nwas a very simple sum, but Ona was like lightning at such things, and\nshe worked out the problem for the family. Marija and Jonas were each\nto pay sixteen dollars a month board, and the old man insisted that he\ncould do the same as soon as he got a place--which might be any day now.\nThat would make ninety-three dollars. Then Marija and Jonas were between\nthem to take a third share in the house, which would leave only eight\ndollars a month for Jurgis to contribute to the payment. So they would\nhave eighty-five dollars a month--or, supposing that Dede Antanas did\nnot get work at once, seventy dollars a month--which ought surely to be\nsufficient for the support of a family of twelve.\n\nAn hour before the time on Sunday morning the entire party set out. They\nhad the address written on a piece of paper, which they showed to some\none now and then. It proved to be a long mile and a half, but they\nwalked it, and half an hour or so later the agent put in an appearance.\nHe was a smooth and florid personage, elegantly dressed, and he spoke\ntheir language freely, which gave him a great advantage in dealing with\nthem. He escorted them to the house, which was one of a long row of the\ntypical frame dwellings of the neighborhood, where architecture is a\nluxury that is dispensed with. Ona's heart sank, for the house was not\nas it was shown in the picture; the color scheme was different, for\none thing, and then it did not seem quite so big. Still, it was freshly\npainted, and made a considerable show. It was all brand-new, so the\nagent told them, but he talked so incessantly that they were quite\nconfused, and did not have time to ask many questions. There were all\nsorts of things they had made up their minds to inquire about, but when\nthe time came, they either forgot them or lacked the courage. The other\nhouses in the row did not seem to be new, and few of them seemed to be\noccupied. When they ventured to hint at this, the agent's reply was that\nthe purchasers would be moving in shortly. To press the matter would\nhave seemed to be doubting his word, and never in their lives had any\none of them ever spoken to a person of the class called \"gentleman\"\nexcept with deference and humility.\n\nThe house had a basement, about two feet below the street line, and a\nsingle story, about six feet above it, reached by a flight of steps. In\naddition there was an attic, made by the peak of the roof, and having\none small window in each end. The street in front of the house was\nunpaved and unlighted, and the view from it consisted of a few exactly\nsimilar houses, scattered here and there upon lots grown up with dingy\nbrown weeds. The house inside contained four rooms, plastered white; the\nbasement was but a frame, the walls being unplastered and the floor not\nlaid. The agent explained that the houses were built that way, as the\npurchasers generally preferred to finish the basements to suit their own\ntaste. The attic was also unfinished--the family had been figuring that\nin case of an emergency they could rent this attic, but they found that\nthere was not even a floor, nothing but joists, and beneath them the\nlath and plaster of the ceiling below. All of this, however, did not\nchill their ardor as much as might have been expected, because of the\nvolubility of the agent. There was no end to the advantages of the\nhouse, as he set them forth, and he was not silent for an instant; he\nshowed them everything, down to the locks on the doors and the catches\non the windows, and how to work them. He showed them the sink in the\nkitchen, with running water and a faucet, something which Teta Elzbieta\nhad never in her wildest dreams hoped to possess. After a discovery such\nas that it would have seemed ungrateful to find any fault, and so they\ntried to shut their eyes to other defects.\n\nStill, they were peasant people, and they hung on to their money by\ninstinct; it was quite in vain that the agent hinted at promptness--they\nwould see, they would see, they told him, they could not decide until\nthey had had more time. And so they went home again, and all day and\nevening there was figuring and debating. It was an agony to them to have\nto make up their minds in a matter such as this. They never could agree\nall together; there were so many arguments upon each side, and one would\nbe obstinate, and no sooner would the rest have convinced him than it\nwould transpire that his arguments had caused another to waver. Once, in\nthe evening, when they were all in harmony, and the house was as good as\nbought, Szedvilas came in and upset them again. Szedvilas had no use for\nproperty owning. He told them cruel stories of people who had been done\nto death in this \"buying a home\" swindle. They would be almost sure to\nget into a tight place and lose all their money; and there was no end\nof expense that one could never foresee; and the house might be\ngood-for-nothing from top to bottom--how was a poor man to know? Then,\ntoo, they would swindle you with the contract--and how was a poor man\nto understand anything about a contract? It was all nothing but robbery,\nand there was no safety but in keeping out of it. And pay rent? asked\nJurgis. Ah, yes, to be sure, the other answered, that too was robbery.\nIt was all robbery, for a poor man. After half an hour of such\ndepressing conversation, they had their minds quite made up that they\nhad been saved at the brink of a precipice; but then Szedvilas went\naway, and Jonas, who was a sharp little man, reminded them that the\ndelicatessen business was a failure, according to its proprietor, and\nthat this might account for his pessimistic views. Which, of course,\nreopened the subject!\n\nThe controlling factor was that they could not stay where they\nwere--they had to go somewhere. And when they gave up the house plan and\ndecided to rent, the prospect of paying out nine dollars a month forever\nthey found just as hard to face. All day and all night for nearly a\nwhole week they wrestled with the problem, and then in the end Jurgis\ntook the responsibility. Brother Jonas had gotten his job, and was\npushing a truck in Durham's; and the killing gang at Brown's continued\nto work early and late, so that Jurgis grew more confident every hour,\nmore certain of his mastership. It was the kind of thing the man of the\nfamily had to decide and carry through, he told himself. Others might\nhave failed at it, but he was not the failing kind--he would show them\nhow to do it. He would work all day, and all night, too, if need be; he\nwould never rest until the house was paid for and his people had a home.\nSo he told them, and so in the end the decision was made.\n\nThey had talked about looking at more houses before they made the\npurchase; but then they did not know where any more were, and they did\nnot know any way of finding out. The one they had seen held the sway in\ntheir thoughts; whenever they thought of themselves in a house, it was\nthis house that they thought of. And so they went and told the agent\nthat they were ready to make the agreement. They knew, as an abstract\nproposition, that in matters of business all men are to be accounted\nliars; but they could not but have been influenced by all they had heard\nfrom the eloquent agent, and were quite persuaded that the house was\nsomething they had run a risk of losing by their delay. They drew a deep\nbreath when he told them that they were still in time.\n\nThey were to come on the morrow, and he would have the papers all drawn\nup. This matter of papers was one in which Jurgis understood to the full\nthe need of caution; yet he could not go himself--every one told him\nthat he could not get a holiday, and that he might lose his job by\nasking. So there was nothing to be done but to trust it to the women,\nwith Szedvilas, who promised to go with them. Jurgis spent a whole\nevening impressing upon them the seriousness of the occasion--and then\nfinally, out of innumerable hiding places about their persons and in\ntheir baggage, came forth the precious wads of money, to be done up\ntightly in a little bag and sewed fast in the lining of Teta Elzbieta's\ndress.\n\nEarly in the morning they sallied forth. Jurgis had given them so many\ninstructions and warned them against so many perils, that the women were\nquite pale with fright, and even the imperturbable delicatessen vender,\nwho prided himself upon being a businessman, was ill at ease. The agent\nhad the deed all ready, and invited them to sit down and read it; this\nSzedvilas proceeded to do--a painful and laborious process, during which\nthe agent drummed upon the desk. Teta Elzbieta was so embarrassed that\nthe perspiration came out upon her forehead in beads; for was not this\nreading as much as to say plainly to the gentleman's face that they\ndoubted his honesty? Yet Jokubas Szedvilas read on and on; and presently\nthere developed that he had good reason for doing so. For a horrible\nsuspicion had begun dawning in his mind; he knitted his brows more and\nmore as he read. This was not a deed of sale at all, so far as he could\nsee--it provided only for the renting of the property! It was hard\nto tell, with all this strange legal jargon, words he had never heard\nbefore; but was not this plain--\"the party of the first part hereby\ncovenants and agrees to rent to the said party of the second part!\" And\nthen again--\"a monthly rental of twelve dollars, for a period of eight\nyears and four months!\" Then Szedvilas took off his spectacles, and\nlooked at the agent, and stammered a question.\n\nThe agent was most polite, and explained that that was the usual\nformula; that it was always arranged that the property should be merely\nrented. He kept trying to show them something in the next paragraph; but\nSzedvilas could not get by the word \"rental\"--and when he translated it\nto Teta Elzbieta, she too was thrown into a fright. They would not own\nthe home at all, then, for nearly nine years! The agent, with infinite\npatience, began to explain again; but no explanation would do now.\nElzbieta had firmly fixed in her mind the last solemn warning of Jurgis:\n\"If there is anything wrong, do not give him the money, but go out and\nget a lawyer.\" It was an agonizing moment, but she sat in the chair, her\nhands clenched like death, and made a fearful effort, summoning all her\npowers, and gasped out her purpose.\n\nJokubas translated her words. She expected the agent to fly into a\npassion, but he was, to her bewilderment, as ever imperturbable; he even\noffered to go and get a lawyer for her, but she declined this. They went\na long way, on purpose to find a man who would not be a confederate.\nThen let any one imagine their dismay, when, after half an hour, they\ncame in with a lawyer, and heard him greet the agent by his first name!\nThey felt that all was lost; they sat like prisoners summoned to hear\nthe reading of their death warrant. There was nothing more that they\ncould do--they were trapped! The lawyer read over the deed, and when\nhe had read it he informed Szedvilas that it was all perfectly regular,\nthat the deed was a blank deed such as was often used in these sales.\nAnd was the price as agreed? the old man asked--three hundred dollars\ndown, and the balance at twelve dollars a month, till the total of\nfifteen hundred dollars had been paid? Yes, that was correct. And it was\nfor the sale of such and such a house--the house and lot and everything?\nYes,--and the lawyer showed him where that was all written. And it was\nall perfectly regular--there were no tricks about it of any sort? They\nwere poor people, and this was all they had in the world, and if there\nwas anything wrong they would be ruined. And so Szedvilas went on,\nasking one trembling question after another, while the eyes of the women\nfolks were fixed upon him in mute agony. They could not understand what\nhe was saying, but they knew that upon it their fate depended. And when\nat last he had questioned until there was no more questioning to be\ndone, and the time came for them to make up their minds, and either\nclose the bargain or reject it, it was all that poor Teta Elzbieta could\ndo to keep from bursting into tears. Jokubas had asked her if she wished\nto sign; he had asked her twice--and what could she say? How did she\nknow if this lawyer were telling the truth--that he was not in the\nconspiracy? And yet, how could she say so--what excuse could she give?\nThe eyes of every one in the room were upon her, awaiting her decision;\nand at last, half blind with her tears, she began fumbling in her\njacket, where she had pinned the precious money. And she brought it out\nand unwrapped it before the men. All of this Ona sat watching, from a\ncorner of the room, twisting her hands together, meantime, in a fever of\nfright. Ona longed to cry out and tell her stepmother to stop, that it\nwas all a trap; but there seemed to be something clutching her by the\nthroat, and she could not make a sound. And so Teta Elzbieta laid the\nmoney on the table, and the agent picked it up and counted it, and then\nwrote them a receipt for it and passed them the deed. Then he gave a\nsigh of satisfaction, and rose and shook hands with them all, still as\nsmooth and polite as at the beginning. Ona had a dim recollection of the\nlawyer telling Szedvilas that his charge was a dollar, which occasioned\nsome debate, and more agony; and then, after they had paid that, too,\nthey went out into the street, her stepmother clutching the deed in her\nhand. They were so weak from fright that they could not walk, but had to\nsit down on the way.\n\nSo they went home, with a deadly terror gnawing at their souls; and that\nevening Jurgis came home and heard their story, and that was the end.\nJurgis was sure that they had been swindled, and were ruined; and he\ntore his hair and cursed like a madman, swearing that he would kill the\nagent that very night. In the end he seized the paper and rushed out\nof the house, and all the way across the yards to Halsted Street. He\ndragged Szedvilas out from his supper, and together they rushed to\nconsult another lawyer. When they entered his office the lawyer\nsprang up, for Jurgis looked like a crazy person, with flying hair and\nbloodshot eyes. His companion explained the situation, and the lawyer\ntook the paper and began to read it, while Jurgis stood clutching the\ndesk with knotted hands, trembling in every nerve.\n\nOnce or twice the lawyer looked up and asked a question of Szedvilas;\nthe other did not know a word that he was saying, but his eyes were\nfixed upon the lawyer's face, striving in an agony of dread to read his\nmind. He saw the lawyer look up and laugh, and he gave a gasp; the man\nsaid something to Szedvilas, and Jurgis turned upon his friend, his\nheart almost stopping.\n\n\"Well?\" he panted.\n\n\"He says it is all right,\" said Szedvilas.\n\n\"All right!\"\n\n\"Yes, he says it is just as it should be.\" And Jurgis, in his relief,\nsank down into a chair.\n\n\"Are you sure of it?\" he gasped, and made Szedvilas translate question\nafter question. He could not hear it often enough; he could not ask\nwith enough variations. Yes, they had bought the house, they had really\nbought it. It belonged to them, they had only to pay the money and it\nwould be all right. Then Jurgis covered his face with his hands, for\nthere were tears in his eyes, and he felt like a fool. But he had had\nsuch a horrible fright; strong man as he was, it left him almost too\nweak to stand up.\n\nThe lawyer explained that the rental was a form--the property was said\nto be merely rented until the last payment had been made, the purpose\nbeing to make it easier to turn the party out if he did not make the\npayments. So long as they paid, however, they had nothing to fear, the\nhouse was all theirs.\n\nJurgis was so grateful that he paid the half dollar the lawyer asked\nwithout winking an eyelash, and then rushed home to tell the news to the\nfamily. He found Ona in a faint and the babies screaming, and the whole\nhouse in an uproar--for it had been believed by all that he had gone to\nmurder the agent. It was hours before the excitement could be calmed;\nand all through that cruel night Jurgis would wake up now and then\nand hear Ona and her stepmother in the next room, sobbing softly to\nthemselves.\n\n\n\nChapter 5\n\n\nThey had bought their home. It was hard for them to realize that the\nwonderful house was theirs to move into whenever they chose. They spent\nall their time thinking about it, and what they were going to put into\nit. As their week with Aniele was up in three days, they lost no time\nin getting ready. They had to make some shift to furnish it, and every\ninstant of their leisure was given to discussing this.\n\nA person who had such a task before him would not need to look very far\nin Packingtown--he had only to walk up the avenue and read the signs,\nor get into a streetcar, to obtain full information as to pretty much\neverything a human creature could need. It was quite touching, the zeal\nof people to see that his health and happiness were provided for. Did\nthe person wish to smoke? There was a little discourse about cigars,\nshowing him exactly why the Thomas Jefferson Five-cent Perfecto was the\nonly cigar worthy of the name. Had he, on the other hand, smoked too\nmuch? Here was a remedy for the smoking habit, twenty-five doses for a\nquarter, and a cure absolutely guaranteed in ten doses. In innumerable\nways such as this, the traveler found that somebody had been busied to\nmake smooth his paths through the world, and to let him know what had\nbeen done for him. In Packingtown the advertisements had a style all\nof their own, adapted to the peculiar population. One would be tenderly\nsolicitous. \"Is your wife pale?\" it would inquire. \"Is she discouraged,\ndoes she drag herself about the house and find fault with everything?\nWhy do you not tell her to try Dr. Lanahan's Life Preservers?\" Another\nwould be jocular in tone, slapping you on the back, so to speak. \"Don't\nbe a chump!\" it would exclaim. \"Go and get the Goliath Bunion Cure.\"\n\"Get a move on you!\" would chime in another. \"It's easy, if you wear the\nEureka Two-fifty Shoe.\"\n\nAmong these importunate signs was one that had caught the attention\nof the family by its pictures. It showed two very pretty little birds\nbuilding themselves a home; and Marija had asked an acquaintance to read\nit to her, and told them that it related to the furnishing of a house.\n\"Feather your nest,\" it ran--and went on to say that it could furnish\nall the necessary feathers for a four-room nest for the ludicrously\nsmall sum of seventy-five dollars. The particularly important thing\nabout this offer was that only a small part of the money need be had at\nonce--the rest one might pay a few dollars every month. Our friends had\nto have some furniture, there was no getting away from that; but their\nlittle fund of money had sunk so low that they could hardly get to sleep\nat night, and so they fled to this as their deliverance. There was more\nagony and another paper for Elzbieta to sign, and then one night when\nJurgis came home, he was told the breathless tidings that the furniture\nhad arrived and was safely stowed in the house: a parlor set of four\npieces, a bedroom set of three pieces, a dining room table and four\nchairs, a toilet set with beautiful pink roses painted all over it,\nan assortment of crockery, also with pink roses--and so on. One of the\nplates in the set had been found broken when they unpacked it, and\nOna was going to the store the first thing in the morning to make them\nchange it; also they had promised three saucepans, and there had only\ntwo come, and did Jurgis think that they were trying to cheat them?\n\nThe next day they went to the house; and when the men came from work\nthey ate a few hurried mouthfuls at Aniele's, and then set to work at\nthe task of carrying their belongings to their new home. The distance\nwas in reality over two miles, but Jurgis made two trips that night,\neach time with a huge pile of mattresses and bedding on his head, with\nbundles of clothing and bags and things tied up inside. Anywhere else\nin Chicago he would have stood a good chance of being arrested; but the\npolicemen in Packingtown were apparently used to these informal movings,\nand contented themselves with a cursory examination now and then. It was\nquite wonderful to see how fine the house looked, with all the things in\nit, even by the dim light of a lamp: it was really home, and almost as\nexciting as the placard had described it. Ona was fairly dancing, and\nshe and Cousin Marija took Jurgis by the arm and escorted him from room\nto room, sitting in each chair by turns, and then insisting that he\nshould do the same. One chair squeaked with his great weight, and they\nscreamed with fright, and woke the baby and brought everybody running.\nAltogether it was a great day; and tired as they were, Jurgis and Ona\nsat up late, contented simply to hold each other and gaze in rapture\nabout the room. They were going to be married as soon as they could get\neverything settled, and a little spare money put by; and this was to be\ntheir home--that little room yonder would be theirs!\n\nIt was in truth a never-ending delight, the fixing up of this house.\nThey had no money to spend for the pleasure of spending, but there\nwere a few absolutely necessary things, and the buying of these was a\nperpetual adventure for Ona. It must always be done at night, so that\nJurgis could go along; and even if it were only a pepper cruet, or half\na dozen glasses for ten cents, that was enough for an expedition. On\nSaturday night they came home with a great basketful of things, and\nspread them out on the table, while every one stood round, and the\nchildren climbed up on the chairs, or howled to be lifted up to see.\nThere were sugar and salt and tea and crackers, and a can of lard and\na milk pail, and a scrubbing brush, and a pair of shoes for the second\noldest boy, and a can of oil, and a tack hammer, and a pound of nails.\nThese last were to be driven into the walls of the kitchen and the\nbedrooms, to hang things on; and there was a family discussion as to the\nplace where each one was to be driven. Then Jurgis would try to hammer,\nand hit his fingers because the hammer was too small, and get mad\nbecause Ona had refused to let him pay fifteen cents more and get a\nbigger hammer; and Ona would be invited to try it herself, and hurt\nher thumb, and cry out, which necessitated the thumb's being kissed\nby Jurgis. Finally, after every one had had a try, the nails would be\ndriven, and something hung up. Jurgis had come home with a big packing\nbox on his head, and he sent Jonas to get another that he had bought. He\nmeant to take one side out of these tomorrow, and put shelves in them,\nand make them into bureaus and places to keep things for the bedrooms.\nThe nest which had been advertised had not included feathers for quite\nso many birds as there were in this family.\n\nThey had, of course, put their dining table in the kitchen, and the\ndining room was used as the bedroom of Teta Elzbieta and five of her\nchildren. She and the two youngest slept in the only bed, and the other\nthree had a mattress on the floor. Ona and her cousin dragged a mattress\ninto the parlor and slept at night, and the three men and the oldest boy\nslept in the other room, having nothing but the very level floor to\nrest on for the present. Even so, however, they slept soundly--it was\nnecessary for Teta Elzbieta to pound more than once on the door at a quarter\npast five every morning. She would have ready a great pot full of\nsteaming black coffee, and oatmeal and bread and smoked sausages; and\nthen she would fix them their dinner pails with more thick slices of\nbread with lard between them--they could not afford butter--and some\nonions and a piece of cheese, and so they would tramp away to work.\n\nThis was the first time in his life that he had ever really worked, it\nseemed to Jurgis; it was the first time that he had ever had anything\nto do which took all he had in him. Jurgis had stood with the rest up in\nthe gallery and watched the men on the killing beds, marveling at their\nspeed and power as if they had been wonderful machines; it somehow never\noccurred to one to think of the flesh-and-blood side of it--that is, not\nuntil he actually got down into the pit and took off his coat. Then he\nsaw things in a different light, he got at the inside of them. The pace\nthey set here, it was one that called for every faculty of a man--from\nthe instant the first steer fell till the sounding of the noon whistle,\nand again from half-past twelve till heaven only knew what hour in the\nlate afternoon or evening, there was never one instant's rest for a man,\nfor his hand or his eye or his brain. Jurgis saw how they managed it;\nthere were portions of the work which determined the pace of the rest,\nand for these they had picked men whom they paid high wages, and whom\nthey changed frequently. You might easily pick out these pacemakers,\nfor they worked under the eye of the bosses, and they worked like men\npossessed. This was called \"speeding up the gang,\" and if any man could\nnot keep up with the pace, there were hundreds outside begging to try.\n\nYet Jurgis did not mind it; he rather enjoyed it. It saved him the\nnecessity of flinging his arms about and fidgeting as he did in most\nwork. He would laugh to himself as he ran down the line, darting a\nglance now and then at the man ahead of him. It was not the pleasantest\nwork one could think of, but it was necessary work; and what more had\na man the right to ask than a chance to do something useful, and to get\ngood pay for doing it?\n\nSo Jurgis thought, and so he spoke, in his bold, free way; very much to\nhis surprise, he found that it had a tendency to get him into trouble.\nFor most of the men here took a fearfully different view of the thing.\nHe was quite dismayed when he first began to find it out--that most of\nthe men hated their work. It seemed strange, it was even terrible,\nwhen you came to find out the universality of the sentiment; but it was\ncertainly the fact--they hated their work. They hated the bosses\nand they hated the owners; they hated the whole place, the whole\nneighborhood--even the whole city, with an all-inclusive hatred, bitter\nand fierce. Women and little children would fall to cursing about it; it\nwas rotten, rotten as hell--everything was rotten. When Jurgis would ask\nthem what they meant, they would begin to get suspicious, and content\nthemselves with saying, \"Never mind, you stay here and see for\nyourself.\"\n\nOne of the first problems that Jurgis ran upon was that of the unions.\nHe had had no experience with unions, and he had to have it explained\nto him that the men were banded together for the purpose of fighting\nfor their rights. Jurgis asked them what they meant by their rights, a\nquestion in which he was quite sincere, for he had not any idea of any\nrights that he had, except the right to hunt for a job, and do as he was\ntold when he got it. Generally, however, this harmless question would\nonly make his fellow workingmen lose their tempers and call him a fool.\nThere was a delegate of the butcher-helpers' union who came to see\nJurgis to enroll him; and when Jurgis found that this meant that he\nwould have to part with some of his money, he froze up directly, and the\ndelegate, who was an Irishman and only knew a few words of Lithuanian,\nlost his temper and began to threaten him. In the end Jurgis got into a\nfine rage, and made it sufficiently plain that it would take more than\none Irishman to scare him into a union. Little by little he gathered\nthat the main thing the men wanted was to put a stop to the habit of\n\"speeding-up\"; they were trying their best to force a lessening of the\npace, for there were some, they said, who could not keep up with it,\nwhom it was killing. But Jurgis had no sympathy with such ideas as\nthis--he could do the work himself, and so could the rest of them, he\ndeclared, if they were good for anything. If they couldn't do it, let\nthem go somewhere else. Jurgis had not studied the books, and he would\nnot have known how to pronounce \"laissez faire\"; but he had been round\nthe world enough to know that a man has to shift for himself in it,\nand that if he gets the worst of it, there is nobody to listen to him\nholler.\n\nYet there have been known to be philosophers and plain men who swore\nby Malthus in the books, and would, nevertheless, subscribe to a relief\nfund in time of a famine. It was the same with Jurgis, who consigned the\nunfit to destruction, while going about all day sick at heart because\nof his poor old father, who was wandering somewhere in the yards begging\nfor a chance to earn his bread. Old Antanas had been a worker ever since\nhe was a child; he had run away from home when he was twelve, because\nhis father beat him for trying to learn to read. And he was a faithful\nman, too; he was a man you might leave alone for a month, if only you\nhad made him understand what you wanted him to do in the meantime. And\nnow here he was, worn out in soul and body, and with no more place in\nthe world than a sick dog. He had his home, as it happened, and some one\nwho would care for him if he never got a job; but his son could not help\nthinking, suppose this had not been the case. Antanas Rudkus had been\ninto every building in Packingtown by this time, and into nearly every\nroom; he had stood mornings among the crowd of applicants till the very\npolicemen had come to know his face and to tell him to go home and give\nit up. He had been likewise to all the stores and saloons for a mile\nabout, begging for some little thing to do; and everywhere they had\nordered him out, sometimes with curses, and not once even stopping to\nask him a question.\n\nSo, after all, there was a crack in the fine structure of Jurgis' faith\nin things as they are. The crack was wide while Dede Antanas was hunting\na job--and it was yet wider when he finally got it. For one evening the\nold man came home in a great state of excitement, with the tale that he\nhad been approached by a man in one of the corridors of the pickle rooms\nof Durham's, and asked what he would pay to get a job. He had not\nknown what to make of this at first; but the man had gone on with\nmatter-of-fact frankness to say that he could get him a job, provided\nthat he were willing to pay one-third of his wages for it. Was he a\nboss? Antanas had asked; to which the man had replied that that was\nnobody's business, but that he could do what he said.\n\nJurgis had made some friends by this time, and he sought one of them and\nasked what this meant. The friend, who was named Tamoszius Kuszleika,\nwas a sharp little man who folded hides on the killing beds, and he\nlistened to what Jurgis had to say without seeming at all surprised.\nThey were common enough, he said, such cases of petty graft. It was\nsimply some boss who proposed to add a little to his income. After\nJurgis had been there awhile he would know that the plants were simply\nhoneycombed with rottenness of that sort--the bosses grafted off the\nmen, and they grafted off each other; and some day the superintendent\nwould find out about the boss, and then he would graft off the boss.\nWarming to the subject, Tamoszius went on to explain the situation. Here\nwas Durham's, for instance, owned by a man who was trying to make as\nmuch money out of it as he could, and did not care in the least how he\ndid it; and underneath him, ranged in ranks and grades like an army,\nwere managers and superintendents and foremen, each one driving the\nman next below him and trying to squeeze out of him as much work as\npossible. And all the men of the same rank were pitted against each\nother; the accounts of each were kept separately, and every man lived\nin terror of losing his job, if another made a better record than he. So\nfrom top to bottom the place was simply a seething caldron of jealousies\nand hatreds; there was no loyalty or decency anywhere about it, there\nwas no place in it where a man counted for anything against a dollar.\nAnd worse than there being no decency, there was not even any honesty.\nThe reason for that? Who could say? It must have been old Durham in the\nbeginning; it was a heritage which the self-made merchant had left to\nhis son, along with his millions.\n\nJurgis would find out these things for himself, if he stayed there long\nenough; it was the men who had to do all the dirty jobs, and so there\nwas no deceiving them; and they caught the spirit of the place, and did\nlike all the rest. Jurgis had come there, and thought he was going to\nmake himself useful, and rise and become a skilled man; but he would\nsoon find out his error--for nobody rose in Packingtown by doing good\nwork. You could lay that down for a rule--if you met a man who was\nrising in Packingtown, you met a knave. That man who had been sent to\nJurgis' father by the boss, he would rise; the man who told tales\nand spied upon his fellows would rise; but the man who minded his own\nbusiness and did his work--why, they would \"speed him up\" till they had\nworn him out, and then they would throw him into the gutter.\n\nJurgis went home with his head buzzing. Yet he could not bring himself\nto believe such things--no, it could not be so. Tamoszius was simply\nanother of the grumblers. He was a man who spent all his time fiddling;\nand he would go to parties at night and not get home till sunrise, and\nso of course he did not feel like work. Then, too, he was a puny little\nchap; and so he had been left behind in the race, and that was why he\nwas sore. And yet so many strange things kept coming to Jurgis' notice\nevery day!\n\nHe tried to persuade his father to have nothing to do with the offer.\nBut old Antanas had begged until he was worn out, and all his courage\nwas gone; he wanted a job, any sort of a job. So the next day he went\nand found the man who had spoken to him, and promised to bring him a\nthird of all he earned; and that same day he was put to work in Durham's\ncellars. It was a \"pickle room,\" where there was never a dry spot to\nstand upon, and so he had to take nearly the whole of his first week's\nearnings to buy him a pair of heavy-soled boots. He was a \"squeedgie\"\nman; his job was to go about all day with a long-handled mop, swabbing\nup the floor. Except that it was damp and dark, it was not an unpleasant\njob, in summer.\n\nNow Antanas Rudkus was the meekest man that God ever put on earth; and\nso Jurgis found it a striking confirmation of what the men all said,\nthat his father had been at work only two days before he came home as\nbitter as any of them, and cursing Durham's with all the power of his\nsoul. For they had set him to cleaning out the traps; and the family\nsat round and listened in wonder while he told them what that meant. It\nseemed that he was working in the room where the men prepared the beef\nfor canning, and the beef had lain in vats full of chemicals, and men\nwith great forks speared it out and dumped it into trucks, to be taken\nto the cooking room. When they had speared out all they could reach,\nthey emptied the vat on the floor, and then with shovels scraped up the\nbalance and dumped it into the truck. This floor was filthy, yet\nthey set Antanas with his mop slopping the \"pickle\" into a hole that\nconnected with a sink, where it was caught and used over again forever;\nand if that were not enough, there was a trap in the pipe, where all the\nscraps of meat and odds and ends of refuse were caught, and every few\ndays it was the old man's task to clean these out, and shovel their\ncontents into one of the trucks with the rest of the meat!\n\nThis was the experience of Antanas; and then there came also Jonas and\nMarija with tales to tell. Marija was working for one of the independent\npackers, and was quite beside herself and outrageous with triumph over\nthe sums of money she was making as a painter of cans. But one day she\nwalked home with a pale-faced little woman who worked opposite to her,\nJadvyga Marcinkus by name, and Jadvyga told her how she, Marija, had\nchanced to get her job. She had taken the place of an Irishwoman who had\nbeen working in that factory ever since any one could remember. For over\nfifteen years, so she declared. Mary Dennis was her name, and a long\ntime ago she had been seduced, and had a little boy; he was a cripple,\nand an epileptic, but still he was all that she had in the world to\nlove, and they had lived in a little room alone somewhere back of\nHalsted Street, where the Irish were. Mary had had consumption, and all\nday long you might hear her coughing as she worked; of late she had been\ngoing all to pieces, and when Marija came, the \"forelady\" had suddenly\ndecided to turn her off. The forelady had to come up to a certain\nstandard herself, and could not stop for sick people, Jadvyga explained.\nThe fact that Mary had been there so long had not made any difference\nto her--it was doubtful if she even knew that, for both the forelady and\nthe superintendent were new people, having only been there two or three\nyears themselves. Jadvyga did not know what had become of the poor\ncreature; she would have gone to see her, but had been sick herself. She\nhad pains in her back all the time, Jadvyga explained, and feared\nthat she had womb trouble. It was not fit work for a woman, handling\nfourteen-pound cans all day.\n\nIt was a striking circumstance that Jonas, too, had gotten his job by\nthe misfortune of some other person. Jonas pushed a truck loaded with\nhams from the smoke rooms on to an elevator, and thence to the packing\nrooms. The trucks were all of iron, and heavy, and they put about\nthreescore hams on each of them, a load of more than a quarter of a\nton. On the uneven floor it was a task for a man to start one of these\ntrucks, unless he was a giant; and when it was once started he naturally\ntried his best to keep it going. There was always the boss prowling\nabout, and if there was a second's delay he would fall to cursing;\nLithuanians and Slovaks and such, who could not understand what was said\nto them, the bosses were wont to kick about the place like so many\ndogs. Therefore these trucks went for the most part on the run; and the\npredecessor of Jonas had been jammed against the wall by one and crushed\nin a horrible and nameless manner.\n\nAll of these were sinister incidents; but they were trifles compared to\nwhat Jurgis saw with his own eyes before long. One curious thing he\nhad noticed, the very first day, in his profession of shoveler of guts;\nwhich was the sharp trick of the floor bosses whenever there chanced to\ncome a \"slunk\" calf. Any man who knows anything about butchering knows\nthat the flesh of a cow that is about to calve, or has just calved, is\nnot fit for food. A good many of these came every day to the packing\nhouses--and, of course, if they had chosen, it would have been an easy\nmatter for the packers to keep them till they were fit for food. But\nfor the saving of time and fodder, it was the law that cows of that sort\ncame along with the others, and whoever noticed it would tell the\nboss, and the boss would start up a conversation with the government\ninspector, and the two would stroll away. So in a trice the carcass of\nthe cow would be cleaned out, and entrails would have vanished; it was\nJurgis' task to slide them into the trap, calves and all, and on the\nfloor below they took out these \"slunk\" calves, and butchered them for\nmeat, and used even the skins of them.\n\nOne day a man slipped and hurt his leg; and that afternoon, when the\nlast of the cattle had been disposed of, and the men were leaving,\nJurgis was ordered to remain and do some special work which this injured\nman had usually done. It was late, almost dark, and the government\ninspectors had all gone, and there were only a dozen or two of men on\nthe floor. That day they had killed about four thousand cattle, and\nthese cattle had come in freight trains from far states, and some of\nthem had got hurt. There were some with broken legs, and some with gored\nsides; there were some that had died, from what cause no one could\nsay; and they were all to be disposed of, here in darkness and silence.\n\"Downers,\" the men called them; and the packing house had a special\nelevator upon which they were raised to the killing beds, where the gang\nproceeded to handle them, with an air of businesslike nonchalance which\nsaid plainer than any words that it was a matter of everyday routine. It\ntook a couple of hours to get them out of the way, and in the end Jurgis\nsaw them go into the chilling rooms with the rest of the meat, being\ncarefully scattered here and there so that they could not be identified.\nWhen he came home that night he was in a very somber mood, having begun\nto see at last how those might be right who had laughed at him for his\nfaith in America.\n\n\n\nChapter 6\n\n\nJurgis and Ona were very much in love; they had waited a long time--it\nwas now well into the second year, and Jurgis judged everything by the\ncriterion of its helping or hindering their union. All his thoughts were\nthere; he accepted the family because it was a part of Ona. And he was\ninterested in the house because it was to be Ona's home. Even the tricks\nand cruelties he saw at Durham's had little meaning for him just then,\nsave as they might happen to affect his future with Ona.\n\nThe marriage would have been at once, if they had had their way; but\nthis would mean that they would have to do without any wedding feast,\nand when they suggested this they came into conflict with the old\npeople. To Teta Elzbieta especially the very suggestion was an\naffliction. What! she would cry. To be married on the roadside like a\nparcel of beggars! No! No!--Elzbieta had some traditions behind her;\nshe had been a person of importance in her girlhood--had lived on a big\nestate and had servants, and might have married well and been a lady,\nbut for the fact that there had been nine daughters and no sons in the\nfamily. Even so, however, she knew what was decent, and clung to her\ntraditions with desperation. They were not going to lose all caste, even\nif they had come to be unskilled laborers in Packingtown; and that Ona\nhad even talked of omitting a _veselija_ was enough to keep her stepmother\nlying awake all night. It was in vain for them to say that they had\nso few friends; they were bound to have friends in time, and then the\nfriends would talk about it. They must not give up what was right for a\nlittle money--if they did, the money would never do them any good, they\ncould depend upon that. And Elzbieta would call upon Dede Antanas to\nsupport her; there was a fear in the souls of these two, lest this\njourney to a new country might somehow undermine the old home virtues of\ntheir children. The very first Sunday they had all been taken to mass;\nand poor as they were, Elzbieta had felt it advisable to invest a little\nof her resources in a representation of the babe of Bethlehem, made\nin plaster, and painted in brilliant colors. Though it was only a foot\nhigh, there was a shrine with four snow-white steeples, and the Virgin\nstanding with her child in her arms, and the kings and shepherds and\nwise men bowing down before him. It had cost fifty cents; but Elzbieta\nhad a feeling that money spent for such things was not to be counted too\nclosely, it would come back in hidden ways. The piece was beautiful on\nthe parlor mantel, and one could not have a home without some sort of\nornament.\n\nThe cost of the wedding feast would, of course, be returned to them;\nbut the problem was to raise it even temporarily. They had been in the\nneighborhood so short a time that they could not get much credit, and\nthere was no one except Szedvilas from whom they could borrow even a\nlittle. Evening after evening Jurgis and Ona would sit and figure the\nexpenses, calculating the term of their separation. They could not\npossibly manage it decently for less than two hundred dollars, and even\nthough they were welcome to count in the whole of the earnings of Marija\nand Jonas, as a loan, they could not hope to raise this sum in less\nthan four or five months. So Ona began thinking of seeking employment\nherself, saying that if she had even ordinarily good luck, she might be\nable to take two months off the time. They were just beginning to adjust\nthemselves to this necessity, when out of the clear sky there fell a\nthunderbolt upon them--a calamity that scattered all their hopes to the\nfour winds.\n\nAbout a block away from them there lived another Lithuanian family,\nconsisting of an elderly widow and one grown son; their name was\nMajauszkis, and our friends struck up an acquaintance with them before\nlong. One evening they came over for a visit, and naturally the first\nsubject upon which the conversation turned was the neighborhood and its\nhistory; and then Grandmother Majauszkiene, as the old lady was called,\nproceeded to recite to them a string of horrors that fairly froze their\nblood. She was a wrinkled-up and wizened personage--she must have been\neighty--and as she mumbled the grim story through her toothless gums,\nshe seemed a very old witch to them. Grandmother Majauszkiene had lived\nin the midst of misfortune so long that it had come to be her element,\nand she talked about starvation, sickness, and death as other people\nmight about weddings and holidays.\n\nThe thing came gradually. In the first place as to the house they\nhad bought, it was not new at all, as they had supposed; it was about\nfifteen years old, and there was nothing new upon it but the paint,\nwhich was so bad that it needed to be put on new every year or two. The\nhouse was one of a whole row that was built by a company which existed\nto make money by swindling poor people. The family had paid fifteen\nhundred dollars for it, and it had not cost the builders five hundred,\nwhen it was new. Grandmother Majauszkiene knew that because her son\nbelonged to a political organization with a contractor who put up\nexactly such houses. They used the very flimsiest and cheapest material;\nthey built the houses a dozen at a time, and they cared about nothing at\nall except the outside shine. The family could take her word as to the\ntrouble they would have, for she had been through it all--she and her\nson had bought their house in exactly the same way. They had fooled the\ncompany, however, for her son was a skilled man, who made as high as a\nhundred dollars a month, and as he had had sense enough not to marry,\nthey had been able to pay for the house.\n\nGrandmother Majauszkiene saw that her friends were puzzled at this\nremark; they did not quite see how paying for the house was \"fooling the\ncompany.\" Evidently they were very inexperienced. Cheap as the houses\nwere, they were sold with the idea that the people who bought them would\nnot be able to pay for them. When they failed--if it were only by a\nsingle month--they would lose the house and all that they had paid on\nit, and then the company would sell it over again. And did they often\nget a chance to do that? Dieve! (Grandmother Majauszkiene raised her\nhands.) They did it--how often no one could say, but certainly more than\nhalf of the time. They might ask any one who knew anything at all about\nPackingtown as to that; she had been living here ever since this house\nwas built, and she could tell them all about it. And had it ever been\nsold before? Susimilkie! Why, since it had been built, no less than four\nfamilies that their informant could name had tried to buy it and failed.\nShe would tell them a little about it.\n\nThe first family had been Germans. The families had all been of\ndifferent nationalities--there had been a representative of several\nraces that had displaced each other in the stockyards. Grandmother\nMajauszkiene had come to America with her son at a time when so far as\nshe knew there was only one other Lithuanian family in the district;\nthe workers had all been Germans then--skilled cattle butchers that the\npackers had brought from abroad to start the business. Afterward, as\ncheaper labor had come, these Germans had moved away. The next were the\nIrish--there had been six or eight years when Packingtown had been a\nregular Irish city. There were a few colonies of them still here, enough\nto run all the unions and the police force and get all the graft; but\nmost of those who were working in the packing houses had gone away at\nthe next drop in wages--after the big strike. The Bohemians had come\nthen, and after them the Poles. People said that old man Durham himself\nwas responsible for these immigrations; he had sworn that he would fix\nthe people of Packingtown so that they would never again call a strike\non him, and so he had sent his agents into every city and village in\nEurope to spread the tale of the chances of work and high wages at the\nstockyards. The people had come in hordes; and old Durham had squeezed\nthem tighter and tighter, speeding them up and grinding them to pieces\nand sending for new ones. The Poles, who had come by tens of thousands,\nhad been driven to the wall by the Lithuanians, and now the Lithuanians\nwere giving way to the Slovaks. Who there was poorer and more miserable\nthan the Slovaks, Grandmother Majauszkiene had no idea, but the packers\nwould find them, never fear. It was easy to bring them, for wages were\nreally much higher, and it was only when it was too late that the poor\npeople found out that everything else was higher too. They were like\nrats in a trap, that was the truth; and more of them were piling in\nevery day. By and by they would have their revenge, though, for the\nthing was getting beyond human endurance, and the people would rise and\nmurder the packers. Grandmother Majauszkiene was a socialist, or some\nsuch strange thing; another son of hers was working in the mines of\nSiberia, and the old lady herself had made speeches in her time--which\nmade her seem all the more terrible to her present auditors.\n\nThey called her back to the story of the house. The German family had\nbeen a good sort. To be sure there had been a great many of them, which\nwas a common failing in Packingtown; but they had worked hard, and the\nfather had been a steady man, and they had a good deal more than half\npaid for the house. But he had been killed in an elevator accident in\nDurham's.\n\nThen there had come the Irish, and there had been lots of them, too;\nthe husband drank and beat the children--the neighbors could hear them\nshrieking any night. They were behind with their rent all the time,\nbut the company was good to them; there was some politics back of that,\nGrandmother Majauszkiene could not say just what, but the Laffertys had\nbelonged to the \"War Whoop League,\" which was a sort of political club\nof all the thugs and rowdies in the district; and if you belonged to\nthat, you could never be arrested for anything. Once upon a time old\nLafferty had been caught with a gang that had stolen cows from several\nof the poor people of the neighborhood and butchered them in an old\nshanty back of the yards and sold them. He had been in jail only three\ndays for it, and had come out laughing, and had not even lost his place\nin the packing house. He had gone all to ruin with the drink, however,\nand lost his power; one of his sons, who was a good man, had kept him\nand the family up for a year or two, but then he had got sick with\nconsumption.\n\nThat was another thing, Grandmother Majauszkiene interrupted\nherself--this house was unlucky. Every family that lived in it, some one\nwas sure to get consumption. Nobody could tell why that was; there must\nbe something about the house, or the way it was built--some folks said\nit was because the building had been begun in the dark of the moon.\nThere were dozens of houses that way in Packingtown. Sometimes there\nwould be a particular room that you could point out--if anybody slept in\nthat room he was just as good as dead. With this house it had been the\nIrish first; and then a Bohemian family had lost a child of it--though,\nto be sure, that was uncertain, since it was hard to tell what was the\nmatter with children who worked in the yards. In those days there had\nbeen no law about the age of children--the packers had worked all but\nthe babies. At this remark the family looked puzzled, and Grandmother\nMajauszkiene again had to make an explanation--that it was against the\nlaw for children to work before they were sixteen. What was the sense of\nthat? they asked. They had been thinking of letting little Stanislovas\ngo to work. Well, there was no need to worry, Grandmother Majauszkiene\nsaid--the law made no difference except that it forced people to lie\nabout the ages of their children. One would like to know what the\nlawmakers expected them to do; there were families that had no possible\nmeans of support except the children, and the law provided them no\nother way of getting a living. Very often a man could get no work in\nPackingtown for months, while a child could go and get a place easily;\nthere was always some new machine, by which the packers could get as\nmuch work out of a child as they had been able to get out of a man, and\nfor a third of the pay.\n\nTo come back to the house again, it was the woman of the next family\nthat had died. That was after they had been there nearly four years, and\nthis woman had had twins regularly every year--and there had been more\nthan you could count when they moved in. After she died the man would\ngo to work all day and leave them to shift for themselves--the neighbors\nwould help them now and then, for they would almost freeze to death. At\nthe end there were three days that they were alone, before it was found\nout that the father was dead. He was a \"floorsman\" at Jones's, and a\nwounded steer had broken loose and mashed him against a pillar. Then the\nchildren had been taken away, and the company had sold the house that\nvery same week to a party of emigrants.\n\nSo this grim old women went on with her tale of horrors. How much of it\nwas exaggeration--who could tell? It was only too plausible. There\nwas that about consumption, for instance. They knew nothing about\nconsumption whatever, except that it made people cough; and for two\nweeks they had been worrying about a coughing-spell of Antanas. It\nseemed to shake him all over, and it never stopped; you could see a red\nstain wherever he had spit upon the floor.\n\nAnd yet all these things were as nothing to what came a little later.\nThey had begun to question the old lady as to why one family had been\nunable to pay, trying to show her by figures that it ought to have been\npossible; and Grandmother Majauszkiene had disputed their figures--\"You\nsay twelve dollars a month; but that does not include the interest.\"\n\nThen they stared at her. \"Interest!\" they cried.\n\n\"Interest on the money you still owe,\" she answered.\n\n\"But we don't have to pay any interest!\" they exclaimed, three or four\nat once. \"We only have to pay twelve dollars each month.\"\n\nAnd for this she laughed at them. \"You are like all the rest,\" she said;\n\"they trick you and eat you alive. They never sell the houses without\ninterest. Get your deed, and see.\"\n\nThen, with a horrible sinking of the heart, Teta Elzbieta unlocked her\nbureau and brought out the paper that had already caused them so many\nagonies. Now they sat round, scarcely breathing, while the old lady, who\ncould read English, ran over it. \"Yes,\" she said, finally, \"here it is,\nof course: 'With interest thereon monthly, at the rate of seven per cent\nper annum.'\"\n\nAnd there followed a dead silence. \"What does that mean?\" asked Jurgis\nfinally, almost in a whisper.\n\n\"That means,\" replied the other, \"that you have to pay them seven\ndollars next month, as well as the twelve dollars.\"\n\nThen again there was not a sound. It was sickening, like a nightmare,\nin which suddenly something gives way beneath you, and you feel yourself\nsinking, sinking, down into bottomless abysses. As if in a flash of\nlightning they saw themselves--victims of a relentless fate, cornered,\ntrapped, in the grip of destruction. All the fair structure of their\nhopes came crashing about their ears.--And all the time the old woman\nwas going on talking. They wished that she would be still; her voice\nsounded like the croaking of some dismal raven. Jurgis sat with his\nhands clenched and beads of perspiration on his forehead, and there was\na great lump in Ona's throat, choking her. Then suddenly Teta Elzbieta\nbroke the silence with a wail, and Marija began to wring her hands and\nsob, \"Ai! Ai! Beda man!\"\n\nAll their outcry did them no good, of course. There sat Grandmother\nMajauszkiene, unrelenting, typifying fate. No, of course it was not\nfair, but then fairness had nothing to do with it. And of course they\nhad not known it. They had not been intended to know it. But it was in\nthe deed, and that was all that was necessary, as they would find when\nthe time came.\n\nSomehow or other they got rid of their guest, and then they passed a\nnight of lamentation. The children woke up and found out that something\nwas wrong, and they wailed and would not be comforted. In the morning,\nof course, most of them had to go to work, the packing houses would not\nstop for their sorrows; but by seven o'clock Ona and her stepmother were\nstanding at the door of the office of the agent. Yes, he told them, when\nhe came, it was quite true that they would have to pay interest. And\nthen Teta Elzbieta broke forth into protestations and reproaches, so\nthat the people outside stopped and peered in at the window. The agent\nwas as bland as ever. He was deeply pained, he said. He had not told\nthem, simply because he had supposed they would understand that they had\nto pay interest upon their debt, as a matter of course.\n\nSo they came away, and Ona went down to the yards, and at noontime saw\nJurgis and told him. Jurgis took it stolidly--he had made up his mind to\nit by this time. It was part of fate; they would manage it somehow--he\nmade his usual answer, \"I will work harder.\" It would upset their plans\nfor a time; and it would perhaps be necessary for Ona to get work\nafter all. Then Ona added that Teta Elzbieta had decided that little\nStanislovas would have to work too. It was not fair to let Jurgis and\nher support the family--the family would have to help as it could.\nPreviously Jurgis had scouted this idea, but now knit his brows and\nnodded his head slowly--yes, perhaps it would be best; they would all\nhave to make some sacrifices now.\n\nSo Ona set out that day to hunt for work; and at night Marija came home\nsaying that she had met a girl named Jasaityte who had a friend that\nworked in one of the wrapping rooms in Brown's, and might get a place\nfor Ona there; only the forelady was the kind that takes presents--it\nwas no use for any one to ask her for a place unless at the same time\nthey slipped a ten-dollar bill into her hand. Jurgis was not in the\nleast surprised at this now--he merely asked what the wages of the place\nwould be. So negotiations were opened, and after an interview Ona came\nhome and reported that the forelady seemed to like her, and had said\nthat, while she was not sure, she thought she might be able to put her\nat work sewing covers on hams, a job at which she would earn as much as\neight or ten dollars a week. That was a bid, so Marija reported, after\nconsulting her friend; and then there was an anxious conference at home.\nThe work was done in one of the cellars, and Jurgis did not want Ona to\nwork in such a place; but then it was easy work, and one could not have\neverything. So in the end Ona, with a ten-dollar bill burning a hole in\nher palm, had another interview with the forelady.\n\nMeantime Teta Elzbieta had taken Stanislovas to the priest and gotten a\ncertificate to the effect that he was two years older than he was; and\nwith it the little boy now sallied forth to make his fortune in the\nworld. It chanced that Durham had just put in a wonderful new lard\nmachine, and when the special policeman in front of the time station\nsaw Stanislovas and his document, he smiled to himself and told him to\ngo--\"Czia! Czia!\" pointing. And so Stanislovas went down a long stone\ncorridor, and up a flight of stairs, which took him into a room lighted\nby electricity, with the new machines for filling lard cans at work\nin it. The lard was finished on the floor above, and it came in little\njets, like beautiful, wriggling, snow-white snakes of unpleasant odor.\nThere were several kinds and sizes of jets, and after a certain precise\nquantity had come out, each stopped automatically, and the wonderful\nmachine made a turn, and took the can under another jet, and so on,\nuntil it was filled neatly to the brim, and pressed tightly, and\nsmoothed off. To attend to all this and fill several hundred cans of\nlard per hour, there were necessary two human creatures, one of whom\nknew how to place an empty lard can on a certain spot every few seconds,\nand the other of whom knew how to take a full lard can off a certain\nspot every few seconds and set it upon a tray.\n\nAnd so, after little Stanislovas had stood gazing timidly about him for\na few minutes, a man approached him, and asked what he wanted, to which\nStanislovas said, \"Job.\" Then the man said \"How old?\" and Stanislovas\nanswered, \"Sixtin.\" Once or twice every year a state inspector would\ncome wandering through the packing plants, asking a child here and there\nhow old he was; and so the packers were very careful to comply with the\nlaw, which cost them as much trouble as was now involved in the boss's\ntaking the document from the little boy, and glancing at it, and then\nsending it to the office to be filed away. Then he set some one else at\na different job, and showed the lad how to place a lard can every time\nthe empty arm of the remorseless machine came to him; and so was decided\nthe place in the universe of little Stanislovas, and his destiny till\nthe end of his days. Hour after hour, day after day, year after year, it\nwas fated that he should stand upon a certain square foot of floor from\nseven in the morning until noon, and again from half-past twelve till\nhalf-past five, making never a motion and thinking never a thought,\nsave for the setting of lard cans. In summer the stench of the warm lard\nwould be nauseating, and in winter the cans would all but freeze to his\nnaked little fingers in the unheated cellar. Half the year it would be\ndark as night when he went in to work, and dark as night again when\nhe came out, and so he would never know what the sun looked like on\nweekdays. And for this, at the end of the week, he would carry home\nthree dollars to his family, being his pay at the rate of five cents per\nhour--just about his proper share of the total earnings of the million\nand three-quarters of children who are now engaged in earning their\nlivings in the United States.\n\nAnd meantime, because they were young, and hope is not to be stifled\nbefore its time, Jurgis and Ona were again calculating; for they had\ndiscovered that the wages of Stanislovas would a little more than pay\nthe interest, which left them just about as they had been before! It\nwould be but fair to them to say that the little boy was delighted with\nhis work, and at the idea of earning a lot of money; and also that the\ntwo were very much in love with each other.\n\n\n\nChapter 7\n\n\nAll summer long the family toiled, and in the fall they had money\nenough for Jurgis and Ona to be married according to home traditions of\ndecency. In the latter part of November they hired a hall, and invited\nall their new acquaintances, who came and left them over a hundred\ndollars in debt.\n\nIt was a bitter and cruel experience, and it plunged them into an agony\nof despair. Such a time, of all times, for them to have it, when their\nhearts were made tender! Such a pitiful beginning it was for their\nmarried life; they loved each other so, and they could not have the\nbriefest respite! It was a time when everything cried out to them that\nthey ought to be happy; when wonder burned in their hearts, and leaped\ninto flame at the slightest breath. They were shaken to the depths of\nthem, with the awe of love realized--and was it so very weak of them\nthat they cried out for a little peace? They had opened their hearts,\nlike flowers to the springtime, and the merciless winter had fallen upon\nthem. They wondered if ever any love that had blossomed in the world had\nbeen so crushed and trampled!\n\nOver them, relentless and savage, there cracked the lash of want; the\nmorning after the wedding it sought them as they slept, and drove\nthem out before daybreak to work. Ona was scarcely able to stand with\nexhaustion; but if she were to lose her place they would be ruined, and\nshe would surely lose it if she were not on time that day. They all\nhad to go, even little Stanislovas, who was ill from overindulgence in\nsausages and sarsaparilla. All that day he stood at his lard machine,\nrocking unsteadily, his eyes closing in spite of him; and he all but\nlost his place even so, for the foreman booted him twice to waken him.\n\nIt was fully a week before they were all normal again, and meantime,\nwith whining children and cross adults, the house was not a pleasant\nplace to live in. Jurgis lost his temper very little, however, all\nthings considered. It was because of Ona; the least glance at her was\nalways enough to make him control himself. She was so sensitive--she was\nnot fitted for such a life as this; and a hundred times a day, when he\nthought of her, he would clench his hands and fling himself again at the\ntask before him. She was too good for him, he told himself, and he was\nafraid, because she was his. So long he had hungered to possess her,\nbut now that the time had come he knew that he had not earned the right;\nthat she trusted him so was all her own simple goodness, and no virtue\nof his. But he was resolved that she should never find this out, and so\nwas always on the watch to see that he did not betray any of his ugly\nself; he would take care even in little matters, such as his manners,\nand his habit of swearing when things went wrong. The tears came so\neasily into Ona's eyes, and she would look at him so appealingly--it\nkept Jurgis quite busy making resolutions, in addition to all the other\nthings he had on his mind. It was true that more things were going on at\nthis time in the mind of Jurgis than ever had in all his life before.\n\nHe had to protect her, to do battle for her against the horror he saw\nabout them. He was all that she had to look to, and if he failed she\nwould be lost; he would wrap his arms about her, and try to hide her\nfrom the world. He had learned the ways of things about him now. It was\na war of each against all, and the devil take the hindmost. You did not\ngive feasts to other people, you waited for them to give feasts to\nyou. You went about with your soul full of suspicion and hatred; you\nunderstood that you were environed by hostile powers that were trying to\nget your money, and who used all the virtues to bait their traps with.\nThe store-keepers plastered up their windows with all sorts of lies to\nentice you; the very fences by the wayside, the lampposts and telegraph\npoles, were pasted over with lies. The great corporation which employed\nyou lied to you, and lied to the whole country--from top to bottom it\nwas nothing but one gigantic lie.\n\nSo Jurgis said that he understood it; and yet it was really pitiful, for\nthe struggle was so unfair--some had so much the advantage! Here he was,\nfor instance, vowing upon his knees that he would save Ona from harm,\nand only a week later she was suffering atrociously, and from the blow\nof an enemy that he could not possibly have thwarted. There came a day\nwhen the rain fell in torrents; and it being December, to be wet with it\nand have to sit all day long in one of the cold cellars of Brown's was\nno laughing matter. Ona was a working girl, and did not own waterproofs\nand such things, and so Jurgis took her and put her on the streetcar.\nNow it chanced that this car line was owned by gentlemen who were trying\nto make money. And the city having passed an ordinance requiring them to\ngive transfers, they had fallen into a rage; and first they had made a\nrule that transfers could be had only when the fare was paid; and later,\ngrowing still uglier, they had made another--that the passenger must ask\nfor the transfer, the conductor was not allowed to offer it. Now Ona\nhad been told that she was to get a transfer; but it was not her way to\nspeak up, and so she merely waited, following the conductor about with\nher eyes, wondering when he would think of her. When at last the time\ncame for her to get out, she asked for the transfer, and was refused.\nNot knowing what to make of this, she began to argue with the conductor,\nin a language of which he did not understand a word. After warning her\nseveral times, he pulled the bell and the car went on--at which Ona\nburst into tears. At the next corner she got out, of course; and as she\nhad no more money, she had to walk the rest of the way to the yards in\nthe pouring rain. And so all day long she sat shivering, and came home\nat night with her teeth chattering and pains in her head and back. For\ntwo weeks afterward she suffered cruelly--and yet every day she had to\ndrag herself to her work. The forewoman was especially severe with Ona,\nbecause she believed that she was obstinate on account of having been\nrefused a holiday the day after her wedding. Ona had an idea that her\n\"forelady\" did not like to have her girls marry--perhaps because she was\nold and ugly and unmarried herself.\n\nThere were many such dangers, in which the odds were all against them.\nTheir children were not as well as they had been at home; but how could\nthey know that there was no sewer to their house, and that the drainage\nof fifteen years was in a cesspool under it? How could they know that\nthe pale-blue milk that they bought around the corner was watered, and\ndoctored with formaldehyde besides? When the children were not well\nat home, Teta Elzbieta would gather herbs and cure them; now she was\nobliged to go to the drugstore and buy extracts--and how was she to know\nthat they were all adulterated? How could they find out that their tea\nand coffee, their sugar and flour, had been doctored; that their canned\npeas had been colored with copper salts, and their fruit jams with\naniline dyes? And even if they had known it, what good would it have\ndone them, since there was no place within miles of them where any other\nsort was to be had? The bitter winter was coming, and they had to save\nmoney to get more clothing and bedding; but it would not matter in the\nleast how much they saved, they could not get anything to keep them\nwarm. All the clothing that was to be had in the stores was made of\ncotton and shoddy, which is made by tearing old clothes to pieces and\nweaving the fiber again. If they paid higher prices, they might get\nfrills and fanciness, or be cheated; but genuine quality they could not\nobtain for love nor money. A young friend of Szedvilas', recently come\nfrom abroad, had become a clerk in a store on Ashland Avenue, and he\nnarrated with glee a trick that had been played upon an unsuspecting\ncountryman by his boss. The customer had desired to purchase an alarm\nclock, and the boss had shown him two exactly similar, telling him that\nthe price of one was a dollar and of the other a dollar seventy-five.\nUpon being asked what the difference was, the man had wound up the first\nhalfway and the second all the way, and showed the customer how the\nlatter made twice as much noise; upon which the customer remarked that\nhe was a sound sleeper, and had better take the more expensive clock!\n\nThere is a poet who sings that\n\n     \"Deeper their heart grows and nobler their bearing,\n     Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died.\"\n\nBut it was not likely that he had reference to the kind of anguish that\ncomes with destitution, that is so endlessly bitter and cruel, and\nyet so sordid and petty, so ugly, so humiliating--unredeemed by the\nslightest touch of dignity or even of pathos. It is a kind of anguish\nthat poets have not commonly dealt with; its very words are not admitted\ninto the vocabulary of poets--the details of it cannot be told in\npolite society at all. How, for instance, could any one expect to excite\nsympathy among lovers of good literature by telling how a family found\ntheir home alive with vermin, and of all the suffering and inconvenience\nand humiliation they were put to, and the hard-earned money they spent,\nin efforts to get rid of them? After long hesitation and uncertainty\nthey paid twenty-five cents for a big package of insect powder--a patent\npreparation which chanced to be ninety-five per cent gypsum, a harmless\nearth which had cost about two cents to prepare. Of course it had not\nthe least effect, except upon a few roaches which had the misfortune to\ndrink water after eating it, and so got their inwards set in a coating\nof plaster of Paris. The family, having no idea of this, and no more\nmoney to throw away, had nothing to do but give up and submit to one\nmore misery for the rest of their days.\n\nThen there was old Antanas. The winter came, and the place where he\nworked was a dark, unheated cellar, where you could see your breath all\nday, and where your fingers sometimes tried to freeze. So the old man's\ncough grew every day worse, until there came a time when it hardly ever\nstopped, and he had become a nuisance about the place. Then, too, a\nstill more dreadful thing happened to him; he worked in a place where\nhis feet were soaked in chemicals, and it was not long before they had\neaten through his new boots. Then sores began to break out on his feet,\nand grow worse and worse. Whether it was that his blood was bad, or\nthere had been a cut, he could not say; but he asked the men about it,\nand learned that it was a regular thing--it was the saltpeter. Every one\nfelt it, sooner or later, and then it was all up with him, at least for\nthat sort of work. The sores would never heal--in the end his toes would\ndrop off, if he did not quit. Yet old Antanas would not quit; he saw the\nsuffering of his family, and he remembered what it had cost him to get\na job. So he tied up his feet, and went on limping about and coughing,\nuntil at last he fell to pieces, all at once and in a heap, like the\nOne-Horse Shay. They carried him to a dry place and laid him on the\nfloor, and that night two of the men helped him home. The poor old man\nwas put to bed, and though he tried it every morning until the end, he\nnever could get up again. He would lie there and cough and cough, day\nand night, wasting away to a mere skeleton. There came a time when there\nwas so little flesh on him that the bones began to poke through--which\nwas a horrible thing to see or even to think of. And one night he had\na choking fit, and a little river of blood came out of his mouth. The\nfamily, wild with terror, sent for a doctor, and paid half a dollar to\nbe told that there was nothing to be done. Mercifully the doctor did not\nsay this so that the old man could hear, for he was still clinging to\nthe faith that tomorrow or next day he would be better, and could go\nback to his job. The company had sent word to him that they would keep\nit for him--or rather Jurgis had bribed one of the men to come one\nSunday afternoon and say they had. Dede Antanas continued to believe\nit, while three more hemorrhages came; and then at last one morning they\nfound him stiff and cold. Things were not going well with them then,\nand though it nearly broke Teta Elzbieta's heart, they were forced to\ndispense with nearly all the decencies of a funeral; they had only a\nhearse, and one hack for the women and children; and Jurgis, who was\nlearning things fast, spent all Sunday making a bargain for these, and\nhe made it in the presence of witnesses, so that when the man tried to\ncharge him for all sorts of incidentals, he did not have to pay. For\ntwenty-five years old Antanas Rudkus and his son had dwelt in the forest\ntogether, and it was hard to part in this way; perhaps it was just as\nwell that Jurgis had to give all his attention to the task of having\na funeral without being bankrupted, and so had no time to indulge in\nmemories and grief.\n\n\nNow the dreadful winter was come upon them. In the forests, all summer\nlong, the branches of the trees do battle for light, and some of them\nlose and die; and then come the raging blasts, and the storms of snow\nand hail, and strew the ground with these weaker branches. Just so it\nwas in Packingtown; the whole district braced itself for the struggle\nthat was an agony, and those whose time was come died off in hordes.\nAll the year round they had been serving as cogs in the great packing\nmachine; and now was the time for the renovating of it, and the\nreplacing of damaged parts. There came pneumonia and grippe, stalking\namong them, seeking for weakened constitutions; there was the annual\nharvest of those whom tuberculosis had been dragging down. There came\ncruel, cold, and biting winds, and blizzards of snow, all testing\nrelentlessly for failing muscles and impoverished blood. Sooner or later\ncame the day when the unfit one did not report for work; and then, with\nno time lost in waiting, and no inquiries or regrets, there was a chance\nfor a new hand.\n\nThe new hands were here by the thousands. All day long the gates of the\npacking houses were besieged by starving and penniless men; they came,\nliterally, by the thousands every single morning, fighting with each\nother for a chance for life. Blizzards and cold made no difference to\nthem, they were always on hand; they were on hand two hours before the\nsun rose, an hour before the work began. Sometimes their faces\nfroze, sometimes their feet and their hands; sometimes they froze all\ntogether--but still they came, for they had no other place to go. One\nday Durham advertised in the paper for two hundred men to cut ice; and\nall that day the homeless and starving of the city came trudging through\nthe snow from all over its two hundred square miles. That night\nforty score of them crowded into the station house of the stockyards\ndistrict--they filled the rooms, sleeping in each other's laps, toboggan\nfashion, and they piled on top of each other in the corridors, till the\npolice shut the doors and left some to freeze outside. On the morrow,\nbefore daybreak, there were three thousand at Durham's, and the police\nreserves had to be sent for to quell the riot. Then Durham's bosses\npicked out twenty of the biggest; the \"two hundred\" proved to have been\na printer's error.\n\nFour or five miles to the eastward lay the lake, and over this the\nbitter winds came raging. Sometimes the thermometer would fall to ten or\ntwenty degrees below zero at night, and in the morning the streets would\nbe piled with snowdrifts up to the first-floor windows. The streets\nthrough which our friends had to go to their work were all unpaved and\nfull of deep holes and gullies; in summer, when it rained hard, a man\nmight have to wade to his waist to get to his house; and now in winter\nit was no joke getting through these places, before light in the morning\nand after dark at night. They would wrap up in all they owned, but they\ncould not wrap up against exhaustion; and many a man gave out in these\nbattles with the snowdrifts, and lay down and fell asleep.\n\nAnd if it was bad for the men, one may imagine how the women and\nchildren fared. Some would ride in the cars, if the cars were running;\nbut when you are making only five cents an hour, as was little\nStanislovas, you do not like to spend that much to ride two miles. The\nchildren would come to the yards with great shawls about their ears,\nand so tied up that you could hardly find them--and still there would be\naccidents. One bitter morning in February the little boy who worked at\nthe lard machine with Stanislovas came about an hour late, and screaming\nwith pain. They unwrapped him, and a man began vigorously rubbing his\nears; and as they were frozen stiff, it took only two or three rubs to\nbreak them short off. As a result of this, little Stanislovas conceived\na terror of the cold that was almost a mania. Every morning, when it\ncame time to start for the yards, he would begin to cry and protest.\nNobody knew quite how to manage him, for threats did no good--it seemed\nto be something that he could not control, and they feared sometimes\nthat he would go into convulsions. In the end it had to be arranged that\nhe always went with Jurgis, and came home with him again; and often,\nwhen the snow was deep, the man would carry him the whole way on his\nshoulders. Sometimes Jurgis would be working until late at night, and\nthen it was pitiful, for there was no place for the little fellow to\nwait, save in the doorways or in a corner of the killing beds, and he\nwould all but fall asleep there, and freeze to death.\n\nThere was no heat upon the killing beds; the men might exactly as well\nhave worked out of doors all winter. For that matter, there was very\nlittle heat anywhere in the building, except in the cooking rooms and\nsuch places--and it was the men who worked in these who ran the most\nrisk of all, because whenever they had to pass to another room they had\nto go through ice-cold corridors, and sometimes with nothing on above\nthe waist except a sleeveless undershirt. On the killing beds you were\napt to be covered with blood, and it would freeze solid; if you leaned\nagainst a pillar, you would freeze to that, and if you put your hand\nupon the blade of your knife, you would run a chance of leaving your\nskin on it. The men would tie up their feet in newspapers and old sacks,\nand these would be soaked in blood and frozen, and then soaked again,\nand so on, until by nighttime a man would be walking on great lumps the\nsize of the feet of an elephant. Now and then, when the bosses were\nnot looking, you would see them plunging their feet and ankles into the\nsteaming hot carcass of the steer, or darting across the room to\nthe hot-water jets. The cruelest thing of all was that nearly all of\nthem--all of those who used knives--were unable to wear gloves, and\ntheir arms would be white with frost and their hands would grow numb,\nand then of course there would be accidents. Also the air would be full\nof steam, from the hot water and the hot blood, so that you could not\nsee five feet before you; and then, with men rushing about at the speed\nthey kept up on the killing beds, and all with butcher knives, like\nrazors, in their hands--well, it was to be counted as a wonder that\nthere were not more men slaughtered than cattle.\n\nAnd yet all this inconvenience they might have put up with, if only it\nhad not been for one thing--if only there had been some place where they\nmight eat. Jurgis had either to eat his dinner amid the stench in which\nhe had worked, or else to rush, as did all his companions, to any one of\nthe hundreds of liquor stores which stretched out their arms to him. To\nthe west of the yards ran Ashland Avenue, and here was an unbroken\nline of saloons--\"Whiskey Row,\" they called it; to the north was\nForty-seventh Street, where there were half a dozen to the block, and at\nthe angle of the two was \"Whiskey Point,\" a space of fifteen or twenty\nacres, and containing one glue factory and about two hundred saloons.\n\nOne might walk among these and take his choice: \"Hot pea-soup and boiled\ncabbage today.\" \"Sauerkraut and hot frankfurters. Walk in.\" \"Bean soup\nand stewed lamb. Welcome.\" All of these things were printed in many\nlanguages, as were also the names of the resorts, which were infinite\nin their variety and appeal. There was the \"Home Circle\" and the\n\"Cosey Corner\"; there were \"Firesides\" and \"Hearthstones\" and \"Pleasure\nPalaces\" and \"Wonderlands\" and \"Dream Castles\" and \"Love's Delights.\"\nWhatever else they were called, they were sure to be called \"Union\nHeadquarters,\" and to hold out a welcome to workingmen; and there was\nalways a warm stove, and a chair near it, and some friends to laugh and\ntalk with. There was only one condition attached,--you must drink. If\nyou went in not intending to drink, you would be put out in no time, and\nif you were slow about going, like as not you would get your head split\nopen with a beer bottle in the bargain. But all of the men understood\nthe convention and drank; they believed that by it they were getting\nsomething for nothing--for they did not need to take more than one\ndrink, and upon the strength of it they might fill themselves up with a\ngood hot dinner. This did not always work out in practice, however, for\nthere was pretty sure to be a friend who would treat you, and then you\nwould have to treat him. Then some one else would come in--and, anyhow,\na few drinks were good for a man who worked hard. As he went back he did\nnot shiver so, he had more courage for his task; the deadly brutalizing\nmonotony of it did not afflict him so,--he had ideas while he worked,\nand took a more cheerful view of his circumstances. On the way home,\nhowever, the shivering was apt to come on him again; and so he would\nhave to stop once or twice to warm up against the cruel cold. As there\nwere hot things to eat in this saloon too, he might get home late to his\nsupper, or he might not get home at all. And then his wife might set out\nto look for him, and she too would feel the cold; and perhaps she would\nhave some of the children with her--and so a whole family would drift\ninto drinking, as the current of a river drifts downstream. As if to\ncomplete the chain, the packers all paid their men in checks, refusing\nall requests to pay in coin; and where in Packingtown could a man go to\nhave his check cashed but to a saloon, where he could pay for the favor\nby spending a part of the money?\n\nFrom all of these things Jurgis was saved because of Ona. He never would\ntake but the one drink at noontime; and so he got the reputation of\nbeing a surly fellow, and was not quite welcome at the saloons, and had\nto drift about from one to another. Then at night he would go straight\nhome, helping Ona and Stanislovas, or often putting the former on a car.\nAnd when he got home perhaps he would have to trudge several blocks, and\ncome staggering back through the snowdrifts with a bag of coal upon\nhis shoulder. Home was not a very attractive place--at least not this\nwinter. They had only been able to buy one stove, and this was a small\none, and proved not big enough to warm even the kitchen in the bitterest\nweather. This made it hard for Teta Elzbieta all day, and for the\nchildren when they could not get to school. At night they would sit\nhuddled round this stove, while they ate their supper off their laps;\nand then Jurgis and Jonas would smoke a pipe, after which they would all\ncrawl into their beds to get warm, after putting out the fire to save\nthe coal. Then they would have some frightful experiences with the cold.\nThey would sleep with all their clothes on, including their overcoats,\nand put over them all the bedding and spare clothing they owned; the\nchildren would sleep all crowded into one bed, and yet even so they\ncould not keep warm. The outside ones would be shivering and sobbing,\ncrawling over the others and trying to get down into the center, and\ncausing a fight. This old house with the leaky weatherboards was a\nvery different thing from their cabins at home, with great thick walls\nplastered inside and outside with mud; and the cold which came upon them\nwas a living thing, a demon-presence in the room. They would waken in\nthe midnight hours, when everything was black; perhaps they would hear\nit yelling outside, or perhaps there would be deathlike stillness--and\nthat would be worse yet. They could feel the cold as it crept in through\nthe cracks, reaching out for them with its icy, death-dealing fingers;\nand they would crouch and cower, and try to hide from it, all in vain.\nIt would come, and it would come; a grisly thing, a specter born in\nthe black caverns of terror; a power primeval, cosmic, shadowing the\ntortures of the lost souls flung out to chaos and destruction. It was\ncruel iron-hard; and hour after hour they would cringe in its grasp,\nalone, alone. There would be no one to hear them if they cried out;\nthere would be no help, no mercy. And so on until morning--when they\nwould go out to another day of toil, a little weaker, a little nearer to\nthe time when it would be their turn to be shaken from the tree.\n\n\n\nChapter 8\n\n\nYet even by this deadly winter the germ of hope was not to be kept\nfrom sprouting in their hearts. It was just at this time that the great\nadventure befell Marija.\n\nThe victim was Tamoszius Kuszleika, who played the violin. Everybody\nlaughed at them, for Tamoszius was petite and frail, and Marija could\nhave picked him up and carried him off under one arm. But perhaps that\nwas why she fascinated him; the sheer volume of Marija's energy was\noverwhelming. That first night at the wedding Tamoszius had hardly taken\nhis eyes off her; and later on, when he came to find that she had really\nthe heart of a baby, her voice and her violence ceased to terrify him,\nand he got the habit of coming to pay her visits on Sunday afternoons.\nThere was no place to entertain company except in the kitchen, in the\nmidst of the family, and Tamoszius would sit there with his hat between\nhis knees, never saying more than half a dozen words at a time, and\nturning red in the face before he managed to say those; until finally\nJurgis would clap him upon the back, in his hearty way, crying, \"Come\nnow, brother, give us a tune.\" And then Tamoszius' face would light up\nand he would get out his fiddle, tuck it under his chin, and play. And\nforthwith the soul of him would flame up and become eloquent--it was\nalmost an impropriety, for all the while his gaze would be fixed upon\nMarija's face, until she would begin to turn red and lower her eyes.\nThere was no resisting the music of Tamoszius, however; even the\nchildren would sit awed and wondering, and the tears would run down Teta\nElzbieta's cheeks. A wonderful privilege it was to be thus admitted into\nthe soul of a man of genius, to be allowed to share the ecstasies and\nthe agonies of his inmost life.\n\nThen there were other benefits accruing to Marija from this\nfriendship--benefits of a more substantial nature. People paid Tamoszius\nbig money to come and make music on state occasions; and also they\nwould invite him to parties and festivals, knowing well that he was too\ngood-natured to come without his fiddle, and that having brought it,\nhe could be made to play while others danced. Once he made bold to ask\nMarija to accompany him to such a party, and Marija accepted, to his\ngreat delight--after which he never went anywhere without her, while if\nthe celebration were given by friends of his, he would invite the rest\nof the family also. In any case Marija would bring back a huge pocketful\nof cakes and sandwiches for the children, and stories of all the good\nthings she herself had managed to consume. She was compelled, at these\nparties, to spend most of her time at the refreshment table, for she\ncould not dance with anybody except other women and very old men;\nTamoszius was of an excitable temperament, and afflicted with a frantic\njealousy, and any unmarried man who ventured to put his arm about the\nample waist of Marija would be certain to throw the orchestra out of\ntune.\n\nIt was a great help to a person who had to toil all the week to be able\nto look forward to some such relaxation as this on Saturday nights. The\nfamily was too poor and too hardworked to make many acquaintances;\nin Packingtown, as a rule, people know only their near neighbors and\nshopmates, and so the place is like a myriad of little country villages.\nBut now there was a member of the family who was permitted to travel and\nwiden her horizon; and so each week there would be new personalities to\ntalk about,--how so-and-so was dressed, and where she worked, and what\nshe got, and whom she was in love with; and how this man had jilted his\ngirl, and how she had quarreled with the other girl, and what had passed\nbetween them; and how another man beat his wife, and spent all her\nearnings upon drink, and pawned her very clothes. Some people would have\nscorned this talk as gossip; but then one has to talk about what one\nknows.\n\nIt was one Saturday night, as they were coming home from a wedding, that\nTamoszius found courage, and set down his violin case in the street and\nspoke his heart; and then Marija clasped him in her arms. She told them\nall about it the next day, and fairly cried with happiness, for she said\nthat Tamoszius was a lovely man. After that he no longer made love\nto her with his fiddle, but they would sit for hours in the kitchen,\nblissfully happy in each other's arms; it was the tacit convention of\nthe family to know nothing of what was going on in that corner.\n\nThey were planning to be married in the spring, and have the garret\nof the house fixed up, and live there. Tamoszius made good wages; and\nlittle by little the family were paying back their debt to Marija,\nso she ought soon to have enough to start life upon--only, with her\npreposterous softheartedness, she would insist upon spending a good part\nof her money every week for things which she saw they needed. Marija\nwas really the capitalist of the party, for she had become an expert can\npainter by this time--she was getting fourteen cents for every hundred\nand ten cans, and she could paint more than two cans every minute.\nMarija felt, so to speak, that she had her hand on the throttle, and the\nneighborhood was vocal with her rejoicings.\n\nYet her friends would shake their heads and tell her to go slow; one\ncould not count upon such good fortune forever--there were accidents\nthat always happened. But Marija was not to be prevailed upon, and went\non planning and dreaming of all the treasures she was going to have for\nher home; and so, when the crash did come, her grief was painful to see.\n\nFor her canning factory shut down! Marija would about as soon have\nexpected to see the sun shut down--the huge establishment had been to\nher a thing akin to the planets and the seasons. But now it was shut!\nAnd they had not given her any explanation, they had not even given her\na day's warning; they had simply posted a notice one Saturday that all\nhands would be paid off that afternoon, and would not resume work for at\nleast a month! And that was all that there was to it--her job was gone!\n\nIt was the holiday rush that was over, the girls said in answer to\nMarija's inquiries; after that there was always a slack. Sometimes the\nfactory would start up on half time after a while, but there was no\ntelling--it had been known to stay closed until way into the summer. The\nprospects were bad at present, for truckmen who worked in the storerooms\nsaid that these were piled up to the ceilings, so that the firm could\nnot have found room for another week's output of cans. And they had\nturned off three-quarters of these men, which was a still worse sign,\nsince it meant that there were no orders to be filled. It was all a\nswindle, can-painting, said the girls--you were crazy with delight\nbecause you were making twelve or fourteen dollars a week, and saving\nhalf of it; but you had to spend it all keeping alive while you were\nout, and so your pay was really only half what you thought.\n\n\nMarija came home, and because she was a person who could not rest\nwithout danger of explosion, they first had a great house cleaning, and\nthen she set out to search Packingtown for a job to fill up the gap. As\nnearly all the canning establishments were shut down, and all the girls\nhunting work, it will be readily understood that Marija did not find\nany. Then she took to trying the stores and saloons, and when this\nfailed she even traveled over into the far-distant regions near the lake\nfront, where lived the rich people in great palaces, and begged there\nfor some sort of work that could be done by a person who did not know\nEnglish.\n\nThe men upon the killing beds felt also the effects of the slump which\nhad turned Marija out; but they felt it in a different way, and a way\nwhich made Jurgis understand at last all their bitterness. The big\npackers did not turn their hands off and close down, like the canning\nfactories; but they began to run for shorter and shorter hours. They had\nalways required the men to be on the killing beds and ready for work at\nseven o'clock, although there was almost never any work to be done till\nthe buyers out in the yards had gotten to work, and some cattle had come\nover the chutes. That would often be ten or eleven o'clock, which was\nbad enough, in all conscience; but now, in the slack season, they would\nperhaps not have a thing for their men to do till late in the afternoon.\nAnd so they would have to loaf around, in a place where the thermometer\nmight be twenty degrees below zero! At first one would see them running\nabout, or skylarking with each other, trying to keep warm; but before\nthe day was over they would become quite chilled through and exhausted,\nand, when the cattle finally came, so near frozen that to move was an\nagony. And then suddenly the place would spring into activity, and the\nmerciless \"speeding-up\" would begin!\n\nThere were weeks at a time when Jurgis went home after such a day as\nthis with not more than two hours' work to his credit--which meant about\nthirty-five cents. There were many days when the total was less than\nhalf an hour, and others when there was none at all. The general average\nwas six hours a day, which meant for Jurgis about six dollars a week;\nand this six hours of work would be done after standing on the killing\nbed till one o'clock, or perhaps even three or four o'clock, in the\nafternoon. Like as not there would come a rush of cattle at the very\nend of the day, which the men would have to dispose of before they went\nhome, often working by electric light till nine or ten, or even twelve\nor one o'clock, and without a single instant for a bite of supper. The\nmen were at the mercy of the cattle. Perhaps the buyers would be holding\noff for better prices--if they could scare the shippers into thinking\nthat they meant to buy nothing that day, they could get their own terms.\nFor some reason the cost of fodder for cattle in the yards was much\nabove the market price--and you were not allowed to bring your own\nfodder! Then, too, a number of cars were apt to arrive late in the day,\nnow that the roads were blocked with snow, and the packers would buy\ntheir cattle that night, to get them cheaper, and then would come into\nplay their ironclad rule, that all cattle must be killed the same day\nthey were bought. There was no use kicking about this--there had been\none delegation after another to see the packers about it, only to be\ntold that it was the rule, and that there was not the slightest chance\nof its ever being altered. And so on Christmas Eve Jurgis worked till\nnearly one o'clock in the morning, and on Christmas Day he was on the\nkilling bed at seven o'clock.\n\nAll this was bad; and yet it was not the worst. For after all the hard\nwork a man did, he was paid for only part of it. Jurgis had once been\namong those who scoffed at the idea of these huge concerns cheating;\nand so now he could appreciate the bitter irony of the fact that it was\nprecisely their size which enabled them to do it with impunity. One of\nthe rules on the killing beds was that a man who was one minute late\nwas docked an hour; and this was economical, for he was made to work the\nbalance of the hour--he was not allowed to stand round and wait. And on\nthe other hand if he came ahead of time he got no pay for that--though\noften the bosses would start up the gang ten or fifteen minutes before\nthe whistle. And this same custom they carried over to the end of the\nday; they did not pay for any fraction of an hour--for \"broken time.\" A\nman might work full fifty minutes, but if there was no work to fill out\nthe hour, there was no pay for him. Thus the end of every day was a\nsort of lottery--a struggle, all but breaking into open war between\nthe bosses and the men, the former trying to rush a job through and\nthe latter trying to stretch it out. Jurgis blamed the bosses for this,\nthough the truth to be told it was not always their fault; for the\npackers kept them frightened for their lives--and when one was in danger\nof falling behind the standard, what was easier than to catch up\nby making the gang work awhile \"for the church\"? This was a savage\nwitticism the men had, which Jurgis had to have explained to him. Old\nman Jones was great on missions and such things, and so whenever they\nwere doing some particularly disreputable job, the men would wink at\neach other and say, \"Now we're working for the church!\"\n\nOne of the consequences of all these things was that Jurgis was no\nlonger perplexed when he heard men talk of fighting for their rights.\nHe felt like fighting now himself; and when the Irish delegate of the\nbutcher-helpers' union came to him a second time, he received him in a\nfar different spirit. A wonderful idea it now seemed to Jurgis, this\nof the men--that by combining they might be able to make a stand and\nconquer the packers! Jurgis wondered who had first thought of it; and\nwhen he was told that it was a common thing for men to do in America, he\ngot the first inkling of a meaning in the phrase \"a free country.\" The\ndelegate explained to him how it depended upon their being able to get\nevery man to join and stand by the organization, and so Jurgis signified\nthat he was willing to do his share. Before another month was by, all\nthe working members of his family had union cards, and wore their union\nbuttons conspicuously and with pride. For fully a week they were quite\nblissfully happy, thinking that belonging to a union meant an end to all\ntheir troubles.\n\nBut only ten days after she had joined, Marija's canning factory closed\ndown, and that blow quite staggered them. They could not understand why\nthe union had not prevented it, and the very first time she attended\na meeting Marija got up and made a speech about it. It was a business\nmeeting, and was transacted in English, but that made no difference to\nMarija; she said what was in her, and all the pounding of the chairman's\ngavel and all the uproar and confusion in the room could not prevail.\nQuite apart from her own troubles she was boiling over with a general\nsense of the injustice of it, and she told what she thought of the\npackers, and what she thought of a world where such things were allowed\nto happen; and then, while the echoes of the hall rang with the shock\nof her terrible voice, she sat down again and fanned herself, and the\nmeeting gathered itself together and proceeded to discuss the election\nof a recording secretary.\n\nJurgis too had an adventure the first time he attended a union meeting,\nbut it was not of his own seeking. Jurgis had gone with the desire\nto get into an inconspicuous corner and see what was done; but this\nattitude of silent and open-eyed attention had marked him out for a\nvictim. Tommy Finnegan was a little Irishman, with big staring eyes and\na wild aspect, a \"hoister\" by trade, and badly cracked. Somewhere back\nin the far-distant past Tommy Finnegan had had a strange experience,\nand the burden of it rested upon him. All the balance of his life he had\ndone nothing but try to make it understood. When he talked he caught\nhis victim by the buttonhole, and his face kept coming closer and\ncloser--which was trying, because his teeth were so bad. Jurgis did not\nmind that, only he was frightened. The method of operation of the higher\nintelligences was Tom Finnegan's theme, and he desired to find out if\nJurgis had ever considered that the representation of things in their\npresent similarity might be altogether unintelligible upon a more\nelevated plane. There were assuredly wonderful mysteries about the\ndeveloping of these things; and then, becoming confidential, Mr.\nFinnegan proceeded to tell of some discoveries of his own. \"If ye have\niver had onything to do wid shperrits,\" said he, and looked inquiringly\nat Jurgis, who kept shaking his head. \"Niver mind, niver mind,\"\ncontinued the other, \"but their influences may be operatin' upon ye;\nit's shure as I'm tellin' ye, it's them that has the reference to the\nimmejit surroundin's that has the most of power. It was vouchsafed to\nme in me youthful days to be acquainted with shperrits\" and so\nTommy Finnegan went on, expounding a system of philosophy, while the\nperspiration came out on Jurgis' forehead, so great was his agitation\nand embarrassment. In the end one of the men, seeing his plight, came\nover and rescued him; but it was some time before he was able to find\nany one to explain things to him, and meanwhile his fear lest the\nstrange little Irishman should get him cornered again was enough to keep\nhim dodging about the room the whole evening.\n\nHe never missed a meeting, however. He had picked up a few words of\nEnglish by this time, and friends would help him to understand. They\nwere often very turbulent meetings, with half a dozen men declaiming\nat once, in as many dialects of English; but the speakers were all\ndesperately in earnest, and Jurgis was in earnest too, for he understood\nthat a fight was on, and that it was his fight. Since the time of his\ndisillusionment, Jurgis had sworn to trust no man, except in his own\nfamily; but here he discovered that he had brothers in affliction, and\nallies. Their one chance for life was in union, and so the struggle\nbecame a kind of crusade. Jurgis had always been a member of the church,\nbecause it was the right thing to be, but the church had never\ntouched him, he left all that for the women. Here, however, was a new\nreligion--one that did touch him, that took hold of every fiber of him;\nand with all the zeal and fury of a convert he went out as a missionary.\nThere were many nonunion men among the Lithuanians, and with these\nhe would labor and wrestle in prayer, trying to show them the right.\nSometimes they would be obstinate and refuse to see it, and Jurgis,\nalas, was not always patient! He forgot how he himself had been blind,\na short time ago--after the fashion of all crusaders since the original\nones, who set out to spread the gospel of Brotherhood by force of arms.\n\n\n\nChapter 9\n\n\nOne of the first consequences of the discovery of the union was that\nJurgis became desirous of learning English. He wanted to know what was\ngoing on at the meetings, and to be able to take part in them, and so he\nbegan to look about him, and to try to pick up words. The children, who\nwere at school, and learning fast, would teach him a few; and a friend\nloaned him a little book that had some in it, and Ona would read them to\nhim. Then Jurgis became sorry that he could not read himself; and later\non in the winter, when some one told him that there was a night school\nthat was free, he went and enrolled. After that, every evening that he\ngot home from the yards in time, he would go to the school; he would go\neven if he were in time for only half an hour. They were teaching him\nboth to read and to speak English--and they would have taught him other\nthings, if only he had had a little time.\n\nAlso the union made another great difference with him--it made him begin\nto pay attention to the country. It was the beginning of democracy with\nhim. It was a little state, the union, a miniature republic; its affairs\nwere every man's affairs, and every man had a real say about them. In\nother words, in the union Jurgis learned to talk politics. In the place\nwhere he had come from there had not been any politics--in Russia one\nthought of the government as an affliction like the lightning and the\nhail. \"Duck, little brother, duck,\" the wise old peasants would whisper;\n\"everything passes away.\" And when Jurgis had first come to America he\nhad supposed that it was the same. He had heard people say that it was\na free country--but what did that mean? He found that here, precisely\nas in Russia, there were rich men who owned everything; and if one could\nnot find any work, was not the hunger he began to feel the same sort of\nhunger?\n\nWhen Jurgis had been working about three weeks at Brown's, there had\ncome to him one noontime a man who was employed as a night watchman, and\nwho asked him if he would not like to take out naturalization papers\nand become a citizen. Jurgis did not know what that meant, but the man\nexplained the advantages. In the first place, it would not cost him\nanything, and it would get him half a day off, with his pay just the\nsame; and then when election time came he would be able to vote--and\nthere was something in that. Jurgis was naturally glad to accept, and so\nthe night watchman said a few words to the boss, and he was excused for\nthe rest of the day. When, later on, he wanted a holiday to get married\nhe could not get it; and as for a holiday with pay just the same--what\npower had wrought that miracle heaven only knew! However, he went with\nthe man, who picked up several other newly landed immigrants, Poles,\nLithuanians, and Slovaks, and took them all outside, where stood a great\nfour-horse tallyho coach, with fifteen or twenty men already in it. It\nwas a fine chance to see the sights of the city, and the party had a\nmerry time, with plenty of beer handed up from inside. So they drove\ndowntown and stopped before an imposing granite building, in which they\ninterviewed an official, who had the papers all ready, with only the\nnames to be filled in. So each man in turn took an oath of which he did\nnot understand a word, and then was presented with a handsome ornamented\ndocument with a big red seal and the shield of the United States upon\nit, and was told that he had become a citizen of the Republic and the\nequal of the President himself.\n\nA month or two later Jurgis had another interview with this same man,\nwho told him where to go to \"register.\" And then finally, when election\nday came, the packing houses posted a notice that men who desired to\nvote might remain away until nine that morning, and the same night\nwatchman took Jurgis and the rest of his flock into the back room of a\nsaloon, and showed each of them where and how to mark a ballot, and then\ngave each two dollars, and took them to the polling place, where there\nwas a policeman on duty especially to see that they got through all\nright. Jurgis felt quite proud of this good luck till he got home and\nmet Jonas, who had taken the leader aside and whispered to him, offering\nto vote three times for four dollars, which offer had been accepted.\n\nAnd now in the union Jurgis met men who explained all this mystery\nto him; and he learned that America differed from Russia in that its\ngovernment existed under the form of a democracy. The officials who\nruled it, and got all the graft, had to be elected first; and so there\nwere two rival sets of grafters, known as political parties, and the one\ngot the office which bought the most votes. Now and then, the election\nwas very close, and that was the time the poor man came in. In the\nstockyards this was only in national and state elections, for in local\nelections the Democratic Party always carried everything. The ruler of\nthe district was therefore the Democratic boss, a little Irishman named\nMike Scully. Scully held an important party office in the state, and\nbossed even the mayor of the city, it was said; it was his boast that he\ncarried the stockyards in his pocket. He was an enormously rich man--he\nhad a hand in all the big graft in the neighborhood. It was Scully, for\ninstance, who owned that dump which Jurgis and Ona had seen the first\nday of their arrival. Not only did he own the dump, but he owned the\nbrick factory as well, and first he took out the clay and made it into\nbricks, and then he had the city bring garbage to fill up the hole, so\nthat he could build houses to sell to the people. Then, too, he sold the\nbricks to the city, at his own price, and the city came and got them\nin its own wagons. And also he owned the other hole near by, where the\nstagnant water was; and it was he who cut the ice and sold it; and what\nwas more, if the men told truth, he had not had to pay any taxes for the\nwater, and he had built the ice-house out of city lumber, and had not had\nto pay anything for that. The newspapers had got hold of that story, and\nthere had been a scandal; but Scully had hired somebody to confess and\ntake all the blame, and then skip the country. It was said, too, that he\nhad built his brick-kiln in the same way, and that the workmen were on\nthe city payroll while they did it; however, one had to press closely to\nget these things out of the men, for it was not their business, and Mike\nScully was a good man to stand in with. A note signed by him was equal\nto a job any time at the packing houses; and also he employed a good\nmany men himself, and worked them only eight hours a day, and paid them\nthe highest wages. This gave him many friends--all of whom he had gotten\ntogether into the \"War Whoop League,\" whose clubhouse you might see\njust outside of the yards. It was the biggest clubhouse, and the biggest\nclub, in all Chicago; and they had prizefights every now and then,\nand cockfights and even dogfights. The policemen in the district all\nbelonged to the league, and instead of suppressing the fights, they sold\ntickets for them. The man that had taken Jurgis to be naturalized was\none of these \"Indians,\" as they were called; and on election day there\nwould be hundreds of them out, and all with big wads of money in their\npockets and free drinks at every saloon in the district. That was\nanother thing, the men said--all the saloon-keepers had to be \"Indians,\"\nand to put up on demand, otherwise they could not do business on\nSundays, nor have any gambling at all. In the same way Scully had all\nthe jobs in the fire department at his disposal, and all the rest of the\ncity graft in the stockyards district; he was building a block of flats\nsomewhere up on Ashland Avenue, and the man who was overseeing it for\nhim was drawing pay as a city inspector of sewers. The city inspector of\nwater pipes had been dead and buried for over a year, but somebody was\nstill drawing his pay. The city inspector of sidewalks was a barkeeper\nat the War Whoop Cafe--and maybe he could make it uncomfortable for any\ntradesman who did not stand in with Scully!\n\nEven the packers were in awe of him, so the men said. It gave them\npleasure to believe this, for Scully stood as the people's man, and\nboasted of it boldly when election day came. The packers had wanted a\nbridge at Ashland Avenue, but they had not been able to get it till they\nhad seen Scully; and it was the same with \"Bubbly Creek,\" which the city\nhad threatened to make the packers cover over, till Scully had come to\ntheir aid. \"Bubbly Creek\" is an arm of the Chicago River, and forms the\nsouthern boundary of the yards: all the drainage of the square mile of\npacking houses empties into it, so that it is really a great open sewer\na hundred or two feet wide. One long arm of it is blind, and the filth\nstays there forever and a day. The grease and chemicals that are poured\ninto it undergo all sorts of strange transformations, which are the\ncause of its name; it is constantly in motion, as if huge fish were\nfeeding in it, or great leviathans disporting themselves in its depths.\nBubbles of carbonic acid gas will rise to the surface and burst, and\nmake rings two or three feet wide. Here and there the grease and filth\nhave caked solid, and the creek looks like a bed of lava; chickens walk\nabout on it, feeding, and many times an unwary stranger has started to\nstroll across, and vanished temporarily. The packers used to leave the\ncreek that way, till every now and then the surface would catch on fire\nand burn furiously, and the fire department would have to come and put\nit out. Once, however, an ingenious stranger came and started to gather\nthis filth in scows, to make lard out of; then the packers took the\ncue, and got out an injunction to stop him, and afterward gathered it\nthemselves. The banks of \"Bubbly Creek\" are plastered thick with hairs,\nand this also the packers gather and clean.\n\nAnd there were things even stranger than this, according to the gossip\nof the men. The packers had secret mains, through which they stole\nbillions of gallons of the city's water. The newspapers had been full of\nthis scandal--once there had even been an investigation, and an actual\nuncovering of the pipes; but nobody had been punished, and the thing\nwent right on. And then there was the condemned meat industry, with its\nendless horrors. The people of Chicago saw the government inspectors\nin Packingtown, and they all took that to mean that they were protected\nfrom diseased meat; they did not understand that these hundred and\nsixty-three inspectors had been appointed at the request of the packers,\nand that they were paid by the United States government to certify\nthat all the diseased meat was kept in the state. They had no authority\nbeyond that; for the inspection of meat to be sold in the city and state\nthe whole force in Packingtown consisted of three henchmen of the local\npolitical machine!*\n\n     (*Rules and Regulations for the Inspection of Livestock and\n     Their Products. United States Department of Agriculture,\n     Bureau of Animal Industries, Order No. 125:--\n\n     Section 1. Proprietors of slaughterhouses, canning, salting,\n     packing, or rendering establishments engaged in the\n     slaughtering of cattle, sheep, or swine, or the packing of\n     any of their products, the carcasses or products of which\n     are to become subjects of interstate or foreign commerce,\n     shall make application to the Secretary of Agriculture for\n     inspection of said animals and their products....\n\n     Section 15. Such rejected or condemned animals shall at once\n     be removed by the owners from the pens containing animals\n     which have been inspected and found to be free from disease\n     and fit for human food, and shall be disposed of in\n     accordance with the laws, ordinances, and regulations of the\n     state and municipality in which said rejected or condemned\n     animals are located....\n\n     Section 25. A microscopic examination for trichinae shall be\n     made of all swine products exported to countries requiring\n     such examination. No microscopic examination will be made of\n     hogs slaughtered for interstate trade, but this examination\n     shall be confined to those intended for the export trade.)\n\nAnd shortly afterward one of these, a physician, made the discovery that\nthe carcasses of steers which had been condemned as tubercular by the\ngovernment inspectors, and which therefore contained ptomaines, which\nare deadly poisons, were left upon an open platform and carted away to\nbe sold in the city; and so he insisted that these carcasses be treated\nwith an injection of kerosene--and was ordered to resign the same week!\nSo indignant were the packers that they went farther, and compelled\nthe mayor to abolish the whole bureau of inspection; so that since then\nthere has not been even a pretense of any interference with the graft.\nThere was said to be two thousand dollars a week hush money from the\ntubercular steers alone; and as much again from the hogs which had died\nof cholera on the trains, and which you might see any day being loaded\ninto boxcars and hauled away to a place called Globe, in Indiana, where\nthey made a fancy grade of lard.\n\nJurgis heard of these things little by little, in the gossip of those\nwho were obliged to perpetrate them. It seemed as if every time you\nmet a person from a new department, you heard of new swindles and new\ncrimes. There was, for instance, a Lithuanian who was a cattle butcher\nfor the plant where Marija had worked, which killed meat for canning\nonly; and to hear this man describe the animals which came to his place\nwould have been worthwhile for a Dante or a Zola. It seemed that they\nmust have agencies all over the country, to hunt out old and crippled\nand diseased cattle to be canned. There were cattle which had been fed\non \"whisky-malt,\" the refuse of the breweries, and had become what the\nmen called \"steerly\"--which means covered with boils. It was a nasty\njob killing these, for when you plunged your knife into them they would\nburst and splash foul-smelling stuff into your face; and when a man's\nsleeves were smeared with blood, and his hands steeped in it, how was he\never to wipe his face, or to clear his eyes so that he could see? It was\nstuff such as this that made the \"embalmed beef\" that had killed\nseveral times as many United States soldiers as all the bullets of the\nSpaniards; only the army beef, besides, was not fresh canned, it was old\nstuff that had been lying for years in the cellars.\n\nThen one Sunday evening, Jurgis sat puffing his pipe by the kitchen\nstove, and talking with an old fellow whom Jonas had introduced, and\nwho worked in the canning rooms at Durham's; and so Jurgis learned a few\nthings about the great and only Durham canned goods, which had become\na national institution. They were regular alchemists at Durham's; they\nadvertised a mushroom-catsup, and the men who made it did not know what\na mushroom looked like. They advertised \"potted chicken,\"--and it was\nlike the boardinghouse soup of the comic papers, through which a chicken\nhad walked with rubbers on. Perhaps they had a secret process for making\nchickens chemically--who knows? said Jurgis' friend; the things that\nwent into the mixture were tripe, and the fat of pork, and beef suet,\nand hearts of beef, and finally the waste ends of veal, when they had\nany. They put these up in several grades, and sold them at several\nprices; but the contents of the cans all came out of the same hopper.\nAnd then there was \"potted game\" and \"potted grouse,\" \"potted ham,\" and\n\"deviled ham\"--de-vyled, as the men called it. \"De-vyled\" ham was made\nout of the waste ends of smoked beef that were too small to be sliced by\nthe machines; and also tripe, dyed with chemicals so that it would not\nshow white; and trimmings of hams and corned beef; and potatoes, skins\nand all; and finally the hard cartilaginous gullets of beef, after the\ntongues had been cut out. All this ingenious mixture was ground up and\nflavored with spices to make it taste like something. Anybody who could\ninvent a new imitation had been sure of a fortune from old Durham, said\nJurgis' informant; but it was hard to think of anything new in a\nplace where so many sharp wits had been at work for so long; where men\nwelcomed tuberculosis in the cattle they were feeding, because it made\nthem fatten more quickly; and where they bought up all the old rancid\nbutter left over in the grocery stores of a continent, and \"oxidized\" it\nby a forced-air process, to take away the odor, rechurned it with skim\nmilk, and sold it in bricks in the cities! Up to a year or two ago\nit had been the custom to kill horses in the yards--ostensibly for\nfertilizer; but after long agitation the newspapers had been able to\nmake the public realize that the horses were being canned. Now it was\nagainst the law to kill horses in Packingtown, and the law was really\ncomplied with--for the present, at any rate. Any day, however, one might\nsee sharp-horned and shaggy-haired creatures running with the sheep and\nyet what a job you would have to get the public to believe that a good\npart of what it buys for lamb and mutton is really goat's flesh!\n\nThere was another interesting set of statistics that a person might\nhave gathered in Packingtown--those of the various afflictions of\nthe workers. When Jurgis had first inspected the packing plants with\nSzedvilas, he had marveled while he listened to the tale of all the\nthings that were made out of the carcasses of animals, and of all the\nlesser industries that were maintained there; now he found that each one\nof these lesser industries was a separate little inferno, in its way as\nhorrible as the killing beds, the source and fountain of them all.\nThe workers in each of them had their own peculiar diseases. And the\nwandering visitor might be skeptical about all the swindles, but he\ncould not be skeptical about these, for the worker bore the evidence\nof them about on his own person--generally he had only to hold out his\nhand.\n\nThere were the men in the pickle rooms, for instance, where old Antanas\nhad gotten his death; scarce a one of these that had not some spot of\nhorror on his person. Let a man so much as scrape his finger pushing a\ntruck in the pickle rooms, and he might have a sore that would put him\nout of the world; all the joints in his fingers might be eaten by the\nacid, one by one. Of the butchers and floorsmen, the beef-boners and\ntrimmers, and all those who used knives, you could scarcely find a\nperson who had the use of his thumb; time and time again the base of it\nhad been slashed, till it was a mere lump of flesh against which the\nman pressed the knife to hold it. The hands of these men would be\ncriss-crossed with cuts, until you could no longer pretend to count\nthem or to trace them. They would have no nails,--they had worn them off\npulling hides; their knuckles were swollen so that their fingers spread\nout like a fan. There were men who worked in the cooking rooms, in the\nmidst of steam and sickening odors, by artificial light; in these rooms\nthe germs of tuberculosis might live for two years, but the supply\nwas renewed every hour. There were the beef-luggers, who carried\ntwo-hundred-pound quarters into the refrigerator-cars; a fearful kind of\nwork, that began at four o'clock in the morning, and that wore out the\nmost powerful men in a few years. There were those who worked in the\nchilling rooms, and whose special disease was rheumatism; the time limit\nthat a man could work in the chilling rooms was said to be five years.\nThere were the wool-pluckers, whose hands went to pieces even sooner\nthan the hands of the pickle men; for the pelts of the sheep had to be\npainted with acid to loosen the wool, and then the pluckers had to\npull out this wool with their bare hands, till the acid had eaten their\nfingers off. There were those who made the tins for the canned meat; and\ntheir hands, too, were a maze of cuts, and each cut represented a chance\nfor blood poisoning. Some worked at the stamping machines, and it was\nvery seldom that one could work long there at the pace that was set, and\nnot give out and forget himself and have a part of his hand chopped off.\nThere were the \"hoisters,\" as they were called, whose task it was to\npress the lever which lifted the dead cattle off the floor. They ran\nalong upon a rafter, peering down through the damp and the steam; and\nas old Durham's architects had not built the killing room for the\nconvenience of the hoisters, at every few feet they would have to stoop\nunder a beam, say four feet above the one they ran on; which got them\ninto the habit of stooping, so that in a few years they would be walking\nlike chimpanzees. Worst of any, however, were the fertilizer men, and\nthose who served in the cooking rooms. These people could not be shown\nto the visitor,--for the odor of a fertilizer man would scare any\nordinary visitor at a hundred yards, and as for the other men, who\nworked in tank rooms full of steam, and in some of which there were open\nvats near the level of the floor, their peculiar trouble was that they\nfell into the vats; and when they were fished out, there was never\nenough of them left to be worth exhibiting,--sometimes they would be\noverlooked for days, till all but the bones of them had gone out to the\nworld as Durham's Pure Leaf Lard!\n\n\n\nChapter 10\n\n\nDuring the early part of the winter the family had had money enough to\nlive and a little over to pay their debts with; but when the earnings of\nJurgis fell from nine or ten dollars a week to five or six, there was\nno longer anything to spare. The winter went, and the spring came, and\nfound them still living thus from hand to mouth, hanging on day by day,\nwith literally not a month's wages between them and starvation. Marija\nwas in despair, for there was still no word about the reopening of the\ncanning factory, and her savings were almost entirely gone. She had had\nto give up all idea of marrying then; the family could not get along\nwithout her--though for that matter she was likely soon to become a\nburden even upon them, for when her money was all gone, they would have\nto pay back what they owed her in board. So Jurgis and Ona and Teta\nElzbieta would hold anxious conferences until late at night, trying to\nfigure how they could manage this too without starving.\n\nSuch were the cruel terms upon which their life was possible, that they\nmight never have nor expect a single instant's respite from worry, a\nsingle instant in which they were not haunted by the thought of money.\nThey would no sooner escape, as by a miracle, from one difficulty,\nthan a new one would come into view. In addition to all their physical\nhardships, there was thus a constant strain upon their minds; they were\nharried all day and nearly all night by worry and fear. This was in\ntruth not living; it was scarcely even existing, and they felt that it\nwas too little for the price they paid. They were willing to work all\nthe time; and when people did their best, ought they not to be able to\nkeep alive?\n\nThere seemed never to be an end to the things they had to buy and to the\nunforeseen contingencies. Once their water pipes froze and burst; and\nwhen, in their ignorance, they thawed them out, they had a terrifying\nflood in their house. It happened while the men were away, and poor\nElzbieta rushed out into the street screaming for help, for she did\nnot even know whether the flood could be stopped, or whether they were\nruined for life. It was nearly as bad as the latter, they found in\nthe end, for the plumber charged them seventy-five cents an hour, and\nseventy-five cents for another man who had stood and watched him, and\nincluded all the time the two had been going and coming, and also a\ncharge for all sorts of material and extras. And then again, when\nthey went to pay their January's installment on the house, the agent\nterrified them by asking them if they had had the insurance attended\nto yet. In answer to their inquiry he showed them a clause in the deed\nwhich provided that they were to keep the house insured for one thousand\ndollars, as soon as the present policy ran out, which would happen in\na few days. Poor Elzbieta, upon whom again fell the blow, demanded how\nmuch it would cost them. Seven dollars, the man said; and that night\ncame Jurgis, grim and determined, requesting that the agent would be\ngood enough to inform him, once for all, as to all the expenses they\nwere liable for. The deed was signed now, he said, with sarcasm proper\nto the new way of life he had learned--the deed was signed, and so the\nagent had no longer anything to gain by keeping quiet. And Jurgis looked\nthe fellow squarely in the eye, and so the fellow wasted no time in\nconventional protests, but read him the deed. They would have to renew\nthe insurance every year; they would have to pay the taxes, about ten\ndollars a year; they would have to pay the water tax, about six dollars\na year--(Jurgis silently resolved to shut off the hydrant). This,\nbesides the interest and the monthly installments, would be all--unless\nby chance the city should happen to decide to put in a sewer or to lay\na sidewalk. Yes, said the agent, they would have to have these, whether\nthey wanted them or not, if the city said so. The sewer would cost them\nabout twenty-two dollars, and the sidewalk fifteen if it were wood,\ntwenty-five if it were cement.\n\nSo Jurgis went home again; it was a relief to know the worst, at any\nrate, so that he could no more be surprised by fresh demands. He saw\nnow how they had been plundered; but they were in for it, there was\nno turning back. They could only go on and make the fight and win--for\ndefeat was a thing that could not even be thought of.\n\nWhen the springtime came, they were delivered from the dreadful cold,\nand that was a great deal; but in addition they had counted on the money\nthey would not have to pay for coal--and it was just at this time that\nMarija's board began to fail. Then, too, the warm weather brought trials\nof its own; each season had its trials, as they found. In the spring\nthere were cold rains, that turned the streets into canals and bogs; the\nmud would be so deep that wagons would sink up to the hubs, so that half\na dozen horses could not move them. Then, of course, it was impossible\nfor any one to get to work with dry feet; and this was bad for men that\nwere poorly clad and shod, and still worse for women and children. Later\ncame midsummer, with the stifling heat, when the dingy killing beds of\nDurham's became a very purgatory; one time, in a single day, three men\nfell dead from sunstroke. All day long the rivers of hot blood poured\nforth, until, with the sun beating down, and the air motionless,\nthe stench was enough to knock a man over; all the old smells of a\ngeneration would be drawn out by this heat--for there was never any\nwashing of the walls and rafters and pillars, and they were caked with\nthe filth of a lifetime. The men who worked on the killing beds would\ncome to reek with foulness, so that you could smell one of them fifty\nfeet away; there was simply no such thing as keeping decent, the most\ncareful man gave it up in the end, and wallowed in uncleanness. There\nwas not even a place where a man could wash his hands, and the men ate\nas much raw blood as food at dinnertime. When they were at work they\ncould not even wipe off their faces--they were as helpless as newly born\nbabes in that respect; and it may seem like a small matter, but when the\nsweat began to run down their necks and tickle them, or a fly to bother\nthem, it was a torture like being burned alive. Whether it was the\nslaughterhouses or the dumps that were responsible, one could not say,\nbut with the hot weather there descended upon Packingtown a veritable\nEgyptian plague of flies; there could be no describing this--the houses\nwould be black with them. There was no escaping; you might provide all\nyour doors and windows with screens, but their buzzing outside would be\nlike the swarming of bees, and whenever you opened the door they would\nrush in as if a storm of wind were driving them.\n\nPerhaps the summertime suggests to you thoughts of the country, visions\nof green fields and mountains and sparkling lakes. It had no such\nsuggestion for the people in the yards. The great packing machine ground\non remorselessly, without thinking of green fields; and the men and\nwomen and children who were part of it never saw any green thing, not\neven a flower. Four or five miles to the east of them lay the blue\nwaters of Lake Michigan; but for all the good it did them it might have\nbeen as far away as the Pacific Ocean. They had only Sundays, and\nthen they were too tired to walk. They were tied to the great packing\nmachine, and tied to it for life. The managers and superintendents and\nclerks of Packingtown were all recruited from another class, and never\nfrom the workers; they scorned the workers, the very meanest of them. A\npoor devil of a bookkeeper who had been working in Durham's for twenty\nyears at a salary of six dollars a week, and might work there for twenty\nmore and do no better, would yet consider himself a gentleman, as far\nremoved as the poles from the most skilled worker on the killing beds;\nhe would dress differently, and live in another part of the town, and\ncome to work at a different hour of the day, and in every way make sure\nthat he never rubbed elbows with a laboring man. Perhaps this was due to\nthe repulsiveness of the work; at any rate, the people who worked with\ntheir hands were a class apart, and were made to feel it.\n\nIn the late spring the canning factory started up again, and so once\nmore Marija was heard to sing, and the love-music of Tamoszius took on\na less melancholy tone. It was not for long, however; for a month or two\nlater a dreadful calamity fell upon Marija. Just one year and three days\nafter she had begun work as a can-painter, she lost her job.\n\nIt was a long story. Marija insisted that it was because of her activity\nin the union. The packers, of course, had spies in all the unions, and\nin addition they made a practice of buying up a certain number of the\nunion officials, as many as they thought they needed. So every week they\nreceived reports as to what was going on, and often they knew things\nbefore the members of the union knew them. Any one who was considered\nto be dangerous by them would find that he was not a favorite with\nhis boss; and Marija had been a great hand for going after the foreign\npeople and preaching to them. However that might be, the known facts\nwere that a few weeks before the factory closed, Marija had been cheated\nout of her pay for three hundred cans. The girls worked at a long table,\nand behind them walked a woman with pencil and notebook, keeping count\nof the number they finished. This woman was, of course, only human, and\nsometimes made mistakes; when this happened, there was no redress--if\non Saturday you got less money than you had earned, you had to make the\nbest of it. But Marija did not understand this, and made a disturbance.\nMarija's disturbances did not mean anything, and while she had known\nonly Lithuanian and Polish, they had done no harm, for people only\nlaughed at her and made her cry. But now Marija was able to call names\nin English, and so she got the woman who made the mistake to disliking\nher. Probably, as Marija claimed, she made mistakes on purpose after\nthat; at any rate, she made them, and the third time it happened Marija\nwent on the warpath and took the matter first to the forelady, and\nwhen she got no satisfaction there, to the superintendent. This was\nunheard-of presumption, but the superintendent said he would see about\nit, which Marija took to mean that she was going to get her money; after\nwaiting three days, she went to see the superintendent again. This time\nthe man frowned, and said that he had not had time to attend to it; and\nwhen Marija, against the advice and warning of every one, tried it once\nmore, he ordered her back to her work in a passion. Just how things\nhappened after that Marija was not sure, but that afternoon the forelady\ntold her that her services would not be any longer required. Poor Marija\ncould not have been more dumfounded had the woman knocked her over the\nhead; at first she could not believe what she heard, and then she grew\nfurious and swore that she would come anyway, that her place belonged\nto her. In the end she sat down in the middle of the floor and wept and\nwailed.\n\nIt was a cruel lesson; but then Marija was headstrong--she should have\nlistened to those who had had experience. The next time she would know\nher place, as the forelady expressed it; and so Marija went out, and the\nfamily faced the problem of an existence again.\n\nIt was especially hard this time, for Ona was to be confined before\nlong, and Jurgis was trying hard to save up money for this. He had\nheard dreadful stories of the midwives, who grow as thick as fleas\nin Packingtown; and he had made up his mind that Ona must have a\nman-doctor. Jurgis could be very obstinate when he wanted to, and he\nwas in this case, much to the dismay of the women, who felt that a\nman-doctor was an impropriety, and that the matter really belonged to\nthem. The cheapest doctor they could find would charge them fifteen\ndollars, and perhaps more when the bill came in; and here was Jurgis,\ndeclaring that he would pay it, even if he had to stop eating in the\nmeantime!\n\nMarija had only about twenty-five dollars left. Day after day she\nwandered about the yards begging a job, but this time without hope of\nfinding it. Marija could do the work of an able-bodied man, when she\nwas cheerful, but discouragement wore her out easily, and she would come\nhome at night a pitiable object. She learned her lesson this time, poor\ncreature; she learned it ten times over. All the family learned it along\nwith her--that when you have once got a job in Packingtown, you hang on\nto it, come what will.\n\nFour weeks Marija hunted, and half of a fifth week. Of course she\nstopped paying her dues to the union. She lost all interest in the\nunion, and cursed herself for a fool that she had ever been dragged\ninto one. She had about made up her mind that she was a lost soul,\nwhen somebody told her of an opening, and she went and got a place as\na \"beef-trimmer.\" She got this because the boss saw that she had the\nmuscles of a man, and so he discharged a man and put Marija to do his\nwork, paying her a little more than half what he had been paying before.\n\nWhen she first came to Packingtown, Marija would have scorned such work\nas this. She was in another canning factory, and her work was to trim\nthe meat of those diseased cattle that Jurgis had been told about not\nlong before. She was shut up in one of the rooms where the people seldom\nsaw the daylight; beneath her were the chilling rooms, where the meat\nwas frozen, and above her were the cooking rooms; and so she stood on an\nice-cold floor, while her head was often so hot that she could scarcely\nbreathe. Trimming beef off the bones by the hundred-weight, while\nstanding up from early morning till late at night, with heavy boots on\nand the floor always damp and full of puddles, liable to be thrown out\nof work indefinitely because of a slackening in the trade, liable again\nto be kept overtime in rush seasons, and be worked till she trembled\nin every nerve and lost her grip on her slimy knife, and gave herself\na poisoned wound--that was the new life that unfolded itself before\nMarija. But because Marija was a human horse she merely laughed and went\nat it; it would enable her to pay her board again, and keep the family\ngoing. And as for Tamoszius--well, they had waited a long time, and they\ncould wait a little longer. They could not possibly get along upon his\nwages alone, and the family could not live without hers. He could come\nand visit her, and sit in the kitchen and hold her hand, and he must\nmanage to be content with that. But day by day the music of Tamoszius'\nviolin became more passionate and heartbreaking; and Marija would sit\nwith her hands clasped and her cheeks wet and all her body a-tremble,\nhearing in the wailing melodies the voices of the unborn generations\nwhich cried out in her for life.\n\n\nMarija's lesson came just in time to save Ona from a similar fate.\nOna, too, was dissatisfied with her place, and had far more reason than\nMarija. She did not tell half of her story at home, because she saw it\nwas a torment to Jurgis, and she was afraid of what he might do. For\na long time Ona had seen that Miss Henderson, the forelady in her\ndepartment, did not like her. At first she thought it was the old-time\nmistake she had made in asking for a holiday to get married. Then she\nconcluded it must be because she did not give the forelady a present\noccasionally--she was the kind that took presents from the girls, Ona\nlearned, and made all sorts of discriminations in favor of those who\ngave them. In the end, however, Ona discovered that it was even worse\nthan that. Miss Henderson was a newcomer, and it was some time before\nrumor made her out; but finally it transpired that she was a kept woman,\nthe former mistress of the superintendent of a department in the same\nbuilding. He had put her there to keep her quiet, it seemed--and that\nnot altogether with success, for once or twice they had been heard\nquarreling. She had the temper of a hyena, and soon the place she ran\nwas a witch's caldron. There were some of the girls who were of her own\nsort, who were willing to toady to her and flatter her; and these would\ncarry tales about the rest, and so the furies were unchained in the\nplace. Worse than this, the woman lived in a bawdy-house downtown, with\na coarse, red-faced Irishman named Connor, who was the boss of the\nloading-gang outside, and would make free with the girls as they went\nto and from their work. In the slack seasons some of them would go with\nMiss Henderson to this house downtown--in fact, it would not be too much\nto say that she managed her department at Brown's in conjunction with\nit. Sometimes women from the house would be given places alongside of\ndecent girls, and after other decent girls had been turned off to make\nroom for them. When you worked in this woman's department the house\ndowntown was never out of your thoughts all day--there were always\nwhiffs of it to be caught, like the odor of the Packingtown rendering\nplants at night, when the wind shifted suddenly. There would be stories\nabout it going the rounds; the girls opposite you would be telling them\nand winking at you. In such a place Ona would not have stayed a day, but\nfor starvation; and, as it was, she was never sure that she could\nstay the next day. She understood now that the real reason that Miss\nHenderson hated her was that she was a decent married girl; and she knew\nthat the talebearers and the toadies hated her for the same reason, and\nwere doing their best to make her life miserable.\n\nBut there was no place a girl could go in Packingtown, if she was\nparticular about things of this sort; there was no place in it where\na prostitute could not get along better than a decent girl. Here was a\npopulation, low-class and mostly foreign, hanging always on the verge of\nstarvation, and dependent for its opportunities of life upon the whim of\nmen every bit as brutal and unscrupulous as the old-time slave drivers;\nunder such circumstances immorality was exactly as inevitable, and as\nprevalent, as it was under the system of chattel slavery. Things that\nwere quite unspeakable went on there in the packing houses all the time,\nand were taken for granted by everybody; only they did not show, as in\nthe old slavery times, because there was no difference in color between\nmaster and slave.\n\n\nOne morning Ona stayed home, and Jurgis had the man-doctor, according\nto his whim, and she was safely delivered of a fine baby. It was an\nenormous big boy, and Ona was such a tiny creature herself, that it\nseemed quite incredible. Jurgis would stand and gaze at the stranger by\nthe hour, unable to believe that it had really happened.\n\nThe coming of this boy was a decisive event with Jurgis. It made him\nirrevocably a family man; it killed the last lingering impulse that he\nmight have had to go out in the evenings and sit and talk with the men\nin the saloons. There was nothing he cared for now so much as to sit\nand look at the baby. This was very curious, for Jurgis had never been\ninterested in babies before. But then, this was a very unusual sort of a\nbaby. He had the brightest little black eyes, and little black ringlets\nall over his head; he was the living image of his father, everybody\nsaid--and Jurgis found this a fascinating circumstance. It was\nsufficiently perplexing that this tiny mite of life should have come\ninto the world at all in the manner that it had; that it should have\ncome with a comical imitation of its father's nose was simply uncanny.\n\nPerhaps, Jurgis thought, this was intended to signify that it was his\nbaby; that it was his and Ona's, to care for all its life. Jurgis had\nnever possessed anything nearly so interesting--a baby was, when you\ncame to think about it, assuredly a marvelous possession. It would grow\nup to be a man, a human soul, with a personality all its own, a will of\nits own! Such thoughts would keep haunting Jurgis, filling him with\nall sorts of strange and almost painful excitements. He was wonderfully\nproud of little Antanas; he was curious about all the details of\nhim--the washing and the dressing and the eating and the sleeping of\nhim, and asked all sorts of absurd questions. It took him quite a\nwhile to get over his alarm at the incredible shortness of the little\ncreature's legs.\n\nJurgis had, alas, very little time to see his baby; he never felt the\nchains about him more than just then. When he came home at night, the\nbaby would be asleep, and it would be the merest chance if he awoke\nbefore Jurgis had to go to sleep himself. Then in the morning there was\nno time to look at him, so really the only chance the father had was on\nSundays. This was more cruel yet for Ona, who ought to have stayed\nhome and nursed him, the doctor said, for her own health as well as the\nbaby's; but Ona had to go to work, and leave him for Teta Elzbieta\nto feed upon the pale blue poison that was called milk at the corner\ngrocery. Ona's confinement lost her only a week's wages--she would go to\nthe factory the second Monday, and the best that Jurgis could persuade\nher was to ride in the car, and let him run along behind and help her to\nBrown's when she alighted. After that it would be all right, said Ona,\nit was no strain sitting still sewing hams all day; and if she waited\nlonger she might find that her dreadful forelady had put some one\nelse in her place. That would be a greater calamity than ever now, Ona\ncontinued, on account of the baby. They would all have to work harder\nnow on his account. It was such a responsibility--they must not have the\nbaby grow up to suffer as they had. And this indeed had been the first\nthing that Jurgis had thought of himself--he had clenched his hands and\nbraced himself anew for the struggle, for the sake of that tiny mite of\nhuman possibility.\n\nAnd so Ona went back to Brown's and saved her place and a week's wages;\nand so she gave herself some one of the thousand ailments that women\ngroup under the title of \"womb trouble,\" and was never again a well\nperson as long as she lived. It is difficult to convey in words all that\nthis meant to Ona; it seemed such a slight offense, and the punishment\nwas so out of all proportion, that neither she nor any one else ever\nconnected the two. \"Womb trouble\" to Ona did not mean a specialist's\ndiagnosis, and a course of treatment, and perhaps an operation or two;\nit meant simply headaches and pains in the back, and depression and\nheartsickness, and neuralgia when she had to go to work in the rain. The\ngreat majority of the women who worked in Packingtown suffered in the\nsame way, and from the same cause, so it was not deemed a thing to see\nthe doctor about; instead Ona would try patent medicines, one after\nanother, as her friends told her about them. As these all contained\nalcohol, or some other stimulant, she found that they all did her good\nwhile she took them; and so she was always chasing the phantom of good\nhealth, and losing it because she was too poor to continue.\n\n\n\nChapter 11\n\n\nDuring the summer the packing houses were in full activity again, and\nJurgis made more money. He did not make so much, however, as he had the\nprevious summer, for the packers took on more hands. There were new men\nevery week, it seemed--it was a regular system; and this number they\nwould keep over to the next slack season, so that every one would have\nless than ever. Sooner or later, by this plan, they would have all the\nfloating labor of Chicago trained to do their work. And how very cunning\na trick was that! The men were to teach new hands, who would some day\ncome and break their strike; and meantime they were kept so poor that\nthey could not prepare for the trial!\n\nBut let no one suppose that this superfluity of employees meant easier\nwork for any one! On the contrary, the speeding-up seemed to be growing\nmore savage all the time; they were continually inventing new devices to\ncrowd the work on--it was for all the world like the thumbscrew of the\nmedieval torture chamber. They would get new pacemakers and pay them\nmore; they would drive the men on with new machinery--it was said\nthat in the hog-killing rooms the speed at which the hogs moved was\ndetermined by clockwork, and that it was increased a little every day.\nIn piecework they would reduce the time, requiring the same work in a\nshorter time, and paying the same wages; and then, after the workers had\naccustomed themselves to this new speed, they would reduce the rate of\npayment to correspond with the reduction in time! They had done this\nso often in the canning establishments that the girls were fairly\ndesperate; their wages had gone down by a full third in the past two\nyears, and a storm of discontent was brewing that was likely to break\nany day. Only a month after Marija had become a beef-trimmer the canning\nfactory that she had left posted a cut that would divide the girls'\nearnings almost squarely in half; and so great was the indignation at\nthis that they marched out without even a parley, and organized in the\nstreet outside. One of the girls had read somewhere that a red flag was\nthe proper symbol for oppressed workers, and so they mounted one, and\nparaded all about the yards, yelling with rage. A new union was the\nresult of this outburst, but the impromptu strike went to pieces in\nthree days, owing to the rush of new labor. At the end of it the girl\nwho had carried the red flag went downtown and got a position in a great\ndepartment store, at a salary of two dollars and a half a week.\n\nJurgis and Ona heard these stories with dismay, for there was no telling\nwhen their own time might come. Once or twice there had been rumors\nthat one of the big houses was going to cut its unskilled men to fifteen\ncents an hour, and Jurgis knew that if this was done, his turn would\ncome soon. He had learned by this time that Packingtown was really not\na number of firms at all, but one great firm, the Beef Trust. And every\nweek the managers of it got together and compared notes, and there\nwas one scale for all the workers in the yards and one standard of\nefficiency. Jurgis was told that they also fixed the price they would\npay for beef on the hoof and the price of all dressed meat in the\ncountry; but that was something he did not understand or care about.\n\nThe only one who was not afraid of a cut was Marija, who congratulated\nherself, somewhat naively, that there had been one in her place only\na short time before she came. Marija was getting to be a skilled\nbeef-trimmer, and was mounting to the heights again. During the summer\nand fall Jurgis and Ona managed to pay her back the last penny they\nowed her, and so she began to have a bank account. Tamoszius had a bank\naccount also, and they ran a race, and began to figure upon household\nexpenses once more.\n\nThe possession of vast wealth entails cares and responsibilities,\nhowever, as poor Marija found out. She had taken the advice of a friend\nand invested her savings in a bank on Ashland Avenue. Of course she knew\nnothing about it, except that it was big and imposing--what possible\nchance has a poor foreign working girl to understand the banking\nbusiness, as it is conducted in this land of frenzied finance? So Marija\nlived in a continual dread lest something should happen to her bank, and\nwould go out of her way mornings to make sure that it was still there.\nHer principal thought was of fire, for she had deposited her money in\nbills, and was afraid that if they were burned up the bank would not\ngive her any others. Jurgis made fun of her for this, for he was a man\nand was proud of his superior knowledge, telling her that the bank had\nfireproof vaults, and all its millions of dollars hidden safely away in\nthem.\n\nHowever, one morning Marija took her usual detour, and, to her horror\nand dismay, saw a crowd of people in front of the bank, filling the\navenue solid for half a block. All the blood went out of her face for\nterror. She broke into a run, shouting to the people to ask what was the\nmatter, but not stopping to hear what they answered, till she had come\nto where the throng was so dense that she could no longer advance. There\nwas a \"run on the bank,\" they told her then, but she did not know what\nthat was, and turned from one person to another, trying in an agony\nof fear to make out what they meant. Had something gone wrong with the\nbank? Nobody was sure, but they thought so. Couldn't she get her money?\nThere was no telling; the people were afraid not, and they were all\ntrying to get it. It was too early yet to tell anything--the bank would\nnot open for nearly three hours. So in a frenzy of despair Marija began\nto claw her way toward the doors of this building, through a throng of\nmen, women, and children, all as excited as herself. It was a scene of\nwild confusion, women shrieking and wringing their hands and fainting,\nand men fighting and trampling down everything in their way. In\nthe midst of the melee Marija recollected that she did not have her\nbankbook, and could not get her money anyway, so she fought her way out\nand started on a run for home. This was fortunate for her, for a few\nminutes later the police reserves arrived.\n\nIn half an hour Marija was back, Teta Elzbieta with her, both of them\nbreathless with running and sick with fear. The crowd was now formed\nin a line, extending for several blocks, with half a hundred policemen\nkeeping guard, and so there was nothing for them to do but to take their\nplaces at the end of it. At nine o'clock the bank opened and began to\npay the waiting throng; but then, what good did that do Marija, who saw\nthree thousand people before her--enough to take out the last penny of a\ndozen banks?\n\nTo make matters worse a drizzling rain came up, and soaked them to the\nskin; yet all the morning they stood there, creeping slowly toward the\ngoal--all the afternoon they stood there, heartsick, seeing that the\nhour of closing was coming, and that they were going to be left out.\nMarija made up her mind that, come what might, she would stay there and\nkeep her place; but as nearly all did the same, all through the long,\ncold night, she got very little closer to the bank for that. Toward\nevening Jurgis came; he had heard the story from the children, and he\nbrought some food and dry wraps, which made it a little easier.\n\nThe next morning, before daybreak, came a bigger crowd than ever, and\nmore policemen from downtown. Marija held on like grim death, and toward\nafternoon she got into the bank and got her money--all in big silver\ndollars, a handkerchief full. When she had once got her hands on them\nher fear vanished, and she wanted to put them back again; but the man\nat the window was savage, and said that the bank would receive no more\ndeposits from those who had taken part in the run. So Marija was forced\nto take her dollars home with her, watching to right and left, expecting\nevery instant that some one would try to rob her; and when she got home\nshe was not much better off. Until she could find another bank there was\nnothing to do but sew them up in her clothes, and so Marija went about\nfor a week or more, loaded down with bullion, and afraid to cross the\nstreet in front of the house, because Jurgis told her she would sink out\nof sight in the mud. Weighted this way she made her way to the\nyards, again in fear, this time to see if she had lost her place; but\nfortunately about ten per cent of the working people of Packingtown had\nbeen depositors in that bank, and it was not convenient to discharge\nthat many at once. The cause of the panic had been the attempt of a\npoliceman to arrest a drunken man in a saloon next door, which had drawn\na crowd at the hour the people were on their way to work, and so started\nthe \"run.\"\n\nAbout this time Jurgis and Ona also began a bank account. Besides having\npaid Jonas and Marija, they had almost paid for their furniture, and\ncould have that little sum to count on. So long as each of them could\nbring home nine or ten dollars a week, they were able to get along\nfinely. Also election day came round again, and Jurgis made half a\nweek's wages out of that, all net profit. It was a very close election\nthat year, and the echoes of the battle reached even to Packingtown. The\ntwo rival sets of grafters hired halls and set off fireworks and made\nspeeches, to try to get the people interested in the matter. Although\nJurgis did not understand it all, he knew enough by this time to realize\nthat it was not supposed to be right to sell your vote. However, as\nevery one did it, and his refusal to join would not have made the\nslightest difference in the results, the idea of refusing would have\nseemed absurd, had it ever come into his head.\n\n\nNow chill winds and shortening days began to warn them that the winter\nwas coming again. It seemed as if the respite had been too short--they\nhad not had time enough to get ready for it; but still it came,\ninexorably, and the hunted look began to come back into the eyes of\nlittle Stanislovas. The prospect struck fear to the heart of Jurgis\nalso, for he knew that Ona was not fit to face the cold and the\nsnowdrifts this year. And suppose that some day when a blizzard struck\nthem and the cars were not running, Ona should have to give up, and\nshould come the next day to find that her place had been given to some\none who lived nearer and could be depended on?\n\nIt was the week before Christmas that the first storm came, and then the\nsoul of Jurgis rose up within him like a sleeping lion. There were four\ndays that the Ashland Avenue cars were stalled, and in those days,\nfor the first time in his life, Jurgis knew what it was to be really\nopposed. He had faced difficulties before, but they had been child's\nplay; now there was a death struggle, and all the furies were unchained\nwithin him. The first morning they set out two hours before dawn, Ona\nwrapped all in blankets and tossed upon his shoulder like a sack of\nmeal, and the little boy, bundled nearly out of sight, hanging by\nhis coat-tails. There was a raging blast beating in his face, and the\nthermometer stood below zero; the snow was never short of his knees, and\nin some of the drifts it was nearly up to his armpits. It would catch\nhis feet and try to trip him; it would build itself into a wall before\nhim to beat him back; and he would fling himself into it, plunging like\na wounded buffalo, puffing and snorting in rage. So foot by foot he\ndrove his way, and when at last he came to Durham's he was staggering\nand almost blind, and leaned against a pillar, gasping, and thanking God\nthat the cattle came late to the killing beds that day. In the evening\nthe same thing had to be done again; and because Jurgis could not tell\nwhat hour of the night he would get off, he got a saloon-keeper to let\nOna sit and wait for him in a corner. Once it was eleven o'clock at\nnight, and black as the pit, but still they got home.\n\nThat blizzard knocked many a man out, for the crowd outside begging for\nwork was never greater, and the packers would not wait long for any\none. When it was over, the soul of Jurgis was a song, for he had met\nthe enemy and conquered, and felt himself the master of his fate.--So it\nmight be with some monarch of the forest that has vanquished his foes in\nfair fight, and then falls into some cowardly trap in the night-time.\n\nA time of peril on the killing beds was when a steer broke loose.\nSometimes, in the haste of speeding-up, they would dump one of the\nanimals out on the floor before it was fully stunned, and it would get\nupon its feet and run amuck. Then there would be a yell of warning--the\nmen would drop everything and dash for the nearest pillar, slipping\nhere and there on the floor, and tumbling over each other. This was bad\nenough in the summer, when a man could see; in wintertime it was enough\nto make your hair stand up, for the room would be so full of steam that\nyou could not make anything out five feet in front of you. To be sure,\nthe steer was generally blind and frantic, and not especially bent on\nhurting any one; but think of the chances of running upon a knife, while\nnearly every man had one in his hand! And then, to cap the climax, the\nfloor boss would come rushing up with a rifle and begin blazing away!\n\nIt was in one of these melees that Jurgis fell into his trap. That is\nthe only word to describe it; it was so cruel, and so utterly not to\nbe foreseen. At first he hardly noticed it, it was such a slight\naccident--simply that in leaping out of the way he turned his ankle.\nThere was a twinge of pain, but Jurgis was used to pain, and did not\ncoddle himself. When he came to walk home, however, he realized that it\nwas hurting him a great deal; and in the morning his ankle was swollen\nout nearly double its size, and he could not get his foot into his shoe.\nStill, even then, he did nothing more than swear a little, and wrapped\nhis foot in old rags, and hobbled out to take the car. It chanced to be\na rush day at Durham's, and all the long morning he limped about with\nhis aching foot; by noontime the pain was so great that it made him\nfaint, and after a couple of hours in the afternoon he was fairly\nbeaten, and had to tell the boss. They sent for the company doctor, and\nhe examined the foot and told Jurgis to go home to bed, adding that he\nhad probably laid himself up for months by his folly. The injury was not\none that Durham and Company could be held responsible for, and so that\nwas all there was to it, so far as the doctor was concerned.\n\nJurgis got home somehow, scarcely able to see for the pain, and with an\nawful terror in his soul, Elzbieta helped him into bed and bandaged\nhis injured foot with cold water and tried hard not to let him see her\ndismay; when the rest came home at night she met them outside and told\nthem, and they, too, put on a cheerful face, saying it would only be for\na week or two, and that they would pull him through.\n\nWhen they had gotten him to sleep, however, they sat by the kitchen fire\nand talked it over in frightened whispers. They were in for a siege,\nthat was plainly to be seen. Jurgis had only about sixty dollars in the\nbank, and the slack season was upon them. Both Jonas and Marija might\nsoon be earning no more than enough to pay their board, and besides that\nthere were only the wages of Ona and the pittance of the little boy.\nThere was the rent to pay, and still some on the furniture; there was\nthe insurance just due, and every month there was sack after sack\nof coal. It was January, midwinter, an awful time to have to face\nprivation. Deep snows would come again, and who would carry Ona to her\nwork now? She might lose her place--she was almost certain to lose it.\nAnd then little Stanislovas began to whimper--who would take care of\nhim?\n\nIt was dreadful that an accident of this sort, that no man can help,\nshould have meant such suffering. The bitterness of it was the daily\nfood and drink of Jurgis. It was of no use for them to try to deceive\nhim; he knew as much about the situation as they did, and he knew that\nthe family might literally starve to death. The worry of it fairly ate\nhim up--he began to look haggard the first two or three days of it. In\ntruth, it was almost maddening for a strong man like him, a fighter, to\nhave to lie there helpless on his back. It was for all the world the\nold story of Prometheus bound. As Jurgis lay on his bed, hour after hour\nthere came to him emotions that he had never known before. Before this\nhe had met life with a welcome--it had its trials, but none that a man\ncould not face. But now, in the nighttime, when he lay tossing about,\nthere would come stalking into his chamber a grisly phantom, the sight\nof which made his flesh curl and his hair to bristle up. It was like\nseeing the world fall away from underneath his feet; like plunging down\ninto a bottomless abyss into yawning caverns of despair. It might be\ntrue, then, after all, what others had told him about life, that the\nbest powers of a man might not be equal to it! It might be true that,\nstrive as he would, toil as he would, he might fail, and go down and be\ndestroyed! The thought of this was like an icy hand at his heart; the\nthought that here, in this ghastly home of all horror, he and all those\nwho were dear to him might lie and perish of starvation and cold, and\nthere would be no ear to hear their cry, no hand to help them! It was\ntrue, it was true,--that here in this huge city, with its stores of\nheaped-up wealth, human creatures might be hunted down and destroyed by\nthe wild-beast powers of nature, just as truly as ever they were in the\ndays of the cave men!\n\nOna was now making about thirty dollars a month, and Stanislovas about\nthirteen. To add to this there was the board of Jonas and Marija,\nabout forty-five dollars. Deducting from this the rent, interest,\nand installments on the furniture, they had left sixty dollars, and\ndeducting the coal, they had fifty. They did without everything that\nhuman beings could do without; they went in old and ragged clothing,\nthat left them at the mercy of the cold, and when the children's shoes\nwore out, they tied them up with string. Half invalid as she was, Ona\nwould do herself harm by walking in the rain and cold when she ought\nto have ridden; they bought literally nothing but food--and still they\ncould not keep alive on fifty dollars a month. They might have done it,\nif only they could have gotten pure food, and at fair prices; or if only\nthey had known what to get--if they had not been so pitifully ignorant!\nBut they had come to a new country, where everything was different,\nincluding the food. They had always been accustomed to eat a great deal\nof smoked sausage, and how could they know that what they bought in\nAmerica was not the same--that its color was made by chemicals, and its\nsmoky flavor by more chemicals, and that it was full of \"potato flour\"\nbesides? Potato flour is the waste of potato after the starch and\nalcohol have been extracted; it has no more food value than so much\nwood, and as its use as a food adulterant is a penal offense in Europe,\nthousands of tons of it are shipped to America every year. It was\namazing what quantities of food such as this were needed every day, by\neleven hungry persons. A dollar sixty-five a day was simply not enough\nto feed them, and there was no use trying; and so each week they made an\ninroad upon the pitiful little bank account that Ona had begun. Because\nthe account was in her name, it was possible for her to keep this a\nsecret from her husband, and to keep the heartsickness of it for her\nown.\n\nIt would have been better if Jurgis had been really ill; if he had not\nbeen able to think. For he had no resources such as most invalids have;\nall he could do was to lie there and toss about from side to side. Now\nand then he would break into cursing, regardless of everything; and now\nand then his impatience would get the better of him, and he would try to\nget up, and poor Teta Elzbieta would have to plead with him in a frenzy.\nElzbieta was all alone with him the greater part of the time. She would\nsit and smooth his forehead by the hour, and talk to him and try to make\nhim forget. Sometimes it would be too cold for the children to go to\nschool, and they would have to play in the kitchen, where Jurgis was,\nbecause it was the only room that was half warm. These were dreadful\ntimes, for Jurgis would get as cross as any bear; he was scarcely to\nbe blamed, for he had enough to worry him, and it was hard when he was\ntrying to take a nap to be kept awake by noisy and peevish children.\n\nElzbieta's only resource in those times was little Antanas; indeed, it\nwould be hard to say how they could have gotten along at all if it had\nnot been for little Antanas. It was the one consolation of Jurgis' long\nimprisonment that now he had time to look at his baby. Teta Elzbieta\nwould put the clothes-basket in which the baby slept alongside of his\nmattress, and Jurgis would lie upon one elbow and watch him by the\nhour, imagining things. Then little Antanas would open his eyes--he was\nbeginning to take notice of things now; and he would smile--how he would\nsmile! So Jurgis would begin to forget and be happy because he was in\na world where there was a thing so beautiful as the smile of little\nAntanas, and because such a world could not but be good at the heart of\nit. He looked more like his father every hour, Elzbieta would say, and\nsaid it many times a day, because she saw that it pleased Jurgis; the\npoor little terror-stricken woman was planning all day and all night\nto soothe the prisoned giant who was intrusted to her care. Jurgis, who\nknew nothing about the age-long and everlasting hypocrisy of woman, would\ntake the bait and grin with delight; and then he would hold his finger\nin front of little Antanas' eyes, and move it this way and that, and\nlaugh with glee to see the baby follow it. There is no pet quite so\nfascinating as a baby; he would look into Jurgis' face with such uncanny\nseriousness, and Jurgis would start and cry: \"Palauk! Look, Muma, he\nknows his papa! He does, he does! Tu mano szirdele, the little rascal!\"\n\n\n\nChapter 12\n\n\nFor three weeks after his injury Jurgis never got up from bed. It was\na very obstinate sprain; the swelling would not go down, and the pain\nstill continued. At the end of that time, however, he could contain\nhimself no longer, and began trying to walk a little every day, laboring\nto persuade himself that he was better. No arguments could stop him, and\nthree or four days later he declared that he was going back to work. He\nlimped to the cars and got to Brown's, where he found that the boss had\nkept his place--that is, was willing to turn out into the snow the poor\ndevil he had hired in the meantime. Every now and then the pain would\nforce Jurgis to stop work, but he stuck it out till nearly an hour\nbefore closing. Then he was forced to acknowledge that he could not go\non without fainting; it almost broke his heart to do it, and he stood\nleaning against a pillar and weeping like a child. Two of the men had to\nhelp him to the car, and when he got out he had to sit down and wait in\nthe snow till some one came along.\n\nSo they put him to bed again, and sent for the doctor, as they ought to\nhave done in the beginning. It transpired that he had twisted a tendon\nout of place, and could never have gotten well without attention. Then\nhe gripped the sides of the bed, and shut his teeth together, and turned\nwhite with agony, while the doctor pulled and wrenched away at his\nswollen ankle. When finally the doctor left, he told him that he would\nhave to lie quiet for two months, and that if he went to work before\nthat time he might lame himself for life.\n\nThree days later there came another heavy snowstorm, and Jonas and\nMarija and Ona and little Stanislovas all set out together, an hour\nbefore daybreak, to try to get to the yards. About noon the last two\ncame back, the boy screaming with pain. His fingers were all frosted,\nit seemed. They had had to give up trying to get to the yards, and had\nnearly perished in a drift. All that they knew how to do was to hold the\nfrozen fingers near the fire, and so little Stanislovas spent most of\nthe day dancing about in horrible agony, till Jurgis flew into a passion\nof nervous rage and swore like a madman, declaring that he would\nkill him if he did not stop. All that day and night the family was\nhalf-crazed with fear that Ona and the boy had lost their places; and in\nthe morning they set out earlier than ever, after the little fellow had\nbeen beaten with a stick by Jurgis. There could be no trifling in a case\nlike this, it was a matter of life and death; little Stanislovas could\nnot be expected to realize that he might a great deal better freeze\nin the snowdrift than lose his job at the lard machine. Ona was quite\ncertain that she would find her place gone, and was all unnerved when\nshe finally got to Brown's, and found that the forelady herself had\nfailed to come, and was therefore compelled to be lenient.\n\nOne of the consequences of this episode was that the first joints of\nthree of the little boy's fingers were permanently disabled, and another\nthat thereafter he always had to be beaten before he set out to work,\nwhenever there was fresh snow on the ground. Jurgis was called upon to\ndo the beating, and as it hurt his foot he did it with a vengeance; but\nit did not tend to add to the sweetness of his temper. They say that the\nbest dog will turn cross if he be kept chained all the time, and it\nwas the same with the man; he had not a thing to do all day but lie and\ncurse his fate, and the time came when he wanted to curse everything.\n\nThis was never for very long, however, for when Ona began to cry, Jurgis\ncould not stay angry. The poor fellow looked like a homeless ghost, with\nhis cheeks sunken in and his long black hair straggling into his eyes;\nhe was too discouraged to cut it, or to think about his appearance. His\nmuscles were wasting away, and what were left were soft and flabby. He\nhad no appetite, and they could not afford to tempt him with delicacies.\nIt was better, he said, that he should not eat, it was a saving. About\nthe end of March he had got hold of Ona's bankbook, and learned that\nthere was only three dollars left to them in the world.\n\nBut perhaps the worst of the consequences of this long siege was that\nthey lost another member of their family; Brother Jonas disappeared. One\nSaturday night he did not come home, and thereafter all their efforts to\nget trace of him were futile. It was said by the boss at Durham's that\nhe had gotten his week's money and left there. That might not be true,\nof course, for sometimes they would say that when a man had been killed;\nit was the easiest way out of it for all concerned. When, for instance,\na man had fallen into one of the rendering tanks and had been made into\npure leaf lard and peerless fertilizer, there was no use letting the\nfact out and making his family unhappy. More probable, however, was\nthe theory that Jonas had deserted them, and gone on the road, seeking\nhappiness. He had been discontented for a long time, and not without\nsome cause. He paid good board, and was yet obliged to live in a family\nwhere nobody had enough to eat. And Marija would keep giving them all\nher money, and of course he could not but feel that he was called upon\nto do the same. Then there were crying brats, and all sorts of misery;\na man would have had to be a good deal of a hero to stand it all without\ngrumbling, and Jonas was not in the least a hero--he was simply a\nweatherbeaten old fellow who liked to have a good supper and sit in the\ncorner by the fire and smoke his pipe in peace before he went to bed.\nHere there was not room by the fire, and through the winter the kitchen\nhad seldom been warm enough for comfort. So, with the springtime, what\nwas more likely than that the wild idea of escaping had come to him?\nTwo years he had been yoked like a horse to a half-ton truck in Durham's\ndark cellars, with never a rest, save on Sundays and four holidays in\nthe year, and with never a word of thanks--only kicks and blows and\ncurses, such as no decent dog would have stood. And now the winter was\nover, and the spring winds were blowing--and with a day's walk a man\nmight put the smoke of Packingtown behind him forever, and be where the\ngrass was green and the flowers all the colors of the rainbow!\n\nBut now the income of the family was cut down more than one-third, and\nthe food demand was cut only one-eleventh, so that they were worse off\nthan ever. Also they were borrowing money from Marija, and eating up\nher bank account, and spoiling once again her hopes of marriage and\nhappiness. And they were even going into debt to Tamoszius Kuszleika\nand letting him impoverish himself. Poor Tamoszius was a man without\nany relatives, and with a wonderful talent besides, and he ought to\nhave made money and prospered; but he had fallen in love, and so given\nhostages to fortune, and was doomed to be dragged down too.\n\nSo it was finally decided that two more of the children would have to\nleave school. Next to Stanislovas, who was now fifteen, there was a\ngirl, little Kotrina, who was two years younger, and then two boys,\nVilimas, who was eleven, and Nikalojus, who was ten. Both of these last\nwere bright boys, and there was no reason why their family should starve\nwhen tens of thousands of children no older were earning their own\nlivings. So one morning they were given a quarter apiece and a roll with\na sausage in it, and, with their minds top-heavy with good advice, were\nsent out to make their way to the city and learn to sell newspapers.\nThey came back late at night in tears, having walked for the five or\nsix miles to report that a man had offered to take them to a place where\nthey sold newspapers, and had taken their money and gone into a store to\nget them, and nevermore been seen. So they both received a whipping, and\nthe next morning set out again. This time they found the newspaper\nplace, and procured their stock; and after wandering about till nearly\nnoontime, saying \"Paper?\" to every one they saw, they had all their\nstock taken away and received a thrashing besides from a big newsman\nupon whose territory they had trespassed. Fortunately, however, they\nhad already sold some papers, and came back with nearly as much as they\nstarted with.\n\nAfter a week of mishaps such as these, the two little fellows began to\nlearn the ways of the trade--the names of the different papers, and how\nmany of each to get, and what sort of people to offer them to, and where\nto go and where to stay away from. After this, leaving home at four\no'clock in the morning, and running about the streets, first with\nmorning papers and then with evening, they might come home late at night\nwith twenty or thirty cents apiece--possibly as much as forty cents.\nFrom this they had to deduct their carfare, since the distance was so\ngreat; but after a while they made friends, and learned still more, and\nthen they would save their carfare. They would get on a car when the\nconductor was not looking, and hide in the crowd; and three times out\nof four he would not ask for their fares, either not seeing them,\nor thinking they had already paid; or if he did ask, they would hunt\nthrough their pockets, and then begin to cry, and either have their\nfares paid by some kind old lady, or else try the trick again on a new\ncar. All this was fair play, they felt. Whose fault was it that at the\nhours when workingmen were going to their work and back, the cars were\nso crowded that the conductors could not collect all the fares? And\nbesides, the companies were thieves, people said--had stolen all their\nfranchises with the help of scoundrelly politicians!\n\nNow that the winter was by, and there was no more danger of snow, and no\nmore coal to buy, and another room warm enough to put the children into\nwhen they cried, and enough money to get along from week to week\nwith, Jurgis was less terrible than he had been. A man can get used\nto anything in the course of time, and Jurgis had gotten used to lying\nabout the house. Ona saw this, and was very careful not to destroy his\npeace of mind, by letting him know how very much pain she was suffering.\nIt was now the time of the spring rains, and Ona had often to ride to\nher work, in spite of the expense; she was getting paler every day, and\nsometimes, in spite of her good resolutions, it pained her that Jurgis\ndid not notice it. She wondered if he cared for her as much as ever, if\nall this misery was not wearing out his love. She had to be away from\nhim all the time, and bear her own troubles while he was bearing his;\nand then, when she came home, she was so worn out; and whenever they\ntalked they had only their worries to talk of--truly it was hard, in\nsuch a life, to keep any sentiment alive. The woe of this would flame up\nin Ona sometimes--at night she would suddenly clasp her big husband\nin her arms and break into passionate weeping, demanding to know if\nhe really loved her. Poor Jurgis, who had in truth grown more\nmatter-of-fact, under the endless pressure of penury, would not know\nwhat to make of these things, and could only try to recollect when\nhe had last been cross; and so Ona would have to forgive him and sob\nherself to sleep.\n\nThe latter part of April Jurgis went to see the doctor, and was given a\nbandage to lace about his ankle, and told that he might go back to work.\nIt needed more than the permission of the doctor, however, for when he\nshowed up on the killing floor of Brown's, he was told by the foreman\nthat it had not been possible to keep his job for him. Jurgis knew that\nthis meant simply that the foreman had found some one else to do the\nwork as well and did not want to bother to make a change. He stood in\nthe doorway, looking mournfully on, seeing his friends and companions at\nwork, and feeling like an outcast. Then he went out and took his place\nwith the mob of the unemployed.\n\nThis time, however, Jurgis did not have the same fine confidence, nor\nthe same reason for it. He was no longer the finest-looking man in the\nthrong, and the bosses no longer made for him; he was thin and haggard,\nand his clothes were seedy, and he looked miserable. And there were\nhundreds who looked and felt just like him, and who had been wandering\nabout Packingtown for months begging for work. This was a critical time\nin Jurgis' life, and if he had been a weaker man he would have gone\nthe way the rest did. Those out-of-work wretches would stand about the\npacking houses every morning till the police drove them away, and then\nthey would scatter among the saloons. Very few of them had the nerve\nto face the rebuffs that they would encounter by trying to get into the\nbuildings to interview the bosses; if they did not get a chance in the\nmorning, there would be nothing to do but hang about the saloons the\nrest of the day and night. Jurgis was saved from all this--partly, to\nbe sure, because it was pleasant weather, and there was no need to\nbe indoors; but mainly because he carried with him always the pitiful\nlittle face of his wife. He must get work, he told himself, fighting\nthe battle with despair every hour of the day. He must get work! He must\nhave a place again and some money saved up, before the next winter came.\n\nBut there was no work for him. He sought out all the members of his\nunion--Jurgis had stuck to the union through all this--and begged them\nto speak a word for him. He went to every one he knew, asking for a\nchance, there or anywhere. He wandered all day through the buildings;\nand in a week or two, when he had been all over the yards, and into\nevery room to which he had access, and learned that there was not a job\nanywhere, he persuaded himself that there might have been a change in\nthe places he had first visited, and began the round all over; till\nfinally the watchmen and the \"spotters\" of the companies came to know\nhim by sight and to order him out with threats. Then there was nothing\nmore for him to do but go with the crowd in the morning, and keep in\nthe front row and look eager, and when he failed, go back home, and play\nwith little Kotrina and the baby.\n\nThe peculiar bitterness of all this was that Jurgis saw so plainly the\nmeaning of it. In the beginning he had been fresh and strong, and he\nhad gotten a job the first day; but now he was second-hand, a damaged\narticle, so to speak, and they did not want him. They had got the\nbest of him--they had worn him out, with their speeding-up and their\ncarelessness, and now they had thrown him away! And Jurgis would make\nthe acquaintance of others of these unemployed men and find that they\nhad all had the same experience. There were some, of course, who had\nwandered in from other places, who had been ground up in other mills;\nthere were others who were out from their own fault--some, for instance,\nwho had not been able to stand the awful grind without drink. The vast\nmajority, however, were simply the worn-out parts of the great merciless\npacking machine; they had toiled there, and kept up with the pace, some\nof them for ten or twenty years, until finally the time had come when\nthey could not keep up with it any more. Some had been frankly told\nthat they were too old, that a sprier man was needed; others had given\noccasion, by some act of carelessness or incompetence; with most,\nhowever, the occasion had been the same as with Jurgis. They had been\noverworked and underfed so long, and finally some disease had laid them\non their backs; or they had cut themselves, and had blood poisoning, or\nmet with some other accident. When a man came back after that, he would\nget his place back only by the courtesy of the boss. To this there was\nno exception, save when the accident was one for which the firm was\nliable; in that case they would send a slippery lawyer to see him, first\nto try to get him to sign away his claims, but if he was too smart for\nthat, to promise him that he and his should always be provided with\nwork. This promise they would keep, strictly and to the letter--for two\nyears. Two years was the \"statute of limitations,\" and after that the\nvictim could not sue.\n\nWhat happened to a man after any of these things, all depended upon\nthe circumstances. If he were of the highly skilled workers, he would\nprobably have enough saved up to tide him over. The best paid men,\nthe \"splitters,\" made fifty cents an hour, which would be five or six\ndollars a day in the rush seasons, and one or two in the dullest. A\nman could live and save on that; but then there were only half a dozen\nsplitters in each place, and one of them that Jurgis knew had a family\nof twenty-two children, all hoping to grow up to be splitters like their\nfather. For an unskilled man, who made ten dollars a week in the rush\nseasons and five in the dull, it all depended upon his age and the\nnumber he had dependent upon him. An unmarried man could save, if he did\nnot drink, and if he was absolutely selfish--that is, if he paid no\nheed to the demands of his old parents, or of his little brothers and\nsisters, or of any other relatives he might have, as well as of the\nmembers of his union, and his chums, and the people who might be\nstarving to death next door.\n\n\n\nChapter 13\n\n\nDuring this time that Jurgis was looking for work occurred the death\nof little Kristoforas, one of the children of Teta Elzbieta. Both\nKristoforas and his brother, Juozapas, were cripples, the latter having\nlost one leg by having it run over, and Kristoforas having congenital\ndislocation of the hip, which made it impossible for him ever to walk.\nHe was the last of Teta Elzbieta's children, and perhaps he had been\nintended by nature to let her know that she had had enough. At any rate\nhe was wretchedly sick and undersized; he had the rickets, and though\nhe was over three years old, he was no bigger than an ordinary child\nof one. All day long he would crawl around the floor in a filthy little\ndress, whining and fretting; because the floor was full of drafts he was\nalways catching cold, and snuffling because his nose ran. This made\nhim a nuisance, and a source of endless trouble in the family. For his\nmother, with unnatural perversity, loved him best of all her children,\nand made a perpetual fuss over him--would let him do anything\nundisturbed, and would burst into tears when his fretting drove Jurgis\nwild.\n\nAnd now he died. Perhaps it was the smoked sausage he had eaten that\nmorning--which may have been made out of some of the tubercular pork\nthat was condemned as unfit for export. At any rate, an hour after\neating it, the child had begun to cry with pain, and in another hour he\nwas rolling about on the floor in convulsions. Little Kotrina, who was\nall alone with him, ran out screaming for help, and after a while a\ndoctor came, but not until Kristoforas had howled his last howl. No one\nwas really sorry about this except poor Elzbieta, who was inconsolable.\nJurgis announced that so far as he was concerned the child would have\nto be buried by the city, since they had no money for a funeral; and at\nthis the poor woman almost went out of her senses, wringing her hands\nand screaming with grief and despair. Her child to be buried in a\npauper's grave! And her stepdaughter to stand by and hear it said\nwithout protesting! It was enough to make Ona's father rise up out of\nhis grave to rebuke her! If it had come to this, they might as well give\nup at once, and be buried all of them together! . . . In the end Marija\nsaid that she would help with ten dollars; and Jurgis being still\nobdurate, Elzbieta went in tears and begged the money from the\nneighbors, and so little Kristoforas had a mass and a hearse with white\nplumes on it, and a tiny plot in a graveyard with a wooden cross to mark\nthe place. The poor mother was not the same for months after that; the\nmere sight of the floor where little Kristoforas had crawled about would\nmake her weep. He had never had a fair chance, poor little fellow, she\nwould say. He had been handicapped from his birth. If only she had heard\nabout it in time, so that she might have had that great doctor to cure\nhim of his lameness! . . . Some time ago, Elzbieta was told, a Chicago\nbillionaire had paid a fortune to bring a great European surgeon over to\ncure his little daughter of the same disease from which Kristoforas had\nsuffered. And because this surgeon had to have bodies to demonstrate\nupon, he announced that he would treat the children of the poor, a piece\nof magnanimity over which the papers became quite eloquent. Elzbieta,\nalas, did not read the papers, and no one had told her; but perhaps it\nwas as well, for just then they would not have had the carfare to spare\nto go every day to wait upon the surgeon, nor for that matter anybody\nwith the time to take the child.\n\n\nAll this while that he was seeking for work, there was a dark shadow\nhanging over Jurgis; as if a savage beast were lurking somewhere in the\npathway of his life, and he knew it, and yet could not help approaching\nthe place. There are all stages of being out of work in Packingtown, and\nhe faced in dread the prospect of reaching the lowest. There is a place\nthat waits for the lowest man--the fertilizer plant!\n\nThe men would talk about it in awe-stricken whispers. Not more than one\nin ten had ever really tried it; the other nine had contented themselves\nwith hearsay evidence and a peep through the door. There were some\nthings worse than even starving to death. They would ask Jurgis if he\nhad worked there yet, and if he meant to; and Jurgis would debate the\nmatter with himself. As poor as they were, and making all the sacrifices\nthat they were, would he dare to refuse any sort of work that was\noffered to him, be it as horrible as ever it could? Would he dare to go\nhome and eat bread that had been earned by Ona, weak and complaining as\nshe was, knowing that he had been given a chance, and had not had the\nnerve to take it?--And yet he might argue that way with himself all\nday, and one glimpse into the fertilizer works would send him away again\nshuddering. He was a man, and he would do his duty; he went and made\napplication--but surely he was not also required to hope for success!\n\nThe fertilizer works of Durham's lay away from the rest of the plant.\nFew visitors ever saw them, and the few who did would come out looking\nlike Dante, of whom the peasants declared that he had been into hell. To\nthis part of the yards came all the \"tankage\" and the waste products of\nall sorts; here they dried out the bones,--and in suffocating cellars\nwhere the daylight never came you might see men and women and children\nbending over whirling machines and sawing bits of bone into all sorts of\nshapes, breathing their lungs full of the fine dust, and doomed to die,\nevery one of them, within a certain definite time. Here they made the\nblood into albumen, and made other foul-smelling things into things\nstill more foul-smelling. In the corridors and caverns where it was done\nyou might lose yourself as in the great caves of Kentucky. In the dust\nand the steam the electric lights would shine like far-off twinkling\nstars--red and blue-green and purple stars, according to the color of\nthe mist and the brew from which it came. For the odors of these ghastly\ncharnel houses there may be words in Lithuanian, but there are none in\nEnglish. The person entering would have to summon his courage as for a\ncold-water plunge. He would go in like a man swimming under water; he\nwould put his handkerchief over his face, and begin to cough and choke;\nand then, if he were still obstinate, he would find his head beginning\nto ring, and the veins in his forehead to throb, until finally he would\nbe assailed by an overpowering blast of ammonia fumes, and would turn\nand run for his life, and come out half-dazed.\n\nOn top of this were the rooms where they dried the \"tankage,\" the mass\nof brown stringy stuff that was left after the waste portions of the\ncarcasses had had the lard and tallow dried out of them. This dried\nmaterial they would then grind to a fine powder, and after they had\nmixed it up well with a mysterious but inoffensive brown rock which they\nbrought in and ground up by the hundreds of carloads for that purpose,\nthe substance was ready to be put into bags and sent out to the world\nas any one of a hundred different brands of standard bone phosphate. And\nthen the farmer in Maine or California or Texas would buy this, at say\ntwenty-five dollars a ton, and plant it with his corn; and for several\ndays after the operation the fields would have a strong odor, and the\nfarmer and his wagon and the very horses that had hauled it would all\nhave it too. In Packingtown the fertilizer is pure, instead of being a\nflavoring, and instead of a ton or so spread out on several acres under\nthe open sky, there are hundreds and thousands of tons of it in one\nbuilding, heaped here and there in haystack piles, covering the floor\nseveral inches deep, and filling the air with a choking dust that\nbecomes a blinding sandstorm when the wind stirs.\n\nIt was to this building that Jurgis came daily, as if dragged by an\nunseen hand. The month of May was an exceptionally cool one, and\nhis secret prayers were granted; but early in June there came a\nrecord-breaking hot spell, and after that there were men wanted in the\nfertilizer mill.\n\nThe boss of the grinding room had come to know Jurgis by this time, and\nhad marked him for a likely man; and so when he came to the door about\ntwo o'clock this breathless hot day, he felt a sudden spasm of pain\nshoot through him--the boss beckoned to him! In ten minutes more Jurgis\nhad pulled off his coat and overshirt, and set his teeth together and\ngone to work. Here was one more difficulty for him to meet and conquer!\n\nHis labor took him about one minute to learn. Before him was one of\nthe vents of the mill in which the fertilizer was being ground--rushing\nforth in a great brown river, with a spray of the finest dust flung\nforth in clouds. Jurgis was given a shovel, and along with half a dozen\nothers it was his task to shovel this fertilizer into carts. That others\nwere at work he knew by the sound, and by the fact that he sometimes\ncollided with them; otherwise they might as well not have been there,\nfor in the blinding dust storm a man could not see six feet in front of\nhis face. When he had filled one cart he had to grope around him until\nanother came, and if there was none on hand he continued to grope till\none arrived. In five minutes he was, of course, a mass of fertilizer\nfrom head to feet; they gave him a sponge to tie over his mouth, so that\nhe could breathe, but the sponge did not prevent his lips and eyelids\nfrom caking up with it and his ears from filling solid. He looked like\na brown ghost at twilight--from hair to shoes he became the color of the\nbuilding and of everything in it, and for that matter a hundred yards\noutside it. The building had to be left open, and when the wind blew\nDurham and Company lost a great deal of fertilizer.\n\nWorking in his shirt sleeves, and with the thermometer at over a\nhundred, the phosphates soaked in through every pore of Jurgis' skin,\nand in five minutes he had a headache, and in fifteen was almost dazed.\nThe blood was pounding in his brain like an engine's throbbing; there\nwas a frightful pain in the top of his skull, and he could hardly\ncontrol his hands. Still, with the memory of his four months' siege\nbehind him, he fought on, in a frenzy of determination; and half an hour\nlater he began to vomit--he vomited until it seemed as if his inwards\nmust be torn into shreds. A man could get used to the fertilizer mill,\nthe boss had said, if he would make up his mind to it; but Jurgis now\nbegan to see that it was a question of making up his stomach.\n\nAt the end of that day of horror, he could scarcely stand. He had to\ncatch himself now and then, and lean against a building and get his\nbearings. Most of the men, when they came out, made straight for a\nsaloon--they seemed to place fertilizer and rattlesnake poison in one\nclass. But Jurgis was too ill to think of drinking--he could only make\nhis way to the street and stagger on to a car. He had a sense of humor,\nand later on, when he became an old hand, he used to think it fun to\nboard a streetcar and see what happened. Now, however, he was too ill to\nnotice it--how the people in the car began to gasp and sputter, to\nput their handkerchiefs to their noses, and transfix him with furious\nglances. Jurgis only knew that a man in front of him immediately got up\nand gave him a seat; and that half a minute later the two people on each\nside of him got up; and that in a full minute the crowded car was nearly\nempty--those passengers who could not get room on the platform having\ngotten out to walk.\n\nOf course Jurgis had made his home a miniature fertilizer mill a minute\nafter entering. The stuff was half an inch deep in his skin--his whole\nsystem was full of it, and it would have taken a week not merely of\nscrubbing, but of vigorous exercise, to get it out of him. As it was, he\ncould be compared with nothing known to men, save that newest discovery\nof the savants, a substance which emits energy for an unlimited time,\nwithout being itself in the least diminished in power. He smelled so\nthat he made all the food at the table taste, and set the whole family\nto vomiting; for himself it was three days before he could keep anything\nupon his stomach--he might wash his hands, and use a knife and fork, but\nwere not his mouth and throat filled with the poison?\n\nAnd still Jurgis stuck it out! In spite of splitting headaches he would\nstagger down to the plant and take up his stand once more, and begin to\nshovel in the blinding clouds of dust. And so at the end of the week he\nwas a fertilizer man for life--he was able to eat again, and though\nhis head never stopped aching, it ceased to be so bad that he could not\nwork.\n\n\nSo there passed another summer. It was a summer of prosperity, all over\nthe country, and the country ate generously of packing house products,\nand there was plenty of work for all the family, in spite of the\npackers' efforts to keep a superfluity of labor. They were again able to\npay their debts and to begin to save a little sum; but there were one or\ntwo sacrifices they considered too heavy to be made for long--it was\ntoo bad that the boys should have to sell papers at their age. It was\nutterly useless to caution them and plead with them; quite without\nknowing it, they were taking on the tone of their new environment. They\nwere learning to swear in voluble English; they were learning to pick up\ncigar stumps and smoke them, to pass hours of their time gambling with\npennies and dice and cigarette cards; they were learning the location\nof all the houses of prostitution on the \"Levee,\" and the names of\nthe \"madames\" who kept them, and the days when they gave their state\nbanquets, which the police captains and the big politicians all\nattended. If a visiting \"country customer\" were to ask them, they could\nshow him which was \"Hinkydink's\" famous saloon, and could even point out\nto him by name the different gamblers and thugs and \"hold-up men\" who\nmade the place their headquarters. And worse yet, the boys were getting\nout of the habit of coming home at night. What was the use, they would\nask, of wasting time and energy and a possible carfare riding out to\nthe stockyards every night when the weather was pleasant and they could\ncrawl under a truck or into an empty doorway and sleep exactly as well?\nSo long as they brought home a half dollar for each day, what mattered\nit when they brought it? But Jurgis declared that from this to ceasing\nto come at all would not be a very long step, and so it was decided\nthat Vilimas and Nikalojus should return to school in the fall, and\nthat instead Elzbieta should go out and get some work, her place at home\nbeing taken by her younger daughter.\n\nLittle Kotrina was like most children of the poor, prematurely made old;\nshe had to take care of her little brother, who was a cripple, and also\nof the baby; she had to cook the meals and wash the dishes and clean\nhouse, and have supper ready when the workers came home in the evening.\nShe was only thirteen, and small for her age, but she did all this\nwithout a murmur; and her mother went out, and after trudging a couple\nof days about the yards, settled down as a servant of a \"sausage\nmachine.\"\n\nElzbieta was used to working, but she found this change a hard one, for\nthe reason that she had to stand motionless upon her feet from seven\no'clock in the morning till half-past twelve, and again from one till\nhalf-past five. For the first few days it seemed to her that she\ncould not stand it--she suffered almost as much as Jurgis had from the\nfertilizer, and would come out at sundown with her head fairly reeling.\nBesides this, she was working in one of the dark holes, by electric\nlight, and the dampness, too, was deadly--there were always puddles of\nwater on the floor, and a sickening odor of moist flesh in the room. The\npeople who worked here followed the ancient custom of nature, whereby\nthe ptarmigan is the color of dead leaves in the fall and of snow in the\nwinter, and the chameleon, who is black when he lies upon a stump and\nturns green when he moves to a leaf. The men and women who worked in\nthis department were precisely the color of the \"fresh country sausage\"\nthey made.\n\nThe sausage-room was an interesting place to visit, for two or three\nminutes, and provided that you did not look at the people; the machines\nwere perhaps the most wonderful things in the entire plant. Presumably\nsausages were once chopped and stuffed by hand, and if so it would\nbe interesting to know how many workers had been displaced by these\ninventions. On one side of the room were the hoppers, into which men\nshoveled loads of meat and wheelbarrows full of spices; in these great\nbowls were whirling knives that made two thousand revolutions a minute,\nand when the meat was ground fine and adulterated with potato flour,\nand well mixed with water, it was forced to the stuffing machines on\nthe other side of the room. The latter were tended by women; there was\na sort of spout, like the nozzle of a hose, and one of the women would\ntake a long string of \"casing\" and put the end over the nozzle and then\nwork the whole thing on, as one works on the finger of a tight glove.\nThis string would be twenty or thirty feet long, but the woman would\nhave it all on in a jiffy; and when she had several on, she would press\na lever, and a stream of sausage meat would be shot out, taking\nthe casing with it as it came. Thus one might stand and see appear,\nmiraculously born from the machine, a wriggling snake of sausage of\nincredible length. In front was a big pan which caught these creatures,\nand two more women who seized them as fast as they appeared and twisted\nthem into links. This was for the uninitiated the most perplexing work\nof all; for all that the woman had to give was a single turn of the\nwrist; and in some way she contrived to give it so that instead of an\nendless chain of sausages, one after another, there grew under her hands\na bunch of strings, all dangling from a single center. It was quite like\nthe feat of a prestidigitator--for the woman worked so fast that the eye\ncould literally not follow her, and there was only a mist of motion,\nand tangle after tangle of sausages appearing. In the midst of the mist,\nhowever, the visitor would suddenly notice the tense set face, with\nthe two wrinkles graven in the forehead, and the ghastly pallor of the\ncheeks; and then he would suddenly recollect that it was time he was\ngoing on. The woman did not go on; she stayed right there--hour after\nhour, day after day, year after year, twisting sausage links and racing\nwith death. It was piecework, and she was apt to have a family to keep\nalive; and stern and ruthless economic laws had arranged it that she\ncould only do this by working just as she did, with all her soul upon\nher work, and with never an instant for a glance at the well-dressed\nladies and gentlemen who came to stare at her, as at some wild beast in\na menagerie.\n\n\n\nChapter 14\n\n\nWith one member trimming beef in a cannery, and another working in a\nsausage factory, the family had a first-hand knowledge of the great\nmajority of Packingtown swindles. For it was the custom, as they found,\nwhenever meat was so spoiled that it could not be used for anything\nelse, either to can it or else to chop it up into sausage. With what had\nbeen told them by Jonas, who had worked in the pickle rooms, they could\nnow study the whole of the spoiled-meat industry on the inside, and read\na new and grim meaning into that old Packingtown jest--that they use\neverything of the pig except the squeal.\n\nJonas had told them how the meat that was taken out of pickle would\noften be found sour, and how they would rub it up with soda to take away\nthe smell, and sell it to be eaten on free-lunch counters; also of all\nthe miracles of chemistry which they performed, giving to any sort of\nmeat, fresh or salted, whole or chopped, any color and any flavor and\nany odor they chose. In the pickling of hams they had an ingenious\napparatus, by which they saved time and increased the capacity of the\nplant--a machine consisting of a hollow needle attached to a pump; by\nplunging this needle into the meat and working with his foot, a man\ncould fill a ham with pickle in a few seconds. And yet, in spite of\nthis, there would be hams found spoiled, some of them with an odor so\nbad that a man could hardly bear to be in the room with them. To pump\ninto these the packers had a second and much stronger pickle which\ndestroyed the odor--a process known to the workers as \"giving them\nthirty per cent.\" Also, after the hams had been smoked, there would be\nfound some that had gone to the bad. Formerly these had been sold as\n\"Number Three Grade,\" but later on some ingenious person had hit upon\na new device, and now they would extract the bone, about which the bad\npart generally lay, and insert in the hole a white-hot iron. After this\ninvention there was no longer Number One, Two, and Three Grade--there\nwas only Number One Grade. The packers were always originating such\nschemes--they had what they called \"boneless hams,\" which were all the\nodds and ends of pork stuffed into casings; and \"California hams,\" which\nwere the shoulders, with big knuckle joints, and nearly all the meat cut\nout; and fancy \"skinned hams,\" which were made of the oldest hogs, whose\nskins were so heavy and coarse that no one would buy them--that is,\nuntil they had been cooked and chopped fine and labeled \"head cheese!\"\n\nIt was only when the whole ham was spoiled that it came into the\ndepartment of Elzbieta. Cut up by the two-thousand-revolutions-a-minute\nflyers, and mixed with half a ton of other meat, no odor that ever was\nin a ham could make any difference. There was never the least attention\npaid to what was cut up for sausage; there would come all the way back\nfrom Europe old sausage that had been rejected, and that was moldy and\nwhite--it would be dosed with borax and glycerine, and dumped into the\nhoppers, and made over again for home consumption. There would be meat\nthat had tumbled out on the floor, in the dirt and sawdust, where the\nworkers had tramped and spit uncounted billions of consumption germs.\nThere would be meat stored in great piles in rooms; and the water from\nleaky roofs would drip over it, and thousands of rats would race about\non it. It was too dark in these storage places to see well, but a man\ncould run his hand over these piles of meat and sweep off handfuls of\nthe dried dung of rats. These rats were nuisances, and the packers would\nput poisoned bread out for them; they would die, and then rats, bread,\nand meat would go into the hoppers together. This is no fairy story and\nno joke; the meat would be shoveled into carts, and the man who did\nthe shoveling would not trouble to lift out a rat even when he saw\none--there were things that went into the sausage in comparison with\nwhich a poisoned rat was a tidbit. There was no place for the men\nto wash their hands before they ate their dinner, and so they made a\npractice of washing them in the water that was to be ladled into the\nsausage. There were the butt-ends of smoked meat, and the scraps of\ncorned beef, and all the odds and ends of the waste of the plants, that\nwould be dumped into old barrels in the cellar and left there. Under the\nsystem of rigid economy which the packers enforced, there were some jobs\nthat it only paid to do once in a long time, and among these was the\ncleaning out of the waste barrels. Every spring they did it; and in\nthe barrels would be dirt and rust and old nails and stale water--and\ncartload after cartload of it would be taken up and dumped into the\nhoppers with fresh meat, and sent out to the public's breakfast. Some of\nit they would make into \"smoked\" sausage--but as the smoking took\ntime, and was therefore expensive, they would call upon their chemistry\ndepartment, and preserve it with borax and color it with gelatine to\nmake it brown. All of their sausage came out of the same bowl, but when\nthey came to wrap it they would stamp some of it \"special,\" and for this\nthey would charge two cents more a pound.\n\n\nSuch were the new surroundings in which Elzbieta was placed, and such\nwas the work she was compelled to do. It was stupefying, brutalizing\nwork; it left her no time to think, no strength for anything. She was\npart of the machine she tended, and every faculty that was not needed\nfor the machine was doomed to be crushed out of existence. There was\nonly one mercy about the cruel grind--that it gave her the gift of\ninsensibility. Little by little she sank into a torpor--she fell silent.\nShe would meet Jurgis and Ona in the evening, and the three would walk\nhome together, often without saying a word. Ona, too, was falling into a\nhabit of silence--Ona, who had once gone about singing like a bird. She\nwas sick and miserable, and often she would barely have strength enough\nto drag herself home. And there they would eat what they had to eat, and\nafterward, because there was only their misery to talk of, they would\ncrawl into bed and fall into a stupor and never stir until it was time\nto get up again, and dress by candlelight, and go back to the machines.\nThey were so numbed that they did not even suffer much from hunger, now;\nonly the children continued to fret when the food ran short.\n\nYet the soul of Ona was not dead--the souls of none of them were dead,\nbut only sleeping; and now and then they would waken, and these were\ncruel times. The gates of memory would roll open--old joys would stretch\nout their arms to them, old hopes and dreams would call to them, and\nthey would stir beneath the burden that lay upon them, and feel its\nforever immeasurable weight. They could not even cry out beneath it; but\nanguish would seize them, more dreadful than the agony of death. It was\na thing scarcely to be spoken--a thing never spoken by all the world,\nthat will not know its own defeat.\n\nThey were beaten; they had lost the game, they were swept aside. It\nwas not less tragic because it was so sordid, because it had to do with\nwages and grocery bills and rents. They had dreamed of freedom; of a\nchance to look about them and learn something; to be decent and clean,\nto see their child grow up to be strong. And now it was all gone--it\nwould never be! They had played the game and they had lost. Six years\nmore of toil they had to face before they could expect the least\nrespite, the cessation of the payments upon the house; and how cruelly\ncertain it was that they could never stand six years of such a life as\nthey were living! They were lost, they were going down--and there was\nno deliverance for them, no hope; for all the help it gave them the vast\ncity in which they lived might have been an ocean waste, a wilderness, a\ndesert, a tomb. So often this mood would come to Ona, in the nighttime,\nwhen something wakened her; she would lie, afraid of the beating of her\nown heart, fronting the blood-red eyes of the old primeval terror of\nlife. Once she cried aloud, and woke Jurgis, who was tired and cross.\nAfter that she learned to weep silently--their moods so seldom came\ntogether now! It was as if their hopes were buried in separate graves.\n\nJurgis, being a man, had troubles of his own. There was another specter\nfollowing him. He had never spoken of it, nor would he allow any one\nelse to speak of it--he had never acknowledged its existence to himself.\nYet the battle with it took all the manhood that he had--and once or\ntwice, alas, a little more. Jurgis had discovered drink.\n\nHe was working in the steaming pit of hell; day after day, week after\nweek--until now, there was not an organ of his body that did its work\nwithout pain, until the sound of ocean breakers echoed in his head day\nand night, and the buildings swayed and danced before him as he went\ndown the street. And from all the unending horror of this there was a\nrespite, a deliverance--he could drink! He could forget the pain, he\ncould slip off the burden; he would see clearly again, he would be\nmaster of his brain, of his thoughts, of his will. His dead self would\nstir in him, and he would find himself laughing and cracking jokes with\nhis companions--he would be a man again, and master of his life.\n\nIt was not an easy thing for Jurgis to take more than two or three\ndrinks. With the first drink he could eat a meal, and he could persuade\nhimself that that was economy; with the second he could eat another\nmeal--but there would come a time when he could eat no more, and then\nto pay for a drink was an unthinkable extravagance, a defiance of the\nage-long instincts of his hunger-haunted class. One day, however, he took\nthe plunge, and drank up all that he had in his pockets, and went home\nhalf \"piped,\" as the men phrase it. He was happier than he had been in a\nyear; and yet, because he knew that the happiness would not last, he was\nsavage, too with those who would wreck it, and with the world, and with\nhis life; and then again, beneath this, he was sick with the shame of\nhimself. Afterward, when he saw the despair of his family, and reckoned\nup the money he had spent, the tears came into his eyes, and he began\nthe long battle with the specter.\n\nIt was a battle that had no end, that never could have one. But Jurgis\ndid not realize that very clearly; he was not given much time for\nreflection. He simply knew that he was always fighting. Steeped in\nmisery and despair as he was, merely to walk down the street was to be\nput upon the rack. There was surely a saloon on the corner--perhaps on\nall four corners, and some in the middle of the block as well; and each\none stretched out a hand to him each one had a personality of its own,\nallurements unlike any other. Going and coming--before sunrise and\nafter dark--there was warmth and a glow of light, and the steam of hot\nfood, and perhaps music, or a friendly face, and a word of good cheer.\nJurgis developed a fondness for having Ona on his arm whenever he went\nout on the street, and he would hold her tightly, and walk fast. It was\npitiful to have Ona know of this--it drove him wild to think of it; the\nthing was not fair, for Ona had never tasted drink, and so could not\nunderstand. Sometimes, in desperate hours, he would find himself wishing\nthat she might learn what it was, so that he need not be ashamed in her\npresence. They might drink together, and escape from the horror--escape\nfor a while, come what would.\n\nSo there came a time when nearly all the conscious life of Jurgis\nconsisted of a struggle with the craving for liquor. He would have ugly\nmoods, when he hated Ona and the whole family, because they stood in his\nway. He was a fool to have married; he had tied himself down, had made\nhimself a slave. It was all because he was a married man that he was\ncompelled to stay in the yards; if it had not been for that he might\nhave gone off like Jonas, and to hell with the packers. There were few\nsingle men in the fertilizer mill--and those few were working only for a\nchance to escape. Meantime, too, they had something to think about while\nthey worked,--they had the memory of the last time they had been drunk,\nand the hope of the time when they would be drunk again. As for Jurgis,\nhe was expected to bring home every penny; he could not even go with\nthe men at noontime--he was supposed to sit down and eat his dinner on a\npile of fertilizer dust.\n\nThis was not always his mood, of course; he still loved his family. But\njust now was a time of trial. Poor little Antanas, for instance--who\nhad never failed to win him with a smile--little Antanas was not smiling\njust now, being a mass of fiery red pimples. He had had all the diseases\nthat babies are heir to, in quick succession, scarlet fever, mumps, and\nwhooping cough in the first year, and now he was down with the measles.\nThere was no one to attend him but Kotrina; there was no doctor to\nhelp him, because they were too poor, and children did not die of the\nmeasles--at least not often. Now and then Kotrina would find time to sob\nover his woes, but for the greater part of the time he had to be left\nalone, barricaded upon the bed. The floor was full of drafts, and if he\ncaught cold he would die. At night he was tied down, lest he should kick\nthe covers off him, while the family lay in their stupor of exhaustion.\nHe would lie and scream for hours, almost in convulsions; and then, when\nhe was worn out, he would lie whimpering and wailing in his torment.\nHe was burning up with fever, and his eyes were running sores; in\nthe daytime he was a thing uncanny and impish to behold, a plaster of\npimples and sweat, a great purple lump of misery.\n\nYet all this was not really as cruel as it sounds, for, sick as he was,\nlittle Antanas was the least unfortunate member of that family. He\nwas quite able to bear his sufferings--it was as if he had all these\ncomplaints to show what a prodigy of health he was. He was the child of\nhis parents' youth and joy; he grew up like the conjurer's rosebush, and\nall the world was his oyster. In general, he toddled around the kitchen\nall day with a lean and hungry look--the portion of the family's\nallowance that fell to him was not enough, and he was unrestrainable in\nhis demand for more. Antanas was but little over a year old, and already\nno one but his father could manage him.\n\nIt seemed as if he had taken all of his mother's strength--had left\nnothing for those that might come after him. Ona was with child again\nnow, and it was a dreadful thing to contemplate; even Jurgis, dumb and\ndespairing as he was, could not but understand that yet other agonies\nwere on the way, and shudder at the thought of them.\n\nFor Ona was visibly going to pieces. In the first place she was\ndeveloping a cough, like the one that had killed old Dede Antanas. She\nhad had a trace of it ever since that fatal morning when the greedy\nstreetcar corporation had turned her out into the rain; but now it was\nbeginning to grow serious, and to wake her up at night. Even worse than\nthat was the fearful nervousness from which she suffered; she would have\nfrightful headaches and fits of aimless weeping; and sometimes she would\ncome home at night shuddering and moaning, and would fling herself down\nupon the bed and burst into tears. Several times she was quite beside\nherself and hysterical; and then Jurgis would go half-mad with fright.\nElzbieta would explain to him that it could not be helped, that a woman\nwas subject to such things when she was pregnant; but he was hardly to\nbe persuaded, and would beg and plead to know what had happened. She\nhad never been like this before, he would argue--it was monstrous and\nunthinkable. It was the life she had to live, the accursed work she had\nto do, that was killing her by inches. She was not fitted for it--no\nwoman was fitted for it, no woman ought to be allowed to do such work;\nif the world could not keep them alive any other way it ought to kill\nthem at once and be done with it. They ought not to marry, to have\nchildren; no workingman ought to marry--if he, Jurgis, had known what a\nwoman was like, he would have had his eyes torn out first. So he would\ncarry on, becoming half hysterical himself, which was an unbearable\nthing to see in a big man; Ona would pull herself together and fling\nherself into his arms, begging him to stop, to be still, that she would\nbe better, it would be all right. So she would lie and sob out her\ngrief upon his shoulder, while he gazed at her, as helpless as a wounded\nanimal, the target of unseen enemies.\n\n\n\nChapter 15\n\n\nThe beginning of these perplexing things was in the summer; and each\ntime Ona would promise him with terror in her voice that it would not\nhappen again--but in vain. Each crisis would leave Jurgis more and more\nfrightened, more disposed to distrust Elzbieta's consolations, and to\nbelieve that there was some terrible thing about all this that he was\nnot allowed to know. Once or twice in these outbreaks he caught Ona's\neye, and it seemed to him like the eye of a hunted animal; there were\nbroken phrases of anguish and despair now and then, amid her frantic\nweeping. It was only because he was so numb and beaten himself that\nJurgis did not worry more about this. But he never thought of it, except\nwhen he was dragged to it--he lived like a dumb beast of burden, knowing\nonly the moment in which he was.\n\nThe winter was coming on again, more menacing and cruel than ever. It\nwas October, and the holiday rush had begun. It was necessary for the\npacking machines to grind till late at night to provide food that would\nbe eaten at Christmas breakfasts; and Marija and Elzbieta and Ona, as\npart of the machine, began working fifteen or sixteen hours a day. There\nwas no choice about this--whatever work there was to be done they had to\ndo, if they wished to keep their places; besides that, it added another\npittance to their incomes. So they staggered on with the awful load.\nThey would start work every morning at seven, and eat their dinners\nat noon, and then work until ten or eleven at night without another\nmouthful of food. Jurgis wanted to wait for them, to help them home at\nnight, but they would not think of this; the fertilizer mill was not\nrunning overtime, and there was no place for him to wait save in a\nsaloon. Each would stagger out into the darkness, and make her way to\nthe corner, where they met; or if the others had already gone, would get\ninto a car, and begin a painful struggle to keep awake. When they got\nhome they were always too tired either to eat or to undress; they would\ncrawl into bed with their shoes on, and lie like logs. If they should\nfail, they would certainly be lost; if they held out, they might have\nenough coal for the winter.\n\nA day or two before Thanksgiving Day there came a snowstorm. It began\nin the afternoon, and by evening two inches had fallen. Jurgis tried\nto wait for the women, but went into a saloon to get warm, and took two\ndrinks, and came out and ran home to escape from the demon; there he\nlay down to wait for them, and instantly fell asleep. When he opened\nhis eyes again he was in the midst of a nightmare, and found Elzbieta\nshaking him and crying out. At first he could not realize what she\nwas saying--Ona had not come home. What time was it, he asked. It was\nmorning--time to be up. Ona had not been home that night! And it was\nbitter cold, and a foot of snow on the ground.\n\nJurgis sat up with a start. Marija was crying with fright and the\nchildren were wailing in sympathy--little Stanislovas in addition,\nbecause the terror of the snow was upon him. Jurgis had nothing to put\non but his shoes and his coat, and in half a minute he was out of the\ndoor. Then, however, he realized that there was no need of haste, that\nhe had no idea where to go. It was still dark as midnight, and the thick\nsnowflakes were sifting down--everything was so silent that he could\nhear the rustle of them as they fell. In the few seconds that he stood\nthere hesitating he was covered white.\n\nHe set off at a run for the yards, stopping by the way to inquire in the\nsaloons that were open. Ona might have been overcome on the way; or else\nshe might have met with an accident in the machines. When he got to the\nplace where she worked he inquired of one of the watchmen--there had\nnot been any accident, so far as the man had heard. At the time office,\nwhich he found already open, the clerk told him that Ona's check had\nbeen turned in the night before, showing that she had left her work.\n\nAfter that there was nothing for him to do but wait, pacing back and\nforth in the snow, meantime, to keep from freezing. Already the yards\nwere full of activity; cattle were being unloaded from the cars in the\ndistance, and across the way the \"beef-luggers\" were toiling in the\ndarkness, carrying two-hundred-pound quarters of bullocks into the\nrefrigerator cars. Before the first streaks of daylight there came the\ncrowding throngs of workingmen, shivering, and swinging their dinner\npails as they hurried by. Jurgis took up his stand by the time-office\nwindow, where alone there was light enough for him to see; the snow fell\nso quick that it was only by peering closely that he could make sure\nthat Ona did not pass him.\n\nSeven o'clock came, the hour when the great packing machine began to\nmove. Jurgis ought to have been at his place in the fertilizer mill;\nbut instead he was waiting, in an agony of fear, for Ona. It was fifteen\nminutes after the hour when he saw a form emerge from the snow mist,\nand sprang toward it with a cry. It was she, running swiftly; as she saw\nhim, she staggered forward, and half fell into his outstretched arms.\n\n\"What has been the matter?\" he cried, anxiously. \"Where have you been?\"\n\nIt was several seconds before she could get breath to answer him. \"I\ncouldn't get home,\" she exclaimed. \"The snow--the cars had stopped.\"\n\n\"But where were you then?\" he demanded.\n\n\"I had to go home with a friend,\" she panted--\"with Jadvyga.\"\n\nJurgis drew a deep breath; but then he noticed that she was sobbing and\ntrembling--as if in one of those nervous crises that he dreaded so. \"But\nwhat's the matter?\" he cried. \"What has happened?\"\n\n\"Oh, Jurgis, I was so frightened!\" she said, clinging to him wildly. \"I\nhave been so worried!\"\n\nThey were near the time station window, and people were staring at them.\nJurgis led her away. \"How do you mean?\" he asked, in perplexity.\n\n\"I was afraid--I was just afraid!\" sobbed Ona. \"I knew you wouldn't know\nwhere I was, and I didn't know what you might do. I tried to get home,\nbut I was so tired. Oh, Jurgis, Jurgis!\"\n\nHe was so glad to get her back that he could not think clearly about\nanything else. It did not seem strange to him that she should be so very\nmuch upset; all her fright and incoherent protestations did not matter\nsince he had her back. He let her cry away her tears; and then, because\nit was nearly eight o'clock, and they would lose another hour if they\ndelayed, he left her at the packing house door, with her ghastly white\nface and her haunted eyes of terror.\n\nThere was another brief interval. Christmas was almost come; and because\nthe snow still held, and the searching cold, morning after morning\nJurgis half carried his wife to her post, staggering with her through\nthe darkness; until at last, one night, came the end.\n\nIt lacked but three days of the holidays. About midnight Marija and\nElzbieta came home, exclaiming in alarm when they found that Ona had not\ncome. The two had agreed to meet her; and, after waiting, had gone to\nthe room where she worked; only to find that the ham-wrapping girls had\nquit work an hour before, and left. There was no snow that night, nor\nwas it especially cold; and still Ona had not come! Something more\nserious must be wrong this time.\n\nThey aroused Jurgis, and he sat up and listened crossly to the story.\nShe must have gone home again with Jadvyga, he said; Jadvyga lived only\ntwo blocks from the yards, and perhaps she had been tired. Nothing could\nhave happened to her--and even if there had, there was nothing could\nbe done about it until morning. Jurgis turned over in his bed, and was\nsnoring again before the two had closed the door.\n\nIn the morning, however, he was up and out nearly an hour before the\nusual time. Jadvyga Marcinkus lived on the other side of the yards,\nbeyond Halsted Street, with her mother and sisters, in a single basement\nroom--for Mikolas had recently lost one hand from blood poisoning, and\ntheir marriage had been put off forever. The door of the room was in the\nrear, reached by a narrow court, and Jurgis saw a light in the window\nand heard something frying as he passed; he knocked, half expecting that\nOna would answer.\n\nInstead there was one of Jadvyga's little sisters, who gazed at him\nthrough a crack in the door. \"Where's Ona?\" he demanded; and the child\nlooked at him in perplexity. \"Ona?\" she said.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Jurgis, \"isn't she here?\"\n\n\"No,\" said the child, and Jurgis gave a start. A moment later came\nJadvyga, peering over the child's head. When she saw who it was, she\nslid around out of sight, for she was not quite dressed. Jurgis must\nexcuse her, she began, her mother was very ill--\n\n\"Ona isn't here?\" Jurgis demanded, too alarmed to wait for her to\nfinish.\n\n\"Why, no,\" said Jadvyga. \"What made you think she would be here? Had she\nsaid she was coming?\"\n\n\"No,\" he answered. \"But she hasn't come home--and I thought she would be\nhere the same as before.\"\n\n\"As before?\" echoed Jadvyga, in perplexity.\n\n\"The time she spent the night here,\" said Jurgis.\n\n\"There must be some mistake,\" she answered, quickly. \"Ona has never\nspent the night here.\"\n\nHe was only half able to realize the words. \"Why--why--\" he exclaimed.\n\"Two weeks ago. Jadvyga! She told me so the night it snowed, and she\ncould not get home.\"\n\n\"There must be some mistake,\" declared the girl, again; \"she didn't come\nhere.\"\n\nHe steadied himself by the door-sill; and Jadvyga in her anxiety--for\nshe was fond of Ona--opened the door wide, holding her jacket across\nher throat. \"Are you sure you didn't misunderstand her?\" she cried. \"She\nmust have meant somewhere else. She--\"\n\n\"She said here,\" insisted Jurgis. \"She told me all about you, and how\nyou were, and what you said. Are you sure? You haven't forgotten? You\nweren't away?\"\n\n\"No, no!\" she exclaimed--and then came a peevish voice--\"Jadvyga, you\nare giving the baby a cold. Shut the door!\" Jurgis stood for half a\nminute more, stammering his perplexity through an eighth of an inch of\ncrack; and then, as there was really nothing more to be said, he excused\nhimself and went away.\n\nHe walked on half dazed, without knowing where he went. Ona had deceived\nhim! She had lied to him! And what could it mean--where had she been?\nWhere was she now? He could hardly grasp the thing--much less try to\nsolve it; but a hundred wild surmises came to him, a sense of impending\ncalamity overwhelmed him.\n\nBecause there was nothing else to do, he went back to the time office to\nwatch again. He waited until nearly an hour after seven, and then went\nto the room where Ona worked to make inquiries of Ona's \"forelady.\" The\n\"forelady,\" he found, had not yet come; all the lines of cars that\ncame from downtown were stalled--there had been an accident in the\npowerhouse, and no cars had been running since last night. Meantime,\nhowever, the ham-wrappers were working away, with some one else in\ncharge of them. The girl who answered Jurgis was busy, and as she\ntalked she looked to see if she were being watched. Then a man came\nup, wheeling a truck; he knew Jurgis for Ona's husband, and was curious\nabout the mystery.\n\n\"Maybe the cars had something to do with it,\" he suggested--\"maybe she\nhad gone down-town.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Jurgis, \"she never went down-town.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not,\" said the man. Jurgis thought he saw him exchange a swift\nglance with the girl as he spoke, and he demanded quickly. \"What do you\nknow about it?\"\n\nBut the man had seen that the boss was watching him; he started on\nagain, pushing his truck. \"I don't know anything about it,\" he said,\nover his shoulder. \"How should I know where your wife goes?\"\n\nThen Jurgis went out again and paced up and down before the building.\nAll the morning he stayed there, with no thought of his work. About\nnoon he went to the police station to make inquiries, and then came\nback again for another anxious vigil. Finally, toward the middle of the\nafternoon, he set out for home once more.\n\nHe was walking out Ashland Avenue. The streetcars had begun running\nagain, and several passed him, packed to the steps with people. The\nsight of them set Jurgis to thinking again of the man's sarcastic\nremark; and half involuntarily he found himself watching the cars--with\nthe result that he gave a sudden startled exclamation, and stopped short\nin his tracks.\n\nThen he broke into a run. For a whole block he tore after the car, only\na little ways behind. That rusty black hat with the drooping red flower,\nit might not be Ona's, but there was very little likelihood of it.\nHe would know for certain very soon, for she would get out two blocks\nahead. He slowed down, and let the car go on.\n\nShe got out: and as soon as she was out of sight on the side street\nJurgis broke into a run. Suspicion was rife in him now, and he was not\nashamed to shadow her: he saw her turn the corner near their home, and\nthen he ran again, and saw her as she went up the porch steps of the\nhouse. After that he turned back, and for five minutes paced up and\ndown, his hands clenched tightly and his lips set, his mind in a\nturmoil. Then he went home and entered.\n\nAs he opened the door, he saw Elzbieta, who had also been looking for\nOna, and had come home again. She was now on tiptoe, and had a finger on\nher lips. Jurgis waited until she was close to him.\n\n\"Don't make any noise,\" she whispered, hurriedly.\n\n\"What's the matter'?\" he asked. \"Ona is asleep,\" she panted. \"She's been\nvery ill. I'm afraid her mind's been wandering, Jurgis. She was lost\non the street all night, and I've only just succeeded in getting her\nquiet.\"\n\n\"When did she come in?\" he asked.\n\n\"Soon after you left this morning,\" said Elzbieta.\n\n\"And has she been out since?\"\n\n\"No, of course not. She's so weak, Jurgis, she--\"\n\nAnd he set his teeth hard together. \"You are lying to me,\" he said.\n\nElzbieta started, and turned pale. \"Why!\" she gasped. \"What do you\nmean?\"\n\nBut Jurgis did not answer. He pushed her aside, and strode to the\nbedroom door and opened it.\n\nOna was sitting on the bed. She turned a startled look upon him as he\nentered. He closed the door in Elzbieta's face, and went toward his\nwife. \"Where have you been?\" he demanded.\n\nShe had her hands clasped tightly in her lap, and he saw that her face\nwas as white as paper, and drawn with pain. She gasped once or twice\nas she tried to answer him, and then began, speaking low, and swiftly.\n\"Jurgis, I--I think I have been out of my mind. I started to come last\nnight, and I could not find the way. I walked--I walked all night, I\nthink, and--and I only got home--this morning.\"\n\n\"You needed a rest,\" he said, in a hard tone. \"Why did you go out\nagain?\"\n\nHe was looking her fairly in the face, and he could read the sudden fear\nand wild uncertainty that leaped into her eyes. \"I--I had to go to--to\nthe store,\" she gasped, almost in a whisper, \"I had to go--\"\n\n\"You are lying to me,\" said Jurgis. Then he clenched his hands and took\na step toward her. \"Why do you lie to me?\" he cried, fiercely. \"What are\nyou doing that you have to lie to me?\"\n\n\"Jurgis!\" she exclaimed, starting up in fright. \"Oh, Jurgis, how can\nyou?\"\n\n\"You have lied to me, I say!\" he cried. \"You told me you had been to\nJadvyga's house that other night, and you hadn't. You had been where\nyou were last night--somewheres downtown, for I saw you get off the car.\nWhere were you?\"\n\nIt was as if he had struck a knife into her. She seemed to go all to\npieces. For half a second she stood, reeling and swaying, staring at\nhim with horror in her eyes; then, with a cry of anguish, she tottered\nforward, stretching out her arms to him. But he stepped aside,\ndeliberately, and let her fall. She caught herself at the side of the\nbed, and then sank down, burying her face in her hands and bursting into\nfrantic weeping.\n\nThere came one of those hysterical crises that had so often dismayed\nhim. Ona sobbed and wept, her fear and anguish building themselves up\ninto long climaxes. Furious gusts of emotion would come sweeping over\nher, shaking her as the tempest shakes the trees upon the hills; all her\nframe would quiver and throb with them--it was as if some dreadful thing\nrose up within her and took possession of her, torturing her, tearing\nher. This thing had been wont to set Jurgis quite beside himself; but\nnow he stood with his lips set tightly and his hands clenched--she might\nweep till she killed herself, but she should not move him this time--not\nan inch, not an inch. Because the sounds she made set his blood to\nrunning cold and his lips to quivering in spite of himself, he was glad\nof the diversion when Teta Elzbieta, pale with fright, opened the door\nand rushed in; yet he turned upon her with an oath. \"Go out!\" he cried,\n\"go out!\" And then, as she stood hesitating, about to speak, he seized\nher by the arm, and half flung her from the room, slamming the door\nand barring it with a table. Then he turned again and faced Ona,\ncrying--\"Now, answer me!\"\n\nYet she did not hear him--she was still in the grip of the fiend. Jurgis\ncould see her outstretched hands, shaking and twitching, roaming\nhere and there over the bed at will, like living things; he could see\nconvulsive shudderings start in her body and run through her limbs. She\nwas sobbing and choking--it was as if there were too many sounds for one\nthroat, they came chasing each other, like waves upon the sea. Then her\nvoice would begin to rise into screams, louder and louder until it broke\nin wild, horrible peals of laughter. Jurgis bore it until he could bear\nit no longer, and then he sprang at her, seizing her by the shoulders\nand shaking her, shouting into her ear: \"Stop it, I say! Stop it!\"\n\nShe looked up at him, out of her agony; then she fell forward at his\nfeet. She caught them in her hands, in spite of his efforts to step\naside, and with her face upon the floor lay writhing. It made a choking\nin Jurgis' throat to hear her, and he cried again, more savagely than\nbefore: \"Stop it, I say!\"\n\nThis time she heeded him, and caught her breath and lay silent, save for\nthe gasping sobs that wrenched all her frame. For a long minute she\nlay there, perfectly motionless, until a cold fear seized her husband,\nthinking that she was dying. Suddenly, however, he heard her voice,\nfaintly: \"Jurgis! Jurgis!\"\n\n\"What is it?\" he said.\n\nHe had to bend down to her, she was so weak. She was pleading with him,\nin broken phrases, painfully uttered: \"Have faith in me! Believe me!\"\n\n\"Believe what?\" he cried.\n\n\"Believe that I--that I know best--that I love you! And do not ask\nme--what you did. Oh, Jurgis, please, please! It is for the best--it\nis--\"\n\nHe started to speak again, but she rushed on frantically, heading him\noff. \"If you will only do it! If you will only--only believe me!\nIt wasn't my fault--I couldn't help it--it will be all right--it is\nnothing--it is no harm. Oh, Jurgis--please, please!\"\n\nShe had hold of him, and was trying to raise herself to look at him; he\ncould feel the palsied shaking of her hands and the heaving of the\nbosom she pressed against him. She managed to catch one of his hands and\ngripped it convulsively, drawing it to her face, and bathing it in her\ntears. \"Oh, believe me, believe me!\" she wailed again; and he shouted in\nfury, \"I will not!\"\n\nBut still she clung to him, wailing aloud in her despair: \"Oh, Jurgis,\nthink what you are doing! It will ruin us--it will ruin us! Oh, no,\nyou must not do it! No, don't, don't do it. You must not do it! It\nwill drive me mad--it will kill me--no, no, Jurgis, I am crazy--it is\nnothing. You do not really need to know. We can be happy--we can love\neach other just the same. Oh, please, please, believe me!\"\n\nHer words fairly drove him wild. He tore his hands loose, and flung her\noff. \"Answer me,\" he cried. \"God damn it, I say--answer me!\"\n\nShe sank down upon the floor, beginning to cry again. It was like\nlistening to the moan of a damned soul, and Jurgis could not stand it.\nHe smote his fist upon the table by his side, and shouted again at her,\n\"Answer me!\"\n\nShe began to scream aloud, her voice like the voice of some wild beast:\n\"Ah! Ah! I can't! I can't do it!\"\n\n\"Why can't you do it?\" he shouted.\n\n\"I don't know how!\"\n\nHe sprang and caught her by the arm, lifting her up, and glaring into\nher face. \"Tell me where you were last night!\" he panted. \"Quick, out\nwith it!\"\n\nThen she began to whisper, one word at a time: \"I--was in--a\nhouse--downtown--\"\n\n\"What house? What do you mean?\"\n\nShe tried to hide her eyes away, but he held her. \"Miss Henderson's\nhouse,\" she gasped. He did not understand at first. \"Miss Henderson's\nhouse,\" he echoed. And then suddenly, as in an explosion, the horrible\ntruth burst over him, and he reeled and staggered back with a scream.\nHe caught himself against the wall, and put his hand to his forehead,\nstaring about him, and whispering, \"Jesus! Jesus!\"\n\nAn instant later he leaped at her, as she lay groveling at his feet.\nHe seized her by the throat. \"Tell me!\" he gasped, hoarsely. \"Quick!\nWho took you to that place?\"\n\nShe tried to get away, making him furious; he thought it was fear, of\nthe pain of his clutch--he did not understand that it was the agony of\nher shame. Still she answered him, \"Connor.\"\n\n\"Connor,\" he gasped. \"Who is Connor?\"\n\n\"The boss,\" she answered. \"The man--\"\n\nHe tightened his grip, in his frenzy, and only when he saw her eyes\nclosing did he realize that he was choking her. Then he relaxed his\nfingers, and crouched, waiting, until she opened her lids again. His\nbreath beat hot into her face.\n\n\"Tell me,\" he whispered, at last, \"tell me about it.\"\n\nShe lay perfectly motionless, and he had to hold his breath to catch her\nwords. \"I did not want--to do it,\" she said; \"I tried--I tried not to do\nit. I only did it--to save us. It was our only chance.\"\n\nAgain, for a space, there was no sound but his panting. Ona's eyes\nclosed and when she spoke again she did not open them. \"He told me--he\nwould have me turned off. He told me he would--we would all of us lose\nour places. We could never get anything to do--here--again. He--he meant\nit--he would have ruined us.\"\n\nJurgis' arms were shaking so that he could scarcely hold himself up,\nand lurched forward now and then as he listened. \"When--when did this\nbegin?\" he gasped.\n\n\"At the very first,\" she said. She spoke as if in a trance. \"It was\nall--it was their plot--Miss Henderson's plot. She hated me. And he--he\nwanted me. He used to speak to me--out on the platform. Then he began\nto--to make love to me. He offered me money. He begged me--he said he\nloved me. Then he threatened me. He knew all about us, he knew we would\nstarve. He knew your boss--he knew Marija's. He would hound us to death,\nhe said--then he said if I would--if I--we would all of us be sure\nof work--always. Then one day he caught hold of me--he would not let\ngo--he--he--\"\n\n\"Where was this?\"\n\n\"In the hallway--at night--after every one had gone. I could not help\nit. I thought of you--of the baby--of mother and the children. I was\nafraid of him--afraid to cry out.\"\n\nA moment ago her face had been ashen gray, now it was scarlet. She was\nbeginning to breathe hard again. Jurgis made not a sound.\n\n\"That was two months ago. Then he wanted me to come--to that house. He\nwanted me to stay there. He said all of us--that we would not have to\nwork. He made me come there--in the evenings. I told you--you thought I\nwas at the factory. Then--one night it snowed, and I couldn't get back.\nAnd last night--the cars were stopped. It was such a little thing--to\nruin us all. I tried to walk, but I couldn't. I didn't want you to know.\nIt would have--it would have been all right. We could have gone on--just\nthe same--you need never have known about it. He was getting tired of\nme--he would have let me alone soon. I am going to have a baby--I am\ngetting ugly. He told me that--twice, he told me, last night. He kicked\nme--last night--too. And now you will kill him--you--you will kill\nhim--and we shall die.\"\n\nAll this she had said without a quiver; she lay still as death, not an\neyelid moving. And Jurgis, too, said not a word. He lifted himself by\nthe bed, and stood up. He did not stop for another glance at her, but\nwent to the door and opened it. He did not see Elzbieta, crouching\nterrified in the corner. He went out, hatless, leaving the street door\nopen behind him. The instant his feet were on the sidewalk he broke into\na run.\n\n\nHe ran like one possessed, blindly, furiously, looking neither to the\nright nor left. He was on Ashland Avenue before exhaustion compelled him\nto slow down, and then, noticing a car, he made a dart for it and drew\nhimself aboard. His eyes were wild and his hair flying, and he was\nbreathing hoarsely, like a wounded bull; but the people on the car did\nnot notice this particularly--perhaps it seemed natural to them that\na man who smelled as Jurgis smelled should exhibit an aspect to\ncorrespond. They began to give way before him as usual. The conductor\ntook his nickel gingerly, with the tips of his fingers, and then left\nhim with the platform to himself. Jurgis did not even notice it--his\nthoughts were far away. Within his soul it was like a roaring furnace;\nhe stood waiting, waiting, crouching as if for a spring.\n\nHe had some of his breath back when the car came to the entrance of the\nyards, and so he leaped off and started again, racing at full speed.\nPeople turned and stared at him, but he saw no one--there was the\nfactory, and he bounded through the doorway and down the corridor. He\nknew the room where Ona worked, and he knew Connor, the boss of the\nloading-gang outside. He looked for the man as he sprang into the room.\n\nThe truckmen were hard at work, loading the freshly packed boxes and\nbarrels upon the cars. Jurgis shot one swift glance up and down the\nplatform--the man was not on it. But then suddenly he heard a voice in\nthe corridor, and started for it with a bound. In an instant more he\nfronted the boss.\n\nHe was a big, red-faced Irishman, coarse-featured, and smelling of\nliquor. He saw Jurgis as he crossed the threshold, and turned white.\nHe hesitated one second, as if meaning to run; and in the next his\nassailant was upon him. He put up his hands to protect his face, but\nJurgis, lunging with all the power of his arm and body, struck him\nfairly between the eyes and knocked him backward. The next moment he was\non top of him, burying his fingers in his throat.\n\nTo Jurgis this man's whole presence reeked of the crime he had\ncommitted; the touch of his body was madness to him--it set every nerve\nof him a-tremble, it aroused all the demon in his soul. It had worked its\nwill upon Ona, this great beast--and now he had it, he had it! It was\nhis turn now! Things swam blood before him, and he screamed aloud in his\nfury, lifting his victim and smashing his head upon the floor.\n\nThe place, of course, was in an uproar; women fainting and shrieking,\nand men rushing in. Jurgis was so bent upon his task that he knew\nnothing of this, and scarcely realized that people were trying to\ninterfere with him; it was only when half a dozen men had seized him by\nthe legs and shoulders and were pulling at him, that he understood that\nhe was losing his prey. In a flash he had bent down and sunk his teeth\ninto the man's cheek; and when they tore him away he was dripping with\nblood, and little ribbons of skin were hanging in his mouth.\n\nThey got him down upon the floor, clinging to him by his arms and legs,\nand still they could hardly hold him. He fought like a tiger,\nwrithing and twisting, half flinging them off, and starting toward his\nunconscious enemy. But yet others rushed in, until there was a little\nmountain of twisted limbs and bodies, heaving and tossing, and working\nits way about the room. In the end, by their sheer weight, they choked\nthe breath out of him, and then they carried him to the company police\nstation, where he lay still until they had summoned a patrol wagon to\ntake him away.\n\n\n\nChapter 16\n\n\nWhen Jurgis got up again he went quietly enough. He was exhausted and\nhalf-dazed, and besides he saw the blue uniforms of the policemen. He\ndrove in a patrol wagon with half a dozen of them watching him; keeping\nas far away as possible, however, on account of the fertilizer. Then he\nstood before the sergeant's desk and gave his name and address, and saw\na charge of assault and battery entered against him. On his way to his\ncell a burly policeman cursed him because he started down the\nwrong corridor, and then added a kick when he was not quick enough;\nnevertheless, Jurgis did not even lift his eyes--he had lived two years\nand a half in Packingtown, and he knew what the police were. It was as\nmuch as a man's very life was worth to anger them, here in their inmost\nlair; like as not a dozen would pile on to him at once, and pound\nhis face into a pulp. It would be nothing unusual if he got his skull\ncracked in the melee--in which case they would report that he had\nbeen drunk and had fallen down, and there would be no one to know the\ndifference or to care.\n\nSo a barred door clanged upon Jurgis and he sat down upon a bench and\nburied his face in his hands. He was alone; he had the afternoon and all\nof the night to himself.\n\nAt first he was like a wild beast that has glutted itself; he was in\na dull stupor of satisfaction. He had done up the scoundrel pretty\nwell--not as well as he would have if they had given him a minute\nmore, but pretty well, all the same; the ends of his fingers were still\ntingling from their contact with the fellow's throat. But then, little\nby little, as his strength came back and his senses cleared, he began\nto see beyond his momentary gratification; that he had nearly killed\nthe boss would not help Ona--not the horrors that she had borne, nor the\nmemory that would haunt her all her days. It would not help to feed her\nand her child; she would certainly lose her place, while he--what was to\nhappen to him God only knew.\n\nHalf the night he paced the floor, wrestling with this nightmare; and\nwhen he was exhausted he lay down, trying to sleep, but finding instead,\nfor the first time in his life, that his brain was too much for him. In\nthe cell next to him was a drunken wife-beater and in the one beyond\na yelling maniac. At midnight they opened the station house to the\nhomeless wanderers who were crowded about the door, shivering in the\nwinter blast, and they thronged into the corridor outside of the cells.\nSome of them stretched themselves out on the bare stone floor and fell\nto snoring, others sat up, laughing and talking, cursing and quarreling.\nThe air was fetid with their breath, yet in spite of this some of them\nsmelled Jurgis and called down the torments of hell upon him, while he\nlay in a far corner of his cell, counting the throbbings of the blood in\nhis forehead.\n\nThey had brought him his supper, which was \"duffers and dope\"--being\nhunks of dry bread on a tin plate, and coffee, called \"dope\" because it\nwas drugged to keep the prisoners quiet. Jurgis had not known this, or\nhe would have swallowed the stuff in desperation; as it was, every nerve\nof him was a-quiver with shame and rage. Toward morning the place fell\nsilent, and he got up and began to pace his cell; and then within the\nsoul of him there rose up a fiend, red-eyed and cruel, and tore out the\nstrings of his heart.\n\nIt was not for himself that he suffered--what did a man who worked in\nDurham's fertilizer mill care about anything that the world might do\nto him! What was any tyranny of prison compared with the tyranny of the\npast, of the thing that had happened and could not be recalled, of the\nmemory that could never be effaced! The horror of it drove him mad;\nhe stretched out his arms to heaven, crying out for deliverance from\nit--and there was no deliverance, there was no power even in heaven that\ncould undo the past. It was a ghost that would not drown; it followed\nhim, it seized upon him and beat him to the ground. Ah, if only he could\nhave foreseen it--but then, he would have foreseen it, if he had not\nbeen a fool! He smote his hands upon his forehead, cursing himself\nbecause he had ever allowed Ona to work where she had, because he had\nnot stood between her and a fate which every one knew to be so common.\nHe should have taken her away, even if it were to lie down and die of\nstarvation in the gutters of Chicago's streets! And now--oh, it could\nnot be true; it was too monstrous, too horrible.\n\nIt was a thing that could not be faced; a new shuddering seized him\nevery time he tried to think of it. No, there was no bearing the load of\nit, there was no living under it. There would be none for her--he knew\nthat he might pardon her, might plead with her on his knees, but she\nwould never look him in the face again, she would never be his\nwife again. The shame of it would kill her--there could be no other\ndeliverance, and it was best that she should die.\n\nThis was simple and clear, and yet, with cruel inconsistency, whenever\nhe escaped from this nightmare it was to suffer and cry out at the\nvision of Ona starving. They had put him in jail, and they would keep\nhim here a long time, years maybe. And Ona would surely not go to work\nagain, broken and crushed as she was. And Elzbieta and Marija, too,\nmight lose their places--if that hell fiend Connor chose to set to work\nto ruin them, they would all be turned out. And even if he did not, they\ncould not live--even if the boys left school again, they could surely\nnot pay all the bills without him and Ona. They had only a few dollars\nnow--they had just paid the rent of the house a week ago, and that after\nit was two weeks overdue. So it would be due again in a week! They would\nhave no money to pay it then--and they would lose the house, after all\ntheir long, heartbreaking struggle. Three times now the agent had warned\nhim that he would not tolerate another delay. Perhaps it was very\nbase of Jurgis to be thinking about the house when he had the other\nunspeakable thing to fill his mind; yet, how much he had suffered for\nthis house, how much they had all of them suffered! It was their one\nhope of respite, as long as they lived; they had put all their money\ninto it--and they were working people, poor people, whose money was\ntheir strength, the very substance of them, body and soul, the thing by\nwhich they lived and for lack of which they died.\n\nAnd they would lose it all; they would be turned out into the streets,\nand have to hide in some icy garret, and live or die as best they could!\nJurgis had all the night--and all of many more nights--to think about\nthis, and he saw the thing in its details; he lived it all, as if he\nwere there. They would sell their furniture, and then run into debt at\nthe stores, and then be refused credit; they would borrow a little from\nthe Szedvilases, whose delicatessen store was tottering on the brink\nof ruin; the neighbors would come and help them a little--poor, sick\nJadvyga would bring a few spare pennies, as she always did when people\nwere starving, and Tamoszius Kuszleika would bring them the proceeds of\na night's fiddling. So they would struggle to hang on until he got out\nof jail--or would they know that he was in jail, would they be able to\nfind out anything about him? Would they be allowed to see him--or was it\nto be part of his punishment to be kept in ignorance about their fate?\n\nHis mind would hang upon the worst possibilities; he saw Ona ill and\ntortured, Marija out of her place, little Stanislovas unable to get\nto work for the snow, the whole family turned out on the street. God\nAlmighty! would they actually let them lie down in the street and die?\nWould there be no help even then--would they wander about in the snow\ntill they froze? Jurgis had never seen any dead bodies in the streets,\nbut he had seen people evicted and disappear, no one knew where;\nand though the city had a relief bureau, though there was a charity\norganization society in the stockyards district, in all his life there\nhe had never heard of either of them. They did not advertise their\nactivities, having more calls than they could attend to without that.\n\n--So on until morning. Then he had another ride in the patrol wagon,\nalong with the drunken wife-beater and the maniac, several \"plain\ndrunks\" and \"saloon fighters,\" a burglar, and two men who had been\narrested for stealing meat from the packing houses. Along with them he\nwas driven into a large, white-walled room, stale-smelling and\ncrowded. In front, upon a raised platform behind a rail, sat a stout,\nflorid-faced personage, with a nose broken out in purple blotches.\n\nOur friend realized vaguely that he was about to be tried. He wondered\nwhat for--whether or not his victim might be dead, and if so, what they\nwould do with him. Hang him, perhaps, or beat him to death--nothing\nwould have surprised Jurgis, who knew little of the laws. Yet he had\npicked up gossip enough to have it occur to him that the loud-voiced man\nupon the bench might be the notorious Justice Callahan, about whom the\npeople of Packingtown spoke with bated breath.\n\n\"Pat\" Callahan--\"Growler\" Pat, as he had been known before he ascended\nthe bench--had begun life as a butcher boy and a bruiser of local\nreputation; he had gone into politics almost as soon as he had learned\nto talk, and had held two offices at once before he was old enough to\nvote. If Scully was the thumb, Pat Callahan was the first finger of the\nunseen hand whereby the packers held down the people of the district. No\npolitician in Chicago ranked higher in their confidence; he had been at\nit a long time--had been the business agent in the city council of old\nDurham, the self-made merchant, way back in the early days, when the\nwhole city of Chicago had been up at auction. \"Growler\" Pat had given\nup holding city offices very early in his career--caring only for party\npower, and giving the rest of his time to superintending his dives and\nbrothels. Of late years, however, since his children were growing up,\nhe had begun to value respectability, and had had himself made a\nmagistrate; a position for which he was admirably fitted, because of his\nstrong conservatism and his contempt for \"foreigners.\"\n\nJurgis sat gazing about the room for an hour or two; he was in hopes\nthat some one of the family would come, but in this he was disappointed.\nFinally, he was led before the bar, and a lawyer for the company\nappeared against him. Connor was under the doctor's care, the lawyer\nexplained briefly, and if his Honor would hold the prisoner for a\nweek--\"Three hundred dollars,\" said his Honor, promptly.\n\nJurgis was staring from the judge to the lawyer in perplexity. \"Have you\nany one to go on your bond?\" demanded the judge, and then a clerk who\nstood at Jurgis' elbow explained to him what this meant. The latter\nshook his head, and before he realized what had happened the policemen\nwere leading him away again. They took him to a room where other\nprisoners were waiting and here he stayed until court adjourned, when he\nhad another long and bitterly cold ride in a patrol wagon to the county\njail, which is on the north side of the city, and nine or ten miles from\nthe stockyards.\n\nHere they searched Jurgis, leaving him only his money, which consisted\nof fifteen cents. Then they led him to a room and told him to strip for\na bath; after which he had to walk down a long gallery, past the grated\ncell doors of the inmates of the jail. This was a great event to the\nlatter--the daily review of the new arrivals, all stark naked, and many\nand diverting were the comments. Jurgis was required to stay in the bath\nlonger than any one, in the vain hope of getting out of him a few of his\nphosphates and acids. The prisoners roomed two in a cell, but that day\nthere was one left over, and he was the one.\n\nThe cells were in tiers, opening upon galleries. His cell was about five\nfeet by seven in size, with a stone floor and a heavy wooden bench built\ninto it. There was no window--the only light came from windows near the\nroof at one end of the court outside. There were two bunks, one above\nthe other, each with a straw mattress and a pair of gray blankets--the\nlatter stiff as boards with filth, and alive with fleas, bedbugs, and\nlice. When Jurgis lifted up the mattress he discovered beneath it a\nlayer of scurrying roaches, almost as badly frightened as himself.\n\nHere they brought him more \"duffers and dope,\" with the addition of a\nbowl of soup. Many of the prisoners had their meals brought in from a\nrestaurant, but Jurgis had no money for that. Some had books to read and\ncards to play, with candles to burn by night, but Jurgis was all alone\nin darkness and silence. He could not sleep again; there was the same\nmaddening procession of thoughts that lashed him like whips upon his\nnaked back. When night fell he was pacing up and down his cell like a\nwild beast that breaks its teeth upon the bars of its cage. Now and then\nin his frenzy he would fling himself against the walls of the place,\nbeating his hands upon them. They cut him and bruised him--they were\ncold and merciless as the men who had built them.\n\nIn the distance there was a church-tower bell that tolled the hours one\nby one. When it came to midnight Jurgis was lying upon the floor with\nhis head in his arms, listening. Instead of falling silent at the end,\nthe bell broke into a sudden clangor. Jurgis raised his head; what could\nthat mean--a fire? God! Suppose there were to be a fire in this jail!\nBut then he made out a melody in the ringing; there were chimes. And\nthey seemed to waken the city--all around, far and near, there were\nbells, ringing wild music; for fully a minute Jurgis lay lost in wonder,\nbefore, all at once, the meaning of it broke over him--that this was\nChristmas Eve!\n\nChristmas Eve--he had forgotten it entirely! There was a breaking of\nfloodgates, a whirl of new memories and new griefs rushing into his\nmind. In far Lithuania they had celebrated Christmas; and it came to\nhim as if it had been yesterday--himself a little child, with his lost\nbrother and his dead father in the cabin--in the deep black forest,\nwhere the snow fell all day and all night and buried them from the\nworld. It was too far off for Santa Claus in Lithuania, but it was not\ntoo far for peace and good will to men, for the wonder-bearing vision\nof the Christ Child. And even in Packingtown they had not forgotten\nit--some gleam of it had never failed to break their darkness. Last\nChristmas Eve and all Christmas Day Jurgis had toiled on the killing\nbeds, and Ona at wrapping hams, and still they had found strength\nenough to take the children for a walk upon the avenue, to see the store\nwindows all decorated with Christmas trees and ablaze with electric\nlights. In one window there would be live geese, in another marvels in\nsugar--pink and white canes big enough for ogres, and cakes with\ncherubs upon them; in a third there would be rows of fat yellow turkeys,\ndecorated with rosettes, and rabbits and squirrels hanging; in a fourth\nwould be a fairyland of toys--lovely dolls with pink dresses, and woolly\nsheep and drums and soldier hats. Nor did they have to go without their\nshare of all this, either. The last time they had had a big basket with\nthem and all their Christmas marketing to do--a roast of pork and a\ncabbage and some rye bread, and a pair of mittens for Ona, and a rubber\ndoll that squeaked, and a little green cornucopia full of candy to be\nhung from the gas jet and gazed at by half a dozen pairs of longing\neyes.\n\nEven half a year of the sausage machines and the fertilizer mill had not\nbeen able to kill the thought of Christmas in them; there was a choking\nin Jurgis' throat as he recalled that the very night Ona had not come\nhome Teta Elzbieta had taken him aside and shown him an old valentine\nthat she had picked up in a paper store for three cents--dingy and\nshopworn, but with bright colors, and figures of angels and doves.\nShe had wiped all the specks off this, and was going to set it on the\nmantel, where the children could see it. Great sobs shook Jurgis at this\nmemory--they would spend their Christmas in misery and despair, with\nhim in prison and Ona ill and their home in desolation. Ah, it was too\ncruel! Why at least had they not left him alone--why, after they had\nshut him in jail, must they be ringing Christmas chimes in his ears!\n\nBut no, their bells were not ringing for him--their Christmas was not\nmeant for him, they were simply not counting him at all. He was of no\nconsequence--he was flung aside, like a bit of trash, the carcass of\nsome animal. It was horrible, horrible! His wife might be dying, his\nbaby might be starving, his whole family might be perishing in the\ncold--and all the while they were ringing their Christmas chimes! And\nthe bitter mockery of it--all this was punishment for him! They put him\nin a place where the snow could not beat in, where the cold could not\neat through his bones; they brought him food and drink--why, in the name\nof heaven, if they must punish him, did they not put his family in jail\nand leave him outside--why could they find no better way to punish him\nthan to leave three weak women and six helpless children to starve and\nfreeze? That was their law, that was their justice!\n\nJurgis stood upright; trembling with passion, his hands clenched and\nhis arms upraised, his whole soul ablaze with hatred and defiance. Ten\nthousand curses upon them and their law! Their justice--it was a lie, it\nwas a lie, a hideous, brutal lie, a thing too black and hateful for any\nworld but a world of nightmares. It was a sham and a loathsome mockery.\nThere was no justice, there was no right, anywhere in it--it was\nonly force, it was tyranny, the will and the power, reckless and\nunrestrained! They had ground him beneath their heel, they had devoured\nall his substance; they had murdered his old father, they had broken and\nwrecked his wife, they had crushed and cowed his whole family; and now\nthey were through with him, they had no further use for him--and because\nhe had interfered with them, had gotten in their way, this was what they\nhad done to him! They had put him behind bars, as if he had been a\nwild beast, a thing without sense or reason, without rights, without\naffections, without feelings. Nay, they would not even have treated a\nbeast as they had treated him! Would any man in his senses have trapped\na wild thing in its lair, and left its young behind to die?\n\nThese midnight hours were fateful ones to Jurgis; in them was the\nbeginning of his rebellion, of his outlawry and his unbelief. He had no\nwit to trace back the social crime to its far sources--he could not say\nthat it was the thing men have called \"the system\" that was crushing him\nto the earth; that it was the packers, his masters, who had bought up\nthe law of the land, and had dealt out their brutal will to him from the\nseat of justice. He only knew that he was wronged, and that the world\nhad wronged him; that the law, that society, with all its powers, had\ndeclared itself his foe. And every hour his soul grew blacker, every\nhour he dreamed new dreams of vengeance, of defiance, of raging,\nfrenzied hate.\n\n          The vilest deeds, like poison weeds,\n            Bloom well in prison air;\n          It is only what is good in Man\n            That wastes and withers there;\n          Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,\n            And the Warder is Despair.\n\nSo wrote a poet, to whom the world had dealt its justice--\n\n           I know not whether Laws be right,\n            Or whether Laws be wrong;\n          All that we know who lie in gaol\n            Is that the wall is strong.\n          And they do well to hide their hell,\n            For in it things are done\n          That Son of God nor son of Man\n            Ever should look upon!\n\n\n\nChapter 17\n\n\nAt seven o'clock the next morning Jurgis was let out to get water to\nwash his cell--a duty which he performed faithfully, but which most\nof the prisoners were accustomed to shirk, until their cells became so\nfilthy that the guards interposed. Then he had more \"duffers and\ndope,\" and afterward was allowed three hours for exercise, in a long,\ncement-walked court roofed with glass. Here were all the inmates of\nthe jail crowded together. At one side of the court was a place for\nvisitors, cut off by two heavy wire screens, a foot apart, so that\nnothing could be passed in to the prisoners; here Jurgis watched\nanxiously, but there came no one to see him.\n\nSoon after he went back to his cell, a keeper opened the door to let\nin another prisoner. He was a dapper young fellow, with a light brown\nmustache and blue eyes, and a graceful figure. He nodded to Jurgis, and\nthen, as the keeper closed the door upon him, began gazing critically\nabout him.\n\n\"Well, pal,\" he said, as his glance encountered Jurgis again, \"good\nmorning.\"\n\n\"Good morning,\" said Jurgis.\n\n\"A rum go for Christmas, eh?\" added the other.\n\nJurgis nodded.\n\nThe newcomer went to the bunks and inspected the blankets; he lifted\nup the mattress, and then dropped it with an exclamation. \"My God!\" he\nsaid, \"that's the worst yet.\"\n\nHe glanced at Jurgis again. \"Looks as if it hadn't been slept in last\nnight. Couldn't stand it, eh?\"\n\n\"I didn't want to sleep last night,\" said Jurgis.\n\n\"When did you come in?\"\n\n\"Yesterday.\"\n\nThe other had another look around, and then wrinkled up his nose.\n\"There's the devil of a stink in here,\" he said, suddenly. \"What is it?\"\n\n\"It's me,\" said Jurgis.\n\n\"You?\"\n\n\"Yes, me.\"\n\n\"Didn't they make you wash?\"\n\n\"Yes, but this don't wash.\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"Fertilizer.\"\n\n\"Fertilizer! The deuce! What are you?\"\n\n\"I work in the stockyards--at least I did until the other day. It's in\nmy clothes.\"\n\n\"That's a new one on me,\" said the newcomer. \"I thought I'd been up\nagainst 'em all. What are you in for?\"\n\n\"I hit my boss.\"\n\n\"Oh--that's it. What did he do?\"\n\n\"He--he treated me mean.\"\n\n\"I see. You're what's called an honest workingman!\"\n\n\"What are you?\" Jurgis asked.\n\n\"I?\" The other laughed. \"They say I'm a cracksman,\" he said.\n\n\"What's that?\" asked Jurgis.\n\n\"Safes, and such things,\" answered the other.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Jurgis, wonderingly, and stared at the speaker in awe. \"You\nmean you break into them--you--you--\"\n\n\"Yes,\" laughed the other, \"that's what they say.\"\n\nHe did not look to be over twenty-two or three, though, as Jurgis found\nafterward, he was thirty. He spoke like a man of education, like what\nthe world calls a \"gentleman.\"\n\n\"Is that what you're here for?\" Jurgis inquired.\n\n\"No,\" was the answer. \"I'm here for disorderly conduct. They were mad\nbecause they couldn't get any evidence.\n\n\"What's your name?\" the young fellow continued after a pause. \"My name's\nDuane--Jack Duane. I've more than a dozen, but that's my company one.\"\nHe seated himself on the floor with his back to the wall and his legs\ncrossed, and went on talking easily; he soon put Jurgis on a friendly\nfooting--he was evidently a man of the world, used to getting on, and\nnot too proud to hold conversation with a mere laboring man. He drew\nJurgis out, and heard all about his life all but the one unmentionable\nthing; and then he told stories about his own life. He was a great\none for stories, not always of the choicest. Being sent to jail had\napparently not disturbed his cheerfulness; he had \"done time\" twice\nbefore, it seemed, and he took it all with a frolic welcome. What with\nwomen and wine and the excitement of his vocation, a man could afford to\nrest now and then.\n\nNaturally, the aspect of prison life was changed for Jurgis by the\narrival of a cell mate. He could not turn his face to the wall and\nsulk, he had to speak when he was spoken to; nor could he help being\ninterested in the conversation of Duane--the first educated man with\nwhom he had ever talked. How could he help listening with wonder while\nthe other told of midnight ventures and perilous escapes, of feastings\nand orgies, of fortunes squandered in a night? The young fellow had an\namused contempt for Jurgis, as a sort of working mule; he, too, had\nfelt the world's injustice, but instead of bearing it patiently, he had\nstruck back, and struck hard. He was striking all the time--there was\nwar between him and society. He was a genial freebooter, living off the\nenemy, without fear or shame. He was not always victorious, but then\ndefeat did not mean annihilation, and need not break his spirit.\n\nWithal he was a goodhearted fellow--too much so, it appeared. His story\ncame out, not in the first day, nor the second, but in the long hours\nthat dragged by, in which they had nothing to do but talk and nothing\nto talk of but themselves. Jack Duane was from the East; he was a\ncollege-bred man--had been studying electrical engineering. Then his\nfather had met with misfortune in business and killed himself; and there\nhad been his mother and a younger brother and sister. Also, there was an\ninvention of Duane's; Jurgis could not understand it clearly, but it had\nto do with telegraphing, and it was a very important thing--there were\nfortunes in it, millions upon millions of dollars. And Duane had been\nrobbed of it by a great company, and got tangled up in lawsuits and lost\nall his money. Then somebody had given him a tip on a horse race, and he\nhad tried to retrieve his fortune with another person's money, and had\nto run away, and all the rest had come from that. The other asked\nhim what had led him to safe-breaking--to Jurgis a wild and appalling\noccupation to think about. A man he had met, his cell mate had\nreplied--one thing leads to another. Didn't he ever wonder about his\nfamily, Jurgis asked. Sometimes, the other answered, but not often--he\ndidn't allow it. Thinking about it would make it no better. This wasn't\na world in which a man had any business with a family; sooner or later\nJurgis would find that out also, and give up the fight and shift for\nhimself.\n\nJurgis was so transparently what he pretended to be that his cell mate\nwas as open with him as a child; it was pleasant to tell him adventures,\nhe was so full of wonder and admiration, he was so new to the ways of\nthe country. Duane did not even bother to keep back names and places--he\ntold all his triumphs and his failures, his loves and his griefs. Also\nhe introduced Jurgis to many of the other prisoners, nearly half of whom\nhe knew by name. The crowd had already given Jurgis a name--they called\nhim \"the stinker.\" This was cruel, but they meant no harm by it, and he\ntook it with a good-natured grin.\n\nOur friend had caught now and then a whiff from the sewers over which\nhe lived, but this was the first time that he had ever been splashed by\ntheir filth. This jail was a Noah's ark of the city's crime--there were\nmurderers, \"hold-up men\" and burglars, embezzlers, counterfeiters and\nforgers, bigamists, \"shoplifters,\" \"confidence men,\" petty thieves\nand pickpockets, gamblers and procurers, brawlers, beggars, tramps\nand drunkards; they were black and white, old and young, Americans and\nnatives of every nation under the sun. There were hardened criminals and\ninnocent men too poor to give bail; old men, and boys literally not yet\nin their teens. They were the drainage of the great festering ulcer of\nsociety; they were hideous to look upon, sickening to talk to. All life\nhad turned to rottenness and stench in them--love was a beastliness, joy\nwas a snare, and God was an imprecation. They strolled here and there\nabout the courtyard, and Jurgis listened to them. He was ignorant and\nthey were wise; they had been everywhere and tried everything. They\ncould tell the whole hateful story of it, set forth the inner soul of\na city in which justice and honor, women's bodies and men's souls, were\nfor sale in the marketplace, and human beings writhed and fought and\nfell upon each other like wolves in a pit; in which lusts were raging\nfires, and men were fuel, and humanity was festering and stewing and\nwallowing in its own corruption. Into this wild-beast tangle these men\nhad been born without their consent, they had taken part in it because\nthey could not help it; that they were in jail was no disgrace to\nthem, for the game had never been fair, the dice were loaded. They were\nswindlers and thieves of pennies and dimes, and they had been trapped\nand put out of the way by the swindlers and thieves of millions of\ndollars.\n\n\nTo most of this Jurgis tried not to listen. They frightened him with\ntheir savage mockery; and all the while his heart was far away, where\nhis loved ones were calling. Now and then in the midst of it his\nthoughts would take flight; and then the tears would come into his\neyes--and he would be called back by the jeering laughter of his\ncompanions.\n\nHe spent a week in this company, and during all that time he had no word\nfrom his home. He paid one of his fifteen cents for a postal card, and\nhis companion wrote a note to the family, telling them where he was\nand when he would be tried. There came no answer to it, however, and at\nlast, the day before New Year's, Jurgis bade good-by to Jack Duane. The\nlatter gave him his address, or rather the address of his mistress, and\nmade Jurgis promise to look him up. \"Maybe I could help you out of a\nhole some day,\" he said, and added that he was sorry to have him go.\nJurgis rode in the patrol wagon back to Justice Callahan's court for\ntrial.\n\nOne of the first things he made out as he entered the room was Teta\nElzbieta and little Kotrina, looking pale and frightened, seated far in\nthe rear. His heart began to pound, but he did not dare to try to signal\nto them, and neither did Elzbieta. He took his seat in the prisoners'\npen and sat gazing at them in helpless agony. He saw that Ona was not\nwith them, and was full of foreboding as to what that might mean. He\nspent half an hour brooding over this--and then suddenly he straightened\nup and the blood rushed into his face. A man had come in--Jurgis could\nnot see his features for the bandages that swathed him, but he knew the\nburly figure. It was Connor! A trembling seized him, and his limbs bent\nas if for a spring. Then suddenly he felt a hand on his collar, and\nheard a voice behind him: \"Sit down, you son of a--!\"\n\nHe subsided, but he never took his eyes off his enemy. The fellow was\nstill alive, which was a disappointment, in one way; and yet it was\npleasant to see him, all in penitential plasters. He and the company\nlawyer, who was with him, came and took seats within the judge's\nrailing; and a minute later the clerk called Jurgis' name, and the\npoliceman jerked him to his feet and led him before the bar, gripping\nhim tightly by the arm, lest he should spring upon the boss.\n\nJurgis listened while the man entered the witness chair, took the oath,\nand told his story. The wife of the prisoner had been employed in a\ndepartment near him, and had been discharged for impudence to him. Half\nan hour later he had been violently attacked, knocked down, and almost\nchoked to death. He had brought witnesses--\n\n\"They will probably not be necessary,\" observed the judge and he turned\nto Jurgis. \"You admit attacking the plaintiff?\" he asked.\n\n\"Him?\" inquired Jurgis, pointing at the boss.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the judge. \"I hit him, sir,\" said Jurgis.\n\n\"Say 'your Honor,'\" said the officer, pinching his arm hard.\n\n\"Your Honor,\" said Jurgis, obediently.\n\n\"You tried to choke him?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, your Honor.\"\n\n\"Ever been arrested before?\"\n\n\"No, sir, your Honor.\"\n\n\"What have you to say for yourself?\"\n\nJurgis hesitated. What had he to say? In two years and a half he had\nlearned to speak English for practical purposes, but these had never\nincluded the statement that some one had intimidated and seduced his\nwife. He tried once or twice, stammering and balking, to the annoyance\nof the judge, who was gasping from the odor of fertilizer. Finally,\nthe prisoner made it understood that his vocabulary was inadequate, and\nthere stepped up a dapper young man with waxed mustaches, bidding him\nspeak in any language he knew.\n\nJurgis began; supposing that he would be given time, he explained how\nthe boss had taken advantage of his wife's position to make advances\nto her and had threatened her with the loss of her place. When the\ninterpreter had translated this, the judge, whose calendar was crowded,\nand whose automobile was ordered for a certain hour, interrupted with\nthe remark: \"Oh, I see. Well, if he made love to your wife, why didn't\nshe complain to the superintendent or leave the place?\"\n\nJurgis hesitated, somewhat taken aback; he began to explain that they\nwere very poor--that work was hard to get--\n\n\"I see,\" said Justice Callahan; \"so instead you thought you would knock\nhim down.\" He turned to the plaintiff, inquiring, \"Is there any truth in\nthis story, Mr. Connor?\"\n\n\"Not a particle, your Honor,\" said the boss. \"It is very\nunpleasant--they tell some such tale every time you have to discharge a\nwoman--\"\n\n\"Yes, I know,\" said the judge. \"I hear it often enough. The fellow seems\nto have handled you pretty roughly. Thirty days and costs. Next case.\"\n\nJurgis had been listening in perplexity. It was only when the policeman\nwho had him by the arm turned and started to lead him away that he\nrealized that sentence had been passed. He gazed round him wildly.\n\"Thirty days!\" he panted and then he whirled upon the judge. \"What will\nmy family do?\" he cried frantically. \"I have a wife and baby, sir, and\nthey have no money--my God, they will starve to death!\"\n\n\"You would have done well to think about them before you committed\nthe assault,\" said the judge dryly, as he turned to look at the next\nprisoner.\n\nJurgis would have spoken again, but the policeman had seized him by the\ncollar and was twisting it, and a second policeman was making for him\nwith evidently hostile intentions. So he let them lead him away. Far\ndown the room he saw Elzbieta and Kotrina, risen from their seats,\nstaring in fright; he made one effort to go to them, and then, brought\nback by another twist at his throat, he bowed his head and gave up the\nstruggle. They thrust him into a cell room, where other prisoners were\nwaiting; and as soon as court had adjourned they led him down with them\ninto the \"Black Maria,\" and drove him away.\n\nThis time Jurgis was bound for the \"Bridewell,\" a petty jail where Cook\nCounty prisoners serve their time. It was even filthier and more crowded\nthan the county jail; all the smaller fry out of the latter had been\nsifted into it--the petty thieves and swindlers, the brawlers and\nvagrants. For his cell mate Jurgis had an Italian fruit seller who\nhad refused to pay his graft to the policeman, and been arrested for\ncarrying a large pocketknife; as he did not understand a word of English\nour friend was glad when he left. He gave place to a Norwegian sailor,\nwho had lost half an ear in a drunken brawl, and who proved to be\nquarrelsome, cursing Jurgis because he moved in his bunk and caused\nthe roaches to drop upon the lower one. It would have been quite\nintolerable, staying in a cell with this wild beast, but for the fact\nthat all day long the prisoners were put at work breaking stone.\n\nTen days of his thirty Jurgis spent thus, without hearing a word from\nhis family; then one day a keeper came and informed him that there was\na visitor to see him. Jurgis turned white, and so weak at the knees that\nhe could hardly leave his cell.\n\nThe man led him down the corridor and a flight of steps to the visitors'\nroom, which was barred like a cell. Through the grating Jurgis could\nsee some one sitting in a chair; and as he came into the room the person\nstarted up, and he saw that it was little Stanislovas. At the sight\nof some one from home the big fellow nearly went to pieces--he had to\nsteady himself by a chair, and he put his other hand to his forehead, as\nif to clear away a mist. \"Well?\" he said, weakly.\n\nLittle Stanislovas was also trembling, and all but too frightened to\nspeak. \"They--they sent me to tell you--\" he said, with a gulp.\n\n\"Well?\" Jurgis repeated. He followed the boy's glance to where the\nkeeper was standing watching them. \"Never mind that,\" Jurgis cried,\nwildly. \"How are they?\"\n\n\"Ona is very sick,\" Stanislovas said; \"and we are almost starving. We\ncan't get along; we thought you might be able to help us.\"\n\nJurgis gripped the chair tighter; there were beads of perspiration on\nhis forehead, and his hand shook. \"I--can't help you,\" he said.\n\n\"Ona lies in her room all day,\" the boy went on, breathlessly. \"She\nwon't eat anything, and she cries all the time. She won't tell what is\nthe matter and she won't go to work at all. Then a long time ago the man\ncame for the rent. He was very cross. He came again last week. He said\nhe would turn us out of the house. And then Marija--\"\n\nA sob choked Stanislovas, and he stopped. \"What's the matter with\nMarija?\" cried Jurgis.\n\n\"She's cut her hand!\" said the boy. \"She's cut it bad, this time, worse\nthan before. She can't work and it's all turning green, and the company\ndoctor says she may--she may have to have it cut off. And Marija cries\nall the time--her money is nearly all gone, too, and we can't pay the\nrent and the interest on the house; and we have no coal and nothing more\nto eat, and the man at the store, he says--\"\n\nThe little fellow stopped again, beginning to whimper. \"Go on!\" the\nother panted in frenzy--\"Go on!\"\n\n\"I--I will,\" sobbed Stanislovas. \"It's so--so cold all the time. And\nlast Sunday it snowed again--a deep, deep snow--and I couldn't--couldn't\nget to work.\"\n\n\"God!\" Jurgis half shouted, and he took a step toward the child. There\nwas an old hatred between them because of the snow--ever since that\ndreadful morning when the boy had had his fingers frozen and Jurgis had\nhad to beat him to send him to work. Now he clenched his hands, looking\nas if he would try to break through the grating. \"You little villain,\"\nhe cried, \"you didn't try!\"\n\n\"I did--I did!\" wailed Stanislovas, shrinking from him in terror. \"I\ntried all day--two days. Elzbieta was with me, and she couldn't either.\nWe couldn't walk at all, it was so deep. And we had nothing to eat, and\noh, it was so cold! I tried, and then the third day Ona went with me--\"\n\n\"Ona!\"\n\n\"Yes. She tried to get to work, too. She had to. We were all starving.\nBut she had lost her place--\"\n\nJurgis reeled, and gave a gasp. \"She went back to that place?\" he\nscreamed. \"She tried to,\" said Stanislovas, gazing at him in perplexity.\n\"Why not, Jurgis?\"\n\nThe man breathed hard, three or four times. \"Go--on,\" he panted,\nfinally.\n\n\"I went with her,\" said Stanislovas, \"but Miss Henderson wouldn't take\nher back. And Connor saw her and cursed her. He was still bandaged\nup--why did you hit him, Jurgis?\" (There was some fascinating mystery\nabout this, the little fellow knew; but he could get no satisfaction.)\n\nJurgis could not speak; he could only stare, his eyes starting out. \"She\nhas been trying to get other work,\" the boy went on; \"but she's so weak\nshe can't keep up. And my boss would not take me back, either--Ona says\nhe knows Connor, and that's the reason; they've all got a grudge against\nus now. So I've got to go downtown and sell papers with the rest of the\nboys and Kotrina--\"\n\n\"Kotrina!\"\n\n\"Yes, she's been selling papers, too. She does best, because she's\na girl. Only the cold is so bad--it's terrible coming home at night,\nJurgis. Sometimes they can't come home at all--I'm going to try to find\nthem tonight and sleep where they do, it's so late and it's such a long\nways home. I've had to walk, and I didn't know where it was--I don't\nknow how to get back, either. Only mother said I must come, because you\nwould want to know, and maybe somebody would help your family when they\nhad put you in jail so you couldn't work. And I walked all day to get\nhere--and I only had a piece of bread for breakfast, Jurgis. Mother\nhasn't any work either, because the sausage department is shut down;\nand she goes and begs at houses with a basket, and people give her food.\nOnly she didn't get much yesterday; it was too cold for her fingers, and\ntoday she was crying--\"\n\nSo little Stanislovas went on, sobbing as he talked; and Jurgis stood,\ngripping the table tightly, saying not a word, but feeling that his\nhead would burst; it was like having weights piled upon him, one after\nanother, crushing the life out of him. He struggled and fought within\nhimself--as if in some terrible nightmare, in which a man suffers an\nagony, and cannot lift his hand, nor cry out, but feels that he is going\nmad, that his brain is on fire--\n\nJust when it seemed to him that another turn of the screw would kill\nhim, little Stanislovas stopped. \"You cannot help us?\" he said weakly.\n\nJurgis shook his head.\n\n\"They won't give you anything here?\"\n\nHe shook it again.\n\n\"When are you coming out?\"\n\n\"Three weeks yet,\" Jurgis answered.\n\nAnd the boy gazed around him uncertainly. \"Then I might as well go,\" he\nsaid.\n\nJurgis nodded. Then, suddenly recollecting, he put his hand into his\npocket and drew it out, shaking. \"Here,\" he said, holding out the\nfourteen cents. \"Take this to them.\"\n\nAnd Stanislovas took it, and after a little more hesitation, started\nfor the door. \"Good-by, Jurgis,\" he said, and the other noticed that he\nwalked unsteadily as he passed out of sight.\n\nFor a minute or so Jurgis stood clinging to his chair, reeling and\nswaying; then the keeper touched him on the arm, and he turned and went\nback to breaking stone.\n\n\n\nChapter 18\n\n\nJurgis did not get out of the Bridewell quite as soon as he had\nexpected. To his sentence there were added \"court costs\" of a dollar and\na half--he was supposed to pay for the trouble of putting him in jail,\nand not having the money, was obliged to work it off by three days\nmore of toil. Nobody had taken the trouble to tell him this--only\nafter counting the days and looking forward to the end in an agony of\nimpatience, when the hour came that he expected to be free he found\nhimself still set at the stone heap, and laughed at when he ventured to\nprotest. Then he concluded he must have counted wrong; but as another\nday passed, he gave up all hope--and was sunk in the depths of despair,\nwhen one morning after breakfast a keeper came to him with the word that\nhis time was up at last. So he doffed his prison garb, and put on his\nold fertilizer clothing, and heard the door of the prison clang behind\nhim.\n\nHe stood upon the steps, bewildered; he could hardly believe that it was\ntrue,--that the sky was above him again and the open street before him;\nthat he was a free man. But then the cold began to strike through his\nclothes, and he started quickly away.\n\nThere had been a heavy snow, and now a thaw had set in; fine sleety rain\nwas falling, driven by a wind that pierced Jurgis to the bone. He had\nnot stopped for his-overcoat when he set out to \"do up\" Connor, and so\nhis rides in the patrol wagons had been cruel experiences; his clothing\nwas old and worn thin, and it never had been very warm. Now as he\ntrudged on the rain soon wet it through; there were six inches of watery\nslush on the sidewalks, so that his feet would soon have been soaked,\neven had there been no holes in his shoes.\n\nJurgis had had enough to eat in the jail, and the work had been the\nleast trying of any that he had done since he came to Chicago; but even\nso, he had not grown strong--the fear and grief that had preyed upon his\nmind had worn him thin. Now he shivered and shrunk from the rain,\nhiding his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders together.\nThe Bridewell grounds were on the outskirts of the city and the country\naround them was unsettled and wild--on one side was the big drainage\ncanal, and on the other a maze of railroad tracks, and so the wind had\nfull sweep.\n\nAfter walking a ways, Jurgis met a little ragamuffin whom he hailed:\n\"Hey, sonny!\" The boy cocked one eye at him--he knew that Jurgis was a\n\"jailbird\" by his shaven head. \"Wot yer want?\" he queried.\n\n\"How do you go to the stockyards?\" Jurgis demanded.\n\n\"I don't go,\" replied the boy.\n\nJurgis hesitated a moment, nonplussed. Then he said, \"I mean which is\nthe way?\"\n\n\"Why don't yer say so then?\" was the response, and the boy pointed to\nthe northwest, across the tracks. \"That way.\"\n\n\"How far is it?\" Jurgis asked. \"I dunno,\" said the other. \"Mebbe twenty\nmiles or so.\"\n\n\"Twenty miles!\" Jurgis echoed, and his face fell. He had to walk every\nfoot of it, for they had turned him out of jail without a penny in his\npockets.\n\nYet, when he once got started, and his blood had warmed with walking,\nhe forgot everything in the fever of his thoughts. All the dreadful\nimaginations that had haunted him in his cell now rushed into his mind\nat once. The agony was almost over--he was going to find out; and he\nclenched his hands in his pockets as he strode, following his flying\ndesire, almost at a run. Ona--the baby--the family--the house--he would\nknow the truth about them all! And he was coming to the rescue--he was\nfree again! His hands were his own, and he could help them, he could do\nbattle for them against the world.\n\nFor an hour or so he walked thus, and then he began to look about him.\nHe seemed to be leaving the city altogether. The street was turning into\na country road, leading out to the westward; there were snow-covered\nfields on either side of him. Soon he met a farmer driving a two-horse\nwagon loaded with straw, and he stopped him.\n\n\"Is this the way to the stockyards?\" he asked.\n\nThe farmer scratched his head. \"I dunno jest where they be,\" he said.\n\"But they're in the city somewhere, and you're going dead away from it\nnow.\"\n\nJurgis looked dazed. \"I was told this was the way,\" he said.\n\n\"Who told you?\"\n\n\"A boy.\"\n\n\"Well, mebbe he was playing a joke on ye. The best thing ye kin do is to\ngo back, and when ye git into town ask a policeman. I'd take ye in, only\nI've come a long ways an' I'm loaded heavy. Git up!\"\n\nSo Jurgis turned and followed, and toward the end of the morning he\nbegan to see Chicago again. Past endless blocks of two-story shanties\nhe walked, along wooden sidewalks and unpaved pathways treacherous with\ndeep slush holes. Every few blocks there would be a railroad crossing\non the level with the sidewalk, a deathtrap for the unwary; long freight\ntrains would be passing, the cars clanking and crashing together, and\nJurgis would pace about waiting, burning up with a fever of impatience.\nOccasionally the cars would stop for some minutes, and wagons and\nstreetcars would crowd together waiting, the drivers swearing at each\nother, or hiding beneath umbrellas out of the rain; at such times Jurgis\nwould dodge under the gates and run across the tracks and between the\ncars, taking his life into his hands.\n\nHe crossed a long bridge over a river frozen solid and covered with\nslush. Not even on the river bank was the snow white--the rain which\nfell was a diluted solution of smoke, and Jurgis' hands and face were\nstreaked with black. Then he came into the business part of the city,\nwhere the streets were sewers of inky blackness, with horses sleeping\nand plunging, and women and children flying across in panic-stricken\ndroves. These streets were huge canyons formed by towering black\nbuildings, echoing with the clang of car gongs and the shouts of\ndrivers; the people who swarmed in them were as busy as ants--all\nhurrying breathlessly, never stopping to look at anything nor at each\nother. The solitary trampish-looking foreigner, with water-soaked\nclothing and haggard face and anxious eyes, was as much alone as he\nhurried past them, as much unheeded and as lost, as if he had been a\nthousand miles deep in a wilderness.\n\nA policeman gave him his direction and told him that he had five miles\nto go. He came again to the slum districts, to avenues of saloons and\ncheap stores, with long dingy red factory buildings, and coal-yards and\nrailroad tracks; and then Jurgis lifted up his head and began to sniff\nthe air like a startled animal--scenting the far-off odor of home. It\nwas late afternoon then, and he was hungry, but the dinner invitations\nhung out of the saloons were not for him.\n\nSo he came at last to the stockyards, to the black volcanoes of smoke\nand the lowing cattle and the stench. Then, seeing a crowded car, his\nimpatience got the better of him and he jumped aboard, hiding behind\nanother man, unnoticed by the conductor. In ten minutes more he had\nreached his street, and home.\n\nHe was half running as he came round the corner. There was the house, at\nany rate--and then suddenly he stopped and stared. What was the matter\nwith the house?\n\nJurgis looked twice, bewildered; then he glanced at the house next door\nand at the one beyond--then at the saloon on the corner. Yes, it was\nthe right place, quite certainly--he had not made any mistake. But the\nhouse--the house was a different color!\n\nHe came a couple of steps nearer. Yes; it had been gray and now it was\nyellow! The trimmings around the windows had been red, and now they were\ngreen! It was all newly painted! How strange it made it seem!\n\nJurgis went closer yet, but keeping on the other side of the street.\nA sudden and horrible spasm of fear had come over him. His knees were\nshaking beneath him, and his mind was in a whirl. New paint on the\nhouse, and new weatherboards, where the old had begun to rot off, and\nthe agent had got after them! New shingles over the hole in the roof,\ntoo, the hole that had for six months been the bane of his soul--he\nhaving no money to have it fixed and no time to fix it himself, and the\nrain leaking in, and overflowing the pots and pans he put to catch it,\nand flooding the attic and loosening the plaster. And now it was fixed!\nAnd the broken windowpane replaced! And curtains in the windows! New,\nwhite curtains, stiff and shiny!\n\nThen suddenly the front door opened. Jurgis stood, his chest heaving as\nhe struggled to catch his breath. A boy had come out, a stranger to him;\na big, fat, rosy-cheeked youngster, such as had never been seen in his\nhome before.\n\nJurgis stared at the boy, fascinated. He came down the steps whistling,\nkicking off the snow. He stopped at the foot, and picked up some, and\nthen leaned against the railing, making a snowball. A moment later\nhe looked around and saw Jurgis, and their eyes met; it was a hostile\nglance, the boy evidently thinking that the other had suspicions of the\nsnowball. When Jurgis started slowly across the street toward him, he\ngave a quick glance about, meditating retreat, but then he concluded to\nstand his ground.\n\nJurgis took hold of the railing of the steps, for he was a little\nunsteady. \"What--what are you doing here?\" he managed to gasp.\n\n\"Go on!\" said the boy.\n\n\"You--\" Jurgis tried again. \"What do you want here?\"\n\n\"Me?\" answered the boy, angrily. \"I live here.\"\n\n\"You live here!\" Jurgis panted. He turned white and clung more tightly\nto the railing. \"You live here! Then where's my family?\"\n\nThe boy looked surprised. \"Your family!\" he echoed.\n\nAnd Jurgis started toward him. \"I--this is my house!\" he cried.\n\n\"Come off!\" said the boy; then suddenly the door upstairs opened, and he\ncalled: \"Hey, ma! Here's a fellow says he owns this house.\"\n\nA stout Irishwoman came to the top of the steps. \"What's that?\" she\ndemanded.\n\nJurgis turned toward her. \"Where is my family?\" he cried, wildly. \"I\nleft them here! This is my home! What are you doing in my home?\"\n\nThe woman stared at him in frightened wonder, she must have thought\nshe was dealing with a maniac--Jurgis looked like one. \"Your home!\" she\nechoed.\n\n\"My home!\" he half shrieked. \"I lived here, I tell you.\"\n\n\"You must be mistaken,\" she answered him. \"No one ever lived here. This\nis a new house. They told us so. They--\"\n\n\"What have they done with my family?\" shouted Jurgis, frantically.\n\nA light had begun to break upon the woman; perhaps she had had doubts of\nwhat \"they\" had told her. \"I don't know where your family is,\" she said.\n\"I bought the house only three days ago, and there was nobody here, and\nthey told me it was all new. Do you really mean you had ever rented it?\"\n\n\"Rented it!\" panted Jurgis. \"I bought it! I paid for it! I own it! And\nthey--my God, can't you tell me where my people went?\"\n\nShe made him understand at last that she knew nothing. Jurgis' brain\nwas so confused that he could not grasp the situation. It was as if his\nfamily had been wiped out of existence; as if they were proving to be\ndream people, who never had existed at all. He was quite lost--but then\nsuddenly he thought of Grandmother Majauszkiene, who lived in the next\nblock. She would know! He turned and started at a run.\n\nGrandmother Majauszkiene came to the door herself. She cried out when\nshe saw Jurgis, wild-eyed and shaking. Yes, yes, she could tell him. The\nfamily had moved; they had not been able to pay the rent and they had\nbeen turned out into the snow, and the house had been repainted and sold\nagain the next week. No, she had not heard how they were, but she could\ntell him that they had gone back to Aniele Jukniene, with whom they had\nstayed when they first came to the yards. Wouldn't Jurgis come in and\nrest? It was certainly too bad--if only he had not got into jail--\n\nAnd so Jurgis turned and staggered away. He did not go very far round\nthe corner he gave out completely, and sat down on the steps of a\nsaloon, and hid his face in his hands, and shook all over with dry,\nracking sobs.\n\nTheir home! Their home! They had lost it! Grief, despair, rage,\noverwhelmed him--what was any imagination of the thing to this\nheartbreaking, crushing reality of it--to the sight of strange people\nliving in his house, hanging their curtains to his windows, staring at\nhim with hostile eyes! It was monstrous, it was unthinkable--they could\nnot do it--it could not be true! Only think what he had suffered for\nthat house--what miseries they had all suffered for it--the price they\nhad paid for it!\n\nThe whole long agony came back to him. Their sacrifices in the\nbeginning, their three hundred dollars that they had scraped together,\nall they owned in the world, all that stood between them and starvation!\nAnd then their toil, month by month, to get together the twelve dollars,\nand the interest as well, and now and then the taxes, and the other\ncharges, and the repairs, and what not! Why, they had put their very\nsouls into their payments on that house, they had paid for it with their\nsweat and tears--yes, more, with their very lifeblood. Dede Antanas had\ndied of the struggle to earn that money--he would have been alive and\nstrong today if he had not had to work in Durham's dark cellars to earn\nhis share. And Ona, too, had given her health and strength to pay for\nit--she was wrecked and ruined because of it; and so was he, who had\nbeen a big, strong man three years ago, and now sat here shivering,\nbroken, cowed, weeping like a hysterical child. Ah! they had cast their\nall into the fight; and they had lost, they had lost! All that they had\npaid was gone--every cent of it. And their house was gone--they were\nback where they had started from, flung out into the cold to starve and\nfreeze!\n\nJurgis could see all the truth now--could see himself, through the whole\nlong course of events, the victim of ravenous vultures that had torn\ninto his vitals and devoured him; of fiends that had racked and tortured\nhim, mocking him, meantime, jeering in his face. Ah, God, the horror\nof it, the monstrous, hideous, demoniacal wickedness of it! He and his\nfamily, helpless women and children, struggling to live, ignorant and\ndefenseless and forlorn as they were--and the enemies that had been\nlurking for them, crouching upon their trail and thirsting for their\nblood! That first lying circular, that smooth-tongued slippery agent!\nThat trap of the extra payments, the interest, and all the other charges\nthat they had not the means to pay, and would never have attempted to\npay! And then all the tricks of the packers, their masters, the tyrants\nwho ruled them--the shutdowns and the scarcity of work, the irregular\nhours and the cruel speeding-up, the lowering of wages, the raising of\nprices! The mercilessness of nature about them, of heat and cold, rain\nand snow; the mercilessness of the city, of the country in which they\nlived, of its laws and customs that they did not understand! All of\nthese things had worked together for the company that had marked them\nfor its prey and was waiting for its chance. And now, with this last\nhideous injustice, its time had come, and it had turned them out bag\nand baggage, and taken their house and sold it again! And they could\ndo nothing, they were tied hand and foot--the law was against them, the\nwhole machinery of society was at their oppressors' command! If Jurgis\nso much as raised a hand against them, back he would go into that\nwild-beast pen from which he had just escaped!\n\nTo get up and go away was to give up, to acknowledge defeat, to leave\nthe strange family in possession; and Jurgis might have sat shivering\nin the rain for hours before he could do that, had it not been for\nthe thought of his family. It might be that he had worse things yet to\nlearn--and so he got to his feet and started away, walking on, wearily,\nhalf-dazed.\n\nTo Aniele's house, in back of the yards, was a good two miles; the\ndistance had never seemed longer to Jurgis, and when he saw the familiar\ndingy-gray shanty his heart was beating fast. He ran up the steps and\nbegan to hammer upon the door.\n\nThe old woman herself came to open it. She had shrunk all up with her\nrheumatism since Jurgis had seen her last, and her yellow parchment face\nstared up at him from a little above the level of the doorknob. She gave\na start when she saw him. \"Is Ona here?\" he cried, breathlessly.\n\n\"Yes,\" was the answer, \"she's here.\"\n\n\"How--\" Jurgis began, and then stopped short, clutching convulsively at\nthe side of the door. From somewhere within the house had come a sudden\ncry, a wild, horrible scream of anguish. And the voice was Ona's. For a\nmoment Jurgis stood half-paralyzed with fright; then he bounded past the\nold woman and into the room.\n\nIt was Aniele's kitchen, and huddled round the stove were half a dozen\nwomen, pale and frightened. One of them started to her feet as Jurgis\nentered; she was haggard and frightfully thin, with one arm tied up in\nbandages--he hardly realized that it was Marija. He looked first for\nOna; then, not seeing her, he stared at the women, expecting them to\nspeak. But they sat dumb, gazing back at him, panic-stricken; and a\nsecond later came another piercing scream.\n\nIt was from the rear of the house, and upstairs. Jurgis bounded to a\ndoor of the room and flung it open; there was a ladder leading through\na trap door to the garret, and he was at the foot of it when suddenly he\nheard a voice behind him, and saw Marija at his heels. She seized him by\nthe sleeve with her good hand, panting wildly, \"No, no, Jurgis! Stop!\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" he gasped.\n\n\"You mustn't go up,\" she cried.\n\nJurgis was half-crazed with bewilderment and fright. \"What's the\nmatter?\" he shouted. \"What is it?\"\n\nMarija clung to him tightly; he could hear Ona sobbing and moaning\nabove, and he fought to get away and climb up, without waiting for her\nreply. \"No, no,\" she rushed on. \"Jurgis! You mustn't go up! It's--it's\nthe child!\"\n\n\"The child?\" he echoed in perplexity. \"Antanas?\"\n\nMarija answered him, in a whisper: \"The new one!\"\n\nAnd then Jurgis went limp, and caught himself on the ladder. He stared\nat her as if she were a ghost. \"The new one!\" he gasped. \"But it isn't\ntime,\" he added, wildly.\n\nMarija nodded. \"I know,\" she said; \"but it's come.\"\n\nAnd then again came Ona's scream, smiting him like a blow in the face,\nmaking him wince and turn white. Her voice died away into a wail--then\nhe heard her sobbing again, \"My God--let me die, let me die!\" And Marija\nhung her arms about him, crying: \"Come out! Come away!\"\n\n\nShe dragged him back into the kitchen, half carrying him, for he had\ngone all to pieces. It was as if the pillars of his soul had fallen\nin--he was blasted with horror. In the room he sank into a chair,\ntrembling like a leaf, Marija still holding him, and the women staring\nat him in dumb, helpless fright.\n\nAnd then again Ona cried out; he could hear it nearly as plainly here,\nand he staggered to his feet. \"How long has this been going on?\" he\npanted.\n\n\"Not very long,\" Marija answered, and then, at a signal from Aniele, she\nrushed on: \"You go away, Jurgis you can't help--go away and come back\nlater. It's all right--it's--\"\n\n\"Who's with her?\" Jurgis demanded; and then, seeing Marija hesitating,\nhe cried again, \"Who's with her?\"\n\n\"She's--she's all right,\" she answered. \"Elzbieta's with her.\"\n\n\"But the doctor!\" he panted. \"Some one who knows!\"\n\nHe seized Marija by the arm; she trembled, and her voice sank beneath a\nwhisper as she replied, \"We--we have no money.\" Then, frightened at\nthe look on his face, she exclaimed: \"It's all right, Jurgis! You don't\nunderstand--go away--go away! Ah, if you only had waited!\"\n\nAbove her protests Jurgis heard Ona again; he was almost out of his\nmind. It was all new to him, raw and horrible--it had fallen upon him\nlike a lightning stroke. When little Antanas was born he had been at\nwork, and had known nothing about it until it was over; and now he was\nnot to be controlled. The frightened women were at their wits' end; one\nafter another they tried to reason with him, to make him understand that\nthis was the lot of woman. In the end they half drove him out into\nthe rain, where he began to pace up and down, bareheaded and frantic.\nBecause he could hear Ona from the street, he would first go away to\nescape the sounds, and then come back because he could not help it. At\nthe end of a quarter of an hour he rushed up the steps again, and for\nfear that he would break in the door they had to open it and let him in.\n\nThere was no arguing with him. They could not tell him that all was\ngoing well--how could they know, he cried--why, she was dying, she was\nbeing torn to pieces! Listen to her--listen! Why, it was monstrous--it\ncould not be allowed--there must be some help for it! Had they tried to\nget a doctor? They might pay him afterward--they could promise--\n\n\"We couldn't promise, Jurgis,\" protested Marija. \"We had no money--we\nhave scarcely been able to keep alive.\"\n\n\"But I can work,\" Jurgis exclaimed. \"I can earn money!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered--\"but we thought you were in jail. How could we know\nwhen you would return? They will not work for nothing.\"\n\nMarija went on to tell how she had tried to find a midwife, and how they\nhad demanded ten, fifteen, even twenty-five dollars, and that in cash.\n\"And I had only a quarter,\" she said. \"I have spent every cent of my\nmoney--all that I had in the bank; and I owe the doctor who has been\ncoming to see me, and he has stopped because he thinks I don't mean\nto pay him. And we owe Aniele for two weeks' rent, and she is nearly\nstarving, and is afraid of being turned out. We have been borrowing and\nbegging to keep alive, and there is nothing more we can do--\"\n\n\"And the children?\" cried Jurgis.\n\n\"The children have not been home for three days, the weather has been so\nbad. They could not know what is happening--it came suddenly, two months\nbefore we expected it.\"\n\nJurgis was standing by the table, and he caught himself with his hand;\nhis head sank and his arms shook--it looked as if he were going to\ncollapse. Then suddenly Aniele got up and came hobbling toward him,\nfumbling in her skirt pocket. She drew out a dirty rag, in one corner of\nwhich she had something tied.\n\n\"Here, Jurgis!\" she said, \"I have some money. Palauk! See!\"\n\nShe unwrapped it and counted it out--thirty-four cents. \"You go, now,\"\nshe said, \"and try and get somebody yourself. And maybe the rest can\nhelp--give him some money, you; he will pay you back some day, and it\nwill do him good to have something to think about, even if he doesn't\nsucceed. When he comes back, maybe it will be over.\"\n\nAnd so the other women turned out the contents of their pocketbooks;\nmost of them had only pennies and nickels, but they gave him all. Mrs.\nOlszewski, who lived next door, and had a husband who was a skilled\ncattle butcher, but a drinking man, gave nearly half a dollar, enough\nto raise the whole sum to a dollar and a quarter. Then Jurgis thrust it\ninto his pocket, still holding it tightly in his fist, and started away\nat a run.\n\n\n\nChapter 19\n\n\n\"Madame Haupt Hebamme\", ran a sign, swinging from a second-story window\nover a saloon on the avenue; at a side door was another sign, with a\nhand pointing up a dingy flight of stairs. Jurgis went up them, three at\na time.\n\nMadame Haupt was frying pork and onions, and had her door half open to\nlet out the smoke. When he tried to knock upon it, it swung open the\nrest of the way, and he had a glimpse of her, with a black bottle turned\nup to her lips. Then he knocked louder, and she started and put it away.\nShe was a Dutchwoman, enormously fat--when she walked she rolled like\na small boat on the ocean, and the dishes in the cupboard jostled each\nother. She wore a filthy blue wrapper, and her teeth were black.\n\n\"Vot is it?\" she said, when she saw Jurgis.\n\nHe had run like mad all the way and was so out of breath he could hardly\nspeak. His hair was flying and his eyes wild--he looked like a man that\nhad risen from the tomb. \"My wife!\" he panted. \"Come quickly!\" Madame\nHaupt set the frying pan to one side and wiped her hands on her wrapper.\n\n\"You vant me to come for a case?\" she inquired.\n\n\"Yes,\" gasped Jurgis.\n\n\"I haf yust come back from a case,\" she said. \"I haf had no time to eat\nmy dinner. Still--if it is so bad--\"\n\n\"Yes--it is!\" cried he.\n\n\"Vell, den, perhaps--vot you pay?\"\n\n\"I--I--how much do you want?\" Jurgis stammered.\n\n\"Tventy-five dollars.\" His face fell. \"I can't pay that,\" he said.\n\nThe woman was watching him narrowly. \"How much do you pay?\" she\ndemanded.\n\n\"Must I pay now--right away?\"\n\n\"Yes; all my customers do.\"\n\n\"I--I haven't much money,\" Jurgis began in an agony of dread. \"I've been\nin--in trouble--and my money is gone. But I'll pay you--every cent--just\nas soon as I can; I can work--\"\n\n\"Vot is your work?\"\n\n\"I have no place now. I must get one. But I--\"\n\n\"How much haf you got now?\"\n\nHe could hardly bring himself to reply. When he said \"A dollar and a\nquarter,\" the woman laughed in his face.\n\n\"I vould not put on my hat for a dollar and a quarter,\" she said.\n\n\"It's all I've got,\" he pleaded, his voice breaking. \"I must get some\none--my wife will die. I can't help it--I--\"\n\nMadame Haupt had put back her pork and onions on the stove. She turned\nto him and answered, out of the steam and noise: \"Git me ten dollars\ncash, und so you can pay me the rest next mont'.\"\n\n\"I can't do it--I haven't got it!\" Jurgis protested. \"I tell you I have\nonly a dollar and a quarter.\"\n\nThe woman turned to her work. \"I don't believe you,\" she said. \"Dot is\nall to try to sheat me. Vot is de reason a big man like you has got only\na dollar und a quarter?\"\n\n\"I've just been in jail,\" Jurgis cried--he was ready to get down upon\nhis knees to the woman--\"and I had no money before, and my family has\nalmost starved.\"\n\n\"Vere is your friends, dot ought to help you?\"\n\n\"They are all poor,\" he answered. \"They gave me this. I have done\neverything I can--\"\n\n\"Haven't you got notting you can sell?\"\n\n\"I have nothing, I tell you--I have nothing,\" he cried, frantically.\n\n\"Can't you borrow it, den? Don't your store people trust you?\" Then, as\nhe shook his head, she went on: \"Listen to me--if you git me you vill be\nglad of it. I vill save your wife und baby for you, and it vill not seem\nlike mooch to you in de end. If you loose dem now how you tink you feel\nden? Und here is a lady dot knows her business--I could send you to\npeople in dis block, und dey vould tell you--\"\n\nMadame Haupt was pointing her cooking-fork at Jurgis persuasively; but\nher words were more than he could bear. He flung up his hands with\na gesture of despair and turned and started away. \"It's no use,\" he\nexclaimed--but suddenly he heard the woman's voice behind him again--\n\n\"I vill make it five dollars for you.\"\n\nShe followed behind him, arguing with him. \"You vill be foolish not to\ntake such an offer,\" she said. \"You von't find nobody go out on a rainy\nday like dis for less. Vy, I haf never took a case in my life so sheap\nas dot. I couldn't pay mine room rent--\"\n\nJurgis interrupted her with an oath of rage. \"If I haven't got it,\" he\nshouted, \"how can I pay it? Damn it, I would pay you if I could, but I\ntell you I haven't got it. I haven't got it! Do you hear me I haven't\ngot it!\"\n\nHe turned and started away again. He was halfway down the stairs before\nMadame Haupt could shout to him: \"Vait! I vill go mit you! Come back!\"\n\nHe went back into the room again.\n\n\"It is not goot to tink of anybody suffering,\" she said, in a melancholy\nvoice. \"I might as vell go mit you for noffing as vot you offer me, but\nI vill try to help you. How far is it?\"\n\n\"Three or four blocks from here.\"\n\n\"Tree or four! Und so I shall get soaked! Gott in Himmel, it ought to\nbe vorth more! Vun dollar und a quarter, und a day like dis!--But you\nunderstand now--you vill pay me de rest of twenty-five dollars soon?\"\n\n\"As soon as I can.\"\n\n\"Some time dis mont'?\"\n\n\"Yes, within a month,\" said poor Jurgis. \"Anything! Hurry up!\"\n\n\"Vere is de dollar und a quarter?\" persisted Madame Haupt, relentlessly.\n\nJurgis put the money on the table and the woman counted it and stowed it\naway. Then she wiped her greasy hands again and proceeded to get ready,\ncomplaining all the time; she was so fat that it was painful for her to\nmove, and she grunted and gasped at every step. She took off her wrapper\nwithout even taking the trouble to turn her back to Jurgis, and put on\nher corsets and dress. Then there was a black bonnet which had to be\nadjusted carefully, and an umbrella which was mislaid, and a bag full of\nnecessaries which had to be collected from here and there--the man being\nnearly crazy with anxiety in the meantime. When they were on the street\nhe kept about four paces ahead of her, turning now and then, as if he\ncould hurry her on by the force of his desire. But Madame Haupt could\nonly go so far at a step, and it took all her attention to get the\nneeded breath for that.\n\nThey came at last to the house, and to the group of frightened women in\nthe kitchen. It was not over yet, Jurgis learned--he heard Ona crying\nstill; and meantime Madame Haupt removed her bonnet and laid it on\nthe mantelpiece, and got out of her bag, first an old dress and then a\nsaucer of goose grease, which she proceeded to rub upon her hands. The\nmore cases this goose grease is used in, the better luck it brings to\nthe midwife, and so she keeps it upon her kitchen mantelpiece or stowed\naway in a cupboard with her dirty clothes, for months, and sometimes\neven for years.\n\nThen they escorted her to the ladder, and Jurgis heard her give an\nexclamation of dismay. \"Gott in Himmel, vot for haf you brought me to a\nplace like dis? I could not climb up dot ladder. I could not git troo a\ntrap door! I vill not try it--vy, I might kill myself already. Vot sort\nof a place is dot for a woman to bear a child in--up in a garret, mit\nonly a ladder to it? You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!\" Jurgis\nstood in the doorway and listened to her scolding, half drowning out the\nhorrible moans and screams of Ona.\n\nAt last Aniele succeeded in pacifying her, and she essayed the ascent;\nthen, however, she had to be stopped while the old woman cautioned her\nabout the floor of the garret. They had no real floor--they had laid old\nboards in one part to make a place for the family to live; it was all\nright and safe there, but the other part of the garret had only the\njoists of the floor, and the lath and plaster of the ceiling below, and\nif one stepped on this there would be a catastrophe. As it was half dark\nup above, perhaps one of the others had best go up first with a candle.\nThen there were more outcries and threatening, until at last Jurgis had\na vision of a pair of elephantine legs disappearing through the trap\ndoor, and felt the house shake as Madame Haupt started to walk. Then\nsuddenly Aniele came to him and took him by the arm.\n\n\"Now,\" she said, \"you go away. Do as I tell you--you have done all you\ncan, and you are only in the way. Go away and stay away.\"\n\n\"But where shall I go?\" Jurgis asked, helplessly.\n\n\"I don't know where,\" she answered. \"Go on the street, if there is no\nother place--only go! And stay all night!\"\n\nIn the end she and Marija pushed him out of the door and shut it behind\nhim. It was just about sundown, and it was turning cold--the rain had\nchanged to snow, and the slush was freezing. Jurgis shivered in his thin\nclothing, and put his hands into his pockets and started away. He had\nnot eaten since morning, and he felt weak and ill; with a sudden throb\nof hope he recollected he was only a few blocks from the saloon where he\nhad been wont to eat his dinner. They might have mercy on him there,\nor he might meet a friend. He set out for the place as fast as he could\nwalk.\n\n\"Hello, Jack,\" said the saloon-keeper, when he entered--they call all\nforeigners and unskilled men \"Jack\" in Packingtown. \"Where've you been?\"\n\nJurgis went straight to the bar. \"I've been in jail,\" he said, \"and I've\njust got out. I walked home all the way, and I've not a cent, and had\nnothing to eat since this morning. And I've lost my home, and my wife's\nill, and I'm done up.\"\n\nThe saloon-keeper gazed at him, with his haggard white face and his blue\ntrembling lips. Then he pushed a big bottle toward him. \"Fill her up!\"\nhe said.\n\nJurgis could hardly hold the bottle, his hands shook so.\n\n\"Don't be afraid,\" said the saloon-keeper, \"fill her up!\"\n\nSo Jurgis drank a large glass of whisky, and then turned to the lunch\ncounter, in obedience to the other's suggestion. He ate all he dared,\nstuffing it in as fast as he could; and then, after trying to speak his\ngratitude, he went and sat down by the big red stove in the middle of\nthe room.\n\nIt was too good to last, however--like all things in this hard\nworld. His soaked clothing began to steam, and the horrible stench of\nfertilizer to fill the room. In an hour or so the packing houses would\nbe closing and the men coming in from their work; and they would not\ncome into a place that smelt of Jurgis. Also it was Saturday night, and\nin a couple of hours would come a violin and a cornet, and in the rear\npart of the saloon the families of the neighborhood would dance and\nfeast upon wienerwurst and lager, until two or three o'clock in the\nmorning. The saloon-keeper coughed once or twice, and then remarked,\n\"Say, Jack, I'm afraid you'll have to quit.\"\n\nHe was used to the sight of human wrecks, this saloon-keeper; he \"fired\"\ndozens of them every night, just as haggard and cold and forlorn as this\none. But they were all men who had given up and been counted out, while\nJurgis was still in the fight, and had reminders of decency about him.\nAs he got up meekly, the other reflected that he had always been a\nsteady man, and might soon be a good customer again. \"You've been up\nagainst it, I see,\" he said. \"Come this way.\"\n\nIn the rear of the saloon were the cellar stairs. There was a door above\nand another below, both safely padlocked, making the stairs an admirable\nplace to stow away a customer who might still chance to have money, or a\npolitical light whom it was not advisable to kick out of doors.\n\nSo Jurgis spent the night. The whisky had only half warmed him, and he\ncould not sleep, exhausted as he was; he would nod forward, and then\nstart up, shivering with the cold, and begin to remember again. Hour\nafter hour passed, until he could only persuade himself that it was not\nmorning by the sounds of music and laughter and singing that were to\nbe heard from the room. When at last these ceased, he expected that he\nwould be turned out into the street; as this did not happen, he fell to\nwondering whether the man had forgotten him.\n\nIn the end, when the silence and suspense were no longer to be borne,\nhe got up and hammered on the door; and the proprietor came, yawning\nand rubbing his eyes. He was keeping open all night, and dozing between\ncustomers.\n\n\"I want to go home,\" Jurgis said. \"I'm worried about my wife--I can't\nwait any longer.\"\n\n\"Why the hell didn't you say so before?\" said the man. \"I thought you\ndidn't have any home to go to.\" Jurgis went outside. It was four o'clock\nin the morning, and as black as night. There were three or four inches\nof fresh snow on the ground, and the flakes were falling thick and fast.\nHe turned toward Aniele's and started at a run.\n\n\nThere was a light burning in the kitchen window and the blinds were\ndrawn. The door was unlocked and Jurgis rushed in.\n\nAniele, Marija, and the rest of the women were huddled about the\nstove, exactly as before; with them were several newcomers, Jurgis\nnoticed--also he noticed that the house was silent.\n\n\"Well?\" he said.\n\nNo one answered him, they sat staring at him with their pale faces. He\ncried again: \"Well?\"\n\nAnd then, by the light of the smoky lamp, he saw Marija who sat nearest\nhim, shaking her head slowly. \"Not yet,\" she said.\n\nAnd Jurgis gave a cry of dismay. \"Not yet?\"\n\nAgain Marija's head shook. The poor fellow stood dumfounded. \"I don't\nhear her,\" he gasped.\n\n\"She's been quiet a long time,\" replied the other.\n\nThere was another pause--broken suddenly by a voice from the attic:\n\"Hello, there!\"\n\nSeveral of the women ran into the next room, while Marija sprang toward\nJurgis. \"Wait here!\" she cried, and the two stood, pale and trembling,\nlistening. In a few moments it became clear that Madame Haupt was\nengaged in descending the ladder, scolding and exhorting again, while\nthe ladder creaked in protest. In a moment or two she reached the\nground, angry and breathless, and they heard her coming into the room.\nJurgis gave one glance at her, and then turned white and reeled. She had\nher jacket off, like one of the workers on the killing beds. Her hands\nand arms were smeared with blood, and blood was splashed upon her\nclothing and her face.\n\nShe stood breathing hard, and gazing about her; no one made a sound. \"I\nhaf done my best,\" she began suddenly. \"I can do noffing more--dere is\nno use to try.\"\n\nAgain there was silence.\n\n\"It ain't my fault,\" she said. \"You had ought to haf had a doctor, und\nnot vaited so long--it vas too late already ven I come.\" Once more there\nwas deathlike stillness. Marija was clutching Jurgis with all the power\nof her one well arm.\n\nThen suddenly Madame Haupt turned to Aniele. \"You haf not got something\nto drink, hey?\" she queried. \"Some brandy?\"\n\nAniele shook her head.\n\n\"Herr Gott!\" exclaimed Madame Haupt. \"Such people! Perhaps you vill give\nme someting to eat den--I haf had noffing since yesterday morning, und\nI haf vorked myself near to death here. If I could haf known it vas\nlike dis, I vould never haf come for such money as you gif me.\" At this\nmoment she chanced to look round, and saw Jurgis: She shook her finger\nat him. \"You understand me,\" she said, \"you pays me dot money yust de\nsame! It is not my fault dat you send for me so late I can't help your\nvife. It is not my fault if der baby comes mit one arm first, so dot I\ncan't save it. I haf tried all night, und in dot place vere it is not\nfit for dogs to be born, und mit notting to eat only vot I brings in\nmine own pockets.\"\n\nHere Madame Haupt paused for a moment to get her breath; and Marija,\nseeing the beads of sweat on Jurgis's forehead, and feeling the\nquivering of his frame, broke out in a low voice: \"How is Ona?\"\n\n\"How is she?\" echoed Madame Haupt. \"How do you tink she can be ven\nyou leave her to kill herself so? I told dem dot ven they send for de\npriest. She is young, und she might haf got over it, und been vell und\nstrong, if she had been treated right. She fight hard, dot girl--she is\nnot yet quite dead.\"\n\nAnd Jurgis gave a frantic scream. \"Dead!\"\n\n\"She vill die, of course,\" said the other angrily. \"Der baby is dead\nnow.\"\n\nThe garret was lighted by a candle stuck upon a board; it had almost\nburned itself out, and was sputtering and smoking as Jurgis rushed up\nthe ladder. He could make out dimly in one corner a pallet of rags and\nold blankets, spread upon the floor; at the foot of it was a crucifix,\nand near it a priest muttering a prayer. In a far corner crouched\nElzbieta, moaning and wailing. Upon the pallet lay Ona.\n\nShe was covered with a blanket, but he could see her shoulders and\none arm lying bare; she was so shrunken he would scarcely have known\nher--she was all but a skeleton, and as white as a piece of chalk. Her\neyelids were closed, and she lay still as death. He staggered toward her\nand fell upon his knees with a cry of anguish: \"Ona! Ona!\"\n\nShe did not stir. He caught her hand in his, and began to clasp\nit frantically, calling: \"Look at me! Answer me! It is Jurgis come\nback--don't you hear me?\"\n\nThere was the faintest quivering of the eyelids, and he called again in\nfrenzy: \"Ona! Ona!\"\n\nThen suddenly her eyes opened one instant. One instant she looked at\nhim--there was a flash of recognition between them, he saw her afar off,\nas through a dim vista, standing forlorn. He stretched out his arms to\nher, he called her in wild despair; a fearful yearning surged up in him,\nhunger for her that was agony, desire that was a new being born\nwithin him, tearing his heartstrings, torturing him. But it was all in\nvain--she faded from him, she slipped back and was gone. And a wail of\nanguish burst from him, great sobs shook all his frame, and hot tears\nran down his cheeks and fell upon her. He clutched her hands, he shook\nher, he caught her in his arms and pressed her to him but she lay cold\nand still--she was gone--she was gone!\n\nThe word rang through him like the sound of a bell, echoing in the far\ndepths of him, making forgotten chords to vibrate, old shadowy fears to\nstir--fears of the dark, fears of the void, fears of annihilation. She\nwas dead! She was dead! He would never see her again, never hear her\nagain! An icy horror of loneliness seized him; he saw himself standing\napart and watching all the world fade away from him--a world of shadows,\nof fickle dreams. He was like a little child, in his fright and grief;\nhe called and called, and got no answer, and his cries of despair echoed\nthrough the house, making the women downstairs draw nearer to each other\nin fear. He was inconsolable, beside himself--the priest came and laid\nhis hand upon his shoulder and whispered to him, but he heard not a\nsound. He was gone away himself, stumbling through the shadows, and\ngroping after the soul that had fled.\n\n\nSo he lay. The gray dawn came up and crept into the attic. The\npriest left, the women left, and he was alone with the still, white\nfigure--quieter now, but moaning and shuddering, wrestling with the\ngrisly fiend. Now and then he would raise himself and stare at the white\nmask before him, then hide his eyes because he could not bear it. Dead!\ndead! And she was only a girl, she was barely eighteen! Her life had\nhardly begun--and here she lay murdered--mangled, tortured to death!\n\nIt was morning when he rose up and came down into the kitchen--haggard\nand ashen gray, reeling and dazed. More of the neighbors had come in,\nand they stared at him in silence as he sank down upon a chair by the\ntable and buried his face in his arms.\n\nA few minutes later the front door opened; a blast of cold and snow\nrushed in, and behind it little Kotrina, breathless from running, and\nblue with the cold. \"I'm home again!\" she exclaimed. \"I could hardly--\"\n\nAnd then, seeing Jurgis, she stopped with an exclamation. Looking from\none to another she saw that something had happened, and she asked, in a\nlower voice: \"What's the matter?\"\n\nBefore anyone could reply, Jurgis started up; he went toward her,\nwalking unsteadily. \"Where have you been?\" he demanded.\n\n\"Selling papers with the boys,\" she said. \"The snow--\"\n\n\"Have you any money?\" he demanded.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"How much?\"\n\n\"Nearly three dollars, Jurgis.\"\n\n\"Give it to me.\"\n\nKotrina, frightened by his manner, glanced at the others. \"Give it to\nme!\" he commanded again, and she put her hand into her pocket and pulled\nout a lump of coins tied in a bit of rag. Jurgis took it without a word,\nand went out of the door and down the street.\n\nThree doors away was a saloon. \"Whisky,\" he said, as he entered, and as\nthe man pushed him some, he tore at the rag with his teeth and pulled\nout half a dollar. \"How much is the bottle?\" he said. \"I want to get\ndrunk.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 20\n\n\nBut a big man cannot stay drunk very long on three dollars. That was\nSunday morning, and Monday night Jurgis came home, sober and sick,\nrealizing that he had spent every cent the family owned, and had not\nbought a single instant's forgetfulness with it.\n\nOna was not yet buried; but the police had been notified, and on the\nmorrow they would put the body in a pine coffin and take it to the\npotter's field. Elzbieta was out begging now, a few pennies from each of\nthe neighbors, to get enough to pay for a mass for her; and the children\nwere upstairs starving to death, while he, good-for-nothing rascal, had\nbeen spending their money on drink. So spoke Aniele, scornfully, and\nwhen he started toward the fire she added the information that her\nkitchen was no longer for him to fill with his phosphate stinks. She\nhad crowded all her boarders into one room on Ona's account, but now he\ncould go up in the garret where he belonged--and not there much longer,\neither, if he did not pay her some rent.\n\nJurgis went without a word, and, stepping over half a dozen sleeping\nboarders in the next room, ascended the ladder. It was dark up above;\nthey could not afford any light; also it was nearly as cold as outdoors.\nIn a corner, as far away from the corpse as possible, sat Marija,\nholding little Antanas in her one good arm and trying to soothe him to\nsleep. In another corner crouched poor little Juozapas, wailing because\nhe had had nothing to eat all day. Marija said not a word to Jurgis; he\ncrept in like a whipped cur, and went and sat down by the body.\n\nPerhaps he ought to have meditated upon the hunger of the children, and\nupon his own baseness; but he thought only of Ona, he gave himself up\nagain to the luxury of grief. He shed no tears, being ashamed to make a\nsound; he sat motionless and shuddering with his anguish. He had never\ndreamed how much he loved Ona, until now that she was gone; until now\nthat he sat here, knowing that on the morrow they would take her away,\nand that he would never lay eyes upon her again--never all the days\nof his life. His old love, which had been starved to death, beaten to\ndeath, awoke in him again; the floodgates of memory were lifted--he saw\nall their life together, saw her as he had seen her in Lithuania, the\nfirst day at the fair, beautiful as the flowers, singing like a bird. He\nsaw her as he had married her, with all her tenderness, with her heart\nof wonder; the very words she had spoken seemed to ring now in his ears,\nthe tears she had shed to be wet upon his cheek. The long, cruel battle\nwith misery and hunger had hardened and embittered him, but it had not\nchanged her--she had been the same hungry soul to the end, stretching\nout her arms to him, pleading with him, begging him for love and\ntenderness. And she had suffered--so cruelly she had suffered, such\nagonies, such infamies--ah, God, the memory of them was not to be borne.\nWhat a monster of wickedness, of heartlessness, he had been! Every angry\nword that he had ever spoken came back to him and cut him like a knife;\nevery selfish act that he had done--with what torments he paid for them\nnow! And such devotion and awe as welled up in his soul--now that it\ncould never be spoken, now that it was too late, too late! His bosom-was\nchoking with it, bursting with it; he crouched here in the darkness\nbeside her, stretching out his arms to her--and she was gone forever,\nshe was dead! He could have screamed aloud with the horror and despair\nof it; a sweat of agony beaded his forehead, yet he dared not make a\nsound--he scarcely dared to breathe, because of his shame and loathing\nof himself.\n\nLate at night came Elzbieta, having gotten the money for a mass, and\npaid for it in advance, lest she should be tempted too sorely at home.\nShe brought also a bit of stale rye bread that some one had given her,\nand with that they quieted the children and got them to sleep. Then she\ncame over to Jurgis and sat down beside him.\n\nShe said not a word of reproach--she and Marija had chosen that course\nbefore; she would only plead with him, here by the corpse of his dead\nwife. Already Elzbieta had choked down her tears, grief being crowded\nout of her soul by fear. She had to bury one of her children--but then\nshe had done it three times before, and each time risen up and gone back\nto take up the battle for the rest. Elzbieta was one of the primitive\ncreatures: like the angleworm, which goes on living though cut in half;\nlike a hen, which, deprived of her chickens one by one, will mother the\nlast that is left her. She did this because it was her nature--she asked\nno questions about the justice of it, nor the worth-whileness of life in\nwhich destruction and death ran riot.\n\nAnd this old common-sense view she labored to impress upon Jurgis,\npleading with him with tears in her eyes. Ona was dead, but the others\nwere left and they must be saved. She did not ask for her own children.\nShe and Marija could care for them somehow, but there was Antanas, his\nown son. Ona had given Antanas to him--the little fellow was the only\nremembrance of her that he had; he must treasure it and protect it, he\nmust show himself a man. He knew what Ona would have had him do, what\nshe would ask of him at this moment, if she could speak to him. It was\na terrible thing that she should have died as she had; but the life had\nbeen too hard for her, and she had to go. It was terrible that they\nwere not able to bury her, that he could not even have a day to mourn\nher--but so it was. Their fate was pressing; they had not a cent, and\nthe children would perish--some money must be had. Could he not be a man\nfor Ona's sake, and pull himself together? In a little while they would\nbe out of danger--now that they had given up the house they could live\nmore cheaply, and with all the children working they could get along,\nif only he would not go to pieces. So Elzbieta went on, with feverish\nintensity. It was a struggle for life with her; she was not afraid that\nJurgis would go on drinking, for he had no money for that, but she was\nwild with dread at the thought that he might desert them, might take to\nthe road, as Jonas had done.\n\nBut with Ona's dead body beneath his eyes, Jurgis could not well think\nof treason to his child. Yes, he said, he would try, for the sake of\nAntanas. He would give the little fellow his chance--would get to work\nat once, yes, tomorrow, without even waiting for Ona to be buried. They\nmight trust him, he would keep his word, come what might.\n\nAnd so he was out before daylight the next morning, headache, heartache,\nand all. He went straight to Graham's fertilizer mill, to see if he\ncould get back his job. But the boss shook his head when he saw him--no,\nhis place had been filled long ago, and there was no room for him.\n\n\"Do you think there will be?\" Jurgis asked. \"I may have to wait.\"\n\n\"No,\" said the other, \"it will not be worth your while to wait--there\nwill be nothing for you here.\"\n\nJurgis stood gazing at him in perplexity. \"What is the matter?\" he\nasked. \"Didn't I do my work?\"\n\nThe other met his look with one of cold indifference, and answered,\n\"There will be nothing for you here, I said.\"\n\nJurgis had his suspicions as to the dreadful meaning of that incident,\nand he went away with a sinking at the heart. He went and took his stand\nwith the mob of hungry wretches who were standing about in the snow\nbefore the time station. Here he stayed, breakfastless, for two hours,\nuntil the throng was driven away by the clubs of the police. There was\nno work for him that day.\n\nJurgis had made a good many acquaintances in his long services at the\nyards--there were saloon-keepers who would trust him for a drink and a\nsandwich, and members of his old union who would lend him a dime at a\npinch. It was not a question of life and death for him, therefore; he\nmight hunt all day, and come again on the morrow, and try hanging on\nthus for weeks, like hundreds and thousands of others. Meantime, Teta\nElzbieta would go and beg, over in the Hyde Park district, and the\nchildren would bring home enough to pacify Aniele, and keep them all\nalive.\n\nIt was at the end of a week of this sort of waiting, roaming about in\nthe bitter winds or loafing in saloons, that Jurgis stumbled on a chance\nin one of the cellars of Jones's big packing plant. He saw a foreman\npassing the open doorway, and hailed him for a job.\n\n\"Push a truck?\" inquired the man, and Jurgis answered, \"Yes, sir!\"\nbefore the words were well out of his mouth.\n\n\"What's your name?\" demanded the other.\n\n\"Jurgis Rudkus.\"\n\n\"Worked in the yards before?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Whereabouts?\"\n\n\"Two places--Brown's killing beds and Durham's fertilizer mill.\"\n\n\"Why did you leave there?\"\n\n\"The first time I had an accident, and the last time I was sent up for a\nmonth.\"\n\n\"I see. Well, I'll give you a trial. Come early tomorrow and ask for Mr.\nThomas.\"\n\nSo Jurgis rushed home with the wild tidings that he had a job--that\nthe terrible siege was over. The remnants of the family had quite a\ncelebration that night; and in the morning Jurgis was at the place\nhalf an hour before the time of opening. The foreman came in shortly\nafterward, and when he saw Jurgis he frowned.\n\n\"Oh,\" he said, \"I promised you a job, didn't I?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said Jurgis.\n\n\"Well, I'm sorry, but I made a mistake. I can't use you.\"\n\nJurgis stared, dumfounded. \"What's the matter?\" he gasped.\n\n\"Nothing,\" said the man, \"only I can't use you.\"\n\nThere was the same cold, hostile stare that he had had from the boss of\nthe fertilizer mill. He knew that there was no use in saying a word, and\nhe turned and went away.\n\nOut in the saloons the men could tell him all about the meaning of it;\nthey gazed at him with pitying eyes--poor devil, he was blacklisted!\nWhat had he done? they asked--knocked down his boss? Good heavens, then\nhe might have known! Why, he stood as much chance of getting a job in\nPackingtown as of being chosen mayor of Chicago. Why had he wasted his\ntime hunting? They had him on a secret list in every office, big and\nlittle, in the place. They had his name by this time in St. Louis and\nNew York, in Omaha and Boston, in Kansas City and St. Joseph. He was\ncondemned and sentenced, without trial and without appeal; he could\nnever work for the packers again--he could not even clean cattle pens or\ndrive a truck in any place where they controlled. He might try it, if he\nchose, as hundreds had tried it, and found out for themselves. He\nwould never be told anything about it; he would never get any more\nsatisfaction than he had gotten just now; but he would always find when\nthe time came that he was not needed. It would not do for him to give\nany other name, either--they had company \"spotters\" for just that\npurpose, and he wouldn't keep a job in Packingtown three days. It was\nworth a fortune to the packers to keep their blacklist effective, as\na warning to the men and a means of keeping down union agitation and\npolitical discontent.\n\nJurgis went home, carrying these new tidings to the family council. It\nwas a most cruel thing; here in this district was his home, such as it\nwas, the place he was used to and the friends he knew--and now every\npossibility of employment in it was closed to him. There was nothing in\nPackingtown but packing houses; and so it was the same thing as evicting\nhim from his home.\n\nHe and the two women spent all day and half the night discussing it. It\nwould be convenient, downtown, to the children's place of work; but then\nMarija was on the road to recovery, and had hopes of getting a job in\nthe yards; and though she did not see her old-time lover once a month,\nbecause of the misery of their state, yet she could not make up her\nmind to go away and give him up forever. Then, too, Elzbieta had heard\nsomething about a chance to scrub floors in Durham's offices and was\nwaiting every day for word. In the end it was decided that Jurgis should\ngo downtown to strike out for himself, and they would decide after he\ngot a job. As there was no one from whom he could borrow there, and he\ndared not beg for fear of being arrested, it was arranged that every day\nhe should meet one of the children and be given fifteen cents of their\nearnings, upon which he could keep going. Then all day he was to pace\nthe streets with hundreds and thousands of other homeless wretches\ninquiring at stores, warehouses, and factories for a chance; and at\nnight he was to crawl into some doorway or underneath a truck, and hide\nthere until midnight, when he might get into one of the station houses,\nand spread a newspaper upon the floor, and lie down in the midst of\na throng of \"bums\" and beggars, reeking with alcohol and tobacco, and\nfilthy with vermin and disease.\n\n\nSo for two weeks more Jurgis fought with the demon of despair. Once he\ngot a chance to load a truck for half a day, and again he carried an old\nwoman's valise and was given a quarter. This let him into a lodging-house\non several nights when he might otherwise have frozen to death; and it\nalso gave him a chance now and then to buy a newspaper in the morning\nand hunt up jobs while his rivals were watching and waiting for a\npaper to be thrown away. This, however, was really not the advantage it\nseemed, for the newspaper advertisements were a cause of much loss of\nprecious time and of many weary journeys. A full half of these were\n\"fakes,\" put in by the endless variety of establishments which preyed\nupon the helpless ignorance of the unemployed. If Jurgis lost only\nhis time, it was because he had nothing else to lose; whenever a\nsmooth-tongued agent would tell him of the wonderful positions he had on\nhand, he could only shake his head sorrowfully and say that he had not\nthe necessary dollar to deposit; when it was explained to him what \"big\nmoney\" he and all his family could make by coloring photographs, he\ncould only promise to come in again when he had two dollars to invest in\nthe outfit.\n\nIn the end Jurgis got a chance through an accidental meeting with an\nold-time acquaintance of his union days. He met this man on his way to\nwork in the giant factories of the Harvester Trust; and his friend told\nhim to come along and he would speak a good word for him to his boss,\nwhom he knew well. So Jurgis trudged four or five miles, and passed\nthrough a waiting throng of unemployed at the gate under the escort\nof his friend. His knees nearly gave way beneath him when the foreman,\nafter looking him over and questioning him, told him that he could find\nan opening for him.\n\nHow much this accident meant to Jurgis he realized only by stages;\nfor he found that the harvester works were the sort of place to which\nphilanthropists and reformers pointed with pride. It had some thought\nfor its employees; its workshops were big and roomy, it provided a\nrestaurant where the workmen could buy good food at cost, it had even\na reading room, and decent places where its girl-hands could rest; also\nthe work was free from many of the elements of filth and repulsiveness\nthat prevailed at the stockyards. Day after day Jurgis discovered these\nthings--things never expected nor dreamed of by him--until this new\nplace came to seem a kind of a heaven to him.\n\nIt was an enormous establishment, covering a hundred and sixty acres\nof ground, employing five thousand people, and turning out over three\nhundred thousand machines every year--a good part of all the harvesting\nand mowing machines used in the country. Jurgis saw very little of it,\nof course--it was all specialized work, the same as at the stockyards;\neach one of the hundreds of parts of a mowing machine was made\nseparately, and sometimes handled by hundreds of men. Where Jurgis\nworked there was a machine which cut and stamped a certain piece of\nsteel about two square inches in size; the pieces came tumbling out upon\na tray, and all that human hands had to do was to pile them in regular\nrows, and change the trays at intervals. This was done by a single boy,\nwho stood with eyes and thought centered upon it, and fingers flying so\nfast that the sounds of the bits of steel striking upon each other was\nlike the music of an express train as one hears it in a sleeping car at\nnight. This was \"piece-work,\" of course; and besides it was made certain\nthat the boy did not idle, by setting the machine to match the highest\npossible speed of human hands. Thirty thousand of these pieces he\nhandled every day, nine or ten million every year--how many in a\nlifetime it rested with the gods to say. Near by him men sat bending\nover whirling grindstones, putting the finishing touches to the steel\nknives of the reaper; picking them out of a basket with the right hand,\npressing first one side and then the other against the stone and finally\ndropping them with the left hand into another basket. One of these men\ntold Jurgis that he had sharpened three thousand pieces of steel a day\nfor thirteen years. In the next room were wonderful machines that ate\nup long steel rods by slow stages, cutting them off, seizing the pieces,\nstamping heads upon them, grinding them and polishing them, threading\nthem, and finally dropping them into a basket, all ready to bolt the\nharvesters together. From yet another machine came tens of thousands of\nsteel burs to fit upon these bolts. In other places all these various\nparts were dipped into troughs of paint and hung up to dry, and then\nslid along on trolleys to a room where men streaked them with red and\nyellow, so that they might look cheerful in the harvest fields.\n\nJurgis's friend worked upstairs in the casting rooms, and his task was\nto make the molds of a certain part. He shoveled black sand into an\niron receptacle and pounded it tight and set it aside to harden; then it\nwould be taken out, and molten iron poured into it. This man, too, was\npaid by the mold--or rather for perfect castings, nearly half his\nwork going for naught. You might see him, along with dozens of others,\ntoiling like one possessed by a whole community of demons; his arms\nworking like the driving rods of an engine, his long, black hair flying\nwild, his eyes starting out, the sweat rolling in rivers down his face.\nWhen he had shoveled the mold full of sand, and reached for the pounder\nto pound it with, it was after the manner of a canoeist running rapids\nand seizing a pole at sight of a submerged rock. All day long this man\nwould toil thus, his whole being centered upon the purpose of making\ntwenty-three instead of twenty-two and a half cents an hour; and then\nhis product would be reckoned up by the census taker, and jubilant\ncaptains of industry would boast of it in their banquet halls, telling\nhow our workers are nearly twice as efficient as those of any other\ncountry. If we are the greatest nation the sun ever shone upon, it would\nseem to be mainly because we have been able to goad our wage-earners to\nthis pitch of frenzy; though there are a few other things that are great\namong us including our drink-bill, which is a billion and a quarter of\ndollars a year, and doubling itself every decade.\n\n\nThere was a machine which stamped out the iron plates, and then another\nwhich, with a mighty thud, mashed them to the shape of the sitting-down\nportion of the American farmer. Then they were piled upon a truck, and\nit was Jurgis's task to wheel them to the room where the machines were\n\"assembled.\" This was child's play for him, and he got a dollar\nand seventy-five cents a day for it; on Saturday he paid Aniele the\nseventy-five cents a week he owed her for the use of her garret, and\nalso redeemed his overcoat, which Elzbieta had put in pawn when he was\nin jail.\n\nThis last was a great blessing. A man cannot go about in midwinter in\nChicago with no overcoat and not pay for it, and Jurgis had to walk or\nride five or six miles back and forth to his work. It so happened that\nhalf of this was in one direction and half in another, necessitating\na change of cars; the law required that transfers be given at all\nintersecting points, but the railway corporation had gotten round this\nby arranging a pretense at separate ownership. So whenever he wished\nto ride, he had to pay ten cents each way, or over ten per cent of his\nincome to this power, which had gotten its franchises long ago by buying\nup the city council, in the face of popular clamor amounting almost to a\nrebellion. Tired as he felt at night, and dark and bitter cold as it\nwas in the morning, Jurgis generally chose to walk; at the hours other\nworkmen were traveling, the streetcar monopoly saw fit to put on so few\ncars that there would be men hanging to every foot of the backs of them\nand often crouching upon the snow-covered roof. Of course the doors\ncould never be closed, and so the cars were as cold as outdoors; Jurgis,\nlike many others, found it better to spend his fare for a drink and a\nfree lunch, to give him strength to walk.\n\nThese, however, were all slight matters to a man who had escaped from\nDurham's fertilizer mill. Jurgis began to pick up heart again and to\nmake plans. He had lost his house but then the awful load of the rent\nand interest was off his shoulders, and when Marija was well again they\ncould start over and save. In the shop where he worked was a man, a\nLithuanian like himself, whom the others spoke of in admiring whispers,\nbecause of the mighty feats he was performing. All day he sat at a\nmachine turning bolts; and then in the evening he went to the public\nschool to study English and learn to read. In addition, because he had a\nfamily of eight children to support and his earnings were not enough, on\nSaturdays and Sundays he served as a watchman; he was required to press\ntwo buttons at opposite ends of a building every five minutes, and\nas the walk only took him two minutes, he had three minutes to study\nbetween each trip. Jurgis felt jealous of this fellow; for that was\nthe sort of thing he himself had dreamed of, two or three years ago.\nHe might do it even yet, if he had a fair chance--he might attract\nattention and become a skilled man or a boss, as some had done in this\nplace. Suppose that Marija could get a job in the big mill where they\nmade binder twine--then they would move into this neighborhood, and he\nwould really have a chance. With a hope like that, there was some use\nin living; to find a place where you were treated like a human being--by\nGod! he would show them how he could appreciate it. He laughed to\nhimself as he thought how he would hang on to this job!\n\nAnd then one afternoon, the ninth of his work in the place, when he went\nto get his overcoat he saw a group of men crowded before a placard on\nthe door, and when he went over and asked what it was, they told him\nthat beginning with the morrow his department of the harvester works\nwould be closed until further notice!\n\n\n\n\nChapter 21\n\n\nThat was the way they did it! There was not half an hour's warning--the\nworks were closed! It had happened that way before, said the men, and it\nwould happen that way forever. They had made all the harvesting machines\nthat the world needed, and now they had to wait till some wore out! It\nwas nobody's fault--that was the way of it; and thousands of men and\nwomen were turned out in the dead of winter, to live upon their savings\nif they had any, and otherwise to die. So many tens of thousands already\nin the city, homeless and begging for work, and now several thousand\nmore added to them!\n\nJurgis walked home-with his pittance of pay in his pocket, heartbroken,\noverwhelmed. One more bandage had been torn from his eyes, one more\npitfall was revealed to him! Of what help was kindness and decency on\nthe part of employers--when they could not keep a job for him, when\nthere were more harvesting machines made than the world was able to buy!\nWhat a hellish mockery it was, anyway, that a man should slave to make\nharvesting machines for the country, only to be turned out to starve for\ndoing his duty too well!\n\nIt took him two days to get over this heart-sickening disappointment. He\ndid not drink anything, because Elzbieta got his money for safekeeping,\nand knew him too well to be in the least frightened by his angry\ndemands. He stayed up in the garret however, and sulked--what was the\nuse of a man's hunting a job when it was taken from him before he had\ntime to learn the work? But then their money was going again, and little\nAntanas was hungry, and crying with the bitter cold of the garret. Also\nMadame Haupt, the midwife, was after him for some money. So he went out\nonce more.\n\nFor another ten days he roamed the streets and alleys of the huge city,\nsick and hungry, begging for any work. He tried in stores and offices,\nin restaurants and hotels, along the docks and in the railroad yards, in\nwarehouses and mills and factories where they made products that went\nto every corner of the world. There were often one or two chances--but\nthere were always a hundred men for every chance, and his turn would not\ncome. At night he crept into sheds and cellars and doorways--until there\ncame a spell of belated winter weather, with a raging gale, and the\nthermometer five degrees below zero at sundown and falling all night.\nThen Jurgis fought like a wild beast to get into the big Harrison Street\npolice station, and slept down in a corridor, crowded with two other men\nupon a single step.\n\nHe had to fight often in these days to fight for a place near the\nfactory gates, and now and again with gangs on the street. He found, for\ninstance, that the business of carrying satchels for railroad passengers\nwas a pre-empted one--whenever he essayed it, eight or ten men and boys\nwould fall upon him and force him to run for his life. They always\nhad the policeman \"squared,\" and so there was no use in expecting\nprotection.\n\nThat Jurgis did not starve to death was due solely to the pittance the\nchildren brought him. And even this was never certain. For one thing the\ncold was almost more than the children could bear; and then they, too,\nwere in perpetual peril from rivals who plundered and beat them. The law\nwas against them, too--little Vilimas, who was really eleven, but did\nnot look to be eight, was stopped on the streets by a severe old lady in\nspectacles, who told him that he was too young to be working and that\nif he did not stop selling papers she would send a truant officer after\nhim. Also one night a strange man caught little Kotrina by the arm and\ntried to persuade her into a dark cellar-way, an experience which filled\nher with such terror that she was hardly to be kept at work.\n\nAt last, on a Sunday, as there was no use looking for work, Jurgis went\nhome by stealing rides on the cars. He found that they had been waiting\nfor him for three days--there was a chance of a job for him.\n\nIt was quite a story. Little Juozapas, who was near crazy with hunger\nthese days, had gone out on the street to beg for himself. Juozapas had\nonly one leg, having been run over by a wagon when a little child,\nbut he had got himself a broomstick, which he put under his arm for a\ncrutch. He had fallen in with some other children and found the way to\nMike Scully's dump, which lay three or four blocks away. To this place\nthere came every day many hundreds of wagon-loads of garbage and trash\nfrom the lake front, where the rich people lived; and in the heaps the\nchildren raked for food--there were hunks of bread and potato peelings\nand apple cores and meat bones, all of it half frozen and quite\nunspoiled. Little Juozapas gorged himself, and came home with a\nnewspaper full, which he was feeding to Antanas when his mother came in.\nElzbieta was horrified, for she did not believe that the food out of the\ndumps was fit to eat. The next day, however, when no harm came of it and\nJuozapas began to cry with hunger, she gave in and said that he might go\nagain. And that afternoon he came home with a story of how while he had\nbeen digging away with a stick, a lady upon the street had called him.\nA real fine lady, the little boy explained, a beautiful lady; and\nshe wanted to know all about him, and whether he got the garbage for\nchickens, and why he walked with a broomstick, and why Ona had died, and\nhow Jurgis had come to go to jail, and what was the matter with Marija,\nand everything. In the end she had asked where he lived, and said that\nshe was coming to see him, and bring him a new crutch to walk with. She\nhad on a hat with a bird upon it, Juozapas added, and a long fur snake\naround her neck.\n\nShe really came, the very next morning, and climbed the ladder to the\ngarret, and stood and stared about her, turning pale at the sight of\nthe blood stains on the floor where Ona had died. She was a \"settlement\nworker,\" she explained to Elzbieta--she lived around on Ashland Avenue.\nElzbieta knew the place, over a feed store; somebody had wanted her to\ngo there, but she had not cared to, for she thought that it must have\nsomething to do with religion, and the priest did not like her to have\nanything to do with strange religions. They were rich people who came\nto live there to find out about the poor people; but what good they\nexpected it would do them to know, one could not imagine. So spoke\nElzbieta, naively, and the young lady laughed and was rather at a loss\nfor an answer--she stood and gazed about her, and thought of a cynical\nremark that had been made to her, that she was standing upon the brink\nof the pit of hell and throwing in snowballs to lower the temperature.\n\nElzbieta was glad to have somebody to listen, and she told all their\nwoes--what had happened to Ona, and the jail, and the loss of their\nhome, and Marija's accident, and how Ona had died, and how Jurgis could\nget no work. As she listened the pretty young lady's eyes filled with\ntears, and in the midst of it she burst into weeping and hid her face on\nElzbieta's shoulder, quite regardless of the fact that the woman had on\na dirty old wrapper and that the garret was full of fleas. Poor Elzbieta\nwas ashamed of herself for having told so woeful a tale, and the other\nhad to beg and plead with her to get her to go on. The end of it was\nthat the young lady sent them a basket of things to eat, and left a\nletter that Jurgis was to take to a gentleman who was superintendent in\none of the mills of the great steelworks in South Chicago. \"He will get\nJurgis something to do,\" the young lady had said, and added, smiling\nthrough her tears--\"If he doesn't, he will never marry me.\"\n\nThe steel-works were fifteen miles away, and as usual it was so\ncontrived that one had to pay two fares to get there. Far and wide the\nsky was flaring with the red glare that leaped from rows of towering\nchimneys--for it was pitch dark when Jurgis arrived. The vast works, a\ncity in themselves, were surrounded by a stockade; and already a full\nhundred men were waiting at the gate where new hands were taken on. Soon\nafter daybreak whistles began to blow, and then suddenly thousands of\nmen appeared, streaming from saloons and boardinghouses across the way,\nleaping from trolley cars that passed--it seemed as if they rose out of\nthe ground, in the dim gray light. A river of them poured in through the\ngate--and then gradually ebbed away again, until there were only a few\nlate ones running, and the watchman pacing up and down, and the hungry\nstrangers stamping and shivering.\n\nJurgis presented his precious letter. The gatekeeper was surly, and put\nhim through a catechism, but he insisted that he knew nothing, and as he\nhad taken the precaution to seal his letter, there was nothing for the\ngatekeeper to do but send it to the person to whom it was addressed.\nA messenger came back to say that Jurgis should wait, and so he came\ninside of the gate, perhaps not sorry enough that there were others less\nfortunate watching him with greedy eyes. The great mills were getting\nunder way--one could hear a vast stirring, a rolling and rumbling\nand hammering. Little by little the scene grew plain: towering, black\nbuildings here and there, long rows of shops and sheds, little railways\nbranching everywhere, bare gray cinders underfoot and oceans of\nbillowing black smoke above. On one side of the grounds ran a railroad\nwith a dozen tracks, and on the other side lay the lake, where steamers\ncame to load.\n\nJurgis had time enough to stare and speculate, for it was two hours\nbefore he was summoned. He went into the office building, where a\ncompany timekeeper interviewed him. The superintendent was busy, he\nsaid, but he (the timekeeper) would try to find Jurgis a job. He had\nnever worked in a steel mill before? But he was ready for anything?\nWell, then, they would go and see.\n\nSo they began a tour, among sights that made Jurgis stare amazed. He\nwondered if ever he could get used to working in a place like this,\nwhere the air shook with deafening thunder, and whistles shrieked\nwarnings on all sides of him at once; where miniature steam engines came\nrushing upon him, and sizzling, quivering, white-hot masses of metal\nsped past him, and explosions of fire and flaming sparks dazzled him and\nscorched his face. The men in these mills were all black with soot, and\nhollow-eyed and gaunt; they worked with fierce intensity, rushing here\nand there, and never lifting their eyes from their tasks. Jurgis clung\nto his guide like a scared child to its nurse, and while the latter\nhailed one foreman after another to ask if they could use another\nunskilled man, he stared about him and marveled.\n\nHe was taken to the Bessemer furnace, where they made billets of\nsteel--a dome-like building, the size of a big theater. Jurgis stood\nwhere the balcony of the theater would have been, and opposite, by the\nstage, he saw three giant caldrons, big enough for all the devils of\nhell to brew their broth in, full of something white and blinding,\nbubbling and splashing, roaring as if volcanoes were blowing through\nit--one had to shout to be heard in the place. Liquid fire would leap\nfrom these caldrons and scatter like bombs below--and men were working\nthere, seeming careless, so that Jurgis caught his breath with fright.\nThen a whistle would toot, and across the curtain of the theater would\ncome a little engine with a carload of something to be dumped into one\nof the receptacles; and then another whistle would toot, down by\nthe stage, and another train would back up--and suddenly, without an\ninstant's warning, one of the giant kettles began to tilt and topple,\nflinging out a jet of hissing, roaring flame. Jurgis shrank back\nappalled, for he thought it was an accident; there fell a pillar of\nwhite flame, dazzling as the sun, swishing like a huge tree falling in\nthe forest. A torrent of sparks swept all the way across the building,\noverwhelming everything, hiding it from sight; and then Jurgis looked\nthrough the fingers of his hands, and saw pouring out of the caldron a\ncascade of living, leaping fire, white with a whiteness not of earth,\nscorching the eyeballs. Incandescent rainbows shone above it, blue,\nred, and golden lights played about it; but the stream itself was white,\nineffable. Out of regions of wonder it streamed, the very river of life;\nand the soul leaped up at the sight of it, fled back upon it, swift and\nresistless, back into far-off lands, where beauty and terror dwell. Then\nthe great caldron tilted back again, empty, and Jurgis saw to his relief\nthat no one was hurt, and turned and followed his guide out into the\nsunlight.\n\nThey went through the blast furnaces, through rolling mills where bars\nof steel were tossed about and chopped like bits of cheese. All around\nand above giant machine arms were flying, giant wheels were turning,\ngreat hammers crashing; traveling cranes creaked and groaned overhead,\nreaching down iron hands and seizing iron prey--it was like standing in\nthe center of the earth, where the machinery of time was revolving.\n\nBy and by they came to the place where steel rails were made; and Jurgis\nheard a toot behind him, and jumped out of the way of a car with a\nwhite-hot ingot upon it, the size of a man's body. There was a sudden\ncrash and the car came to a halt, and the ingot toppled out upon\na moving platform, where steel fingers and arms seized hold of it,\npunching it and prodding it into place, and hurrying it into the grip of\nhuge rollers. Then it came out upon the other side, and there were more\ncrashings and clatterings, and over it was flopped, like a pancake on\na gridiron, and seized again and rushed back at you through another\nsqueezer. So amid deafening uproar it clattered to and fro, growing\nthinner and flatter and longer. The ingot seemed almost a living thing;\nit did not want to run this mad course, but it was in the grip of fate,\nit was tumbled on, screeching and clanking and shivering in protest. By\nand by it was long and thin, a great red snake escaped from purgatory;\nand then, as it slid through the rollers, you would have sworn that it\nwas alive--it writhed and squirmed, and wriggles and shudders passed out\nthrough its tail, all but flinging it off by their violence. There was\nno rest for it until it was cold and black--and then it needed only to\nbe cut and straightened to be ready for a railroad.\n\nIt was at the end of this rail's progress that Jurgis got his chance.\nThey had to be moved by men with crowbars, and the boss here could use\nanother man. So he took off his coat and set to work on the spot.\n\n\nIt took him two hours to get to this place every day and cost him a\ndollar and twenty cents a week. As this was out of the question, he\nwrapped his bedding in a bundle and took it with him, and one of his\nfellow workingmen introduced him to a Polish lodging-house, where he\nmight have the privilege of sleeping upon the floor for ten cents a\nnight. He got his meals at free-lunch counters, and every Saturday night\nhe went home--bedding and all--and took the greater part of his money to\nthe family. Elzbieta was sorry for this arrangement, for she feared that\nit would get him into the habit of living without them, and once a week\nwas not very often for him to see his baby; but there was no other way\nof arranging it. There was no chance for a woman at the steelworks, and\nMarija was now ready for work again, and lured on from day to day by the\nhope of finding it at the yards.\n\n\nIn a week Jurgis got over his sense of helplessness and bewilderment\nin the rail mill. He learned to find his way about and to take all the\nmiracles and terrors for granted, to work without hearing the rumbling\nand crashing. From blind fear he went to the other extreme; he became\nreckless and indifferent, like all the rest of the men, who took\nbut little thought of themselves in the ardor of their work. It was\nwonderful, when one came to think of it, that these men should have\ntaken an interest in the work they did--they had no share in it--they\nwere paid by the hour, and paid no more for being interested. Also they\nknew that if they were hurt they would be flung aside and forgotten--and\nstill they would hurry to their task by dangerous short cuts, would use\nmethods that were quicker and more effective in spite of the fact\nthat they were also risky. His fourth day at his work Jurgis saw a man\nstumble while running in front of a car, and have his foot mashed off,\nand before he had been there three weeks he was witness of a yet more\ndreadful accident. There was a row of brick furnaces, shining white\nthrough every crack with the molten steel inside. Some of these were\nbulging dangerously, yet men worked before them, wearing blue glasses\nwhen they opened and shut the doors. One morning as Jurgis was passing,\na furnace blew out, spraying two men with a shower of liquid fire. As\nthey lay screaming and rolling upon the ground in agony, Jurgis rushed\nto help them, and as a result he lost a good part of the skin from the\ninside of one of his hands. The company doctor bandaged it up, but he\ngot no other thanks from any one, and was laid up for eight working days\nwithout any pay.\n\nMost fortunately, at this juncture, Elzbieta got the long-awaited chance\nto go at five o'clock in the morning and help scrub the office floors of\none of the packers. Jurgis came home and covered himself with blankets\nto keep warm, and divided his time between sleeping and playing with\nlittle Antanas. Juozapas was away raking in the dump a good part of the\ntime, and Elzbieta and Marija were hunting for more work.\n\nAntanas was now over a year and a half old, and was a perfect talking\nmachine. He learned so fast that every week when Jurgis came home it\nseemed to him as if he had a new child. He would sit down and listen and\nstare at him, and give vent to delighted exclamations--\"Palauk! Muma!\nTu mano szirdele!\" The little fellow was now really the one delight\nthat Jurgis had in the world--his one hope, his one victory. Thank God,\nAntanas was a boy! And he was as tough as a pine knot, and with the\nappetite of a wolf. Nothing had hurt him, and nothing could hurt him;\nhe had come through all the suffering and deprivation unscathed--only\nshriller-voiced and more determined in his grip upon life. He was a\nterrible child to manage, was Antanas, but his father did not mind\nthat--he would watch him and smile to himself with satisfaction. The\nmore of a fighter he was the better--he would need to fight before he\ngot through.\n\nJurgis had got the habit of buying the Sunday paper whenever he had the\nmoney; a most wonderful paper could be had for only five cents, a whole\narmful, with all the news of the world set forth in big headlines, that\nJurgis could spell out slowly, with the children to help him at the long\nwords. There was battle and murder and sudden death--it was marvelous\nhow they ever heard about so many entertaining and thrilling happenings;\nthe stories must be all true, for surely no man could have made such\nthings up, and besides, there were pictures of them all, as real as\nlife. One of these papers was as good as a circus, and nearly as good\nas a spree--certainly a most wonderful treat for a workingman, who was\ntired out and stupefied, and had never had any education, and whose work\nwas one dull, sordid grind, day after day, and year after year, with\nnever a sight of a green field nor an hour's entertainment, nor anything\nbut liquor to stimulate his imagination. Among other things, these\npapers had pages full of comical pictures, and these were the main joy\nin life to little Antanas. He treasured them up, and would drag them out\nand make his father tell him about them; there were all sorts of animals\namong them, and Antanas could tell the names of all of them, lying\nupon the floor for hours and pointing them out with his chubby little\nfingers. Whenever the story was plain enough for Jurgis to make out,\nAntanas would have it repeated to him, and then he would remember it,\nprattling funny little sentences and mixing it up with other stories in\nan irresistible fashion. Also his quaint pronunciation of words was\nsuch a delight--and the phrases he would pick up and remember, the most\noutlandish and impossible things! The first time that the little rascal\nburst out with \"God damn,\" his father nearly rolled off the chair\nwith glee; but in the end he was sorry for this, for Antanas was soon\n\"God-damning\" everything and everybody.\n\nAnd then, when he was able to use his hands, Jurgis took his bedding\nagain and went back to his task of shifting rails. It was now April, and\nthe snow had given place to cold rains, and the unpaved street in front\nof Aniele's house was turned into a canal. Jurgis would have to wade\nthrough it to get home, and if it was late he might easily get stuck to\nhis waist in the mire. But he did not mind this much--it was a promise\nthat summer was coming. Marija had now gotten a place as beef-trimmer\nin one of the smaller packing plants; and he told himself that he had\nlearned his lesson now, and would meet with no more accidents--so that\nat last there was prospect of an end to their long agony. They could\nsave money again, and when another winter came they would have a\ncomfortable place; and the children would be off the streets and in\nschool again, and they might set to work to nurse back into life their\nhabits of decency and kindness. So once more Jurgis began to make plans\nand dream dreams.\n\nAnd then one Saturday night he jumped off the car and started home, with\nthe sun shining low under the edge of a bank of clouds that had been\npouring floods of water into the mud-soaked street. There was a rainbow\nin the sky, and another in his breast--for he had thirty-six hours' rest\nbefore him, and a chance to see his family. Then suddenly he came in\nsight of the house, and noticed that there was a crowd before the door.\nHe ran up the steps and pushed his way in, and saw Aniele's kitchen\ncrowded with excited women. It reminded him so vividly of the time when\nhe had come home from jail and found Ona dying, that his heart almost\nstood still. \"What's the matter?\" he cried.\n\nA dead silence had fallen in the room, and he saw that every one was\nstaring at him. \"What's the matter?\" he exclaimed again.\n\nAnd then, up in the garret, he heard sounds of wailing, in Marija's\nvoice. He started for the ladder--and Aniele seized him by the arm. \"No,\nno!\" she exclaimed. \"Don't go up there!\"\n\n\"What is it?\" he shouted.\n\nAnd the old woman answered him weakly: \"It's Antanas. He's dead. He was\ndrowned out in the street!\"\n\n\nChapter 22\n\n\nJurgis took the news in a peculiar way. He turned deadly pale, but he\ncaught himself, and for half a minute stood in the middle of the room,\nclenching his hands tightly and setting his teeth. Then he pushed Aniele\naside and strode into the next room and climbed the ladder.\n\nIn the corner was a blanket, with a form half showing beneath it; and\nbeside it lay Elzbieta, whether crying or in a faint, Jurgis could not\ntell. Marija was pacing the room, screaming and wringing her hands. He\nclenched his hands tighter yet, and his voice was hard as he spoke.\n\n\"How did it happen?\" he asked.\n\nMarija scarcely heard him in her agony. He repeated the question,\nlouder and yet more harshly. \"He fell off the sidewalk!\" she wailed.\nThe sidewalk in front of the house was a platform made of half-rotten\nboards, about five feet above the level of the sunken street.\n\n\"How did he come to be there?\" he demanded.\n\n\"He went--he went out to play,\" Marija sobbed, her voice choking her.\n\"We couldn't make him stay in. He must have got caught in the mud!\"\n\n\"Are you sure that he is dead?\" he demanded.\n\n\"Ai! ai!\" she wailed. \"Yes; we had the doctor.\"\n\nThen Jurgis stood a few seconds, wavering. He did not shed a tear. He\ntook one glance more at the blanket with the little form beneath it,\nand then turned suddenly to the ladder and climbed down again. A silence\nfell once more in the room as he entered. He went straight to the door,\npassed out, and started down the street.\n\nWhen his wife had died, Jurgis made for the nearest saloon, but he did\nnot do that now, though he had his week's wages in his pocket. He walked\nand walked, seeing nothing, splashing through mud and water. Later on he\nsat down upon a step and hid his face in his hands and for half an hour\nor so he did not move. Now and then he would whisper to himself: \"Dead!\nDead!\"\n\nFinally, he got up and walked on again. It was about sunset, and he went\non and on until it was dark, when he was stopped by a railroad crossing.\nThe gates were down, and a long train of freight cars was thundering by.\nHe stood and watched it; and all at once a wild impulse seized him, a\nthought that had been lurking within him, unspoken, unrecognized, leaped\ninto sudden life. He started down the track, and when he was past the\ngate-keeper's shanty he sprang forward and swung himself on to one of\nthe cars.\n\nBy and by the train stopped again, and Jurgis sprang down and ran under\nthe car, and hid himself upon the truck. Here he sat, and when the train\nstarted again, he fought a battle with his soul. He gripped his hands\nand set his teeth together--he had not wept, and he would not--not a\ntear! It was past and over, and he was done with it--he would fling it\noff his shoulders, be free of it, the whole business, that night. It\nshould go like a black, hateful nightmare, and in the morning he would\nbe a new man. And every time that a thought of it assailed him--a tender\nmemory, a trace of a tear--he rose up, cursing with rage, and pounded it\ndown.\n\nHe was fighting for his life; he gnashed his teeth together in his\ndesperation. He had been a fool, a fool! He had wasted his life, he had\nwrecked himself, with his accursed weakness; and now he was done with\nit--he would tear it out of him, root and branch! There should be no\nmore tears and no more tenderness; he had had enough of them--they had\nsold him into slavery! Now he was going to be free, to tear off his\nshackles, to rise up and fight. He was glad that the end had come--it\nhad to come some time, and it was just as well now. This was no world\nfor women and children, and the sooner they got out of it the better\nfor them. Whatever Antanas might suffer where he was, he could suffer\nno more than he would have had he stayed upon earth. And meantime his\nfather had thought the last thought about him that he meant to; he was\ngoing to think of himself, he was going to fight for himself, against\nthe world that had baffled him and tortured him!\n\nSo he went on, tearing up all the flowers from the garden of his soul,\nand setting his heel upon them. The train thundered deafeningly, and\na storm of dust blew in his face; but though it stopped now and then\nthrough the night, he clung where he was--he would cling there until\nhe was driven off, for every mile that he got from Packingtown meant\nanother load from his mind.\n\nWhenever the cars stopped a warm breeze blew upon him, a breeze laden\nwith the perfume of fresh fields, of honeysuckle and clover. He snuffed\nit, and it made his heart beat wildly--he was out in the country again!\nHe was going to live in the country! When the dawn came he was peering\nout with hungry eyes, getting glimpses of meadows and woods and rivers.\nAt last he could stand it no longer, and when the train stopped again he\ncrawled out. Upon the top of the car was a brakeman, who shook his fist\nand swore; Jurgis waved his hand derisively, and started across the\ncountry.\n\nOnly think that he had been a countryman all his life; and for three\nlong years he had never seen a country sight nor heard a country sound!\nExcepting for that one walk when he left jail, when he was too much\nworried to notice anything, and for a few times that he had rested\nin the city parks in the winter time when he was out of work, he had\nliterally never seen a tree! And now he felt like a bird lifted up\nand borne away upon a gale; he stopped and stared at each new sight of\nwonder--at a herd of cows, and a meadow full of daisies, at hedgerows\nset thick with June roses, at little birds singing in the trees.\n\nThen he came to a farm-house, and after getting himself a stick for\nprotection, he approached it. The farmer was greasing a wagon in\nfront of the barn, and Jurgis went to him. \"I would like to get some\nbreakfast, please,\" he said.\n\n\"Do you want to work?\" said the farmer.\n\n\"No,\" said Jurgis. \"I don't.\"\n\n\"Then you can't get anything here,\" snapped the other.\n\n\"I meant to pay for it,\" said Jurgis.\n\n\"Oh,\" said the farmer; and then added sarcastically, \"We don't serve\nbreakfast after 7 A.M.\"\n\n\"I am very hungry,\" said Jurgis gravely; \"I would like to buy some\nfood.\"\n\n\"Ask the woman,\" said the farmer, nodding over his shoulder. The \"woman\"\nwas more tractable, and for a dime Jurgis secured two thick sandwiches\nand a piece of pie and two apples. He walked off eating the pie, as the\nleast convenient thing to carry. In a few minutes he came to a stream,\nand he climbed a fence and walked down the bank, along a woodland path.\nBy and by he found a comfortable spot, and there he devoured his meal,\nslaking his thirst at the stream. Then he lay for hours, just gazing and\ndrinking in joy; until at last he felt sleepy, and lay down in the shade\nof a bush.\n\nWhen he awoke the sun was shining hot in his face. He sat up and\nstretched his arms, and then gazed at the water sliding by. There was a\ndeep pool, sheltered and silent, below him, and a sudden wonderful idea\nrushed upon him. He might have a bath! The water was free, and he might\nget into it--all the way into it! It would be the first time that he had\nbeen all the way into the water since he left Lithuania!\n\nWhen Jurgis had first come to the stockyards he had been as clean as any\nworkingman could well be. But later on, what with sickness and cold\nand hunger and discouragement, and the filthiness of his work, and the\nvermin in his home, he had given up washing in winter, and in summer\nonly as much of him as would go into a basin. He had had a shower bath\nin jail, but nothing since--and now he would have a swim!\n\nThe water was warm, and he splashed about like a very boy in his glee.\nAfterward he sat down in the water near the bank, and proceeded to scrub\nhimself--soberly and methodically, scouring every inch of him with sand.\nWhile he was doing it he would do it thoroughly, and see how it felt to\nbe clean. He even scrubbed his head with sand, and combed what the men\ncalled \"crumbs\" out of his long, black hair, holding his head under\nwater as long as he could, to see if he could not kill them all. Then,\nseeing that the sun was still hot, he took his clothes from the bank\nand proceeded to wash them, piece by piece; as the dirt and grease went\nfloating off downstream he grunted with satisfaction and soused the\nclothes again, venturing even to dream that he might get rid of the\nfertilizer.\n\nHe hung them all up, and while they were drying he lay down in the sun\nand had another long sleep. They were hot and stiff as boards on top,\nand a little damp on the underside, when he awakened; but being hungry,\nhe put them on and set out again. He had no knife, but with some labor\nhe broke himself a good stout club, and, armed with this, he marched\ndown the road again.\n\nBefore long he came to a big farmhouse, and turned up the lane that led\nto it. It was just supper-time, and the farmer was washing his hands at\nthe kitchen door. \"Please, sir,\" said Jurgis, \"can I have something to\neat? I can pay.\" To which the farmer responded promptly, \"We don't feed\ntramps here. Get out!\"\n\nJurgis went without a word; but as he passed round the barn he came to\na freshly ploughed and harrowed field, in which the farmer had set out\nsome young peach trees; and as he walked he jerked up a row of them by\nthe roots, more than a hundred trees in all, before he reached the end\nof the field. That was his answer, and it showed his mood; from now on\nhe was fighting, and the man who hit him would get all that he gave,\nevery time.\n\nBeyond the orchard Jurgis struck through a patch of woods, and then a\nfield of winter grain, and came at last to another road. Before long he\nsaw another farmhouse, and, as it was beginning to cloud over a little,\nhe asked here for shelter as well as food. Seeing the farmer eying him\ndubiously, he added, \"I'll be glad to sleep in the barn.\"\n\n\"Well, I dunno,\" said the other. \"Do you smoke?\"\n\n\"Sometimes,\" said Jurgis, \"but I'll do it out of doors.\" When the man\nhad assented, he inquired, \"How much will it cost me? I haven't very\nmuch money.\"\n\n\"I reckon about twenty cents for supper,\" replied the farmer. \"I won't\ncharge ye for the barn.\"\n\nSo Jurgis went in, and sat down at the table with the farmer's wife and\nhalf a dozen children. It was a bountiful meal--there were baked beans\nand mashed potatoes and asparagus chopped and stewed, and a dish of\nstrawberries, and great, thick slices of bread, and a pitcher of milk.\nJurgis had not had such a feast since his wedding day, and he made a\nmighty effort to put in his twenty cents' worth.\n\nThey were all of them too hungry to talk; but afterward they sat upon\nthe steps and smoked, and the farmer questioned his guest. When Jurgis\nhad explained that he was a workingman from Chicago, and that he did not\nknow just whither he was bound, the other said, \"Why don't you stay here\nand work for me?\"\n\n\"I'm not looking for work just now,\" Jurgis answered.\n\n\"I'll pay ye good,\" said the other, eying his big form--\"a dollar a day\nand board ye. Help's terrible scarce round here.\"\n\n\"Is that winter as well as summer?\" Jurgis demanded quickly.\n\n\"N--no,\" said the farmer; \"I couldn't keep ye after November--I ain't\ngot a big enough place for that.\"\n\n\"I see,\" said the other, \"that's what I thought. When you get through\nworking your horses this fall, will you turn them out in the snow?\"\n(Jurgis was beginning to think for himself nowadays.)\n\n\"It ain't quite the same,\" the farmer answered, seeing the point. \"There\nought to be work a strong fellow like you can find to do, in the cities,\nor some place, in the winter time.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Jurgis, \"that's what they all think; and so they crowd into\nthe cities, and when they have to beg or steal to live, then people\nask 'em why they don't go into the country, where help is scarce.\" The\nfarmer meditated awhile.\n\n\"How about when your money's gone?\" he inquired, finally. \"You'll have\nto, then, won't you?\"\n\n\"Wait till she's gone,\" said Jurgis; \"then I'll see.\"\n\nHe had a long sleep in the barn and then a big breakfast of coffee and\nbread and oatmeal and stewed cherries, for which the man charged him\nonly fifteen cents, perhaps having been influenced by his arguments.\nThen Jurgis bade farewell, and went on his way.\n\n\nSuch was the beginning of his life as a tramp. It was seldom he got\nas fair treatment as from this last farmer, and so as time went on he\nlearned to shun the houses and to prefer sleeping in the fields. When\nit rained he would find a deserted building, if he could, and if not,\nhe would wait until after dark and then, with his stick ready, begin a\nstealthy approach upon a barn. Generally he could get in before the dog\ngot scent of him, and then he would hide in the hay and be safe until\nmorning; if not, and the dog attacked him, he would rise up and make a\nretreat in battle order. Jurgis was not the mighty man he had once been,\nbut his arms were still good, and there were few farm dogs he needed to\nhit more than once.\n\nBefore long there came raspberries, and then blackberries, to help him\nsave his money; and there were apples in the orchards and potatoes in\nthe ground--he learned to note the places and fill his pockets after\ndark. Twice he even managed to capture a chicken, and had a feast, once\nin a deserted barn and the other time in a lonely spot alongside of a\nstream. When all of these things failed him he used his money carefully,\nbut without worry--for he saw that he could earn more whenever he chose.\nHalf an hour's chopping wood in his lively fashion was enough to bring\nhim a meal, and when the farmer had seen him working he would sometimes\ntry to bribe him to stay.\n\nBut Jurgis was not staying. He was a free man now, a buccaneer. The old\nwanderlust had got into his blood, the joy of the unbound life, the\njoy of seeking, of hoping without limit. There were mishaps and\ndiscomforts--but at least there was always something new; and only think\nwhat it meant to a man who for years had been penned up in one place,\nseeing nothing but one dreary prospect of shanties and factories, to be\nsuddenly set loose beneath the open sky, to behold new landscapes,\nnew places, and new people every hour! To a man whose whole life had\nconsisted of doing one certain thing all day, until he was so exhausted\nthat he could only lie down and sleep until the next day--and to be now\nhis own master, working as he pleased and when he pleased, and facing a\nnew adventure every hour!\n\nThen, too, his health came back to him, all his lost youthful vigor, his\njoy and power that he had mourned and forgotten! It came with a sudden\nrush, bewildering him, startling him; it was as if his dead childhood\nhad come back to him, laughing and calling! What with plenty to eat and\nfresh air and exercise that was taken as it pleased him, he would waken\nfrom his sleep and start off not knowing what to do with his energy,\nstretching his arms, laughing, singing old songs of home that came back\nto him. Now and then, of course, he could not help but think of little\nAntanas, whom he should never see again, whose little voice he should\nnever hear; and then he would have to battle with himself. Sometimes at\nnight he would waken dreaming of Ona, and stretch out his arms to her,\nand wet the ground with his tears. But in the morning he would get up\nand shake himself, and stride away again to battle with the world.\n\nHe never asked where he was nor where he was going; the country was big\nenough, he knew, and there was no danger of his coming to the end of it.\nAnd of course he could always have company for the asking--everywhere he\nwent there were men living just as he lived, and whom he was welcome to\njoin. He was a stranger at the business, but they were not clannish, and\nthey taught him all their tricks--what towns and villages it was best\nto keep away from, and how to read the secret signs upon the fences, and\nwhen to beg and when to steal, and just how to do both. They laughed at\nhis ideas of paying for anything with money or with work--for they got\nall they wanted without either. Now and then Jurgis camped out with\na gang of them in some woodland haunt, and foraged with them in the\nneighborhood at night. And then among them some one would \"take a shine\"\nto him, and they would go off together and travel for a week, exchanging\nreminiscences.\n\nOf these professional tramps a great many had, of course, been shiftless\nand vicious all their lives. But the vast majority of them had been\nworkingmen, had fought the long fight as Jurgis had, and found that it\nwas a losing fight, and given up. Later on he encountered yet another\nsort of men, those from whose ranks the tramps were recruited, men who\nwere homeless and wandering, but still seeking work--seeking it in the\nharvest fields. Of these there was an army, the huge surplus labor army\nof society; called into being under the stern system of nature, to\ndo the casual work of the world, the tasks which were transient and\nirregular, and yet which had to be done. They did not know that they\nwere such, of course; they only knew that they sought the job, and that\nthe job was fleeting. In the early summer they would be in Texas, and\nas the crops were ready they would follow north with the season, ending\nwith the fall in Manitoba. Then they would seek out the big lumber\ncamps, where there was winter work; or failing in this, would drift to\nthe cities, and live upon what they had managed to save, with the\nhelp of such transient work as was there the loading and unloading of\nsteamships and drays, the digging of ditches and the shoveling of snow.\nIf there were more of them on hand than chanced to be needed, the weaker\nones died off of cold and hunger, again according to the stern system of\nnature.\n\nIt was in the latter part of July, when Jurgis was in Missouri, that\nhe came upon the harvest work. Here were crops that men had worked for\nthree or four months to prepare, and of which they would lose nearly\nall unless they could find others to help them for a week or two. So all\nover the land there was a cry for labor--agencies were set up and all\nthe cities were drained of men, even college boys were brought by the\ncarload, and hordes of frantic farmers would hold up trains and carry\noff wagon-loads of men by main force. Not that they did not pay them\nwell--any man could get two dollars a day and his board, and the best\nmen could get two dollars and a half or three.\n\nThe harvest-fever was in the very air, and no man with any spirit in\nhim could be in that region and not catch it. Jurgis joined a gang and\nworked from dawn till dark, eighteen hours a day, for two weeks without\na break. Then he had a sum of money that would have been a fortune to\nhim in the old days of misery--but what could he do with it now? To be\nsure he might have put it in a bank, and, if he were fortunate, get\nit back again when he wanted it. But Jurgis was now a homeless man,\nwandering over a continent; and what did he know about banking and\ndrafts and letters of credit? If he carried the money about with him, he\nwould surely be robbed in the end; and so what was there for him to do\nbut enjoy it while he could? On a Saturday night he drifted into a town\nwith his fellows; and because it was raining, and there was no other\nplace provided for him, he went to a saloon. And there were some who\ntreated him and whom he had to treat, and there was laughter and singing\nand good cheer; and then out of the rear part of the saloon a girl's\nface, red-cheeked and merry, smiled at Jurgis, and his heart thumped\nsuddenly in his throat. He nodded to her, and she came and sat by him,\nand they had more drink, and then he went upstairs into a room with her,\nand the wild beast rose up within him and screamed, as it has screamed\nin the Jungle from the dawn of time. And then because of his memories\nand his shame, he was glad when others joined them, men and women; and\nthey had more drink and spent the night in wild rioting and debauchery.\nIn the van of the surplus-labor army, there followed another, an army of\nwomen, they also struggling for life under the stern system of nature.\nBecause there were rich men who sought pleasure, there had been ease and\nplenty for them so long as they were young and beautiful; and later on,\nwhen they were crowded out by others younger and more beautiful, they\nwent out to follow upon the trail of the workingmen. Sometimes they came\nof themselves, and the saloon-keepers shared with them; or sometimes\nthey were handled by agencies, the same as the labor army. They were in\nthe towns in harvest time, near the lumber camps in the winter, in\nthe cities when the men came there; if a regiment were encamped, or a\nrailroad or canal being made, or a great exposition getting ready, the\ncrowd of women were on hand, living in shanties or saloons or tenement\nrooms, sometimes eight or ten of them together.\n\nIn the morning Jurgis had not a cent, and he went out upon the road\nagain. He was sick and disgusted, but after the new plan of his life, he\ncrushed his feelings down. He had made a fool of himself, but he could\nnot help it now--all he could do was to see that it did not happen\nagain. So he tramped on until exercise and fresh air banished his\nheadache, and his strength and joy returned. This happened to him every\ntime, for Jurgis was still a creature of impulse, and his pleasures had\nnot yet become business. It would be a long time before he could be like\nthe majority of these men of the road, who roamed until the hunger for\ndrink and for women mastered them, and then went to work with a purpose\nin mind, and stopped when they had the price of a spree.\n\nOn the contrary, try as he would, Jurgis could not help being made\nmiserable by his conscience. It was the ghost that would not down. It\nwould come upon him in the most unexpected places--sometimes it fairly\ndrove him to drink.\n\nOne night he was caught by a thunderstorm, and he sought shelter in a\nlittle house just outside of a town. It was a working-man's home, and\nthe owner was a Slav like himself, a new emigrant from White Russia; he\nbade Jurgis welcome in his home language, and told him to come to the\nkitchen-fire and dry himself. He had no bed for him, but there was straw\nin the garret, and he could make out. The man's wife was cooking the\nsupper, and their children were playing about on the floor. Jurgis sat\nand exchanged thoughts with him about the old country, and the places\nwhere they had been and the work they had done. Then they ate, and\nafterward sat and smoked and talked more about America, and how they\nfound it. In the middle of a sentence, however, Jurgis stopped, seeing\nthat the woman had brought a big basin of water and was proceeding to\nundress her youngest baby. The rest had crawled into the closet where\nthey slept, but the baby was to have a bath, the workingman explained.\nThe nights had begun to be chilly, and his mother, ignorant as to the\nclimate in America, had sewed him up for the winter; then it had turned\nwarm again, and some kind of a rash had broken out on the child. The\ndoctor had said she must bathe him every night, and she, foolish woman,\nbelieved him.\n\nJurgis scarcely heard the explanation; he was watching the baby. He was\nabout a year old, and a sturdy little fellow, with soft fat legs, and a\nround ball of a stomach, and eyes as black as coals. His pimples did\nnot seem to bother him much, and he was wild with glee over the bath,\nkicking and squirming and chuckling with delight, pulling at his\nmother's face and then at his own little toes. When she put him into the\nbasin he sat in the midst of it and grinned, splashing the water over\nhimself and squealing like a little pig. He spoke in Russian, of which\nJurgis knew some; he spoke it with the quaintest of baby accents--and\nevery word of it brought back to Jurgis some word of his own dead little\none, and stabbed him like a knife. He sat perfectly motionless, silent,\nbut gripping his hands tightly, while a storm gathered in his bosom and\na flood heaped itself up behind his eyes. And in the end he could bear\nit no more, but buried his face in his hands and burst into tears, to\nthe alarm and amazement of his hosts. Between the shame of this and his\nwoe Jurgis could not stand it, and got up and rushed out into the rain.\n\nHe went on and on down the road, finally coming to a black woods, where\nhe hid and wept as if his heart would break. Ah, what agony was that,\nwhat despair, when the tomb of memory was rent open and the ghosts of\nhis old life came forth to scourge him! What terror to see what he had\nbeen and now could never be--to see Ona and his child and his own dead\nself stretching out their arms to him, calling to him across a bottomless\nabyss--and to know that they were gone from him forever, and he writhing\nand suffocating in the mire of his own vileness!\n\n\nChapter 23\n\n\nEarly in the fall Jurgis set out for Chicago again. All the joy went out\nof tramping as soon as a man could not keep warm in the hay; and, like\nmany thousands of others, he deluded himself with the hope that by\ncoming early he could avoid the rush. He brought fifteen dollars with\nhim, hidden away in one of his shoes, a sum which had been saved from\nthe saloon-keepers, not so much by his conscience, as by the fear which\nfilled him at the thought of being out of work in the city in the winter\ntime.\n\nHe traveled upon the railroad with several other men, hiding in freight\ncars at night, and liable to be thrown off at any time, regardless of\nthe speed of the train. When he reached the city he left the rest, for\nhe had money and they did not, and he meant to save himself in this\nfight. He would bring to it all the skill that practice had brought him,\nand he would stand, whoever fell. On fair nights he would sleep in the\npark or on a truck or an empty barrel or box, and when it was rainy or\ncold he would stow himself upon a shelf in a ten-cent lodging-house,\nor pay three cents for the privileges of a \"squatter\" in a tenement\nhallway. He would eat at free lunches, five cents a meal, and never a\ncent more--so he might keep alive for two months and more, and in that\ntime he would surely find a job. He would have to bid farewell to\nhis summer cleanliness, of course, for he would come out of the first\nnight's lodging with his clothes alive with vermin. There was no place\nin the city where he could wash even his face, unless he went down to\nthe lake front--and there it would soon be all ice.\n\nFirst he went to the steel mill and the harvester works, and found that\nhis places there had been filled long ago. He was careful to keep away\nfrom the stockyards--he was a single man now, he told himself, and he\nmeant to stay one, to have his wages for his own when he got a job. He\nbegan the long, weary round of factories and warehouses, tramping all\nday, from one end of the city to the other, finding everywhere from ten\nto a hundred men ahead of him. He watched the newspapers, too--but no\nlonger was he to be taken in by smooth-spoken agents. He had been told\nof all those tricks while \"on the road.\"\n\nIn the end it was through a newspaper that he got a job, after nearly\na month of seeking. It was a call for a hundred laborers, and though he\nthought it was a \"fake,\" he went because the place was near by. He found\na line of men a block long, but as a wagon chanced to come out of an\nalley and break the line, he saw his chance and sprang to seize a place.\nMen threatened him and tried to throw him out, but he cursed and made\na disturbance to attract a policeman, upon which they subsided, knowing\nthat if the latter interfered it would be to \"fire\" them all.\n\nAn hour or two later he entered a room and confronted a big Irishman\nbehind a desk.\n\n\"Ever worked in Chicago before?\" the man inquired; and whether it was\na good angel that put it into Jurgis's mind, or an intuition of his\nsharpened wits, he was moved to answer, \"No, sir.\"\n\n\"Where do you come from?\"\n\n\"Kansas City, sir.\"\n\n\"Any references?\"\n\n\"No, sir. I'm just an unskilled man. I've got good arms.\"\n\n\"I want men for hard work--it's all underground, digging tunnels for\ntelephones. Maybe it won't suit you.\"\n\n\"I'm willing, sir--anything for me. What's the pay?\"\n\n\"Fifteen cents an hour.\"\n\n\"I'm willing, sir.\"\n\n\"All right; go back there and give your name.\"\n\nSo within half an hour he was at work, far underneath the streets of the\ncity. The tunnel was a peculiar one for telephone wires; it was\nabout eight feet high, and with a level floor nearly as wide. It had\ninnumerable branches--a perfect spider web beneath the city; Jurgis\nwalked over half a mile with his gang to the place where they were to\nwork. Stranger yet, the tunnel was lighted by electricity, and upon it\nwas laid a double-tracked, narrow-gauge railroad!\n\nBut Jurgis was not there to ask questions, and he did not give the\nmatter a thought. It was nearly a year afterward that he finally learned\nthe meaning of this whole affair. The City Council had passed a quiet\nand innocent little bill allowing a company to construct telephone\nconduits under the city streets; and upon the strength of this, a great\ncorporation had proceeded to tunnel all Chicago with a system of railway\nfreight-subways. In the city there was a combination of employers,\nrepresenting hundreds of millions of capital, and formed for the purpose\nof crushing the labor unions. The chief union which troubled it was the\nteamsters'; and when these freight tunnels were completed, connecting\nall the big factories and stores with the railroad depots, they would\nhave the teamsters' union by the throat. Now and then there were rumors\nand murmurs in the Board of Aldermen, and once there was a committee to\ninvestigate--but each time another small fortune was paid over, and the\nrumors died away; until at last the city woke up with a start to find\nthe work completed. There was a tremendous scandal, of course; it\nwas found that the city records had been falsified and other\ncrimes committed, and some of Chicago's big capitalists got into\njail--figuratively speaking. The aldermen declared that they had had no\nidea of it all, in spite of the fact that the main entrance to the work\nhad been in the rear of the saloon of one of them.\n\nIt was in a newly opened cut that Jurgis worked, and so he knew that he\nhad an all-winter job. He was so rejoiced that he treated himself to a\nspree that night, and with the balance of his money he hired himself\na place in a tenement room, where he slept upon a big homemade straw\nmattress along with four other workingmen. This was one dollar a week,\nand for four more he got his food in a boardinghouse near his work. This\nwould leave him four dollars extra each week, an unthinkable sum for\nhim. At the outset he had to pay for his digging tools, and also to buy\na pair of heavy boots, since his shoes were falling to pieces, and a\nflannel shirt, since the one he had worn all summer was in shreds. He\nspent a week meditating whether or not he should also buy an overcoat.\nThere was one belonging to a Hebrew collar button peddler, who had died\nin the room next to him, and which the landlady was holding for her\nrent; in the end, however, Jurgis decided to do without it, as he was to\nbe underground by day and in bed at night.\n\nThis was an unfortunate decision, however, for it drove him more quickly\nthan ever into the saloons. From now on Jurgis worked from seven o'clock\nuntil half-past five, with half an hour for dinner; which meant that he\nnever saw the sunlight on weekdays. In the evenings there was no place\nfor him to go except a barroom; no place where there was light and\nwarmth, where he could hear a little music or sit with a companion\nand talk. He had now no home to go to; he had no affection left in his\nlife--only the pitiful mockery of it in the camaraderie of vice. On\nSundays the churches were open--but where was there a church in which an\nill-smelling workingman, with vermin crawling upon his neck, could sit\nwithout seeing people edge away and look annoyed? He had, of course,\nhis corner in a close though unheated room, with a window opening upon\na blank wall two feet away; and also he had the bare streets, with\nthe winter gales sweeping through them; besides this he had only the\nsaloons--and, of course, he had to drink to stay in them. If he drank\nnow and then he was free to make himself at home, to gamble with dice or\na pack of greasy cards, to play at a dingy pool table for money, or to\nlook at a beer-stained pink \"sporting paper,\" with pictures of murderers\nand half-naked women. It was for such pleasures as these that he spent\nhis money; and such was his life during the six weeks and a half that he\ntoiled for the merchants of Chicago, to enable them to break the grip of\ntheir teamsters' union.\n\nIn a work thus carried out, not much thought was given to the welfare of\nthe laborers. On an average, the tunneling cost a life a day and several\nmanglings; it was seldom, however, that more than a dozen or two men\nheard of any one accident. The work was all done by the new boring\nmachinery, with as little blasting as possible; but there would be\nfalling rocks and crushed supports, and premature explosions--and in\naddition all the dangers of railroading. So it was that one night, as\nJurgis was on his way out with his gang, an engine and a loaded car\ndashed round one of the innumerable right-angle branches and struck him\nupon the shoulder, hurling him against the concrete wall and knocking\nhim senseless.\n\nWhen he opened his eyes again it was to the clanging of the bell of\nan ambulance. He was lying in it, covered by a blanket, and it was\nthreading its way slowly through the holiday-shopping crowds. They took\nhim to the county hospital, where a young surgeon set his arm; then he\nwas washed and laid upon a bed in a ward with a score or two more of\nmaimed and mangled men.\n\nJurgis spent his Christmas in this hospital, and it was the pleasantest\nChristmas he had had in America. Every year there were scandals and\ninvestigations in this institution, the newspapers charging that doctors\nwere allowed to try fantastic experiments upon the patients; but Jurgis\nknew nothing of this--his only complaint was that they used to feed him\nupon tinned meat, which no man who had ever worked in Packingtown would\nfeed to his dog. Jurgis had often wondered just who ate the canned\ncorned beef and \"roast beef\" of the stockyards; now he began to\nunderstand--that it was what you might call \"graft meat,\" put up to\nbe sold to public officials and contractors, and eaten by soldiers and\nsailors, prisoners and inmates of institutions, \"shantymen\" and gangs of\nrailroad laborers.\n\nJurgis was ready to leave the hospital at the end of two weeks. This\ndid not mean that his arm was strong and that he was able to go back to\nwork, but simply that he could get along without further attention, and\nthat his place was needed for some one worse off than he. That he was\nutterly helpless, and had no means of keeping himself alive in the\nmeantime, was something which did not concern the hospital authorities,\nnor any one else in the city.\n\nAs it chanced, he had been hurt on a Monday, and had just paid for his\nlast week's board and his room rent, and spent nearly all the balance of\nhis Saturday's pay. He had less than seventy-five cents in his pockets,\nand a dollar and a half due him for the day's work he had done before he\nwas hurt. He might possibly have sued the company, and got some damages\nfor his injuries, but he did not know this, and it was not the company's\nbusiness to tell him. He went and got his pay and his tools, which he\nleft in a pawnshop for fifty cents. Then he went to his landlady,\nwho had rented his place and had no other for him; and then to his\nboardinghouse keeper, who looked him over and questioned him. As he must\ncertainly be helpless for a couple of months, and had boarded there only\nsix weeks, she decided very quickly that it would not be worth the risk\nto keep him on trust.\n\nSo Jurgis went out into the streets, in a most dreadful plight. It was\nbitterly cold, and a heavy snow was falling, beating into his face.\nHe had no overcoat, and no place to go, and two dollars and sixty-five\ncents in his pocket, with the certainty that he could not earn another\ncent for months. The snow meant no chance to him now; he must walk along\nand see others shoveling, vigorous and active--and he with his left arm\nbound to his side! He could not hope to tide himself over by odd jobs\nof loading trucks; he could not even sell newspapers or carry satchels,\nbecause he was now at the mercy of any rival. Words could not paint the\nterror that came over him as he realized all this. He was like a wounded\nanimal in the forest; he was forced to compete with his enemies upon\nunequal terms. There would be no consideration for him because of his\nweakness--it was no one's business to help him in such distress, to make\nthe fight the least bit easier for him. Even if he took to begging, he\nwould be at a disadvantage, for reasons which he was to discover in good\ntime.\n\nIn the beginning he could not think of anything except getting out of\nthe awful cold. He went into one of the saloons he had been wont to\nfrequent and bought a drink, and then stood by the fire shivering and\nwaiting to be ordered out. According to an unwritten law, the buying a\ndrink included the privilege of loafing for just so long; then one\nhad to buy another drink or move on. That Jurgis was an old customer\nentitled him to a somewhat longer stop; but then he had been away two\nweeks, and was evidently \"on the bum.\" He might plead and tell his \"hard\nluck story,\" but that would not help him much; a saloon-keeper who was\nto be moved by such means would soon have his place jammed to the doors\nwith \"hoboes\" on a day like this.\n\nSo Jurgis went out into another place, and paid another nickel. He\nwas so hungry this time that he could not resist the hot beef stew, an\nindulgence which cut short his stay by a considerable time. When he was\nagain told to move on, he made his way to a \"tough\" place in the\n\"Levee\" district, where now and then he had gone with a certain rat-eyed\nBohemian workingman of his acquaintance, seeking a woman. It was\nJurgis's vain hope that here the proprietor would let him remain as a\n\"sitter.\" In low-class places, in the dead of winter, saloon-keepers\nwould often allow one or two forlorn-looking bums who came in covered\nwith snow or soaked with rain to sit by the fire and look miserable to\nattract custom. A workingman would come in, feeling cheerful after his\nday's work was over, and it would trouble him to have to take his glass\nwith such a sight under his nose; and so he would call out: \"Hello, Bub,\nwhat's the matter? You look as if you'd been up against it!\" And then\nthe other would begin to pour out some tale of misery, and the man would\nsay, \"Come have a glass, and maybe that'll brace you up.\" And so\nthey would drink together, and if the tramp was sufficiently\nwretched-looking, or good enough at the \"gab,\" they might have two; and\nif they were to discover that they were from the same country, or had\nlived in the same city or worked at the same trade, they might sit down\nat a table and spend an hour or two in talk--and before they got through\nthe saloon-keeper would have taken in a dollar. All of this might seem\ndiabolical, but the saloon-keeper was in no wise to blame for it. He\nwas in the same plight as the manufacturer who has to adulterate and\nmisrepresent his product. If he does not, some one else will; and the\nsaloon-keeper, unless he is also an alderman, is apt to be in debt to\nthe big brewers, and on the verge of being sold out.\n\nThe market for \"sitters\" was glutted that afternoon, however, and there\nwas no place for Jurgis. In all he had to spend six nickels in keeping a\nshelter over him that frightful day, and then it was just dark, and\nthe station houses would not open until midnight! At the last place,\nhowever, there was a bartender who knew him and liked him, and let him\ndoze at one of the tables until the boss came back; and also, as he\nwas going out, the man gave him a tip--on the next block there was a\nreligious revival of some sort, with preaching and singing, and hundreds\nof hoboes would go there for the shelter and warmth.\n\nJurgis went straightway, and saw a sign hung out, saying that the door\nwould open at seven-thirty; then he walked, or half ran, a block, and\nhid awhile in a doorway and then ran again, and so on until the hour.\nAt the end he was all but frozen, and fought his way in with the rest of\nthe throng (at the risk of having his arm broken again), and got close\nto the big stove.\n\nBy eight o'clock the place was so crowded that the speakers ought to\nhave been flattered; the aisles were filled halfway up, and at the door\nmen were packed tight enough to walk upon. There were three elderly\ngentlemen in black upon the platform, and a young lady who played the\npiano in front. First they sang a hymn, and then one of the three, a\ntall, smooth-shaven man, very thin, and wearing black spectacles, began\nan address. Jurgis heard smatterings of it, for the reason that terror\nkept him awake--he knew that he snored abominably, and to have been put\nout just then would have been like a sentence of death to him.\n\nThe evangelist was preaching \"sin and redemption,\" the infinite grace of\nGod and His pardon for human frailty. He was very much in earnest, and\nhe meant well, but Jurgis, as he listened, found his soul filled with\nhatred. What did he know about sin and suffering--with his smooth, black\ncoat and his neatly starched collar, his body warm, and his belly full,\nand money in his pocket--and lecturing men who were struggling for their\nlives, men at the death grapple with the demon powers of hunger and\ncold!--This, of course, was unfair; but Jurgis felt that these men were\nout of touch with the life they discussed, that they were unfitted to\nsolve its problems; nay, they themselves were part of the problem--they\nwere part of the order established that was crushing men down and\nbeating them! They were of the triumphant and insolent possessors; they\nhad a hall, and a fire, and food and clothing and money, and so they\nmight preach to hungry men, and the hungry men must be humble and\nlisten! They were trying to save their souls--and who but a fool could\nfail to see that all that was the matter with their souls was that they\nhad not been able to get a decent existence for their bodies?\n\nAt eleven the meeting closed, and the desolate audience filed out into\nthe snow, muttering curses upon the few traitors who had got repentance\nand gone up on the platform. It was yet an hour before the station\nhouse would open, and Jurgis had no overcoat--and was weak from a long\nillness. During that hour he nearly perished. He was obliged to run hard\nto keep his blood moving at all--and then he came back to the station\nhouse and found a crowd blocking the street before the door! This was in\nthe month of January, 1904, when the country was on the verge of \"hard\ntimes,\" and the newspapers were reporting the shutting down of factories\nevery day--it was estimated that a million and a half men were thrown\nout of work before the spring. So all the hiding places of the city were\ncrowded, and before that station house door men fought and tore each\nother like savage beasts. When at last the place was jammed and they\nshut the doors, half the crowd was still outside; and Jurgis, with his\nhelpless arm, was among them. There was no choice then but to go to a\nlodging-house and spend another dime. It really broke his heart to do\nthis, at half-past twelve o'clock, after he had wasted the night at the\nmeeting and on the street. He would be turned out of the lodging-house\npromptly at seven--they had the shelves which served as bunks so\ncontrived that they could be dropped, and any man who was slow about\nobeying orders could be tumbled to the floor.\n\nThis was one day, and the cold spell lasted for fourteen of them. At the\nend of six days every cent of Jurgis' money was gone; and then he went\nout on the streets to beg for his life.\n\nHe would begin as soon as the business of the city was moving. He would\nsally forth from a saloon, and, after making sure there was no policeman\nin sight, would approach every likely-looking person who passed him,\ntelling his woeful story and pleading for a nickel or a dime. Then when\nhe got one, he would dart round the corner and return to his base to get\nwarm; and his victim, seeing him do this, would go away, vowing that he\nwould never give a cent to a beggar again. The victim never paused to\nask where else Jurgis could have gone under the circumstances--where\nhe, the victim, would have gone. At the saloon Jurgis could not only get\nmore food and better food than he could buy in any restaurant for the\nsame money, but a drink in the bargain to warm him up. Also he could\nfind a comfortable seat by a fire, and could chat with a companion until\nhe was as warm as toast. At the saloon, too, he felt at home. Part of\nthe saloon-keeper's business was to offer a home and refreshments to\nbeggars in exchange for the proceeds of their foragings; and was there\nany one else in the whole city who would do this--would the victim have\ndone it himself?\n\nPoor Jurgis might have been expected to make a successful beggar. He\nwas just out of the hospital, and desperately sick-looking, and with\na helpless arm; also he had no overcoat, and shivered pitifully. But,\nalas, it was again the case of the honest merchant, who finds that the\ngenuine and unadulterated article is driven to the wall by the artistic\ncounterfeit. Jurgis, as a beggar, was simply a blundering amateur in\ncompetition with organized and scientific professionalism. He was just\nout of the hospital--but the story was worn threadbare, and how could\nhe prove it? He had his arm in a sling--and it was a device a regular\nbeggar's little boy would have scorned. He was pale and shivering--but\nthey were made up with cosmetics, and had studied the art of chattering\ntheir teeth. As to his being without an overcoat, among them you would\nmeet men you could swear had on nothing but a ragged linen duster and\na pair of cotton trousers--so cleverly had they concealed the several\nsuits of all-wool underwear beneath. Many of these professional\nmendicants had comfortable homes, and families, and thousands of dollars\nin the bank; some of them had retired upon their earnings, and gone into\nthe business of fitting out and doctoring others, or working children\nat the trade. There were some who had both their arms bound tightly to\ntheir sides, and padded stumps in their sleeves, and a sick child hired\nto carry a cup for them. There were some who had no legs, and pushed\nthemselves upon a wheeled platform--some who had been favored with\nblindness, and were led by pretty little dogs. Some less fortunate had\nmutilated themselves or burned themselves, or had brought horrible sores\nupon themselves with chemicals; you might suddenly encounter upon the\nstreet a man holding out to you a finger rotting and discolored with\ngangrene--or one with livid scarlet wounds half escaped from their\nfilthy bandages. These desperate ones were the dregs of the city's\ncesspools, wretches who hid at night in the rain-soaked cellars of\nold ramshackle tenements, in \"stale-beer dives\" and opium joints, with\nabandoned women in the last stages of the harlot's progress--women who\nhad been kept by Chinamen and turned away at last to die. Every day\nthe police net would drag hundreds of them off the streets, and in the\ndetention hospital you might see them, herded together in a miniature\ninferno, with hideous, beastly faces, bloated and leprous with disease,\nlaughing, shouting, screaming in all stages of drunkenness, barking like\ndogs, gibbering like apes, raving and tearing themselves in delirium.\n\n\n\nChapter 24\n\n\nIn the face of all his handicaps, Jurgis was obliged to make the\nprice of a lodging, and of a drink every hour or two, under penalty of\nfreezing to death. Day after day he roamed about in the arctic cold,\nhis soul filled full of bitterness and despair. He saw the world of\ncivilization then more plainly than ever he had seen it before; a world\nin which nothing counted but brutal might, an order devised by those who\npossessed it for the subjugation of those who did not. He was one of\nthe latter; and all outdoors, all life, was to him one colossal prison,\nwhich he paced like a pent-up tiger, trying one bar after another, and\nfinding them all beyond his power. He had lost in the fierce battle of\ngreed, and so was doomed to be exterminated; and all society was busied\nto see that he did not escape the sentence. Everywhere that he turned\nwere prison bars, and hostile eyes following him; the well-fed, sleek\npolicemen, from whose glances he shrank, and who seemed to grip their\nclubs more tightly when they saw him; the saloon-keepers, who never\nceased to watch him while he was in their places, who were jealous\nof every moment he lingered after he had paid his money; the hurrying\nthrongs upon the streets, who were deaf to his entreaties, oblivious of\nhis very existence--and savage and contemptuous when he forced himself\nupon them. They had their own affairs, and there was no place for him\namong them. There was no place for him anywhere--every direction he\nturned his gaze, this fact was forced upon him: Everything was built\nto express it to him: the residences, with their heavy walls and bolted\ndoors, and basement windows barred with iron; the great warehouses\nfilled with the products of the whole world, and guarded by iron\nshutters and heavy gates; the banks with their unthinkable billions of\nwealth, all buried in safes and vaults of steel.\n\n\nAnd then one day there befell Jurgis the one adventure of his life. It\nwas late at night, and he had failed to get the price of a lodging. Snow\nwas falling, and he had been out so long that he was covered with it,\nand was chilled to the bone. He was working among the theater crowds,\nflitting here and there, taking large chances with the police, in his\ndesperation half hoping to be arrested. When he saw a blue-coat start\ntoward him, however, his heart failed him, and he dashed down a side\nstreet and fled a couple of blocks. When he stopped again he saw a man\ncoming toward him, and placed himself in his path.\n\n\"Please, sir,\" he began, in the usual formula, \"will you give me the\nprice of a lodging? I've had a broken arm, and I can't work, and I've\nnot a cent in my pocket. I'm an honest working-man, sir, and I never\nbegged before! It's not my fault, sir--\"\n\nJurgis usually went on until he was interrupted, but this man did not\ninterrupt, and so at last he came to a breathless stop. The other had\nhalted, and Jurgis suddenly noticed that he stood a little unsteadily.\n\"Whuzzat you say?\" he queried suddenly, in a thick voice.\n\nJurgis began again, speaking more slowly and distinctly; before he was\nhalf through the other put out his hand and rested it upon his shoulder.\n\"Poor ole chappie!\" he said. \"Been up--hic--up--against it, hey?\"\n\nThen he lurched toward Jurgis, and the hand upon his shoulder became an\narm about his neck. \"Up against it myself, ole sport,\" he said. \"She's a\nhard ole world.\"\n\nThey were close to a lamppost, and Jurgis got a glimpse of the other. He\nwas a young fellow--not much over eighteen, with a handsome boyish face.\nHe wore a silk hat and a rich soft overcoat with a fur collar; and he\nsmiled at Jurgis with benignant sympathy. \"I'm hard up, too, my\ngoo' fren',\" he said. \"I've got cruel parents, or I'd set you up.\nWhuzzamatter whizyer?\"\n\n\"I've been in the hospital.\"\n\n\"Hospital!\" exclaimed the young fellow, still smiling sweetly, \"thass\ntoo bad! Same's my Aunt Polly--hic--my Aunt Polly's in the hospital,\ntoo--ole auntie's been havin' twins! Whuzzamatter whiz you?\"\n\n\"I've got a broken arm--\" Jurgis began.\n\n\"So,\" said the other, sympathetically. \"That ain't so bad--you get over\nthat. I wish somebody'd break my arm, ole chappie--damfidon't! Then\nthey'd treat me better--hic--hole me up, ole sport! Whuzzit you wamme\ndo?\"\n\n\"I'm hungry, sir,\" said Jurgis.\n\n\"Hungry! Why don't you hassome supper?\"\n\n\"I've got no money, sir.\"\n\n\"No money! Ho, ho--less be chums, ole boy--jess like me! No money,\neither--a'most busted! Why don't you go home, then, same's me?\"\n\n\"I haven't any home,\" said Jurgis.\n\n\"No home! Stranger in the city, hey? Goo' God, thass bad! Better come\nhome wiz me--yes, by Harry, thass the trick, you'll come home an'\nhassome supper--hic--wiz me! Awful lonesome--nobody home! Guv'ner gone\nabroad--Bubby on's honeymoon--Polly havin' twins--every damn soul gone\naway! Nuff--hic--nuff to drive a feller to drink, I say! Only ole Ham\nstandin' by, passin' plates--damfican eat like that, no sir! The club\nfor me every time, my boy, I say. But then they won't lemme sleep\nthere--guv'ner's orders, by Harry--home every night, sir! Ever hear\nanythin' like that? 'Every mornin' do?' I asked him. 'No, sir, every\nnight, or no allowance at all, sir.' Thass my guv'ner--'nice as nails,\nby Harry! Tole ole Ham to watch me, too--servants spyin' on me--whuzyer\nthink that, my fren'? A nice, quiet--hic--goodhearted young feller like\nme, an' his daddy can't go to Europe--hup!--an' leave him in peace!\nAin't that a shame, sir? An' I gotter go home every evenin' an' miss\nall the fun, by Harry! Thass whuzzamatter now--thass why I'm here! Hadda\ncome away an' leave Kitty--hic--left her cryin', too--whujja think of\nthat, ole sport? 'Lemme go, Kittens,' says I--'come early an'\noften--I go where duty--hic--calls me. Farewell, farewell, my own true\nlove--farewell, farewehell, my--own true--love!'\"\n\nThis last was a song, and the young gentleman's voice rose mournful\nand wailing, while he swung upon Jurgis's neck. The latter was glancing\nabout nervously, lest some one should approach. They were still alone,\nhowever.\n\n\"But I came all right, all right,\" continued the youngster,\naggressively, \"I can--hic--I can have my own way when I want it, by\nHarry--Freddie Jones is a hard man to handle when he gets goin'! 'No,\nsir,' says I, 'by thunder, and I don't need anybody goin' home with me,\neither--whujja take me for, hey? Think I'm drunk, dontcha, hey?--I know\nyou! But I'm no more drunk than you are, Kittens,' says I to her. And\nthen says she, 'Thass true, Freddie dear' (she's a smart one, is Kitty),\n'but I'm stayin' in the flat, an' you're goin' out into the cold, cold\nnight!' 'Put it in a pome, lovely Kitty,' says I. 'No jokin', Freddie,\nmy boy,' says she. 'Lemme call a cab now, like a good dear'--but I can\ncall my own cabs, dontcha fool yourself--and I know what I'm a-doin',\nyou bet! Say, my fren', whatcha say--willye come home an' see me, an'\nhassome supper? Come 'long like a good feller--don't be haughty! You're\nup against it, same as me, an' you can unerstan' a feller; your heart's\nin the right place, by Harry--come 'long, ole chappie, an' we'll\nlight up the house, an' have some fizz, an' we'll raise hell, we\nwill--whoop-la! S'long's I'm inside the house I can do as I please--the\nguv'ner's own very orders, b'God! Hip! hip!\"\n\nThey had started down the street, arm in arm, the young man pushing\nJurgis along, half dazed. Jurgis was trying to think what to do--he knew\nhe could not pass any crowded place with his new acquaintance without\nattracting attention and being stopped. It was only because of the\nfalling snow that people who passed here did not notice anything wrong.\n\nSuddenly, therefore, Jurgis stopped. \"Is it very far?\" he inquired.\n\n\"Not very,\" said the other, \"Tired, are you, though? Well, we'll\nride--whatcha say? Good! Call a cab!\"\n\nAnd then, gripping Jurgis tight with one hand, the young fellow began\nsearching his pockets with the other. \"You call, ole sport, an' I'll\npay,\" he suggested. \"How's that, hey?\"\n\nAnd he pulled out from somewhere a big roll of bills. It was more money\nthan Jurgis had ever seen in his life before, and he stared at it with\nstartled eyes.\n\n\"Looks like a lot, hey?\" said Master Freddie, fumbling with it. \"Fool\nyou, though, ole chappie--they're all little ones! I'll be busted in\none week more, sure thing--word of honor. An' not a cent more till the\nfirst--hic--guv'ner's orders--hic--not a cent, by Harry! Nuff to set a\nfeller crazy, it is. I sent him a cable, this af'noon--thass one\nreason more why I'm goin' home. 'Hangin' on the verge of starvation,' I\nsays--'for the honor of the family--hic--sen' me some bread. Hunger will\ncompel me to join you--Freddie.' Thass what I wired him, by Harry, an' I\nmean it--I'll run away from school, b'God, if he don't sen' me some.\"\n\nAfter this fashion the young gentleman continued to prattle on--and\nmeantime Jurgis was trembling with excitement. He might grab that wad of\nbills and be out of sight in the darkness before the other could collect\nhis wits. Should he do it? What better had he to hope for, if he waited\nlonger? But Jurgis had never committed a crime in his life, and now he\nhesitated half a second too long. \"Freddie\" got one bill loose, and then\nstuffed the rest back into his trousers' pocket.\n\n\"Here, ole man,\" he said, \"you take it.\" He held it out fluttering. They\nwere in front of a saloon; and by the light of the window Jurgis saw\nthat it was a hundred-dollar bill! \"You take it,\" the other repeated.\n\"Pay the cabbie an' keep the change--I've got--hic--no head for\nbusiness! Guv'ner says so hisself, an' the guv'ner knows--the guv'ner's\ngot a head for business, you bet! 'All right, guv'ner,' I told him, 'you\nrun the show, and I'll take the tickets!' An' so he set Aunt Polly to\nwatch me--hic--an' now Polly's off in the hospital havin' twins, an' me\nout raisin' Cain! Hello, there! Hey! Call him!\"\n\nA cab was driving by; and Jurgis sprang and called, and it swung round\nto the curb. Master Freddie clambered in with some difficulty, and\nJurgis had started to follow, when the driver shouted: \"Hi, there! Get\nout--you!\"\n\nJurgis hesitated, and was half obeying; but his companion broke out:\n\"Whuzzat? Whuzzamatter wiz you, hey?\"\n\nAnd the cabbie subsided, and Jurgis climbed in. Then Freddie gave a\nnumber on the Lake Shore Drive, and the carriage started away. The\nyoungster leaned back and snuggled up to Jurgis, murmuring contentedly;\nin half a minute he was sound asleep, Jurgis sat shivering, speculating\nas to whether he might not still be able to get hold of the roll of\nbills. He was afraid to try to go through his companion's pockets,\nhowever; and besides the cabbie might be on the watch. He had the\nhundred safe, and he would have to be content with that.\n\n\nAt the end of half an hour or so the cab stopped. They were out on\nthe waterfront, and from the east a freezing gale was blowing off the\nice-bound lake. \"Here we are,\" called the cabbie, and Jurgis awakened\nhis companion.\n\nMaster Freddie sat up with a start.\n\n\"Hello!\" he said. \"Where are we? Whuzzis? Who are you, hey? Oh, yes,\nsure nuff! Mos' forgot you--hic--ole chappie! Home, are we?\nLessee! Br-r-r--it's cold! Yes--come 'long--we're home--it ever\nso--hic--humble!\"\n\nBefore them there loomed an enormous granite pile, set far back from the\nstreet, and occupying a whole block. By the light of the driveway lamps\nJurgis could see that it had towers and huge gables, like a medieval\ncastle. He thought that the young fellow must have made a mistake--it\nwas inconceivable to him that any person could have a home like a hotel\nor the city hall. But he followed in silence, and they went up the long\nflight of steps, arm in arm.\n\n\"There's a button here, ole sport,\" said Master Freddie. \"Hole my arm\nwhile I find her! Steady, now--oh, yes, here she is! Saved!\"\n\nA bell rang, and in a few seconds the door was opened. A man in blue\nlivery stood holding it, and gazing before him, silent as a statue.\n\nThey stood for a moment blinking in the light. Then Jurgis felt his\ncompanion pulling, and he stepped in, and the blue automaton closed the\ndoor. Jurgis's heart was beating wildly; it was a bold thing for him to\ndo--into what strange unearthly place he was venturing he had no idea.\nAladdin entering his cave could not have been more excited.\n\nThe place where he stood was dimly lighted; but he could see a vast\nhall, with pillars fading into the darkness above, and a great staircase\nopening at the far end of it. The floor was of tesselated marble, smooth\nas glass, and from the walls strange shapes loomed out, woven into\nhuge portieres in rich, harmonious colors, or gleaming from paintings,\nwonderful and mysterious-looking in the half-light, purple and red and\ngolden, like sunset glimmers in a shadowy forest.\n\nThe man in livery had moved silently toward them; Master Freddie took\noff his hat and handed it to him, and then, letting go of Jurgis'\narm, tried to get out of his overcoat. After two or three attempts he\naccomplished this, with the lackey's help, and meantime a second man had\napproached, a tall and portly personage, solemn as an executioner. He\nbore straight down upon Jurgis, who shrank away nervously; he seized him\nby the arm without a word, and started toward the door with him. Then\nsuddenly came Master Freddie's voice, \"Hamilton! My fren' will remain\nwiz me.\"\n\nThe man paused and half released Jurgis. \"Come 'long ole chappie,\" said\nthe other, and Jurgis started toward him.\n\n\"Master Frederick!\" exclaimed the man.\n\n\"See that the cabbie--hic--is paid,\" was the other's response; and he\nlinked his arm in Jurgis'. Jurgis was about to say, \"I have the money\nfor him,\" but he restrained himself. The stout man in uniform signaled\nto the other, who went out to the cab, while he followed Jurgis and his\nyoung master.\n\nThey went down the great hall, and then turned. Before them were two\nhuge doors.\n\n\"Hamilton,\" said Master Freddie.\n\n\"Well, sir?\" said the other.\n\n\"Whuzzamatter wizze dinin'-room doors?\"\n\n\"Nothing is the matter, sir.\"\n\n\"Then why dontcha openum?\"\n\nThe man rolled them back; another vista lost itself in the darkness.\n\"Lights,\" commanded Master Freddie; and the butler pressed a button, and\na flood of brilliant incandescence streamed from above, half-blinding\nJurgis. He stared; and little by little he made out the great apartment,\nwith a domed ceiling from which the light poured, and walls that were\none enormous painting--nymphs and dryads dancing in a flower-strewn\nglade--Diana with her hounds and horses, dashing headlong through a\nmountain streamlet--a group of maidens bathing in a forest pool--all\nlife-size, and so real that Jurgis thought that it was some work of\nenchantment, that he was in a dream palace. Then his eye passed to\nthe long table in the center of the hall, a table black as ebony, and\ngleaming with wrought silver and gold. In the center of it was a huge\ncarven bowl, with the glistening gleam of ferns and the red and purple\nof rare orchids, glowing from a light hidden somewhere in their midst.\n\n\"This's the dinin' room,\" observed Master Freddie. \"How you like it,\nhey, ole sport?\"\n\nHe always insisted on having an answer to his remarks, leaning over\nJurgis and smiling into his face. Jurgis liked it.\n\n\"Rummy ole place to feed in all 'lone, though,\" was Freddie's\ncomment--\"rummy's hell! Whuzya think, hey?\" Then another idea\noccurred to him and he went on, without waiting: \"Maybe you never saw\nanythin--hic--like this 'fore? Hey, ole chappie?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Jurgis.\n\n\"Come from country, maybe--hey?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Jurgis.\n\n\"Aha! I thosso! Lossa folks from country never saw such a place. Guv'ner\nbrings 'em--free show--hic--reg'lar circus! Go home tell folks about it.\nOle man Jones's place--Jones the packer--beef-trust man. Made it all\nout of hogs, too, damn ole scoundrel. Now we see where our pennies\ngo--rebates, an' private car lines--hic--by Harry! Bully place,\nthough--worth seein'! Ever hear of Jones the packer, hey, ole chappie?\"\n\nJurgis had started involuntarily; the other, whose sharp eyes missed\nnothing, demanded: \"Whuzzamatter, hey? Heard of him?\"\n\nAnd Jurgis managed to stammer out: \"I have worked for him in the yards.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Master Freddie, with a yell. \"You! In the yards? Ho, ho!\nWhy, say, thass good! Shake hands on it, ole man--by Harry! Guv'ner\nought to be here--glad to see you. Great fren's with the men,\nguv'ner--labor an' capital, commun'ty 'f int'rests, an' all that--hic!\nFunny things happen in this world, don't they, ole man? Hamilton, lemme\ninterduce you--fren' the family--ole fren' the guv'ner's--works in the\nyards. Come to spend the night wiz me, Hamilton--have a hot time. Me\nfren', Mr.--whuzya name, ole chappie? Tell us your name.\"\n\n\"Rudkus--Jurgis Rudkus.\"\n\n\"My fren', Mr. Rednose, Hamilton--shake han's.\"\n\nThe stately butler bowed his head, but made not a sound; and suddenly\nMaster Freddie pointed an eager finger at him. \"I know whuzzamatter wiz\nyou, Hamilton--lay you a dollar I know! You think--hic--you think I'm\ndrunk! Hey, now?\"\n\nAnd the butler again bowed his head. \"Yes, sir,\" he said, at which\nMaster Freddie hung tightly upon Jurgis's neck and went into a fit of\nlaughter. \"Hamilton, you damn ole scoundrel,\" he roared, \"I'll 'scharge\nyou for impudence, you see 'f I don't! Ho, ho, ho! I'm drunk! Ho, ho!\"\n\nThe two waited until his fit had spent itself, to see what new whim\nwould seize him. \"Whatcha wanta do?\" he queried suddenly. \"Wanta see\nthe place, ole chappie? Wamme play the guv'ner--show you roun'? State\nparlors--Looee Cans--Looee Sez--chairs cost three thousand apiece. Tea\nroom Maryanntnet--picture of shepherds dancing--Ruysdael--twenty-three\nthousan'! Ballroom--balc'ny pillars--hic--imported--special\nship--sixty-eight thousan'! Ceilin' painted in Rome--whuzzat\nfeller's name, Hamilton--Mattatoni? Macaroni? Then this place--silver\nbowl--Benvenuto Cellini--rummy ole Dago! An' the organ--thirty thousan'\ndollars, sir--starter up, Hamilton, let Mr. Rednose hear it. No--never\nmind--clean forgot--says he's hungry, Hamilton--less have some supper.\nOnly--hic--don't less have it here--come up to my place, ole sport--nice\nan' cosy. This way--steady now, don't slip on the floor. Hamilton, we'll\nhave a cole spread, an' some fizz--don't leave out the fizz, by Harry.\nWe'll have some of the eighteen-thirty Madeira. Hear me, sir?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said the butler, \"but, Master Frederick, your father left\norders--\"\n\nAnd Master Frederick drew himself up to a stately height. \"My father's\norders were left to me--hic--an' not to you,\" he said. Then, clasping\nJurgis tightly by the neck, he staggered out of the room; on the way\nanother idea occurred to him, and he asked: \"Any--hic--cable message for\nme, Hamilton?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" said the butler.\n\n\"Guv'ner must be travelin'. An' how's the twins, Hamilton?\"\n\n\"They are doing well, sir.\"\n\n\"Good!\" said Master Freddie; and added fervently: \"God bless 'em, the\nlittle lambs!\"\n\nThey went up the great staircase, one step at a time; at the top of it\nthere gleamed at them out of the shadows the figure of a nymph crouching\nby a fountain, a figure ravishingly beautiful, the flesh warm and\nglowing with the hues of life. Above was a huge court, with domed roof,\nthe various apartments opening into it. The butler had paused below but\na few minutes to give orders, and then followed them; now he pressed a\nbutton, and the hall blazed with light. He opened a door before them,\nand then pressed another button, as they staggered into the apartment.\n\nIt was fitted up as a study. In the center was a mahogany table, covered\nwith books, and smokers' implements; the walls were decorated\nwith college trophies and colors--flags, posters, photographs and\nknickknacks--tennis rackets, canoe paddles, golf clubs, and polo sticks.\nAn enormous moose head, with horns six feet across, faced a buffalo head\non the opposite wall, while bear and tiger skins covered the polished\nfloor. There were lounging chairs and sofas, window seats covered with\nsoft cushions of fantastic designs; there was one corner fitted in\nPersian fashion, with a huge canopy and a jeweled lamp beneath. Beyond,\na door opened upon a bedroom, and beyond that was a swimming pool of the\npurest marble, that had cost about forty thousand dollars.\n\nMaster Freddie stood for a moment or two, gazing about him; then out\nof the next room a dog emerged, a monstrous bulldog, the most hideous\nobject that Jurgis had ever laid eyes upon. He yawned, opening a mouth\nlike a dragon's; and he came toward the young man, wagging his tail.\n\"Hello, Dewey!\" cried his master. \"Been havin' a snooze, ole boy? Well,\nwell--hello there, whuzzamatter?\" (The dog was snarling at Jurgis.)\n\"Why, Dewey--this' my fren', Mr. Rednose--ole fren' the guv'ner's! Mr.\nRednose, Admiral Dewey; shake han's--hic. Ain't he a daisy, though--blue\nribbon at the New York show--eighty-five hundred at a clip! How's that,\nhey?\"\n\nThe speaker sank into one of the big armchairs, and Admiral Dewey\ncrouched beneath it; he did not snarl again, but he never took his eyes\noff Jurgis. He was perfectly sober, was the Admiral.\n\nThe butler had closed the door, and he stood by it, watching Jurgis\nevery second. Now there came footsteps outside, and, as he opened the\ndoor a man in livery entered, carrying a folding table, and behind him\ntwo men with covered trays. They stood like statues while the first\nspread the table and set out the contents of the trays upon it.\nThere were cold pates, and thin slices of meat, tiny bread and butter\nsandwiches with the crust cut off, a bowl of sliced peaches and cream\n(in January), little fancy cakes, pink and green and yellow and white,\nand half a dozen ice-cold bottles of wine.\n\n\"Thass the stuff for you!\" cried Master Freddie, exultantly, as he spied\nthem. \"Come 'long, ole chappie, move up.\"\n\nAnd he seated himself at the table; the waiter pulled a cork, and he\ntook the bottle and poured three glasses of its contents in succession\ndown his throat. Then he gave a long-drawn sigh, and cried again to\nJurgis to seat himself.\n\nThe butler held the chair at the opposite side of the table, and Jurgis\nthought it was to keep him out of it; but finally he understand that\nit was the other's intention to put it under him, and so he sat\ndown, cautiously and mistrustingly. Master Freddie perceived that the\nattendants embarrassed him, and he remarked with a nod to them, \"You may\ngo.\"\n\nThey went, all save the butler.\n\n\"You may go too, Hamilton,\" he said.\n\n\"Master Frederick--\" the man began.\n\n\"Go!\" cried the youngster, angrily. \"Damn you, don't you hear me?\"\n\nThe man went out and closed the door; Jurgis, who was as sharp as he,\nobserved that he took the key out of the lock, in order that he might\npeer through the keyhole.\n\nMaster Frederick turned to the table again. \"Now,\" he said, \"go for it.\"\n\nJurgis gazed at him doubtingly. \"Eat!\" cried the other. \"Pile in, ole\nchappie!\"\n\n\"Don't you want anything?\" Jurgis asked.\n\n\"Ain't hungry,\" was the reply--\"only thirsty. Kitty and me had some\ncandy--you go on.\"\n\nSo Jurgis began, without further parley. He ate as with two shovels, his\nfork in one hand and his knife in the other; when he once got started\nhis wolf-hunger got the better of him, and he did not stop for breath\nuntil he had cleared every plate. \"Gee whiz!\" said the other, who had\nbeen watching him in wonder.\n\nThen he held Jurgis the bottle. \"Lessee you drink now,\" he said; and\nJurgis took the bottle and turned it up to his mouth, and a wonderfully\nunearthly liquid ecstasy poured down his throat, tickling every nerve of\nhim, thrilling him with joy. He drank the very last drop of it, and then\nhe gave vent to a long-drawn \"Ah!\"\n\n\"Good stuff, hey?\" said Freddie, sympathetically; he had leaned back in\nthe big chair, putting his arm behind his head and gazing at Jurgis.\n\nAnd Jurgis gazed back at him. He was clad in spotless evening dress, was\nFreddie, and looked very handsome--he was a beautiful boy, with\nlight golden hair and the head of an Antinous. He smiled at Jurgis\nconfidingly, and then started talking again, with his blissful\ninsouciance. This time he talked for ten minutes at a stretch, and in\nthe course of the speech he told Jurgis all of his family history. His\nbig brother Charlie was in love with the guileless maiden who played the\npart of \"Little Bright-Eyes\" in \"The Kaliph of Kamskatka.\" He had been\non the verge of marrying her once, only \"the guv'ner\" had sworn to\ndisinherit him, and had presented him with a sum that would stagger the\nimagination, and that had staggered the virtue of \"Little Bright-Eyes.\"\nNow Charlie had got leave from college, and had gone away in his\nautomobile on the next best thing to a honeymoon. \"The guv'ner\" had made\nthreats to disinherit another of his children also, sister Gwendolen,\nwho had married an Italian marquis with a string of titles and a dueling\nrecord. They lived in his chateau, or rather had, until he had taken to\nfiring the breakfast dishes at her; then she had cabled for help, and\nthe old gentleman had gone over to find out what were his Grace's terms.\nSo they had left Freddie all alone, and he with less than two thousand\ndollars in his pocket. Freddie was up in arms and meant serious\nbusiness, as they would find in the end--if there was no other way of\nbringing them to terms he would have his \"Kittens\" wire that she was\nabout to marry him, and see what happened then.\n\nSo the cheerful youngster rattled on, until he was tired out. He smiled\nhis sweetest smile at Jurgis, and then he closed his eyes, sleepily.\nThen he opened them again, and smiled once more, and finally closed them\nand forgot to open them.\n\nFor several minutes Jurgis sat perfectly motionless, watching him, and\nreveling in the strange sensation of the champagne. Once he stirred,\nand the dog growled; after that he sat almost holding his breath--until\nafter a while the door of the room opened softly, and the butler came\nin.\n\nHe walked toward Jurgis upon tiptoe, scowling at him; and Jurgis rose\nup, and retreated, scowling back. So until he was against the wall, and\nthen the butler came close, and pointed toward the door. \"Get out of\nhere!\" he whispered.\n\nJurgis hesitated, giving a glance at Freddie, who was snoring softly.\n\"If you do, you son of a--\" hissed the butler, \"I'll mash in your face\nfor you before you get out of here!\"\n\nAnd Jurgis wavered but an instant more. He saw \"Admiral Dewey\" coming\nup behind the man and growling softly, to back up his threats. Then he\nsurrendered and started toward the door.\n\nThey went out without a sound, and down the great echoing staircase,\nand through the dark hall. At the front door he paused, and the butler\nstrode close to him.\n\n\"Hold up your hands,\" he snarled. Jurgis took a step back, clinching his\none well fist.\n\n\"What for?\" he cried; and then understanding that the fellow proposed to\nsearch him, he answered, \"I'll see you in hell first.\"\n\n\"Do you want to go to jail?\" demanded the butler, menacingly. \"I'll have\nthe police--\"\n\n\"Have 'em!\" roared Jurgis, with fierce passion. \"But you won't put\nyour hands on me till you do! I haven't touched anything in your damned\nhouse, and I'll not have you touch me!\"\n\nSo the butler, who was terrified lest his young master should waken,\nstepped suddenly to the door, and opened it. \"Get out of here!\" he said;\nand then as Jurgis passed through the opening, he gave him a ferocious\nkick that sent him down the great stone steps at a run, and landed him\nsprawling in the snow at the bottom.\n\n\n\nChapter 25\n\n\nJurgis got up, wild with rage, but the door was shut and the great\ncastle was dark and impregnable. Then the icy teeth of the blast bit\ninto him, and he turned and went away at a run.\n\nWhen he stopped again it was because he was coming to frequented\nstreets and did not wish to attract attention. In spite of that last\nhumiliation, his heart was thumping fast with triumph. He had come out\nahead on that deal! He put his hand into his trousers' pocket every now\nand then, to make sure that the precious hundred-dollar bill was still\nthere.\n\nYet he was in a plight--a curious and even dreadful plight, when he came\nto realize it. He had not a single cent but that one bill! And he had to\nfind some shelter that night he had to change it!\n\nJurgis spent half an hour walking and debating the problem. There was\nno one he could go to for help--he had to manage it all alone. To get\nit changed in a lodging-house would be to take his life in his hands--he\nwould almost certainly be robbed, and perhaps murdered, before morning.\nHe might go to some hotel or railroad depot and ask to have it changed;\nbut what would they think, seeing a \"bum\" like him with a hundred\ndollars? He would probably be arrested if he tried it; and what story\ncould he tell? On the morrow Freddie Jones would discover his loss, and\nthere would be a hunt for him, and he would lose his money. The only\nother plan he could think of was to try in a saloon. He might pay them\nto change it, if it could not be done otherwise.\n\nHe began peering into places as he walked; he passed several as being\ntoo crowded--then finally, chancing upon one where the bartender was all\nalone, he gripped his hands in sudden resolution and went in.\n\n\"Can you change me a hundred-dollar bill?\" he demanded.\n\nThe bartender was a big, husky fellow, with the jaw of a prize fighter,\nand a three weeks' stubble of hair upon it. He stared at Jurgis. \"What's\nthat youse say?\" he demanded.\n\n\"I said, could you change me a hundred-dollar bill?\"\n\n\"Where'd youse get it?\" he inquired incredulously.\n\n\"Never mind,\" said Jurgis; \"I've got it, and I want it changed. I'll pay\nyou if you'll do it.\"\n\nThe other stared at him hard. \"Lemme see it,\" he said.\n\n\"Will you change it?\" Jurgis demanded, gripping it tightly in his\npocket.\n\n\"How the hell can I know if it's good or not?\" retorted the bartender.\n\"Whatcher take me for, hey?\"\n\nThen Jurgis slowly and warily approached him; he took out the bill, and\nfumbled it for a moment, while the man stared at him with hostile eyes\nacross the counter. Then finally he handed it over.\n\nThe other took it, and began to examine it; he smoothed it between his\nfingers, and held it up to the light; he turned it over, and upside\ndown, and edgeways. It was new and rather stiff, and that made him\ndubious. Jurgis was watching him like a cat all the time.\n\n\"Humph,\" he said, finally, and gazed at the stranger, sizing him up--a\nragged, ill-smelling tramp, with no overcoat and one arm in a sling--and\na hundred-dollar bill! \"Want to buy anything?\" he demanded.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Jurgis, \"I'll take a glass of beer.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said the other, \"I'll change it.\" And he put the bill in\nhis pocket, and poured Jurgis out a glass of beer, and set it on the\ncounter. Then he turned to the cash register, and punched up five cents,\nand began to pull money out of the drawer. Finally, he faced Jurgis,\ncounting it out--two dimes, a quarter, and fifty cents. \"There,\" he\nsaid.\n\nFor a second Jurgis waited, expecting to see him turn again. \"My\nninety-nine dollars,\" he said.\n\n\"What ninety-nine dollars?\" demanded the bartender.\n\n\"My change!\" he cried--\"the rest of my hundred!\"\n\n\"Go on,\" said the bartender, \"you're nutty!\"\n\nAnd Jurgis stared at him with wild eyes. For an instant horror reigned\nin him--black, paralyzing, awful horror, clutching him at the heart;\nand then came rage, in surging, blinding floods--he screamed aloud, and\nseized the glass and hurled it at the other's head. The man ducked, and\nit missed him by half an inch; he rose again and faced Jurgis, who was\nvaulting over the bar with his one well arm, and dealt him a smashing\nblow in the face, hurling him backward upon the floor. Then, as Jurgis\nscrambled to his feet again and started round the counter after him, he\nshouted at the top of his voice, \"Help! help!\"\n\nJurgis seized a bottle off the counter as he ran; and as the bartender\nmade a leap he hurled the missile at him with all his force. It just\ngrazed his head, and shivered into a thousand pieces against the post\nof the door. Then Jurgis started back, rushing at the man again in the\nmiddle of the room. This time, in his blind frenzy, he came without a\nbottle, and that was all the bartender wanted--he met him halfway and\nfloored him with a sledgehammer drive between the eyes. An instant later\nthe screen doors flew open, and two men rushed in--just as Jurgis was\ngetting to his feet again, foaming at the mouth with rage, and trying to\ntear his broken arm out of its bandages.\n\n\"Look out!\" shouted the bartender. \"He's got a knife!\" Then, seeing that\nthe two were disposed to join the fray, he made another rush at Jurgis,\nand knocked aside his feeble defense and sent him tumbling again; and\nthe three flung themselves upon him, rolling and kicking about the\nplace.\n\nA second later a policeman dashed in, and the bartender yelled once\nmore--\"Look out for his knife!\" Jurgis had fought himself half to his\nknees, when the policeman made a leap at him, and cracked him across the\nface with his club. Though the blow staggered him, the wild-beast frenzy\nstill blazed in him, and he got to his feet, lunging into the air. Then\nagain the club descended, full upon his head, and he dropped like a log\nto the floor.\n\nThe policeman crouched over him, clutching his stick, waiting for him to\ntry to rise again; and meantime the barkeeper got up, and put his hand\nto his head. \"Christ!\" he said, \"I thought I was done for that time. Did\nhe cut me?\"\n\n\"Don't see anything, Jake,\" said the policeman. \"What's the matter with\nhim?\"\n\n\"Just crazy drunk,\" said the other. \"A lame duck, too--but he 'most got\nme under the bar. Youse had better call the wagon, Billy.\"\n\n\"No,\" said the officer. \"He's got no more fight in him, I guess--and\nhe's only got a block to go.\" He twisted his hand in Jurgis's collar and\njerked at him. \"Git up here, you!\" he commanded.\n\nBut Jurgis did not move, and the bartender went behind the bar, and\nafter stowing the hundred-dollar bill away in a safe hiding place, came\nand poured a glass of water over Jurgis. Then, as the latter began to\nmoan feebly, the policeman got him to his feet and dragged him out of\nthe place. The station house was just around the corner, and so in a few\nminutes Jurgis was in a cell.\n\nHe spent half the night lying unconscious, and the balance moaning in\ntorment, with a blinding headache and a racking thirst. Now and then\nhe cried aloud for a drink of water, but there was no one to hear him.\nThere were others in that same station house with split heads and\na fever; there were hundreds of them in the great city, and tens of\nthousands of them in the great land, and there was no one to hear any of\nthem.\n\nIn the morning Jurgis was given a cup of water and a piece of bread, and\nthen hustled into a patrol wagon and driven to the nearest police court.\nHe sat in the pen with a score of others until his turn came.\n\nThe bartender--who proved to be a well-known bruiser--was called to the\nstand. He took the oath and told his story. The prisoner had come into\nhis saloon after midnight, fighting drunk, and had ordered a glass\nof beer and tendered a dollar bill in payment. He had been given\nninety-five cents' change, and had demanded ninety-nine dollars more,\nand before the plaintiff could even answer had hurled the glass at him\nand then attacked him with a bottle of bitters, and nearly wrecked the\nplace.\n\nThen the prisoner was sworn--a forlorn object, haggard and unshorn, with\nan arm done up in a filthy bandage, a cheek and head cut, and bloody,\nand one eye purplish black and entirely closed. \"What have you to say\nfor yourself?\" queried the magistrate.\n\n\"Your Honor,\" said Jurgis, \"I went into his place and asked the man\nif he could change me a hundred-dollar bill. And he said he would if\nI bought a drink. I gave him the bill and then he wouldn't give me the\nchange.\"\n\nThe magistrate was staring at him in perplexity. \"You gave him a\nhundred-dollar bill!\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"Yes, your Honor,\" said Jurgis.\n\n\"Where did you get it?\"\n\n\"A man gave it to me, your Honor.\"\n\n\"A man? What man, and what for?\"\n\n\"A young man I met upon the street, your Honor. I had been begging.\"\n\nThere was a titter in the courtroom; the officer who was holding Jurgis\nput up his hand to hide a smile, and the magistrate smiled without\ntrying to hide it. \"It's true, your Honor!\" cried Jurgis, passionately.\n\n\"You had been drinking as well as begging last night, had you not?\"\ninquired the magistrate. \"No, your Honor--\" protested Jurgis. \"I--\"\n\n\"You had not had anything to drink?\"\n\n\"Why, yes, your Honor, I had--\"\n\n\"What did you have?\"\n\n\"I had a bottle of something--I don't know what it was--something that\nburned--\"\n\nThere was again a laugh round the courtroom, stopping suddenly as the\nmagistrate looked up and frowned. \"Have you ever been arrested before?\"\nhe asked abruptly.\n\nThe question took Jurgis aback. \"I--I--\" he stammered.\n\n\"Tell me the truth, now!\" commanded the other, sternly.\n\n\"Yes, your Honor,\" said Jurgis.\n\n\"How often?\"\n\n\"Only once, your Honor.\"\n\n\"What for?\"\n\n\"For knocking down my boss, your Honor. I was working in the stockyards,\nand he--\"\n\n\"I see,\" said his Honor; \"I guess that will do. You ought to stop\ndrinking if you can't control yourself. Ten days and costs. Next case.\"\n\nJurgis gave vent to a cry of dismay, cut off suddenly by the policeman,\nwho seized him by the collar. He was jerked out of the way, into a room\nwith the convicted prisoners, where he sat and wept like a child in\nhis impotent rage. It seemed monstrous to him that policemen and\njudges should esteem his word as nothing in comparison with the\nbartender's--poor Jurgis could not know that the owner of the saloon\npaid five dollars each week to the policeman alone for Sunday privileges\nand general favors--nor that the pugilist bartender was one of the\nmost trusted henchmen of the Democratic leader of the district, and had\nhelped only a few months before to hustle out a record-breaking vote as\na testimonial to the magistrate, who had been made the target of odious\nkid-gloved reformers.\n\nJurgis was driven out to the Bridewell for the second time. In his\ntumbling around he had hurt his arm again, and so could not work, but\nhad to be attended by the physician. Also his head and his eye had to\nbe tied up--and so he was a pretty-looking object when, the second\nday after his arrival, he went out into the exercise court and\nencountered--Jack Duane!\n\nThe young fellow was so glad to see Jurgis that he almost hugged him.\n\"By God, if it isn't 'the Stinker'!\" he cried. \"And what is it--have you\nbeen through a sausage machine?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Jurgis, \"but I've been in a railroad wreck and a fight.\" And\nthen, while some of the other prisoners gathered round he told his wild\nstory; most of them were incredulous, but Duane knew that Jurgis could\nnever have made up such a yarn as that.\n\n\"Hard luck, old man,\" he said, when they were alone; \"but maybe it's\ntaught you a lesson.\"\n\n\"I've learned some things since I saw you last,\" said Jurgis mournfully.\nThen he explained how he had spent the last summer, \"hoboing it,\" as\nthe phrase was. \"And you?\" he asked finally. \"Have you been here ever\nsince?\"\n\n\"Lord, no!\" said the other. \"I only came in the day before yesterday.\nIt's the second time they've sent me up on a trumped-up charge--I've had\nhard luck and can't pay them what they want. Why don't you quit Chicago\nwith me, Jurgis?\"\n\n\"I've no place to go,\" said Jurgis, sadly.\n\n\"Neither have I,\" replied the other, laughing lightly. \"But we'll wait\ntill we get out and see.\"\n\nIn the Bridewell Jurgis met few who had been there the last time, but\nhe met scores of others, old and young, of exactly the same sort. It\nwas like breakers upon a beach; there was new water, but the wave looked\njust the same. He strolled about and talked with them, and the biggest\nof them told tales of their prowess, while those who were weaker, or\nyounger and inexperienced, gathered round and listened in admiring\nsilence. The last time he was there, Jurgis had thought of little but\nhis family; but now he was free to listen to these men, and to realize\nthat he was one of them--that their point of view was his point of view,\nand that the way they kept themselves alive in the world was the way he\nmeant to do it in the future.\n\nAnd so, when he was turned out of prison again, without a penny in his\npocket, he went straight to Jack Duane. He went full of humility and\ngratitude; for Duane was a gentleman, and a man with a profession--and\nit was remarkable that he should be willing to throw in his lot with a\nhumble workingman, one who had even been a beggar and a tramp. Jurgis\ncould not see what help he could be to him; but he did not understand\nthat a man like himself--who could be trusted to stand by any one who\nwas kind to him--was as rare among criminals as among any other class of\nmen.\n\nThe address Jurgis had was a garret room in the Ghetto district, the\nhome of a pretty little French girl, Duane's mistress, who sewed all\nday, and eked out her living by prostitution. He had gone elsewhere, she\ntold Jurgis--he was afraid to stay there now, on account of the police.\nThe new address was a cellar dive, whose proprietor said that he had\nnever heard of Duane; but after he had put Jurgis through a catechism\nhe showed him a back stairs which led to a \"fence\" in the rear of a\npawnbroker's shop, and thence to a number of assignation rooms, in one\nof which Duane was hiding.\n\nDuane was glad to see him; he was without a cent of money, he said,\nand had been waiting for Jurgis to help him get some. He explained his\nplan--in fact he spent the day in laying bare to his friend the criminal\nworld of the city, and in showing him how he might earn himself a living\nin it. That winter he would have a hard time, on account of his arm, and\nbecause of an unwonted fit of activity of the police; but so long as he\nwas unknown to them he would be safe if he were careful. Here at \"Papa\"\nHanson's (so they called the old man who kept the dive) he might rest at\nease, for \"Papa\" Hanson was \"square\"--would stand by him so long as he\npaid, and gave him an hour's notice if there were to be a police raid.\nAlso Rosensteg, the pawnbroker, would buy anything he had for a third of\nits value, and guarantee to keep it hidden for a year.\n\nThere was an oil stove in the little cupboard of a room, and they had\nsome supper; and then about eleven o'clock at night they sallied forth\ntogether, by a rear entrance to the place, Duane armed with a slingshot.\nThey came to a residence district, and he sprang up a lamppost and blew\nout the light, and then the two dodged into the shelter of an area step\nand hid in silence.\n\nPretty soon a man came by, a workingman--and they let him go. Then after\na long interval came the heavy tread of a policeman, and they held their\nbreath till he was gone. Though half-frozen, they waited a full quarter\nof an hour after that--and then again came footsteps, walking briskly.\nDuane nudged Jurgis, and the instant the man had passed they rose up.\nDuane stole out as silently as a shadow, and a second later Jurgis heard\na thud and a stifled cry. He was only a couple of feet behind, and he\nleaped to stop the man's mouth, while Duane held him fast by the arms,\nas they had agreed. But the man was limp and showed a tendency to fall,\nand so Jurgis had only to hold him by the collar, while the other,\nwith swift fingers, went through his pockets--ripping open, first his\novercoat, and then his coat, and then his vest, searching inside and\noutside, and transferring the contents into his own pockets. At last,\nafter feeling of the man's fingers and in his necktie, Duane whispered,\n\"That's all!\" and they dragged him to the area and dropped him in. Then\nJurgis went one way and his friend the other, walking briskly.\n\nThe latter arrived first, and Jurgis found him examining the \"swag.\"\nThere was a gold watch, for one thing, with a chain and locket; there\nwas a silver pencil, and a matchbox, and a handful of small change,\nand finally a card-case. This last Duane opened feverishly--there were\nletters and checks, and two theater-tickets, and at last, in the back\npart, a wad of bills. He counted them--there was a twenty, five tens,\nfour fives, and three ones. Duane drew a long breath. \"That lets us\nout!\" he said.\n\nAfter further examination, they burned the card-case and its contents,\nall but the bills, and likewise the picture of a little girl in the\nlocket. Then Duane took the watch and trinkets downstairs, and came back\nwith sixteen dollars. \"The old scoundrel said the case was filled,\" he\nsaid. \"It's a lie, but he knows I want the money.\"\n\nThey divided up the spoils, and Jurgis got as his share fifty-five\ndollars and some change. He protested that it was too much, but the\nother had agreed to divide even. That was a good haul, he said, better\nthan average.\n\nWhen they got up in the morning, Jurgis was sent out to buy a paper;\none of the pleasures of committing a crime was the reading about\nit afterward. \"I had a pal that always did it,\" Duane remarked,\nlaughing--\"until one day he read that he had left three thousand dollars\nin a lower inside pocket of his party's vest!\"\n\nThere was a half-column account of the robbery--it was evident that a\ngang was operating in the neighborhood, said the paper, for it was\nthe third within a week, and the police were apparently powerless. The\nvictim was an insurance agent, and he had lost a hundred and ten dollars\nthat did not belong to him. He had chanced to have his name marked\non his shirt, otherwise he would not have been identified yet. His\nassailant had hit him too hard, and he was suffering from concussion of\nthe brain; and also he had been half-frozen when found, and would lose\nthree fingers on his right hand. The enterprising newspaper reporter had\ntaken all this information to his family, and told how they had received\nit.\n\nSince it was Jurgis's first experience, these details naturally caused\nhim some worriment; but the other laughed coolly--it was the way of the\ngame, and there was no helping it. Before long Jurgis would think no\nmore of it than they did in the yards of knocking out a bullock. \"It's a\ncase of us or the other fellow, and I say the other fellow, every time,\"\nhe observed.\n\n\"Still,\" said Jurgis, reflectively, \"he never did us any harm.\"\n\n\"He was doing it to somebody as hard as he could, you can be sure of\nthat,\" said his friend.\n\n\nDuane had already explained to Jurgis that if a man of their trade were\nknown he would have to work all the time to satisfy the demands of the\npolice. Therefore it would be better for Jurgis to stay in hiding and\nnever be seen in public with his pal. But Jurgis soon got very tired\nof staying in hiding. In a couple of weeks he was feeling strong and\nbeginning to use his arm, and then he could not stand it any longer.\nDuane, who had done a job of some sort by himself, and made a truce with\nthe powers, brought over Marie, his little French girl, to share with\nhim; but even that did not avail for long, and in the end he had to give\nup arguing, and take Jurgis out and introduce him to the saloons and\n\"sporting houses\" where the big crooks and \"holdup men\" hung out.\n\nAnd so Jurgis got a glimpse of the high-class criminal world of\nChicago. The city, which was owned by an oligarchy of business men, being\nnominally ruled by the people, a huge army of graft was necessary for\nthe purpose of effecting the transfer of power. Twice a year, in the\nspring and fall elections, millions of dollars were furnished by the\nbusiness men and expended by this army; meetings were held and clever\nspeakers were hired, bands played and rockets sizzled, tons of documents\nand reservoirs of drinks were distributed, and tens of thousands of\nvotes were bought for cash. And this army of graft had, of course, to be\nmaintained the year round. The leaders and organizers were maintained by\nthe business men directly--aldermen and legislators by means of bribes,\nparty officials out of the campaign funds, lobbyists and corporation\nlawyers in the form of salaries, contractors by means of jobs, labor\nunion leaders by subsidies, and newspaper proprietors and editors by\nadvertisements. The rank and file, however, were either foisted upon the\ncity, or else lived off the population directly. There was the police\ndepartment, and the fire and water departments, and the whole balance\nof the civil list, from the meanest office boy to the head of a city\ndepartment; and for the horde who could find no room in these, there was\nthe world of vice and crime, there was license to seduce, to swindle\nand plunder and prey. The law forbade Sunday drinking; and this had\ndelivered the saloon-keepers into the hands of the police, and made an\nalliance between them necessary. The law forbade prostitution; and this\nhad brought the \"madames\" into the combination. It was the same with the\ngambling-house keeper and the poolroom man, and the same with any other\nman or woman who had a means of getting \"graft,\" and was willing to\npay over a share of it: the green-goods man and the highwayman, the\npickpocket and the sneak thief, and the receiver of stolen goods,\nthe seller of adulterated milk, of stale fruit and diseased meat, the\nproprietor of unsanitary tenements, the fake doctor and the usurer, the\nbeggar and the \"pushcart man,\" the prize fighter and the professional\nslugger, the race-track \"tout,\" the procurer, the white-slave agent, and\nthe expert seducer of young girls. All of these agencies of corruption\nwere banded together, and leagued in blood brotherhood with the\npolitician and the police; more often than not they were one and the\nsame person,--the police captain would own the brothel he pretended\nto raid, the politician would open his headquarters in his saloon.\n\"Hinkydink\" or \"Bathhouse John,\" or others of that ilk, were proprietors\nof the most notorious dives in Chicago, and also the \"gray wolves\"\nof the city council, who gave away the streets of the city to the\nbusiness men; and those who patronized their places were the gamblers and\nprize fighters who set the law at defiance, and the burglars and holdup\nmen who kept the whole city in terror. On election day all these powers\nof vice and crime were one power; they could tell within one per cent\nwhat the vote of their district would be, and they could change it at an\nhour's notice.\n\nA month ago Jurgis had all but perished of starvation upon the streets;\nand now suddenly, as by the gift of a magic key, he had entered into a\nworld where money and all the good things of life came freely. He was\nintroduced by his friend to an Irishman named \"Buck\" Halloran, who was\na political \"worker\" and on the inside of things. This man talked with\nJurgis for a while, and then told him that he had a little plan by which\na man who looked like a workingman might make some easy money; but it\nwas a private affair, and had to be kept quiet. Jurgis expressed himself\nas agreeable, and the other took him that afternoon (it was Saturday) to\na place where city laborers were being paid off. The paymaster sat in\na little booth, with a pile of envelopes before him, and two policemen\nstanding by. Jurgis went, according to directions, and gave the name of\n\"Michael O'Flaherty,\" and received an envelope, which he took around the\ncorner and delivered to Halloran, who was waiting for him in a saloon.\nThen he went again; and gave the name of \"Johann Schmidt,\" and a third\ntime, and give the name of \"Serge Reminitsky.\" Halloran had quite a list\nof imaginary workingmen, and Jurgis got an envelope for each one. For\nthis work he received five dollars, and was told that he might have it\nevery week, so long as he kept quiet. As Jurgis was excellent at keeping\nquiet, he soon won the trust of \"Buck\" Halloran, and was introduced to\nothers as a man who could be depended upon.\n\nThis acquaintance was useful to him in another way, also before long\nJurgis made his discovery of the meaning of \"pull,\" and just why his\nboss, Connor, and also the pugilist bartender, had been able to send him\nto jail. One night there was given a ball, the \"benefit\" of \"One-eyed\nLarry,\" a lame man who played the violin in one of the big \"high-class\"\nhouses of prostitution on Clark Street, and was a wag and a popular\ncharacter on the \"Levee.\" This ball was held in a big dance hall, and\nwas one of the occasions when the city's powers of debauchery gave\nthemselves up to madness. Jurgis attended and got half insane with\ndrink, and began quarreling over a girl; his arm was pretty strong by\nthen, and he set to work to clean out the place, and ended in a cell in\nthe police station. The police station being crowded to the doors, and\nstinking with \"bums,\" Jurgis did not relish staying there to sleep off\nhis liquor, and sent for Halloran, who called up the district leader and\nhad Jurgis bailed out by telephone at four o'clock in the morning. When\nhe was arraigned that same morning, the district leader had already seen\nthe clerk of the court and explained that Jurgis Rudkus was a decent\nfellow, who had been indiscreet; and so Jurgis was fined ten dollars and\nthe fine was \"suspended\"--which meant that he did not have to pay for\nit, and never would have to pay it, unless somebody chose to bring it up\nagainst him in the future.\n\nAmong the people Jurgis lived with now money was valued according to an\nentirely different standard from that of the people of Packingtown; yet,\nstrange as it may seem, he did a great deal less drinking than he had\nas a workingman. He had not the same provocations of exhaustion and\nhopelessness; he had now something to work for, to struggle for. He\nsoon found that if he kept his wits about him, he would come upon new\nopportunities; and being naturally an active man, he not only kept sober\nhimself, but helped to steady his friend, who was a good deal fonder of\nboth wine and women than he.\n\nOne thing led to another. In the saloon where Jurgis met \"Buck\" Halloran\nhe was sitting late one night with Duane, when a \"country customer\"\n(a buyer for an out-of-town merchant) came in, a little more than half\n\"piped.\" There was no one else in the place but the bartender, and as\nthe man went out again Jurgis and Duane followed him; he went round\nthe corner, and in a dark place made by a combination of the elevated\nrailroad and an unrented building, Jurgis leaped forward and shoved a\nrevolver under his nose, while Duane, with his hat pulled over his eyes,\nwent through the man's pockets with lightning fingers. They got his\nwatch and his \"wad,\" and were round the corner again and into the saloon\nbefore he could shout more than once. The bartender, to whom they had\ntipped the wink, had the cellar door open for them, and they vanished,\nmaking their way by a secret entrance to a brothel next door. From the\nroof of this there was access to three similar places beyond. By means\nof these passages the customers of any one place could be gotten out\nof the way, in case a falling out with the police chanced to lead to a\nraid; and also it was necessary to have a way of getting a girl out\nof reach in case of an emergency. Thousands of them came to Chicago\nanswering advertisements for \"servants\" and \"factory hands,\" and found\nthemselves trapped by fake employment agencies, and locked up in a\nbawdy-house. It was generally enough to take all their clothes away from\nthem; but sometimes they would have to be \"doped\" and kept prisoners for\nweeks; and meantime their parents might be telegraphing the police, and\neven coming on to see why nothing was done. Occasionally there was no\nway of satisfying them but to let them search the place to which the\ngirl had been traced.\n\nFor his help in this little job, the bartender received twenty out of\nthe hundred and thirty odd dollars that the pair secured; and naturally\nthis put them on friendly terms with him, and a few days later he\nintroduced them to a little \"sheeny\" named Goldberger, one of the\n\"runners\" of the \"sporting house\" where they had been hidden. After a\nfew drinks Goldberger began, with some hesitation, to narrate how he had\nhad a quarrel over his best girl with a professional \"cardsharp,\" who\nhad hit him in the jaw. The fellow was a stranger in Chicago, and if he\nwas found some night with his head cracked there would be no one to care\nvery much. Jurgis, who by this time would cheerfully have cracked the\nheads of all the gamblers in Chicago, inquired what would be coming to\nhim; at which the Jew became still more confidential, and said that he\nhad some tips on the New Orleans races, which he got direct from the\npolice captain of the district, whom he had got out of a bad scrape, and\nwho \"stood in\" with a big syndicate of horse owners. Duane took all\nthis in at once, but Jurgis had to have the whole race-track situation\nexplained to him before he realized the importance of such an\nopportunity.\n\nThere was the gigantic Racing Trust. It owned the legislatures in\nevery state in which it did business; it even owned some of the big\nnewspapers, and made public opinion--there was no power in the land that\ncould oppose it unless, perhaps, it were the Poolroom Trust. It built\nmagnificent racing parks all over the country, and by means of enormous\npurses it lured the people to come, and then it organized a gigantic\nshell game, whereby it plundered them of hundreds of millions of dollars\nevery year. Horse racing had once been a sport, but nowadays it was\na business; a horse could be \"doped\" and doctored, undertrained or\novertrained; it could be made to fall at any moment--or its gait could\nbe broken by lashing it with the whip, which all the spectators would\ntake to be a desperate effort to keep it in the lead. There were scores\nof such tricks; and sometimes it was the owners who played them and made\nfortunes, sometimes it was the jockeys and trainers, sometimes it was\noutsiders, who bribed them--but most of the time it was the chiefs\nof the trust. Now for instance, they were having winter racing in New\nOrleans and a syndicate was laying out each day's program in advance,\nand its agents in all the Northern cities were \"milking\" the poolrooms.\nThe word came by long-distance telephone in a cipher code, just a little\nwhile before each race; and any man who could get the secret had as good\nas a fortune. If Jurgis did not believe it, he could try it, said the\nlittle Jew--let them meet at a certain house on the morrow and make a\ntest. Jurgis was willing, and so was Duane, and so they went to one\nof the high-class poolrooms where brokers and merchants gambled (with\nsociety women in a private room), and they put up ten dollars each upon\na horse called \"Black Beldame,\" a six to one shot, and won. For a secret\nlike that they would have done a good many sluggings--but the next day\nGoldberger informed them that the offending gambler had got wind of what\nwas coming to him, and had skipped the town.\n\n\nThere were ups and downs at the business; but there was always a living,\ninside of a jail, if not out of it. Early in April the city elections\nwere due, and that meant prosperity for all the powers of graft. Jurgis,\nhanging round in dives and gambling houses and brothels, met with\nthe heelers of both parties, and from their conversation he came to\nunderstand all the ins and outs of the game, and to hear of a number of\nways in which he could make himself useful about election time. \"Buck\"\nHalloran was a \"Democrat,\" and so Jurgis became a Democrat also; but he\nwas not a bitter one--the Republicans were good fellows, too, and were\nto have a pile of money in this next campaign. At the last election the\nRepublicans had paid four dollars a vote to the Democrats' three; and\n\"Buck\" Halloran sat one night playing cards with Jurgis and another man,\nwho told how Halloran had been charged with the job voting a \"bunch\" of\nthirty-seven newly landed Italians, and how he, the narrator, had met\nthe Republican worker who was after the very same gang, and how the\nthree had effected a bargain, whereby the Italians were to vote half and\nhalf, for a glass of beer apiece, while the balance of the fund went to\nthe conspirators!\n\nNot long after this, Jurgis, wearying of the risks and vicissitudes\nof miscellaneous crime, was moved to give up the career for that of a\npolitician. Just at this time there was a tremendous uproar being raised\nconcerning the alliance between the criminals and the police. For the\ncriminal graft was one in which the business men had no direct part--it\nwas what is called a \"side line,\" carried by the police. \"Wide\nopen\" gambling and debauchery made the city pleasing to \"trade,\" but\nburglaries and holdups did not. One night it chanced that while Jack\nDuane was drilling a safe in a clothing store he was caught red-handed\nby the night watchman, and turned over to a policeman, who chanced to\nknow him well, and who took the responsibility of letting him make his\nescape. Such a howl from the newspapers followed this that Duane was\nslated for sacrifice, and barely got out of town in time. And just at\nthat juncture it happened that Jurgis was introduced to a man named\nHarper whom he recognized as the night watchman at Brown's, who had been\ninstrumental in making him an American citizen, the first year of his\narrival at the yards. The other was interested in the coincidence, but\ndid not remember Jurgis--he had handled too many \"green ones\" in his\ntime, he said. He sat in a dance hall with Jurgis and Halloran until one\nor two in the morning, exchanging experiences. He had a long story to\ntell of his quarrel with the superintendent of his department, and how\nhe was now a plain workingman, and a good union man as well. It was not\nuntil some months afterward that Jurgis understood that the quarrel with\nthe superintendent had been prearranged, and that Harper was in reality\ndrawing a salary of twenty dollars a week from the packers for an inside\nreport of his union's secret proceedings. The yards were seething with\nagitation just then, said the man, speaking as a unionist. The people of\nPackingtown had borne about all that they would bear, and it looked as\nif a strike might begin any week.\n\nAfter this talk the man made inquiries concerning Jurgis, and a couple\nof days later he came to him with an interesting proposition. He was\nnot absolutely certain, he said, but he thought that he could get him\na regular salary if he would come to Packingtown and do as he was told,\nand keep his mouth shut. Harper--\"Bush\" Harper, he was called--was a\nright-hand man of Mike Scully, the Democratic boss of the stockyards;\nand in the coming election there was a peculiar situation. There had\ncome to Scully a proposition to nominate a certain rich brewer who lived\nupon a swell boulevard that skirted the district, and who coveted the\nbig badge and the \"honorable\" of an alderman. The brewer was a Jew, and\nhad no brains, but he was harmless, and would put up a rare campaign\nfund. Scully had accepted the offer, and then gone to the Republicans\nwith a proposition. He was not sure that he could manage the \"sheeny,\"\nand he did not mean to take any chances with his district; let the\nRepublicans nominate a certain obscure but amiable friend of Scully's,\nwho was now setting tenpins in the cellar of an Ashland Avenue saloon,\nand he, Scully, would elect him with the \"sheeny's\" money, and the\nRepublicans might have the glory, which was more than they would get\notherwise. In return for this the Republicans would agree to put up no\ncandidate the following year, when Scully himself came up for reelection\nas the other alderman from the ward. To this the Republicans had\nassented at once; but the hell of it was--so Harper explained--that\nthe Republicans were all of them fools--a man had to be a fool to be\na Republican in the stockyards, where Scully was king. And they didn't\nknow how to work, and of course it would not do for the Democratic\nworkers, the noble redskins of the War Whoop League, to support the\nRepublican openly. The difficulty would not have been so great except\nfor another fact--there had been a curious development in stockyards\npolitics in the last year or two, a new party having leaped into being.\nThey were the Socialists; and it was a devil of a mess, said \"Bush\"\nHarper. The one image which the word \"Socialist\" brought to Jurgis was\nof poor little Tamoszius Kuszleika, who had called himself one, and\nwould go out with a couple of other men and a soap-box, and shout\nhimself hoarse on a street corner Saturday nights. Tamoszius had tried\nto explain to Jurgis what it was all about, but Jurgis, who was not of\nan imaginative turn, had never quite got it straight; at present he was\ncontent with his companion's explanation that the Socialists were the\nenemies of American institutions--could not be bought, and would not\ncombine or make any sort of a \"dicker.\" Mike Scully was very much\nworried over the opportunity which his last deal gave to them--the\nstockyards Democrats were furious at the idea of a rich capitalist\nfor their candidate, and while they were changing they might possibly\nconclude that a Socialist firebrand was preferable to a Republican bum.\nAnd so right here was a chance for Jurgis to make himself a place in\nthe world, explained \"Bush\" Harper; he had been a union man, and he\nwas known in the yards as a workingman; he must have hundreds of\nacquaintances, and as he had never talked politics with them he might\ncome out as a Republican now without exciting the least suspicion. There\nwere barrels of money for the use of those who could deliver the goods;\nand Jurgis might count upon Mike Scully, who had never yet gone back on\na friend. Just what could he do? Jurgis asked, in some perplexity, and\nthe other explained in detail. To begin with, he would have to go to the\nyards and work, and he mightn't relish that; but he would have what he\nearned, as well as the rest that came to him. He would get active in the\nunion again, and perhaps try to get an office, as he, Harper, had; he\nwould tell all his friends the good points of Doyle, the Republican\nnominee, and the bad ones of the \"sheeny\"; and then Scully would\nfurnish a meeting place, and he would start the \"Young Men's Republican\nAssociation,\" or something of that sort, and have the rich brewer's\nbest beer by the hogshead, and fireworks and speeches, just like the\nWar Whoop League. Surely Jurgis must know hundreds of men who would like\nthat sort of fun; and there would be the regular Republican leaders and\nworkers to help him out, and they would deliver a big enough majority on\nelection day.\n\nWhen he had heard all this explanation to the end, Jurgis demanded: \"But\nhow can I get a job in Packingtown? I'm blacklisted.\"\n\nAt which \"Bush\" Harper laughed. \"I'll attend to that all right,\" he\nsaid.\n\nAnd the other replied, \"It's a go, then; I'm your man.\" So Jurgis went\nout to the stockyards again, and was introduced to the political lord of\nthe district, the boss of Chicago's mayor. It was Scully who owned the\nbrick-yards and the dump and the ice pond--though Jurgis did not know it.\nIt was Scully who was to blame for the unpaved street in which Jurgis's\nchild had been drowned; it was Scully who had put into office the\nmagistrate who had first sent Jurgis to jail; it was Scully who was\nprincipal stockholder in the company which had sold him the ramshackle\ntenement, and then robbed him of it. But Jurgis knew none of these\nthings--any more than he knew that Scully was but a tool and puppet of\nthe packers. To him Scully was a mighty power, the \"biggest\" man he had\never met.\n\nHe was a little, dried-up Irishman, whose hands shook. He had a brief\ntalk with his visitor, watching him with his ratlike eyes, and making\nup his mind about him; and then he gave him a note to Mr. Harmon, one of\nthe head managers of Durham's--\n\n\"The bearer, Jurgis Rudkus, is a particular friend of mine, and I would\nlike you to find him a good place, for important reasons. He was once\nindiscreet, but you will perhaps be so good as to overlook that.\"\n\nMr. Harmon looked up inquiringly when he read this. \"What does he mean\nby 'indiscreet'?\" he asked.\n\n\"I was blacklisted, sir,\" said Jurgis.\n\nAt which the other frowned. \"Blacklisted?\" he said. \"How do you mean?\"\nAnd Jurgis turned red with embarrassment.\n\nHe had forgotten that a blacklist did not exist. \"I--that is--I had\ndifficulty in getting a place,\" he stammered.\n\n\"What was the matter?\"\n\n\"I got into a quarrel with a foreman--not my own boss, sir--and struck\nhim.\"\n\n\"I see,\" said the other, and meditated for a few moments. \"What do you\nwish to do?\" he asked.\n\n\"Anything, sir,\" said Jurgis--\"only I had a broken arm this winter, and\nso I have to be careful.\"\n\n\"How would it suit you to be a night watchman?\"\n\n\"That wouldn't do, sir. I have to be among the men at night.\"\n\n\"I see--politics. Well, would it suit you to trim hogs?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said Jurgis.\n\nAnd Mr. Harmon called a timekeeper and said, \"Take this man to Pat\nMurphy and tell him to find room for him somehow.\"\n\nAnd so Jurgis marched into the hog-killing room, a place where, in the\ndays gone by, he had come begging for a job. Now he walked jauntily, and\nsmiled to himself, seeing the frown that came to the boss's face as\nthe timekeeper said, \"Mr. Harmon says to put this man on.\" It would\novercrowd his department and spoil the record he was trying to make--but\nhe said not a word except \"All right.\"\n\nAnd so Jurgis became a workingman once more; and straightway he sought\nout his old friends, and joined the union, and began to \"root\" for\n\"Scotty\" Doyle. Doyle had done him a good turn once, he explained,\nand was really a bully chap; Doyle was a workingman himself, and would\nrepresent the workingmen--why did they want to vote for a millionaire\n\"sheeny,\" and what the hell had Mike Scully ever done for them that they\nshould back his candidates all the time? And meantime Scully had given\nJurgis a note to the Republican leader of the ward, and he had gone\nthere and met the crowd he was to work with. Already they had hired\na big hall, with some of the brewer's money, and every night Jurgis\nbrought in a dozen new members of the \"Doyle Republican Association.\"\nPretty soon they had a grand opening night; and there was a brass band,\nwhich marched through the streets, and fireworks and bombs and red\nlights in front of the hall; and there was an enormous crowd, with\ntwo overflow meetings--so that the pale and trembling candidate had to\nrecite three times over the little speech which one of Scully's henchmen\nhad written, and which he had been a month learning by heart. Best\nof all, the famous and eloquent Senator Spareshanks, presidential\ncandidate, rode out in an automobile to discuss the sacred privileges\nof American citizenship, and protection and prosperity for the American\nworkingman. His inspiriting address was quoted to the extent of half a\ncolumn in all the morning newspapers, which also said that it could be\nstated upon excellent authority that the unexpected popularity developed\nby Doyle, the Republican candidate for alderman, was giving great\nanxiety to Mr. Scully, the chairman of the Democratic City Committee.\n\nThe chairman was still more worried when the monster torchlight\nprocession came off, with the members of the Doyle Republican\nAssociation all in red capes and hats, and free beer for every voter in\nthe ward--the best beer ever given away in a political campaign, as\nthe whole electorate testified. During this parade, and at innumerable\ncart-tail meetings as well, Jurgis labored tirelessly. He did not make\nany speeches--there were lawyers and other experts for that--but he\nhelped to manage things; distributing notices and posting placards and\nbringing out the crowds; and when the show was on he attended to the\nfireworks and the beer. Thus in the course of the campaign he handled\nmany hundreds of dollars of the Hebrew brewer's money, administering it\nwith naive and touching fidelity. Toward the end, however, he learned\nthat he was regarded with hatred by the rest of the \"boys,\" because he\ncompelled them either to make a poorer showing than he or to do without\ntheir share of the pie. After that Jurgis did his best to please them,\nand to make up for the time he had lost before he discovered the extra\nbungholes of the campaign barrel.\n\nHe pleased Mike Scully, also. On election morning he was out at four\no'clock, \"getting out the vote\"; he had a two-horse carriage to ride in,\nand he went from house to house for his friends, and escorted them in\ntriumph to the polls. He voted half a dozen times himself, and voted\nsome of his friends as often; he brought bunch after bunch of the newest\nforeigners--Lithuanians, Poles, Bohemians, Slovaks--and when he had put\nthem through the mill he turned them over to another man to take to\nthe next polling place. When Jurgis first set out, the captain of the\nprecinct gave him a hundred dollars, and three times in the course of\nthe day he came for another hundred, and not more than twenty-five out\nof each lot got stuck in his own pocket. The balance all went for actual\nvotes, and on a day of Democratic landslides they elected \"Scotty\"\nDoyle, the ex-tenpin setter, by nearly a thousand plurality--and\nbeginning at five o'clock in the afternoon, and ending at three the next\nmorning, Jurgis treated himself to a most unholy and horrible \"jag.\"\nNearly every one else in Packingtown did the same, however, for there\nwas universal exultation over this triumph of popular government, this\ncrushing defeat of an arrogant plutocrat by the power of the common\npeople.\n\n\n\nChapter 26\n\n\nAfter the elections Jurgis stayed on in Packingtown and kept his\njob. The agitation to break up the police protection of criminals was\ncontinuing, and it seemed to him best to \"lay low\" for the present. He\nhad nearly three hundred dollars in the bank, and might have considered\nhimself entitled to a vacation; but he had an easy job, and force of\nhabit kept him at it. Besides, Mike Scully, whom he consulted, advised\nhim that something might \"turn up\" before long.\n\nJurgis got himself a place in a boardinghouse with some congenial\nfriends. He had already inquired of Aniele, and learned that Elzbieta\nand her family had gone downtown, and so he gave no further thought\nto them. He went with a new set, now, young unmarried fellows who were\n\"sporty.\" Jurgis had long ago cast off his fertilizer clothing, and\nsince going into politics he had donned a linen collar and a greasy red\nnecktie. He had some reason for thinking of his dress, for he was making\nabout eleven dollars a week, and two-thirds of it he might spend upon\nhis pleasures without ever touching his savings.\n\nSometimes he would ride down-town with a party of friends to the cheap\ntheaters and the music halls and other haunts with which they were\nfamiliar. Many of the saloons in Packingtown had pool tables, and some\nof them bowling alleys, by means of which he could spend his evenings\nin petty gambling. Also, there were cards and dice. One time Jurgis got\ninto a game on a Saturday night and won prodigiously, and because he was\na man of spirit he stayed in with the rest and the game continued\nuntil late Sunday afternoon, and by that time he was \"out\" over twenty\ndollars. On Saturday nights, also, a number of balls were generally\ngiven in Packingtown; each man would bring his \"girl\" with him, paying\nhalf a dollar for a ticket, and several dollars additional for drinks\nin the course of the festivities, which continued until three or four\no'clock in the morning, unless broken up by fighting. During all this\ntime the same man and woman would dance together, half-stupefied with\nsensuality and drink.\n\nBefore long Jurgis discovered what Scully had meant by something\n\"turning up.\" In May the agreement between the packers and the unions\nexpired, and a new agreement had to be signed. Negotiations were going\non, and the yards were full of talk of a strike. The old scale had dealt\nwith the wages of the skilled men only; and of the members of the Meat\nWorkers' Union about two-thirds were unskilled men. In Chicago these\nlatter were receiving, for the most part, eighteen and a half cents an\nhour, and the unions wished to make this the general wage for the next\nyear. It was not nearly so large a wage as it seemed--in the course of\nthe negotiations the union officers examined time checks to the amount\nof ten thousand dollars, and they found that the highest wages paid had\nbeen fourteen dollars a week, and the lowest two dollars and five cents,\nand the average of the whole, six dollars and sixty-five cents. And six\ndollars and sixty-five cents was hardly too much for a man to keep\na family on, considering the fact that the price of dressed meat had\nincreased nearly fifty per cent in the last five years, while the price\nof \"beef on the hoof\" had decreased as much, it would have seemed that\nthe packers ought to be able to pay it; but the packers were unwilling\nto pay it--they rejected the union demand, and to show what their\npurpose was, a week or two after the agreement expired they put down the\nwages of about a thousand men to sixteen and a half cents, and it was\nsaid that old man Jones had vowed he would put them to fifteen before\nhe got through. There were a million and a half of men in the country\nlooking for work, a hundred thousand of them right in Chicago; and were\nthe packers to let the union stewards march into their places and bind\nthem to a contract that would lose them several thousand dollars a day\nfor a year? Not much!\n\nAll this was in June; and before long the question was submitted to a\nreferendum in the unions, and the decision was for a strike. It was the\nsame in all the packing house cities; and suddenly the newspapers and\npublic woke up to face the gruesome spectacle of a meat famine. All\nsorts of pleas for a reconsideration were made, but the packers were\nobdurate; and all the while they were reducing wages, and heading off\nshipments of cattle, and rushing in wagon-loads of mattresses and cots.\nSo the men boiled over, and one night telegrams went out from the union\nheadquarters to all the big packing centers--to St. Paul, South Omaha,\nSioux City, St. Joseph, Kansas City, East St. Louis, and New York--and\nthe next day at noon between fifty and sixty thousand men drew off their\nworking clothes and marched out of the factories, and the great \"Beef\nStrike\" was on.\n\nJurgis went to his dinner, and afterward he walked over to see Mike\nScully, who lived in a fine house, upon a street which had been decently\npaved and lighted for his especial benefit. Scully had gone into\nsemi-retirement, and looked nervous and worried. \"What do you want?\" he\ndemanded, when he saw Jurgis.\n\n\"I came to see if maybe you could get me a place during the strike,\" the\nother replied.\n\nAnd Scully knit his brows and eyed him narrowly. In that morning's\npapers Jurgis had read a fierce denunciation of the packers by Scully,\nwho had declared that if they did not treat their people better the\ncity authorities would end the matter by tearing down their plants. Now,\ntherefore, Jurgis was not a little taken aback when the other demanded\nsuddenly, \"See here, Rudkus, why don't you stick by your job?\"\n\nJurgis started. \"Work as a scab?\" he cried.\n\n\"Why not?\" demanded Scully. \"What's that to you?\"\n\n\"But--but--\" stammered Jurgis. He had somehow taken it for granted that\nhe should go out with his union. \"The packers need good men, and need\nthem bad,\" continued the other, \"and they'll treat a man right that\nstands by them. Why don't you take your chance and fix yourself?\"\n\n\"But,\" said Jurgis, \"how could I ever be of any use to you--in\npolitics?\"\n\n\"You couldn't be it anyhow,\" said Scully, abruptly.\n\n\"Why not?\" asked Jurgis.\n\n\"Hell, man!\" cried the other. \"Don't you know you're a Republican? And\ndo you think I'm always going to elect Republicans? My brewer has found\nout already how we served him, and there is the deuce to pay.\"\n\nJurgis looked dumfounded. He had never thought of that aspect of it\nbefore. \"I could be a Democrat,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes,\" responded the other, \"but not right away; a man can't change his\npolitics every day. And besides, I don't need you--there'd be nothing\nfor you to do. And it's a long time to election day, anyhow; and what\nare you going to do meantime?\"\n\n\"I thought I could count on you,\" began Jurgis.\n\n\"Yes,\" responded Scully, \"so you could--I never yet went back on a\nfriend. But is it fair to leave the job I got you and come to me for\nanother? I have had a hundred fellows after me today, and what can I\ndo? I've put seventeen men on the city payroll to clean streets this one\nweek, and do you think I can keep that up forever? It wouldn't do for\nme to tell other men what I tell you, but you've been on the inside,\nand you ought to have sense enough to see for yourself. What have you to\ngain by a strike?\"\n\n\"I hadn't thought,\" said Jurgis.\n\n\"Exactly,\" said Scully, \"but you'd better. Take my word for it, the\nstrike will be over in a few days, and the men will be beaten; and\nmeantime what you can get out of it will belong to you. Do you see?\"\n\nAnd Jurgis saw. He went back to the yards, and into the workroom. The\nmen had left a long line of hogs in various stages of preparation, and\nthe foreman was directing the feeble efforts of a score or two of clerks\nand stenographers and office boys to finish up the job and get them into\nthe chilling rooms. Jurgis went straight up to him and announced, \"I\nhave come back to work, Mr. Murphy.\"\n\nThe boss's face lighted up. \"Good man!\" he cried. \"Come ahead!\"\n\n\"Just a moment,\" said Jurgis, checking his enthusiasm. \"I think I ought\nto get a little more wages.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the other, \"of course. What do you want?\"\n\nJurgis had debated on the way. His nerve almost failed him now, but he\nclenched his hands. \"I think I ought to have' three dollars a day,\" he\nsaid.\n\n\"All right,\" said the other, promptly; and before the day was out our\nfriend discovered that the clerks and stenographers and office boys were\ngetting five dollars a day, and then he could have kicked himself!\n\n\nSo Jurgis became one of the new \"American heroes,\" a man whose virtues\nmerited comparison with those of the martyrs of Lexington and Valley\nForge. The resemblance was not complete, of course, for Jurgis was\ngenerously paid and comfortably clad, and was provided with a spring cot\nand a mattress and three substantial meals a day; also he was perfectly\nat ease, and safe from all peril of life and limb, save only in the\ncase that a desire for beer should lead him to venture outside of the\nstockyards gates. And even in the exercise of this privilege he was not\nleft unprotected; a good part of the inadequate police force of Chicago\nwas suddenly diverted from its work of hunting criminals, and rushed out\nto serve him. The police, and the strikers also, were determined that\nthere should be no violence; but there was another party interested\nwhich was minded to the contrary--and that was the press. On the first\nday of his life as a strikebreaker Jurgis quit work early, and in a\nspirit of bravado he challenged three men of his acquaintance to go\noutside and get a drink. They accepted, and went through the big Halsted\nStreet gate, where several policemen were watching, and also some union\npickets, scanning sharply those who passed in and out. Jurgis and\nhis companions went south on Halsted Street; past the hotel, and then\nsuddenly half a dozen men started across the street toward them and\nproceeded to argue with them concerning the error of their ways. As the\narguments were not taken in the proper spirit, they went on to threats;\nand suddenly one of them jerked off the hat of one of the four and\nflung it over the fence. The man started after it, and then, as a cry\nof \"Scab!\" was raised and a dozen people came running out of saloons and\ndoorways, a second man's heart failed him and he followed. Jurgis and\nthe fourth stayed long enough to give themselves the satisfaction of\na quick exchange of blows, and then they, too, took to their heels and\nfled back of the hotel and into the yards again. Meantime, of course,\npolicemen were coming on a run, and as a crowd gathered other police got\nexcited and sent in a riot call. Jurgis knew nothing of this, but went\nback to \"Packers' Avenue,\" and in front of the \"Central Time Station\"\nhe saw one of his companions, breathless and wild with excitement,\nnarrating to an ever growing throng how the four had been attacked and\nsurrounded by a howling mob, and had been nearly torn to pieces. While\nhe stood listening, smiling cynically, several dapper young men stood by\nwith notebooks in their hands, and it was not more than two hours later\nthat Jurgis saw newsboys running about with armfuls of newspapers,\nprinted in red and black letters six inches high:\n\nVIOLENCE IN THE YARDS! STRIKEBREAKERS SURROUNDED BY FRENZIED MOB!\n\nIf he had been able to buy all of the newspapers of the United States\nthe next morning, he might have discovered that his beer-hunting exploit\nwas being perused by some two score millions of people, and had served\nas a text for editorials in half the staid and solemn business-men's\nnewspapers in the land.\n\nJurgis was to see more of this as time passed. For the present, his work\nbeing over, he was free to ride into the city, by a railroad direct from\nthe yards, or else to spend the night in a room where cots had been\nlaid in rows. He chose the latter, but to his regret, for all night long\ngangs of strikebreakers kept arriving. As very few of the better class\nof workingmen could be got for such work, these specimens of the new\nAmerican hero contained an assortment of the criminals and thugs of\nthe city, besides Negroes and the lowest foreigners--Greeks, Roumanians,\nSicilians, and Slovaks. They had been attracted more by the prospect of\ndisorder than by the big wages; and they made the night hideous with\nsinging and carousing, and only went to sleep when the time came for\nthem to get up to work.\n\nIn the morning before Jurgis had finished his breakfast, \"Pat\" Murphy\nordered him to one of the superintendents, who questioned him as to his\nexperience in the work of the killing room. His heart began to thump\nwith excitement, for he divined instantly that his hour had come--that\nhe was to be a boss!\n\nSome of the foremen were union members, and many who were not had gone\nout with the men. It was in the killing department that the packers had\nbeen left most in the lurch, and precisely here that they could least\nafford it; the smoking and canning and salting of meat might wait, and\nall the by-products might be wasted--but fresh meats must be had, or the\nrestaurants and hotels and brownstone houses would feel the pinch, and\nthen \"public opinion\" would take a startling turn.\n\nAn opportunity such as this would not come twice to a man; and Jurgis\nseized it. Yes, he knew the work, the whole of it, and he could teach it\nto others. But if he took the job and gave satisfaction he would expect\nto keep it--they would not turn him off at the end of the strike? To\nwhich the superintendent replied that he might safely trust Durham's\nfor that--they proposed to teach these unions a lesson, and most of\nall those foremen who had gone back on them. Jurgis would receive five\ndollars a day during the strike, and twenty-five a week after it was\nsettled.\n\nSo our friend got a pair of \"slaughter pen\" boots and \"jeans,\" and flung\nhimself at his task. It was a weird sight, there on the killing beds--a\nthrong of stupid black Negroes, and foreigners who could not understand\na word that was said to them, mixed with pale-faced, hollow-chested\nbookkeepers and clerks, half-fainting for the tropical heat and the\nsickening stench of fresh blood--and all struggling to dress a dozen\nor two cattle in the same place where, twenty-four hours ago, the old\nkilling gang had been speeding, with their marvelous precision, turning\nout four hundred carcasses every hour!\n\nThe Negroes and the \"toughs\" from the Levee did not want to work,\nand every few minutes some of them would feel obliged to retire and\nrecuperate. In a couple of days Durham and Company had electric fans up\nto cool off the rooms for them, and even couches for them to rest\non; and meantime they could go out and find a shady corner and take a\n\"snooze,\" and as there was no place for any one in particular, and no\nsystem, it might be hours before their boss discovered them. As for\nthe poor office employees, they did their best, moved to it by terror;\nthirty of them had been \"fired\" in a bunch that first morning for\nrefusing to serve, besides a number of women clerks and typewriters who\nhad declined to act as waitresses.\n\nIt was such a force as this that Jurgis had to organize. He did his\nbest, flying here and there, placing them in rows and showing them the\ntricks; he had never given an order in his life before, but he had taken\nenough of them to know, and he soon fell into the spirit of it, and\nroared and stormed like any old stager. He had not the most tractable\npupils, however. \"See hyar, boss,\" a big black \"buck\" would begin, \"ef\nyou doan' like de way Ah does dis job, you kin get somebody else to do\nit.\" Then a crowd would gather and listen, muttering threats. After the\nfirst meal nearly all the steel knives had been missing, and now every\nNegro had one, ground to a fine point, hidden in his boots.\n\nThere was no bringing order out of such a chaos, Jurgis soon discovered;\nand he fell in with the spirit of the thing--there was no reason why he\nshould wear himself out with shouting. If hides and guts were slashed\nand rendered useless there was no way of tracing it to any one; and if\na man lay off and forgot to come back there was nothing to be gained\nby seeking him, for all the rest would quit in the meantime. Everything\nwent, during the strike, and the packers paid. Before long Jurgis\nfound that the custom of resting had suggested to some alert minds the\npossibility of registering at more than one place and earning more than\none five dollars a day. When he caught a man at this he \"fired\" him,\nbut it chanced to be in a quiet corner, and the man tendered him a\nten-dollar bill and a wink, and he took them. Of course, before long\nthis custom spread, and Jurgis was soon making quite a good income from\nit.\n\nIn the face of handicaps such as these the packers counted themselves\nlucky if they could kill off the cattle that had been crippled in\ntransit and the hogs that had developed disease. Frequently, in the\ncourse of a two or three days' trip, in hot weather and without water,\nsome hog would develop cholera, and die; and the rest would attack him\nbefore he had ceased kicking, and when the car was opened there would be\nnothing of him left but the bones. If all the hogs in this carload were\nnot killed at once, they would soon be down with the dread disease, and\nthere would be nothing to do but make them into lard. It was the same\nwith cattle that were gored and dying, or were limping with broken bones\nstuck through their flesh--they must be killed, even if brokers and\nbuyers and superintendents had to take off their coats and help\ndrive and cut and skin them. And meantime, agents of the packers were\ngathering gangs of Negroes in the country districts of the far South,\npromising them five dollars a day and board, and being careful not to\nmention there was a strike; already carloads of them were on the way,\nwith special rates from the railroads, and all traffic ordered out of\nthe way. Many towns and cities were taking advantage of the chance to\nclear out their jails and workhouses--in Detroit the magistrates would\nrelease every man who agreed to leave town within twenty-four hours,\nand agents of the packers were in the courtrooms to ship them right. And\nmeantime trainloads of supplies were coming in for their accommodation,\nincluding beer and whisky, so that they might not be tempted to go\noutside. They hired thirty young girls in Cincinnati to \"pack fruit,\"\nand when they arrived put them at work canning corned beef, and put cots\nfor them to sleep in a public hallway, through which the men passed. As\nthe gangs came in day and night, under the escort of squads of police,\nthey stowed away in unused workrooms and storerooms, and in the car\nsheds, crowded so closely together that the cots touched. In some places\nthey would use the same room for eating and sleeping, and at night the\nmen would put their cots upon the tables, to keep away from the swarms\nof rats.\n\nBut with all their best efforts, the packers were demoralized.\nNinety per cent of the men had walked out; and they faced the task of\ncompletely remaking their labor force--and with the price of meat up\nthirty per cent, and the public clamoring for a settlement. They made an\noffer to submit the whole question at issue to arbitration; and at the\nend of ten days the unions accepted it, and the strike was called off.\nIt was agreed that all the men were to be re-employed within forty-five\ndays, and that there was to be \"no discrimination against union men.\"\n\nThis was an anxious time for Jurgis. If the men were taken back \"without\ndiscrimination,\" he would lose his present place. He sought out the\nsuperintendent, who smiled grimly and bade him \"wait and see.\" Durham's\nstrikebreakers were few of them leaving.\n\nWhether or not the \"settlement\" was simply a trick of the packers to\ngain time, or whether they really expected to break the strike and\ncripple the unions by the plan, cannot be said; but that night there\nwent out from the office of Durham and Company a telegram to all the big\npacking centers, \"Employ no union leaders.\" And in the morning, when the\ntwenty thousand men thronged into the yards, with their dinner pails and\nworking clothes, Jurgis stood near the door of the hog-trimming room,\nwhere he had worked before the strike, and saw a throng of eager\nmen, with a score or two of policemen watching them; and he saw a\nsuperintendent come out and walk down the line, and pick out man after\nman that pleased him; and one after another came, and there were some\nmen up near the head of the line who were never picked--they being\nthe union stewards and delegates, and the men Jurgis had heard making\nspeeches at the meetings. Each time, of course, there were louder\nmurmurings and angrier looks. Over where the cattle butchers were\nwaiting, Jurgis heard shouts and saw a crowd, and he hurried there. One\nbig butcher, who was president of the Packing Trades Council, had been\npassed over five times, and the men were wild with rage; they had\nappointed a committee of three to go in and see the superintendent, and\nthe committee had made three attempts, and each time the police had\nclubbed them back from the door. Then there were yells and hoots,\ncontinuing until at last the superintendent came to the door. \"We all go\nback or none of us do!\" cried a hundred voices. And the other shook his\nfist at them, and shouted, \"You went out of here like cattle, and like\ncattle you'll come back!\"\n\nThen suddenly the big butcher president leaped upon a pile of stones and\nyelled: \"It's off, boys. We'll all of us quit again!\" And so the cattle\nbutchers declared a new strike on the spot; and gathering their members\nfrom the other plants, where the same trick had been played, they\nmarched down Packers' Avenue, which was thronged with a dense mass of\nworkers, cheering wildly. Men who had already got to work on the killing\nbeds dropped their tools and joined them; some galloped here and there\non horseback, shouting the tidings, and within half an hour the whole of\nPackingtown was on strike again, and beside itself with fury.\n\nThere was quite a different tone in Packingtown after this--the place\nwas a seething caldron of passion, and the \"scab\" who ventured into\nit fared badly. There were one or two of these incidents each day, the\nnewspapers detailing them, and always blaming them upon the unions. Yet\nten years before, when there were no unions in Packingtown, there was\na strike, and national troops had to be called, and there were pitched\nbattles fought at night, by the light of blazing freight trains.\nPackingtown was always a center of violence; in \"Whisky Point,\" where\nthere were a hundred saloons and one glue factory, there was always\nfighting, and always more of it in hot weather. Any one who had taken\nthe trouble to consult the station house blotter would have found that\nthere was less violence that summer than ever before--and this while\ntwenty thousand men were out of work, and with nothing to do all day\nbut brood upon bitter wrongs. There was no one to picture the battle the\nunion leaders were fighting--to hold this huge army in rank, to keep\nit from straggling and pillaging, to cheer and encourage and guide a\nhundred thousand people, of a dozen different tongues, through six long\nweeks of hunger and disappointment and despair.\n\nMeantime the packers had set themselves definitely to the task of making\na new labor force. A thousand or two of strikebreakers were brought in\nevery night, and distributed among the various plants. Some of them were\nexperienced workers,--butchers, salesmen, and managers from the packers'\nbranch stores, and a few union men who had deserted from other cities;\nbut the vast majority were \"green\" Negroes from the cotton districts of\nthe far South, and they were herded into the packing plants like sheep.\nThere was a law forbidding the use of buildings as lodging-houses unless\nthey were licensed for the purpose, and provided with proper windows,\nstairways, and fire escapes; but here, in a \"paint room,\" reached only\nby an enclosed \"chute,\" a room without a single window and only one\ndoor, a hundred men were crowded upon mattresses on the floor. Up on\nthe third story of the \"hog house\" of Jones's was a storeroom, without\na window, into which they crowded seven hundred men, sleeping upon the\nbare springs of cots, and with a second shift to use them by day.\nAnd when the clamor of the public led to an investigation into\nthese conditions, and the mayor of the city was forced to order the\nenforcement of the law, the packers got a judge to issue an injunction\nforbidding him to do it!\n\nJust at this time the mayor was boasting that he had put an end\nto gambling and prize fighting in the city; but here a swarm of\nprofessional gamblers had leagued themselves with the police to fleece\nthe strikebreakers; and any night, in the big open space in front of\nBrown's, one might see brawny Negroes stripped to the waist and pounding\neach other for money, while a howling throng of three or four thousand\nsurged about, men and women, young white girls from the country rubbing\nelbows with big buck Negroes with daggers in their boots, while rows of\nwoolly heads peered down from every window of the surrounding factories.\nThe ancestors of these black people had been savages in Africa; and\nsince then they had been chattel slaves, or had been held down by a\ncommunity ruled by the traditions of slavery. Now for the first time\nthey were free--free to gratify every passion, free to wreck themselves.\nThey were wanted to break a strike, and when it was broken they would be\nshipped away, and their present masters would never see them again; and\nso whisky and women were brought in by the carload and sold to them, and\nhell was let loose in the yards. Every night there were stabbings and\nshootings; it was said that the packers had blank permits, which\nenabled them to ship dead bodies from the city without troubling the\nauthorities. They lodged men and women on the same floor; and with\nthe night there began a saturnalia of debauchery--scenes such as never\nbefore had been witnessed in America. And as the women were the dregs\nfrom the brothels of Chicago, and the men were for the most part\nignorant country Negroes, the nameless diseases of vice were soon rife;\nand this where food was being handled which was sent out to every corner\nof the civilized world.\n\nThe \"Union Stockyards\" were never a pleasant place; but now they were\nnot only a collection of slaughterhouses, but also the camping place\nof an army of fifteen or twenty thousand human beasts. All day long the\nblazing midsummer sun beat down upon that square mile of abominations:\nupon tens of thousands of cattle crowded into pens whose wooden floors\nstank and steamed contagion; upon bare, blistering, cinder-strewn\nrailroad tracks, and huge blocks of dingy meat factories, whose\nlabyrinthine passages defied a breath of fresh air to penetrate them;\nand there were not merely rivers of hot blood, and car-loads of\nmoist flesh, and rendering vats and soap caldrons, glue factories and\nfertilizer tanks, that smelt like the craters of hell--there were also\ntons of garbage festering in the sun, and the greasy laundry of the\nworkers hung out to dry, and dining rooms littered with food and black\nwith flies, and toilet rooms that were open sewers.\n\nAnd then at night, when this throng poured out into the streets to\nplay--fighting, gambling, drinking and carousing, cursing and screaming,\nlaughing and singing, playing banjoes and dancing! They were worked\nin the yards all the seven days of the week, and they had their prize\nfights and crap games on Sunday nights as well; but then around the\ncorner one might see a bonfire blazing, and an old, gray-headed Negress,\nlean and witchlike, her hair flying wild and her eyes blazing, yelling\nand chanting of the fires of perdition and the blood of the \"Lamb,\"\nwhile men and women lay down upon the ground and moaned and screamed in\nconvulsions of terror and remorse.\n\nSuch were the stockyards during the strike; while the unions watched\nin sullen despair, and the country clamored like a greedy child for its\nfood, and the packers went grimly on their way. Each day they added new\nworkers, and could be more stern with the old ones--could put them on\npiecework, and dismiss them if they did not keep up the pace. Jurgis was\nnow one of their agents in this process; and he could feel the change\nday by day, like the slow starting up of a huge machine. He had gotten\nused to being a master of men; and because of the stifling heat and\nthe stench, and the fact that he was a \"scab\" and knew it and despised\nhimself. He was drinking, and developing a villainous temper, and he\nstormed and cursed and raged at his men, and drove them until they were\nready to drop with exhaustion.\n\n\nThen one day late in August, a superintendent ran into the place\nand shouted to Jurgis and his gang to drop their work and come. They\nfollowed him outside, to where, in the midst of a dense throng, they\nsaw several two-horse trucks waiting, and three patrol-wagon loads of\npolice. Jurgis and his men sprang upon one of the trucks, and the driver\nyelled to the crowd, and they went thundering away at a gallop. Some\nsteers had just escaped from the yards, and the strikers had got hold of\nthem, and there would be the chance of a scrap!\n\nThey went out at the Ashland Avenue gate, and over in the direction of\nthe \"dump.\" There was a yell as soon as they were sighted, men and women\nrushing out of houses and saloons as they galloped by. There were eight\nor ten policemen on the truck, however, and there was no disturbance\nuntil they came to a place where the street was blocked with a dense\nthrong. Those on the flying truck yelled a warning and the crowd\nscattered pell-mell, disclosing one of the steers lying in its blood.\nThere were a good many cattle butchers about just then, with nothing\nmuch to do, and hungry children at home; and so some one had knocked out\nthe steer--and as a first-class man can kill and dress one in a couple\nof minutes, there were a good many steaks and roasts already missing.\nThis called for punishment, of course; and the police proceeded to\nadminister it by leaping from the truck and cracking at every head they\nsaw. There were yells of rage and pain, and the terrified people fled\ninto houses and stores, or scattered helter-skelter down the street.\nJurgis and his gang joined in the sport, every man singling out his\nvictim, and striving to bring him to bay and punch him. If he fled into\na house his pursuer would smash in the flimsy door and follow him up the\nstairs, hitting every one who came within reach, and finally dragging\nhis squealing quarry from under a bed or a pile of old clothes in a\ncloset.\n\nJurgis and two policemen chased some men into a bar-room. One of\nthem took shelter behind the bar, where a policeman cornered him and\nproceeded to whack him over the back and shoulders, until he lay down\nand gave a chance at his head. The others leaped a fence in the rear,\nbalking the second policeman, who was fat; and as he came back, furious\nand cursing, a big Polish woman, the owner of the saloon, rushed in\nscreaming, and received a poke in the stomach that doubled her up on\nthe floor. Meantime Jurgis, who was of a practical temper, was helping\nhimself at the bar; and the first policeman, who had laid out his man,\njoined him, handing out several more bottles, and filling his pockets\nbesides, and then, as he started to leave, cleaning off all the balance\nwith a sweep of his club. The din of the glass crashing to the floor\nbrought the fat Polish woman to her feet again, but another policeman\ncame up behind her and put his knee into her back and his hands over her\neyes--and then called to his companion, who went back and broke open\nthe cash drawer and filled his pockets with the contents. Then the three\nwent outside, and the man who was holding the woman gave her a shove and\ndashed out himself. The gang having already got the carcass on to the\ntruck, the party set out at a trot, followed by screams and curses,\nand a shower of bricks and stones from unseen enemies. These bricks and\nstones would figure in the accounts of the \"riot\" which would be sent\nout to a few thousand newspapers within an hour or two; but the episode\nof the cash drawer would never be mentioned again, save only in the\nheartbreaking legends of Packingtown.\n\n\nIt was late in the afternoon when they got back, and they dressed out\nthe remainder of the steer, and a couple of others that had been killed,\nand then knocked off for the day. Jurgis went downtown to supper, with\nthree friends who had been on the other trucks, and they exchanged\nreminiscences on the way. Afterward they drifted into a roulette parlor,\nand Jurgis, who was never lucky at gambling, dropped about fifteen\ndollars. To console himself he had to drink a good deal, and he went\nback to Packingtown about two o'clock in the morning, very much the\nworse for his excursion, and, it must be confessed, entirely deserving\nthe calamity that was in store for him.\n\nAs he was going to the place where he slept, he met a painted-cheeked\nwoman in a greasy \"kimono,\" and she put her arm about his waist to\nsteady him; they turned into a dark room they were passing--but scarcely\nhad they taken two steps before suddenly a door swung open, and a man\nentered, carrying a lantern. \"Who's there?\" he called sharply. And\nJurgis started to mutter some reply; but at the same instant the man\nraised his light, which flashed in his face, so that it was possible\nto recognize him. Jurgis stood stricken dumb, and his heart gave a leap\nlike a mad thing. The man was Connor!\n\nConnor, the boss of the loading gang! The man who had seduced his\nwife--who had sent him to prison, and wrecked his home, ruined his life!\nHe stood there, staring, with the light shining full upon him.\n\nJurgis had often thought of Connor since coming back to Packingtown, but\nit had been as of something far off, that no longer concerned him.\nNow, however, when he saw him, alive and in the flesh, the same thing\nhappened to him that had happened before--a flood of rage boiled up in\nhim, a blind frenzy seized him. And he flung himself at the man, and\nsmote him between the eyes--and then, as he fell, seized him by the\nthroat and began to pound his head upon the stones.\n\nThe woman began screaming, and people came rushing in. The lantern had\nbeen upset and extinguished, and it was so dark they could not see a\nthing; but they could hear Jurgis panting, and hear the thumping of\nhis victim's skull, and they rushed there and tried to pull him off.\nPrecisely as before, Jurgis came away with a piece of his enemy's flesh\nbetween his teeth; and, as before, he went on fighting with those who\nhad interfered with him, until a policeman had come and beaten him into\ninsensibility.\n\n\nAnd so Jurgis spent the balance of the night in the stockyards station\nhouse. This time, however, he had money in his pocket, and when he came\nto his senses he could get something to drink, and also a messenger\nto take word of his plight to \"Bush\" Harper. Harper did not appear,\nhowever, until after the prisoner, feeling very weak and ill, had been\nhailed into court and remanded at five hundred dollars' bail to await\nthe result of his victim's injuries. Jurgis was wild about this, because\na different magistrate had chanced to be on the bench, and he had\nstated that he had never been arrested before, and also that he had been\nattacked first--and if only someone had been there to speak a good word\nfor him, he could have been let off at once.\n\nBut Harper explained that he had been downtown, and had not got the\nmessage. \"What's happened to you?\" he asked.\n\n\"I've been doing a fellow up,\" said Jurgis, \"and I've got to get five\nhundred dollars' bail.\"\n\n\"I can arrange that all right,\" said the other--\"though it may cost you\na few dollars, of course. But what was the trouble?\"\n\n\"It was a man that did me a mean trick once,\" answered Jurgis.\n\n\"Who is he?\"\n\n\"He's a foreman in Brown's or used to be. His name's Connor.\"\n\nAnd the other gave a start. \"Connor!\" he cried. \"Not Phil Connor!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Jurgis, \"that's the fellow. Why?\"\n\n\"Good God!\" exclaimed the other, \"then you're in for it, old man! I\ncan't help you!\"\n\n\"Not help me! Why not?\"\n\n\"Why, he's one of Scully's biggest men--he's a member of the War-Whoop\nLeague, and they talked of sending him to the legislature! Phil Connor!\nGreat heavens!\"\n\nJurgis sat dumb with dismay.\n\n\"Why, he can send you to Joliet, if he wants to!\" declared the other.\n\n\"Can't I have Scully get me off before he finds out about it?\" asked\nJurgis, at length.\n\n\"But Scully's out of town,\" the other answered. \"I don't even know where\nhe is--he's run away to dodge the strike.\"\n\nThat was a pretty mess, indeed. Poor Jurgis sat half-dazed. His pull had\nrun up against a bigger pull, and he was down and out! \"But what am I\ngoing to do?\" he asked, weakly.\n\n\"How should I know?\" said the other. \"I shouldn't even dare to get bail\nfor you--why, I might ruin myself for life!\"\n\nAgain there was silence. \"Can't you do it for me,\" Jurgis asked, \"and\npretend that you didn't know who I'd hit?\"\n\n\"But what good would that do you when you came to stand trial?\" asked\nHarper. Then he sat buried in thought for a minute or two. \"There's\nnothing--unless it's this,\" he said. \"I could have your bail reduced;\nand then if you had the money you could pay it and skip.\"\n\n\"How much will it be?\" Jurgis asked, after he had had this explained\nmore in detail.\n\n\"I don't know,\" said the other. \"How much do you own?\"\n\n\"I've got about three hundred dollars,\" was the answer.\n\n\"Well,\" was Harper's reply, \"I'm not sure, but I'll try and get you off\nfor that. I'll take the risk for friendship's sake--for I'd hate to see\nyou sent to state's prison for a year or two.\"\n\nAnd so finally Jurgis ripped out his bankbook--which was sewed up in his\ntrousers--and signed an order, which \"Bush\" Harper wrote, for all the\nmoney to be paid out. Then the latter went and got it, and hurried to\nthe court, and explained to the magistrate that Jurgis was a\ndecent fellow and a friend of Scully's, who had been attacked by a\nstrike-breaker. So the bail was reduced to three hundred dollars, and\nHarper went on it himself; he did not tell this to Jurgis, however--nor\ndid he tell him that when the time for trial came it would be an easy\nmatter for him to avoid the forfeiting of the bail, and pocket the three\nhundred dollars as his reward for the risk of offending Mike Scully! All\nthat he told Jurgis was that he was now free, and that the best thing\nhe could do was to clear out as quickly as possible; and so Jurgis\noverwhelmed with gratitude and relief, took the dollar and fourteen\ncents that was left him out of all his bank account, and put it with the\ntwo dollars and quarter that was left from his last night's celebration,\nand boarded a streetcar and got off at the other end of Chicago.\n\n\nChapter 27\n\n\nPoor Jurgis was now an outcast and a tramp once more. He was\ncrippled--he was as literally crippled as any wild animal which has lost\nits claws, or been torn out of its shell. He had been shorn, at one\ncut, of all those mysterious weapons whereby he had been able to make a\nliving easily and to escape the consequences of his actions. He could\nno longer command a job when he wanted it; he could no longer steal with\nimpunity--he must take his chances with the common herd. Nay worse, he\ndared not mingle with the herd--he must hide himself, for he was one\nmarked out for destruction. His old companions would betray him, for the\nsake of the influence they would gain thereby; and he would be made\nto suffer, not merely for the offense he had committed, but for others\nwhich would be laid at his door, just as had been done for some poor\ndevil on the occasion of that assault upon the \"country customer\" by him\nand Duane.\n\nAnd also he labored under another handicap now. He had acquired new\nstandards of living, which were not easily to be altered. When he had\nbeen out of work before, he had been content if he could sleep in a\ndoorway or under a truck out of the rain, and if he could get fifteen\ncents a day for saloon lunches. But now he desired all sorts of other\nthings, and suffered because he had to do without them. He must have a\ndrink now and then, a drink for its own sake, and apart from the food\nthat came with it. The craving for it was strong enough to master every\nother consideration--he would have it, though it were his last nickel\nand he had to starve the balance of the day in consequence.\n\nJurgis became once more a besieger of factory gates. But never since he\nhad been in Chicago had he stood less chance of getting a job than just\nthen. For one thing, there was the economic crisis, the million or two\nof men who had been out of work in the spring and summer, and were not\nyet all back, by any means. And then there was the strike, with seventy\nthousand men and women all over the country idle for a couple of\nmonths--twenty thousand in Chicago, and many of them now seeking work\nthroughout the city. It did not remedy matters that a few days later the\nstrike was given up and about half the strikers went back to work; for\nevery one taken on, there was a \"scab\" who gave up and fled. The ten\nor fifteen thousand \"green\" Negroes, foreigners, and criminals were now\nbeing turned loose to shift for themselves. Everywhere Jurgis went he\nkept meeting them, and he was in an agony of fear lest some one of them\nshould know that he was \"wanted.\" He would have left Chicago, only by\nthe time he had realized his danger he was almost penniless; and it\nwould be better to go to jail than to be caught out in the country in\nthe winter time.\n\nAt the end of about ten days Jurgis had only a few pennies left; and he\nhad not yet found a job--not even a day's work at anything, not a chance\nto carry a satchel. Once again, as when he had come out of the hospital,\nhe was bound hand and foot, and facing the grisly phantom of starvation.\nRaw, naked terror possessed him, a maddening passion that would never\nleave him, and that wore him down more quickly than the actual want of\nfood. He was going to die of hunger! The fiend reached out its scaly\narms for him--it touched him, its breath came into his face; and he\nwould cry out for the awfulness of it, he would wake up in the night,\nshuddering, and bathed in perspiration, and start up and flee. He would\nwalk, begging for work, until he was exhausted; he could not remain\nstill--he would wander on, gaunt and haggard, gazing about him with\nrestless eyes. Everywhere he went, from one end of the vast city to the\nother, there were hundreds of others like him; everywhere was the sight\nof plenty and the merciless hand of authority waving them away. There is\none kind of prison where the man is behind bars, and everything that\nhe desires is outside; and there is another kind where the things are\nbehind the bars, and the man is outside.\n\nWhen he was down to his last quarter, Jurgis learned that before the\nbakeshops closed at night they sold out what was left at half price, and\nafter that he would go and get two loaves of stale bread for a nickel,\nand break them up and stuff his pockets with them, munching a bit from\ntime to time. He would not spend a penny save for this; and, after two\nor three days more, he even became sparing of the bread, and would stop\nand peer into the ash barrels as he walked along the streets, and now\nand then rake out a bit of something, shake it free from dust, and count\nhimself just so many minutes further from the end.\n\nSo for several days he had been going about, ravenous all the time,\nand growing weaker and weaker, and then one morning he had a hideous\nexperience, that almost broke his heart. He was passing down a street\nlined with warehouses, and a boss offered him a job, and then, after he\nhad started to work, turned him off because he was not strong enough.\nAnd he stood by and saw another man put into his place, and then picked\nup his coat, and walked off, doing all that he could to keep from\nbreaking down and crying like a baby. He was lost! He was doomed! There\nwas no hope for him! But then, with a sudden rush, his fear gave place\nto rage. He fell to cursing. He would come back there after dark, and he\nwould show that scoundrel whether he was good for anything or not!\n\nHe was still muttering this when suddenly, at the corner, he came upon\na green-grocery, with a tray full of cabbages in front of it. Jurgis,\nafter one swift glance about him, stooped and seized the biggest of\nthem, and darted round the corner with it. There was a hue and cry,\nand a score of men and boys started in chase of him; but he came to an\nalley, and then to another branching off from it and leading him into\nanother street, where he fell into a walk, and slipped his cabbage under\nhis coat and went off unsuspected in the crowd. When he had gotten\na safe distance away he sat down and devoured half the cabbage raw,\nstowing the balance away in his pockets till the next day.\n\nJust about this time one of the Chicago newspapers, which made much of\nthe \"common people,\" opened a \"free-soup kitchen\" for the benefit of\nthe unemployed. Some people said that they did this for the sake of the\nadvertising it gave them, and some others said that their motive was\na fear lest all their readers should be starved off; but whatever the\nreason, the soup was thick and hot, and there was a bowl for every man,\nall night long. When Jurgis heard of this, from a fellow \"hobo,\" he\nvowed that he would have half a dozen bowls before morning; but, as it\nproved, he was lucky to get one, for there was a line of men two blocks\nlong before the stand, and there was just as long a line when the place\nwas finally closed up.\n\nThis depot was within the danger line for Jurgis--in the \"Levee\"\ndistrict, where he was known; but he went there, all the same, for he\nwas desperate, and beginning to think of even the Bridewell as a place\nof refuge. So far the weather had been fair, and he had slept out every\nnight in a vacant lot; but now there fell suddenly a shadow of the\nadvancing winter, a chill wind from the north and a driving storm of\nrain. That day Jurgis bought two drinks for the sake of the shelter, and\nat night he spent his last two pennies in a \"stale-beer dive.\" This was\na place kept by a Negro, who went out and drew off the old dregs of\nbeer that lay in barrels set outside of the saloons; and after he had\ndoctored it with chemicals to make it \"fizz,\" he sold it for two cents a\ncan, the purchase of a can including the privilege of sleeping the night\nthrough upon the floor, with a mass of degraded outcasts, men and women.\n\nAll these horrors afflicted Jurgis all the more cruelly, because he\nwas always contrasting them with the opportunities he had lost. For\ninstance, just now it was election time again--within five or six weeks\nthe voters of the country would select a President; and he heard the\nwretches with whom he associated discussing it, and saw the streets\nof the city decorated with placards and banners--and what words could\ndescribe the pangs of grief and despair that shot through him?\n\nFor instance, there was a night during this cold spell. He had begged\nall day, for his very life, and found not a soul to heed him, until\ntoward evening he saw an old lady getting off a streetcar and helped\nher down with her umbrellas and bundles and then told her his \"hard-luck\nstory,\" and after answering all her suspicious questions satisfactorily,\nwas taken to a restaurant and saw a quarter paid down for a meal. And so\nhe had soup and bread, and boiled beef and potatoes and beans, and pie\nand coffee, and came out with his skin stuffed tight as a football. And\nthen, through the rain and the darkness, far down the street he saw red\nlights flaring and heard the thumping of a bass drum; and his heart gave\na leap, and he made for the place on the run--knowing without the asking\nthat it meant a political meeting.\n\nThe campaign had so far been characterized by what the newspapers termed\n\"apathy.\" For some reason the people refused to get excited over the\nstruggle, and it was almost impossible to get them to come to meetings,\nor to make any noise when they did come. Those which had been held in\nChicago so far had proven most dismal failures, and tonight, the speaker\nbeing no less a personage than a candidate for the vice-presidency of\nthe nation, the political managers had been trembling with anxiety. But\na merciful providence had sent this storm of cold rain--and now all it\nwas necessary to do was to set off a few fireworks, and thump awhile on\na drum, and all the homeless wretches from a mile around would pour in\nand fill the hall! And then on the morrow the newspapers would have a\nchance to report the tremendous ovation, and to add that it had been no\n\"silk-stocking\" audience, either, proving clearly that the high\ntariff sentiments of the distinguished candidate were pleasing to the\nwage-earners of the nation.\n\nSo Jurgis found himself in a large hall, elaborately decorated with\nflags and bunting; and after the chairman had made his little speech,\nand the orator of the evening rose up, amid an uproar from the\nband--only fancy the emotions of Jurgis upon making the discovery\nthat the personage was none other than the famous and eloquent Senator\nSpareshanks, who had addressed the \"Doyle Republican Association\" at\nthe stockyards, and helped to elect Mike Scully's tenpin setter to the\nChicago Board of Aldermen!\n\nIn truth, the sight of the senator almost brought the tears into\nJurgis's eyes. What agony it was to him to look back upon those golden\nhours, when he, too, had a place beneath the shadow of the plum tree!\nWhen he, too, had been of the elect, through whom the country is\ngoverned--when he had had a bung in the campaign barrel for his own! And\nthis was another election in which the Republicans had all the money;\nand but for that one hideous accident he might have had a share of it,\ninstead of being where he was!\n\n\nThe eloquent senator was explaining the system of protection; an\ningenious device whereby the workingman permitted the manufacturer to\ncharge him higher prices, in order that he might receive higher wages;\nthus taking his money out of his pocket with one hand, and putting a\npart of it back with the other. To the senator this unique arrangement\nhad somehow become identified with the higher verities of the universe.\nIt was because of it that Columbia was the gem of the ocean; and all her\nfuture triumphs, her power and good repute among the nations, depended\nupon the zeal and fidelity with which each citizen held up the hands of\nthose who were toiling to maintain it. The name of this heroic company\nwas \"the Grand Old Party\"--\n\nAnd here the band began to play, and Jurgis sat up with a violent\nstart. Singular as it may seem, Jurgis was making a desperate effort\nto understand what the senator was saying--to comprehend the extent of\nAmerican prosperity, the enormous expansion of American commerce, and\nthe Republic's future in the Pacific and in South America, and wherever\nelse the oppressed were groaning. The reason for it was that he wanted\nto keep awake. He knew that if he allowed himself to fall asleep\nhe would begin to snore loudly; and so he must listen--he must be\ninterested! But he had eaten such a big dinner, and he was so exhausted,\nand the hall was so warm, and his seat was so comfortable! The senator's\ngaunt form began to grow dim and hazy, to tower before him and dance\nabout, with figures of exports and imports. Once his neighbor gave him\na savage poke in the ribs, and he sat up with a start and tried to look\ninnocent; but then he was at it again, and men began to stare at him\nwith annoyance, and to call out in vexation. Finally one of them called\na policeman, who came and grabbed Jurgis by the collar, and jerked him\nto his feet, bewildered and terrified. Some of the audience turned to\nsee the commotion, and Senator Spareshanks faltered in his speech; but a\nvoice shouted cheerily: \"We're just firing a bum! Go ahead, old sport!\"\nAnd so the crowd roared, and the senator smiled genially, and went on;\nand in a few seconds poor Jurgis found himself landed out in the rain,\nwith a kick and a string of curses.\n\nHe got into the shelter of a doorway and took stock of himself. He was\nnot hurt, and he was not arrested--more than he had any right to expect.\nHe swore at himself and his luck for a while, and then turned his\nthoughts to practical matters. He had no money, and no place to sleep;\nhe must begin begging again.\n\nHe went out, hunching his shoulders together and shivering at the touch\nof the icy rain. Coming down the street toward him was a lady, well\ndressed, and protected by an umbrella; and he turned and walked beside\nher. \"Please, ma'am,\" he began, \"could you lend me the price of a\nnight's lodging? I'm a poor working-man--\"\n\nThen, suddenly, he stopped short. By the light of a street lamp he had\ncaught sight of the lady's face. He knew her.\n\nIt was Alena Jasaityte, who had been the belle of his wedding feast!\nAlena Jasaityte, who had looked so beautiful, and danced with such a\nqueenly air, with Juozas Raczius, the teamster! Jurgis had only seen\nher once or twice afterward, for Juozas had thrown her over for another\ngirl, and Alena had gone away from Packingtown, no one knew where. And\nnow he met her here!\n\nShe was as much surprised as he was. \"Jurgis Rudkus!\" she gasped. \"And\nwhat in the world is the matter with you?\"\n\n\"I--I've had hard luck,\" he stammered. \"I'm out of work, and I've no\nhome and no money. And you, Alena--are you married?\"\n\n\"No,\" she answered, \"I'm not married, but I've got a good place.\"\n\nThey stood staring at each other for a few moments longer. Finally Alena\nspoke again. \"Jurgis,\" she said, \"I'd help you if I could, upon my\nword I would, but it happens that I've come out without my purse, and\nI honestly haven't a penny with me: I can do something better for you,\nthough--I can tell you how to get help. I can tell you where Marija is.\"\n\nJurgis gave a start. \"Marija!\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Alena; \"and she'll help you. She's got a place, and she's\ndoing well; she'll be glad to see you.\"\n\nIt was not much more than a year since Jurgis had left Packingtown,\nfeeling like one escaped from jail; and it had been from Marija and\nElzbieta that he was escaping. But now, at the mere mention of them, his\nwhole being cried out with joy. He wanted to see them; he wanted to go\nhome! They would help him--they would be kind to him. In a flash he had\nthought over the situation. He had a good excuse for running away--his\ngrief at the death of his son; and also he had a good excuse for not\nreturning--the fact that they had left Packingtown. \"All right,\" he\nsaid, \"I'll go.\"\n\nSo she gave him a number on Clark Street, adding, \"There's no need\nto give you my address, because Marija knows it.\" And Jurgis set out,\nwithout further ado. He found a large brownstone house of aristocratic\nappearance, and rang the basement bell. A young colored girl came to the\ndoor, opening it about an inch, and gazing at him suspiciously.\n\n\"What do you want?\" she demanded.\n\n\"Does Marija Berczynskas live here?\" he inquired.\n\n\"I dunno,\" said the girl. \"What you want wid her?\"\n\n\"I want to see her,\" said he; \"she's a relative of mine.\"\n\nThe girl hesitated a moment. Then she opened the door and said, \"Come\nin.\" Jurgis came and stood in the hall, and she continued: \"I'll go see.\nWhat's yo' name?\"\n\n\"Tell her it's Jurgis,\" he answered, and the girl went upstairs. She\ncame back at the end of a minute or two, and replied, \"Dey ain't no sich\nperson here.\"\n\nJurgis's heart went down into his boots. \"I was told this was where she\nlived!\" he cried. But the girl only shook her head. \"De lady says dey\nain't no sich person here,\" she said.\n\nAnd he stood for a moment, hesitating, helpless with dismay. Then he\nturned to go to the door. At the same instant, however, there came a\nknock upon it, and the girl went to open it. Jurgis heard the shuffling\nof feet, and then heard her give a cry; and the next moment she sprang\nback, and past him, her eyes shining white with terror, and bounded up\nthe stairway, screaming at the top of her lungs: \"Police! Police! We're\npinched!\"\n\nJurgis stood for a second, bewildered. Then, seeing blue-coated forms\nrushing upon him, he sprang after the Negress. Her cries had been the\nsignal for a wild uproar above; the house was full of people, and as he\nentered the hallway he saw them rushing hither and thither, crying and\nscreaming with alarm. There were men and women, the latter clad for the\nmost part in wrappers, the former in all stages of dishabille. At one\nside Jurgis caught a glimpse of a big apartment with plush-covered\nchairs, and tables covered with trays and glasses. There were playing\ncards scattered all over the floor--one of the tables had been upset,\nand bottles of wine were rolling about, their contents running out upon\nthe carpet. There was a young girl who had fainted, and two men who were\nsupporting her; and there were a dozen others crowding toward the front\ndoor.\n\nSuddenly, however, there came a series of resounding blows upon it,\ncausing the crowd to give back. At the same instant a stout woman, with\npainted cheeks and diamonds in her ears, came running down the stairs,\npanting breathlessly: \"To the rear! Quick!\"\n\nShe led the way to a back staircase, Jurgis following; in the kitchen\nshe pressed a spring, and a cupboard gave way and opened, disclosing a\ndark passageway. \"Go in!\" she cried to the crowd, which now amounted to\ntwenty or thirty, and they began to pass through. Scarcely had the last\none disappeared, however, before there were cries from in front, and\nthen the panic-stricken throng poured out again, exclaiming: \"They're\nthere too! We're trapped!\"\n\n\"Upstairs!\" cried the woman, and there was another rush of the mob,\nwomen and men cursing and screaming and fighting to be first. One\nflight, two, three--and then there was a ladder to the roof, with a\ncrowd packed at the foot of it, and one man at the top, straining and\nstruggling to lift the trap door. It was not to be stirred, however,\nand when the woman shouted up to unhook it, he answered: \"It's already\nunhooked. There's somebody sitting on it!\"\n\nAnd a moment later came a voice from downstairs: \"You might as well\nquit, you people. We mean business, this time.\"\n\nSo the crowd subsided; and a few moments later several policemen came\nup, staring here and there, and leering at their victims. Of the latter\nthe men were for the most part frightened and sheepish-looking. The\nwomen took it as a joke, as if they were used to it--though if they had\nbeen pale, one could not have told, for the paint on their cheeks. One\nblack-eyed young girl perched herself upon the top of the balustrade,\nand began to kick with her slippered foot at the helmets of the\npolicemen, until one of them caught her by the ankle and pulled her\ndown. On the floor below four or five other girls sat upon trunks in the\nhall, making fun of the procession which filed by them. They were noisy\nand hilarious, and had evidently been drinking; one of them, who wore a\nbright red kimono, shouted and screamed in a voice that drowned out all\nthe other sounds in the hall--and Jurgis took a glance at her, and then\ngave a start, and a cry, \"Marija!\"\n\nShe heard him, and glanced around; then she shrank back and half sprang\nto her feet in amazement. \"Jurgis!\" she gasped.\n\nFor a second or two they stood staring at each other. \"How did you come\nhere?\" Marija exclaimed.\n\n\"I came to see you,\" he answered.\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"Just now.\"\n\n\"But how did you know--who told you I was here?\"\n\n\"Alena Jasaityte. I met her on the street.\"\n\nAgain there was a silence, while they gazed at each other. The rest of\nthe crowd was watching them, and so Marija got up and came closer to\nhim. \"And you?\" Jurgis asked. \"You live here?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Marija, \"I live here.\" Then suddenly came a hail from below:\n\"Get your clothes on now, girls, and come along. You'd best begin, or\nyou'll be sorry--it's raining outside.\"\n\n\"Br-r-r!\" shivered some one, and the women got up and entered the\nvarious doors which lined the hallway.\n\n\"Come,\" said Marija, and took Jurgis into her room, which was a tiny\nplace about eight by six, with a cot and a chair and a dressing stand\nand some dresses hanging behind the door. There were clothes scattered\nabout on the floor, and hopeless confusion everywhere--boxes of rouge\nand bottles of perfume mixed with hats and soiled dishes on the dresser,\nand a pair of slippers and a clock and a whisky bottle on a chair.\n\nMarija had nothing on but a kimono and a pair of stockings; yet she\nproceeded to dress before Jurgis, and without even taking the trouble to\nclose the door. He had by this time divined what sort of a place he was\nin; and he had seen a great deal of the world since he had left home,\nand was not easy to shock--and yet it gave him a painful start that\nMarija should do this. They had always been decent people at home, and\nit seemed to him that the memory of old times ought to have ruled her.\nBut then he laughed at himself for a fool. What was he, to be pretending\nto decency!\n\n\"How long have you been living here?\" he asked.\n\n\"Nearly a year,\" she answered.\n\n\"Why did you come?\"\n\n\"I had to live,\" she said; \"and I couldn't see the children starve.\"\n\nHe paused for a moment, watching her. \"You were out of work?\" he asked,\nfinally.\n\n\"I got sick,\" she replied, \"and after that I had no money. And then\nStanislovas died--\"\n\n\"Stanislovas dead!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Marija, \"I forgot. You didn't know about it.\"\n\n\"How did he die?\"\n\n\"Rats killed him,\" she answered.\n\nJurgis gave a gasp. \"Rats killed him!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the other; she was bending over, lacing her shoes as she\nspoke. \"He was working in an oil factory--at least he was hired by the\nmen to get their beer. He used to carry cans on a long pole; and he'd\ndrink a little out of each can, and one day he drank too much, and fell\nasleep in a corner, and got locked up in the place all night. When they\nfound him the rats had killed him and eaten him nearly all up.\"\n\nJurgis sat, frozen with horror. Marija went on lacing up her shoes.\nThere was a long silence.\n\nSuddenly a big policeman came to the door. \"Hurry up, there,\" he said.\n\n\"As quick as I can,\" said Marija, and she stood up and began putting on\nher corsets with feverish haste.\n\n\"Are the rest of the people alive?\" asked Jurgis, finally.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said.\n\n\"Where are they?\"\n\n\"They live not far from here. They're all right now.\"\n\n\"They are working?\" he inquired.\n\n\"Elzbieta is,\" said Marija, \"when she can. I take care of them most of\nthe time--I'm making plenty of money now.\"\n\nJurgis was silent for a moment. \"Do they know you live here--how you\nlive?\" he asked.\n\n\"Elzbieta knows,\" answered Marija. \"I couldn't lie to her. And maybe the\nchildren have found out by this time. It's nothing to be ashamed of--we\ncan't help it.\"\n\n\"And Tamoszius?\" he asked. \"Does he know?\"\n\nMarija shrugged her shoulders. \"How do I know?\" she said. \"I haven't\nseen him for over a year. He got blood poisoning and lost one finger,\nand couldn't play the violin any more; and then he went away.\"\n\nMarija was standing in front of the glass fastening her dress. Jurgis\nsat staring at her. He could hardly believe that she was the same woman\nhe had known in the old days; she was so quiet--so hard! It struck fear\nto his heart to watch her.\n\nThen suddenly she gave a glance at him. \"You look as if you had been\nhaving a rough time of it yourself,\" she said.\n\n\"I have,\" he answered. \"I haven't a cent in my pockets, and nothing to\ndo.\"\n\n\"Where have you been?\"\n\n\"All over. I've been hoboing it. Then I went back to the yards--just\nbefore the strike.\" He paused for a moment, hesitating. \"I asked for\nyou,\" he added. \"I found you had gone away, no one knew where. Perhaps\nyou think I did you a dirty trick running away as I did, Marija--\"\n\n\"No,\" she answered, \"I don't blame you. We never have--any of us. You\ndid your best--the job was too much for us.\" She paused a moment, then\nadded: \"We were too ignorant--that was the trouble. We didn't stand any\nchance. If I'd known what I know now we'd have won out.\"\n\n\"You'd have come here?\" said Jurgis.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered; \"but that's not what I meant. I meant you--how\ndifferently you would have behaved--about Ona.\"\n\nJurgis was silent; he had never thought of that aspect of it.\n\n\"When people are starving,\" the other continued, \"and they have anything\nwith a price, they ought to sell it, I say. I guess you realize it\nnow when it's too late. Ona could have taken care of us all, in the\nbeginning.\" Marija spoke without emotion, as one who had come to regard\nthings from the business point of view.\n\n\"I--yes, I guess so,\" Jurgis answered hesitatingly. He did not add\nthat he had paid three hundred dollars, and a foreman's job, for the\nsatisfaction of knocking down \"Phil\" Connor a second time.\n\nThe policeman came to the door again just then. \"Come on, now,\" he said.\n\"Lively!\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Marija, reaching for her hat, which was big enough to\nbe a drum major's, and full of ostrich feathers. She went out into the\nhall and Jurgis followed, the policeman remaining to look under the bed\nand behind the door.\n\n\"What's going to come of this?\" Jurgis asked, as they started down the\nsteps.\n\n\"The raid, you mean? Oh, nothing--it happens to us every now and then.\nThe madame's having some sort of time with the police; I don't know\nwhat it is, but maybe they'll come to terms before morning. Anyhow, they\nwon't do anything to you. They always let the men off.\"\n\n\"Maybe so,\" he responded, \"but not me--I'm afraid I'm in for it.\"\n\n\"How do you mean?\"\n\n\"I'm wanted by the police,\" he said, lowering his voice, though of\ncourse their conversation was in Lithuanian. \"They'll send me up for a\nyear or two, I'm afraid.\"\n\n\"Hell!\" said Marija. \"That's too bad. I'll see if I can't get you off.\"\n\nDownstairs, where the greater part of the prisoners were now massed, she\nsought out the stout personage with the diamond earrings, and had a few\nwhispered words with her. The latter then approached the police sergeant\nwho was in charge of the raid. \"Billy,\" she said, pointing to Jurgis,\n\"there's a fellow who came in to see his sister. He'd just got in the\ndoor when you knocked. You aren't taking hoboes, are you?\"\n\nThe sergeant laughed as he looked at Jurgis. \"Sorry,\" he said, \"but the\norders are every one but the servants.\"\n\nSo Jurgis slunk in among the rest of the men, who kept dodging behind\neach other like sheep that have smelled a wolf. There were old men\nand young men, college boys and gray-beards old enough to be their\ngrandfathers; some of them wore evening dress--there was no one among\nthem save Jurgis who showed any signs of poverty.\n\nWhen the roundup was completed, the doors were opened and the party\nmarched out. Three patrol wagons were drawn up at the curb, and the\nwhole neighborhood had turned out to see the sport; there was much\nchaffing, and a universal craning of necks. The women stared about them\nwith defiant eyes, or laughed and joked, while the men kept their heads\nbowed, and their hats pulled over their faces. They were crowded into\nthe patrol wagons as if into streetcars, and then off they went amid a\ndin of cheers. At the station house Jurgis gave a Polish name and was\nput into a cell with half a dozen others; and while these sat and\ntalked in whispers, he lay down in a corner and gave himself up to his\nthoughts.\n\nJurgis had looked into the deepest reaches of the social pit, and grown\nused to the sights in them. Yet when he had thought of all humanity as\nvile and hideous, he had somehow always excepted his own family that he\nhad loved; and now this sudden horrible discovery--Marija a whore, and\nElzbieta and the children living off her shame! Jurgis might argue\nwith himself all he chose, that he had done worse, and was a fool\nfor caring--but still he could not get over the shock of that sudden\nunveiling, he could not help being sunk in grief because of it. The\ndepths of him were troubled and shaken, memories were stirred in him\nthat had been sleeping so long he had counted them dead. Memories of the\nold life--his old hopes and his old yearnings, his old dreams of decency\nand independence! He saw Ona again, he heard her gentle voice pleading\nwith him. He saw little Antanas, whom he had meant to make a man. He saw\nhis trembling old father, who had blessed them all with his wonderful\nlove. He lived again through that day of horror when he had discovered\nOna's shame--God, how he had suffered, what a madman he had been!\nHow dreadful it had all seemed to him; and now, today, he had sat and\nlistened, and half agreed when Marija told him he had been a fool!\nYes--told him that he ought to have sold his wife's honor and lived by\nit!--And then there was Stanislovas and his awful fate--that brief story\nwhich Marija had narrated so calmly, with such dull indifference! The\npoor little fellow, with his frostbitten fingers and his terror of the\nsnow--his wailing voice rang in Jurgis's ears, as he lay there in the\ndarkness, until the sweat started on his forehead. Now and then he\nwould quiver with a sudden spasm of horror, at the picture of little\nStanislovas shut up in the deserted building and fighting for his life\nwith the rats!\n\nAll these emotions had become strangers to the soul of Jurgis; it was so\nlong since they had troubled him that he had ceased to think they might\never trouble him again. Helpless, trapped, as he was, what good did they\ndo him--why should he ever have allowed them to torment him? It had been\nthe task of his recent life to fight them down, to crush them out of\nhim; never in his life would he have suffered from them again, save\nthat they had caught him unawares, and overwhelmed him before he could\nprotect himself. He heard the old voices of his soul, he saw its old\nghosts beckoning to him, stretching out their arms to him! But they were\nfar-off and shadowy, and the gulf between them was black and bottomless;\nthey would fade away into the mists of the past once more. Their voices\nwould die, and never again would he hear them--and so the last faint\nspark of manhood in his soul would flicker out.\n\n\nChapter 28\n\n\nAfter breakfast Jurgis was driven to the court, which was crowded with\nthe prisoners and those who had come out of curiosity or in the hope\nof recognizing one of the men and getting a case for blackmail. The men\nwere called up first, and reprimanded in a bunch, and then dismissed;\nbut, Jurgis, to his terror, was called separately, as being a\nsuspicious-looking case. It was in this very same court that he had been\ntried, that time when his sentence had been \"suspended\"; it was the same\njudge, and the same clerk. The latter now stared at Jurgis, as if he\nhalf thought that he knew him; but the judge had no suspicions--just\nthen his thoughts were upon a telephone message he was expecting from a\nfriend of the police captain of the district, telling what disposition\nhe should make of the case of \"Polly\" Simpson, as the \"madame\" of the\nhouse was known. Meantime, he listened to the story of how Jurgis had\nbeen looking for his sister, and advised him dryly to keep his sister\nin a better place; then he let him go, and proceeded to fine each of the\ngirls five dollars, which fines were paid in a bunch from a wad of bills\nwhich Madame Polly extracted from her stocking.\n\nJurgis waited outside and walked home with Marija. The police had left\nthe house, and already there were a few visitors; by evening the place\nwould be running again, exactly as if nothing had happened. Meantime,\nMarija took Jurgis upstairs to her room, and they sat and talked. By\ndaylight, Jurgis was able to observe that the color on her cheeks was\nnot the old natural one of abounding health; her complexion was in\nreality a parchment yellow, and there were black rings under her eyes.\n\n\"Have you been sick?\" he asked.\n\n\"Sick?\" she said. \"Hell!\" (Marija had learned to scatter her\nconversation with as many oaths as a longshoreman or a mule driver.)\n\"How can I ever be anything but sick, at this life?\"\n\nShe fell silent for a moment, staring ahead of her gloomily. \"It's\nmorphine,\" she said, at last. \"I seem to take more of it every day.\"\n\n\"What's that for?\" he asked.\n\n\"It's the way of it; I don't know why. If it isn't that, it's drink. If\nthe girls didn't booze they couldn't stand it any time at all. And the\nmadame always gives them dope when they first come, and they learn to\nlike it; or else they take it for headaches and such things, and get\nthe habit that way. I've got it, I know; I've tried to quit, but I never\nwill while I'm here.\"\n\n\"How long are you going to stay?\" he asked.\n\n\"I don't know,\" she said. \"Always, I guess. What else could I do?\"\n\n\"Don't you save any money?\"\n\n\"Save!\" said Marija. \"Good Lord, no! I get enough, I suppose, but it all\ngoes. I get a half share, two dollars and a half for each customer, and\nsometimes I make twenty-five or thirty dollars a night, and you'd think\nI ought to save something out of that! But then I am charged for my\nroom and my meals--and such prices as you never heard of; and then for\nextras, and drinks--for everything I get, and some I don't. My laundry\nbill is nearly twenty dollars each week alone--think of that! Yet what\ncan I do? I either have to stand it or quit, and it would be the same\nanywhere else. It's all I can do to save the fifteen dollars I give\nElzbieta each week, so the children can go to school.\"\n\nMarija sat brooding in silence for a while; then, seeing that Jurgis was\ninterested, she went on: \"That's the way they keep the girls--they\nlet them run up debts, so they can't get away. A young girl comes from\nabroad, and she doesn't know a word of English, and she gets into a\nplace like this, and when she wants to go the madame shows her that she\nis a couple of hundred dollars in debt, and takes all her clothes away,\nand threatens to have her arrested if she doesn't stay and do as she's\ntold. So she stays, and the longer she stays, the more in debt she gets.\nOften, too, they are girls that didn't know what they were coming to,\nthat had hired out for housework. Did you notice that little French girl\nwith the yellow hair, that stood next to me in the court?\"\n\nJurgis answered in the affirmative.\n\n\"Well, she came to America about a year ago. She was a store clerk, and\nshe hired herself to a man to be sent here to work in a factory. There\nwere six of them, all together, and they were brought to a house just\ndown the street from here, and this girl was put into a room alone, and\nthey gave her some dope in her food, and when she came to she found that\nshe had been ruined. She cried, and screamed, and tore her hair, but she\nhad nothing but a wrapper, and couldn't get away, and they kept her half\ninsensible with drugs all the time, until she gave up. She never got\noutside of that place for ten months, and then they sent her away,\nbecause she didn't suit. I guess they'll put her out of here, too--she's\ngetting to have crazy fits, from drinking absinthe. Only one of\nthe girls that came out with her got away, and she jumped out of a\nsecond-story window one night. There was a great fuss about that--maybe\nyou heard of it.\"\n\n\"I did,\" said Jurgis, \"I heard of it afterward.\" (It had happened in the\nplace where he and Duane had taken refuge from their \"country customer.\"\nThe girl had become insane, fortunately for the police.)\n\n\"There's lots of money in it,\" said Marija--\"they get as much as forty\ndollars a head for girls, and they bring them from all over. There are\nseventeen in this place, and nine different countries among them.\nIn some places you might find even more. We have half a dozen French\ngirls--I suppose it's because the madame speaks the language. French\ngirls are bad, too, the worst of all, except for the Japanese. There's\na place next door that's full of Japanese women, but I wouldn't live in\nthe same house with one of them.\"\n\nMarija paused for a moment or two, and then she added: \"Most of the\nwomen here are pretty decent--you'd be surprised. I used to think they\ndid it because they liked to; but fancy a woman selling herself to\nevery kind of man that comes, old or young, black or white--and doing it\nbecause she likes to!\"\n\n\"Some of them say they do,\" said Jurgis.\n\n\"I know,\" said she; \"they say anything. They're in, and they know they\ncan't get out. But they didn't like it when they began--you'd find\nout--it's always misery! There's a little Jewish girl here who used to\nrun errands for a milliner, and got sick and lost her place; and she was\nfour days on the streets without a mouthful of food, and then she went\nto a place just around the corner and offered herself, and they made her\ngive up her clothes before they would give her a bite to eat!\"\n\nMarija sat for a minute or two, brooding somberly. \"Tell me about\nyourself, Jurgis,\" she said, suddenly. \"Where have you been?\"\n\nSo he told her the long story of his adventures since his flight from\nhome; his life as a tramp, and his work in the freight tunnels, and the\naccident; and then of Jack Duane, and of his political career in the\nstockyards, and his downfall and subsequent failures. Marija listened\nwith sympathy; it was easy to believe the tale of his late starvation,\nfor his face showed it all. \"You found me just in the nick of time,\" she\nsaid. \"I'll stand by you--I'll help you till you can get some work.\"\n\n\"I don't like to let you--\" he began.\n\n\"Why not? Because I'm here?\"\n\n\"No, not that,\" he said. \"But I went off and left you--\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said Marija. \"Don't think about it. I don't blame you.\"\n\n\"You must be hungry,\" she said, after a minute or two. \"You stay here to\nlunch--I'll have something up in the room.\"\n\nShe pressed a button, and a colored woman came to the door and took her\norder. \"It's nice to have somebody to wait on you,\" she observed, with a\nlaugh, as she lay back on the bed.\n\nAs the prison breakfast had not been liberal, Jurgis had a good\nappetite, and they had a little feast together, talking meanwhile\nof Elzbieta and the children and old times. Shortly before they were\nthrough, there came another colored girl, with the message that the\n\"madame\" wanted Marija--\"Lithuanian Mary,\" as they called her here.\n\n\"That means you have to go,\" she said to Jurgis.\n\nSo he got up, and she gave him the new address of the family, a tenement\nover in the Ghetto district. \"You go there,\" she said. \"They'll be glad\nto see you.\"\n\nBut Jurgis stood hesitating.\n\n\"I--I don't like to,\" he said. \"Honest, Marija, why don't you just give\nme a little money and let me look for work first?\"\n\n\"How do you need money?\" was her reply. \"All you want is something to\neat and a place to sleep, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said; \"but then I don't like to go there after I left\nthem--and while I have nothing to do, and while you--you--\"\n\n\"Go on!\" said Marija, giving him a push. \"What are you talking?--I won't\ngive you money,\" she added, as she followed him to the door, \"because\nyou'll drink it up, and do yourself harm. Here's a quarter for you now,\nand go along, and they'll be so glad to have you back, you won't have\ntime to feel ashamed. Good-by!\"\n\n\nSo Jurgis went out, and walked down the street to think it over. He\ndecided that he would first try to get work, and so he put in the rest\nof the day wandering here and there among factories and warehouses\nwithout success. Then, when it was nearly dark, he concluded to go home,\nand set out; but he came to a restaurant, and went in and spent his\nquarter for a meal; and when he came out he changed his mind--the night\nwas pleasant, and he would sleep somewhere outside, and put in the\nmorrow hunting, and so have one more chance of a job. So he started away\nagain, when suddenly he chanced to look about him, and found that he\nwas walking down the same street and past the same hall where he had\nlistened to the political speech the night before. There was no red\nfire and no band now, but there was a sign out, announcing a meeting,\nand a stream of people pouring in through the entrance. In a flash\nJurgis had decided that he would chance it once more, and sit down\nand rest while making up his mind what to do. There was no one taking\ntickets, so it must be a free show again.\n\nHe entered. There were no decorations in the hall this time; but there\nwas quite a crowd upon the platform, and almost every seat in the place\nwas filled. He took one of the last, far in the rear, and straightway\nforgot all about his surroundings. Would Elzbieta think that he had come\nto sponge off her, or would she understand that he meant to get to work\nagain and do his share? Would she be decent to him, or would she scold\nhim? If only he could get some sort of a job before he went--if that\nlast boss had only been willing to try him!\n\n--Then suddenly Jurgis looked up. A tremendous roar had burst from the\nthroats of the crowd, which by this time had packed the hall to the very\ndoors. Men and women were standing up, waving handkerchiefs, shouting,\nyelling. Evidently the speaker had arrived, thought Jurgis; what fools\nthey were making of themselves! What were they expecting to get out\nof it anyhow--what had they to do with elections, with governing the\ncountry? Jurgis had been behind the scenes in politics.\n\nHe went back to his thoughts, but with one further fact to reckon\nwith--that he was caught here. The hall was now filled to the doors; and\nafter the meeting it would be too late for him to go home, so he would\nhave to make the best of it outside. Perhaps it would be better to go\nhome in the morning, anyway, for the children would be at school, and\nhe and Elzbieta could have a quiet explanation. She always had been a\nreasonable person; and he really did mean to do right. He would manage\nto persuade her of it--and besides, Marija was willing, and Marija was\nfurnishing the money. If Elzbieta were ugly, he would tell her that in\nso many words.\n\nSo Jurgis went on meditating; until finally, when he had been an hour\nor two in the hall, there began to prepare itself a repetition of the\ndismal catastrophe of the night before. Speaking had been going on\nall the time, and the audience was clapping its hands and shouting,\nthrilling with excitement; and little by little the sounds were\nbeginning to blur in Jurgis's ears, and his thoughts were beginning to\nrun together, and his head to wobble and nod. He caught himself many\ntimes, as usual, and made desperate resolutions; but the hall was hot\nand close, and his long walk and is dinner were too much for him--in the\nend his head sank forward and he went off again.\n\nAnd then again someone nudged him, and he sat up with his old terrified\nstart! He had been snoring again, of course! And now what? He fixed his\neyes ahead of him, with painful intensity, staring at the platform as\nif nothing else ever had interested him, or ever could interest him, all\nhis life. He imagined the angry exclamations, the hostile glances; he\nimagined the policeman striding toward him--reaching for his neck. Or\nwas he to have one more chance? Were they going to let him alone this\ntime? He sat trembling; waiting--\n\nAnd then suddenly came a voice in his ear, a woman's voice, gentle\nand sweet, \"If you would try to listen, comrade, perhaps you would be\ninterested.\"\n\nJurgis was more startled by that than he would have been by the touch of\na policeman. He still kept his eyes fixed ahead, and did not stir;\nbut his heart gave a great leap. Comrade! Who was it that called him\n\"comrade\"?\n\nHe waited long, long; and at last, when he was sure that he was no\nlonger watched, he stole a glance out of the corner of his eyes at the\nwoman who sat beside him. She was young and beautiful; she wore fine\nclothes, and was what is called a \"lady.\" And she called him \"comrade\"!\n\nHe turned a little, carefully, so that he could see her better; then he\nbegan to watch her, fascinated. She had apparently forgotten all\nabout him, and was looking toward the platform. A man was speaking\nthere--Jurgis heard his voice vaguely; but all his thoughts were for\nthis woman's face. A feeling of alarm stole over him as he stared at\nher. It made his flesh creep. What was the matter with her, what could\nbe going on, to affect any one like that? She sat as one turned to\nstone, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, so tightly that he could\nsee the cords standing out in her wrists. There was a look of excitement\nupon her face, of tense effort, as of one struggling mightily, or\nwitnessing a struggle. There was a faint quivering of her nostrils; and\nnow and then she would moisten her lips with feverish haste. Her bosom\nrose and fell as she breathed, and her excitement seemed to mount higher\nand higher, and then to sink away again, like a boat tossing upon ocean\nsurges. What was it? What was the matter? It must be something that the\nman was saying, up there on the platform. What sort of a man was he?\nAnd what sort of thing was this, anyhow?--So all at once it occurred to\nJurgis to look at the speaker.\n\nIt was like coming suddenly upon some wild sight of nature--a mountain\nforest lashed by a tempest, a ship tossed about upon a stormy sea.\nJurgis had an unpleasant sensation, a sense of confusion, of disorder,\nof wild and meaningless uproar. The man was tall and gaunt, as haggard\nas his auditor himself; a thin black beard covered half of his face,\nand one could see only two black hollows where the eyes were. He was\nspeaking rapidly, in great excitement; he used many gestures--as he spoke\nhe moved here and there upon the stage, reaching with his long arms as\nif to seize each person in his audience. His voice was deep, like an\norgan; it was some time, however, before Jurgis thought of the voice--he\nwas too much occupied with his eyes to think of what the man was saying.\nBut suddenly it seemed as if the speaker had begun pointing straight at\nhim, as if he had singled him out particularly for his remarks; and\nso Jurgis became suddenly aware of his voice, trembling, vibrant with\nemotion, with pain and longing, with a burden of things unutterable, not\nto be compassed by words. To hear it was to be suddenly arrested, to be\ngripped, transfixed.\n\n\"You listen to these things,\" the man was saying, \"and you say, 'Yes,\nthey are true, but they have been that way always.' Or you say, 'Maybe\nit will come, but not in my time--it will not help me.' And so you\nreturn to your daily round of toil, you go back to be ground up for\nprofits in the world-wide mill of economic might! To toil long hours\nfor another's advantage; to live in mean and squalid homes, to work in\ndangerous and unhealthful places; to wrestle with the specters of hunger\nand privation, to take your chances of accident, disease, and death. And\neach day the struggle becomes fiercer, the pace more cruel; each day\nyou have to toil a little harder, and feel the iron hand of circumstance\nclose upon you a little tighter. Months pass, years maybe--and then you\ncome again; and again I am here to plead with you, to know if want and\nmisery have yet done their work with you, if injustice and oppression\nhave yet opened your eyes! I shall still be waiting--there is nothing\nelse that I can do. There is no wilderness where I can hide from these\nthings, there is no haven where I can escape them; though I travel to\nthe ends of the earth, I find the same accursed system--I find that all\nthe fair and noble impulses of humanity, the dreams of poets and the\nagonies of martyrs, are shackled and bound in the service of organized\nand predatory Greed! And therefore I cannot rest, I cannot be\nsilent; therefore I cast aside comfort and happiness, health and good\nrepute--and go out into the world and cry out the pain of my spirit!\nTherefore I am not to be silenced by poverty and sickness, not by hatred\nand obloquy, by threats and ridicule--not by prison and persecution, if\nthey should come--not by any power that is upon the earth or above the\nearth, that was, or is, or ever can be created. If I fail tonight, I can\nonly try tomorrow; knowing that the fault must be mine--that if once\nthe vision of my soul were spoken upon earth, if once the anguish of\nits defeat were uttered in human speech, it would break the stoutest\nbarriers of prejudice, it would shake the most sluggish soul to action!\nIt would abash the most cynical, it would terrify the most selfish; and\nthe voice of mockery would be silenced, and fraud and falsehood would\nslink back into their dens, and the truth would stand forth alone! For I\nspeak with the voice of the millions who are voiceless! Of them that are\noppressed and have no comforter! Of the disinherited of life, for whom\nthere is no respite and no deliverance, to whom the world is a prison, a\ndungeon of torture, a tomb! With the voice of the little child who toils\ntonight in a Southern cotton mill, staggering with exhaustion, numb\nwith agony, and knowing no hope but the grave! Of the mother who sews by\ncandlelight in her tenement garret, weary and weeping, smitten with\nthe mortal hunger of her babes! Of the man who lies upon a bed of rags,\nwrestling in his last sickness and leaving his loved ones to perish! Of\nthe young girl who, somewhere at this moment, is walking the streets of\nthis horrible city, beaten and starving, and making her choice between\nthe brothel and the lake! With the voice of those, whoever and wherever\nthey may be, who are caught beneath the wheels of the Juggernaut of\nGreed! With the voice of humanity, calling for deliverance! Of the\neverlasting soul of Man, arising from the dust; breaking its way out of\nits prison--rending the bands of oppression and ignorance--groping its\nway to the light!\"\n\nThe speaker paused. There was an instant of silence, while men caught\ntheir breaths, and then like a single sound there came a cry from a\nthousand people. Through it all Jurgis sat still, motionless and rigid,\nhis eyes fixed upon the speaker; he was trembling, smitten with wonder.\n\nSuddenly the man raised his hands, and silence fell, and he began again.\n\n\"I plead with you,\" he said, \"whoever you may be, provided that you care\nabout the truth; but most of all I plead with working-man, with those\nto whom the evils I portray are not mere matters of sentiment, to be\ndallied and toyed with, and then perhaps put aside and forgotten--to\nwhom they are the grim and relentless realities of the daily grind, the\nchains upon their limbs, the lash upon their backs, the iron in their\nsouls. To you, working-men! To you, the toilers, who have made this\nland, and have no voice in its councils! To you, whose lot it is to sow\nthat others may reap, to labor and obey, and ask no more than the wages\nof a beast of burden, the food and shelter to keep you alive from day to\nday. It is to you that I come with my message of salvation, it is to you\nthat I appeal. I know how much it is to ask of you--I know, for I have\nbeen in your place, I have lived your life, and there is no man before\nme here tonight who knows it better. I have known what it is to be a\nstreet-waif, a bootblack, living upon a crust of bread and sleeping in\ncellar stairways and under empty wagons. I have known what it is to dare\nand to aspire, to dream mighty dreams and to see them perish--to see all\nthe fair flowers of my spirit trampled into the mire by the wild-beast\npowers of my life. I know what is the price that a working-man pays for\nknowledge--I have paid for it with food and sleep, with agony of body\nand mind, with health, almost with life itself; and so, when I come to\nyou with a story of hope and freedom, with the vision of a new earth to\nbe created, of a new labor to be dared, I am not surprised that I find\nyou sordid and material, sluggish and incredulous. That I do not despair\nis because I know also the forces that are driving behind you--because\nI know the raging lash of poverty, the sting of contempt and mastership,\n'the insolence of office and the spurns.' Because I feel sure that in\nthe crowd that has come to me tonight, no matter how many may be dull\nand heedless, no matter how many may have come out of idle curiosity, or\nin order to ridicule--there will be some one man whom pain and suffering\nhave made desperate, whom some chance vision of wrong and horror has\nstartled and shocked into attention. And to him my words will come like\na sudden flash of lightning to one who travels in darkness--revealing\nthe way before him, the perils and the obstacles--solving all problems,\nmaking all difficulties clear! The scales will fall from his eyes, the\nshackles will be torn from his limbs--he will leap up with a cry of\nthankfulness, he will stride forth a free man at last! A man\ndelivered from his self-created slavery! A man who will never more\nbe trapped--whom no blandishments will cajole, whom no threats will\nfrighten; who from tonight on will move forward, and not backward, who\nwill study and understand, who will gird on his sword and take his\nplace in the army of his comrades and brothers. Who will carry the good\ntidings to others, as I have carried them to him--priceless gift of\nliberty and light that is neither mine nor his, but is the heritage of\nthe soul of man! Working-men, working-men--comrades! open your eyes and\nlook about you! You have lived so long in the toil and heat that your\nsenses are dulled, your souls are numbed; but realize once in your lives\nthis world in which you dwell--tear off the rags of its customs and\nconventions--behold it as it is, in all its hideous nakedness! Realize\nit, realize it! Realize that out upon the plains of Manchuria tonight\ntwo hostile armies are facing each other--that now, while we are seated\nhere, a million human beings may be hurled at each other's throats,\nstriving with the fury of maniacs to tear each other to pieces! And this\nin the twentieth century, nineteen hundred years since the Prince of\nPeace was born on earth! Nineteen hundred years that his words have been\npreached as divine, and here two armies of men are rending and tearing\neach other like the wild beasts of the forest! Philosophers have\nreasoned, prophets have denounced, poets have wept and pleaded--and\nstill this hideous Monster roams at large! We have schools and colleges,\nnewspapers and books; we have searched the heavens and the earth, we\nhave weighed and probed and reasoned--and all to equip men to destroy\neach other! We call it War, and pass it by--but do not put me off with\nplatitudes and conventions--come with me, come with me--realize it!\nSee the bodies of men pierced by bullets, blown into pieces by bursting\nshells! Hear the crunching of the bayonet, plunged into human flesh;\nhear the groans and shrieks of agony, see the faces of men crazed by\npain, turned into fiends by fury and hate! Put your hand upon that piece\nof flesh--it is hot and quivering--just now it was a part of a man! This\nblood is still steaming--it was driven by a human heart! Almighty God!\nand this goes on--it is systematic, organized, premeditated! And we know\nit, and read of it, and take it for granted; our papers tell of it, and\nthe presses are not stopped--our churches know of it, and do not close\ntheir doors--the people behold it, and do not rise up in horror and\nrevolution!\n\n\"Or perhaps Manchuria is too far away for you--come home with me then,\ncome here to Chicago. Here in this city to-night ten thousand women are\nshut up in foul pens, and driven by hunger to sell their bodies to live.\nAnd we know it, we make it a jest! And these women are made in the image\nof your mothers, they may be your sisters, your daughters; the child\nwhom you left at home tonight, whose laughing eyes will greet you in the\nmorning--that fate may be waiting for her! To-night in Chicago there are\nten thousand men, homeless and wretched, willing to work and begging for\na chance, yet starving, and fronting in terror the awful winter cold!\nTonight in Chicago there are a hundred thousand children wearing out\ntheir strength and blasting their lives in the effort to earn their\nbread! There are a hundred thousand mothers who are living in misery and\nsqualor, struggling to earn enough to feed their little ones! There are\na hundred thousand old people, cast off and helpless, waiting for death\nto take them from their torments! There are a million people, men and\nwomen and children, who share the curse of the wage-slave; who toil\nevery hour they can stand and see, for just enough to keep them alive;\nwho are condemned till the end of their days to monotony and weariness,\nto hunger and misery, to heat and cold, to dirt and disease, to\nignorance and drunkenness and vice! And then turn over the page with me,\nand gaze upon the other side of the picture. There are a thousand--ten\nthousand, maybe--who are the masters of these slaves, who own their\ntoil. They do nothing to earn what they receive, they do not even have\nto ask for it--it comes to them of itself, their only care is to dispose\nof it. They live in palaces, they riot in luxury and extravagance--such\nas no words can describe, as makes the imagination reel and stagger,\nmakes the soul grow sick and faint. They spend hundreds of dollars for a\npair of shoes, a handkerchief, a garter; they spend millions for horses\nand automobiles and yachts, for palaces and banquets, for little shiny\nstones with which to deck their bodies. Their life is a contest among\nthemselves for supremacy in ostentation and recklessness, in the\ndestroying of useful and necessary things, in the wasting of the labor\nand the lives of their fellow creatures, the toil and anguish of the\nnations, the sweat and tears and blood of the human race! It is all\ntheirs--it comes to them; just as all the springs pour into streamlets,\nand the streamlets into rivers, and the rivers into the oceans--so,\nautomatically and inevitably, all the wealth of society comes to them.\nThe farmer tills the soil, the miner digs in the earth, the weaver tends\nthe loom, the mason carves the stone; the clever man invents, the shrewd\nman directs, the wise man studies, the inspired man sings--and all the\nresult, the products of the labor of brain and muscle, are gathered into\none stupendous stream and poured into their laps! The whole of society\nis in their grip, the whole labor of the world lies at their mercy--and\nlike fierce wolves they rend and destroy, like ravening vultures they\ndevour and tear! The whole power of mankind belongs to them, forever\nand beyond recall--do what it can, strive as it will, humanity lives for\nthem and dies for them! They own not merely the labor of society, they\nhave bought the governments; and everywhere they use their raped and\nstolen power to intrench themselves in their privileges, to dig wider\nand deeper the channels through which the river of profits flows to\nthem!--And you, workingmen, workingmen! You have been brought up to\nit, you plod on like beasts of burden, thinking only of the day and its\npain--yet is there a man among you who can believe that such a system\nwill continue forever--is there a man here in this audience tonight\nso hardened and debased that he dare rise up before me and say that\nhe believes it can continue forever; that the product of the labor of\nsociety, the means of existence of the human race, will always belong\nto idlers and parasites, to be spent for the gratification of vanity and\nlust--to be spent for any purpose whatever, to be at the disposal of any\nindividual will whatever--that somehow, somewhere, the labor of humanity\nwill not belong to humanity, to be used for the purposes of humanity, to\nbe controlled by the will of humanity? And if this is ever to be, how is\nit to be--what power is there that will bring it about? Will it be the\ntask of your masters, do you think--will they write the charter of your\nliberties? Will they forge you the sword of your deliverance, will they\nmarshal you the army and lead it to the fray? Will their wealth be spent\nfor the purpose--will they build colleges and churches to teach you,\nwill they print papers to herald your progress, and organize political\nparties to guide and carry on the struggle? Can you not see that the\ntask is your task--yours to dream, yours to resolve, yours to execute?\nThat if ever it is carried out, it will be in the face of every obstacle\nthat wealth and mastership can oppose--in the face of ridicule and\nslander, of hatred and persecution, of the bludgeon and the jail? That\nit will be by the power of your naked bosoms, opposed to the rage of\noppression! By the grim and bitter teaching of blind and merciless\naffliction! By the painful gropings of the untutored mind, by the feeble\nstammerings of the uncultured voice! By the sad and lonely hunger of\nthe spirit; by seeking and striving and yearning, by heartache and\ndespairing, by agony and sweat of blood! It will be by money paid for\nwith hunger, by knowledge stolen from sleep, by thoughts communicated\nunder the shadow of the gallows! It will be a movement beginning in the\nfar-off past, a thing obscure and unhonored, a thing easy to ridicule,\neasy to despise; a thing unlovely, wearing the aspect of vengeance and\nhate--but to you, the working-man, the wage-slave, calling with a voice\ninsistent, imperious--with a voice that you cannot escape, wherever upon\nthe earth you may be! With the voice of all your wrongs, with the voice\nof all your desires; with the voice of your duty and your hope--of\neverything in the world that is worth while to you! The voice of the\npoor, demanding that poverty shall cease! The voice of the oppressed,\npronouncing the doom of oppression! The voice of power, wrought out of\nsuffering--of resolution, crushed out of weakness--of joy and courage,\nborn in the bottomless pit of anguish and despair! The voice of Labor,\ndespised and outraged; a mighty giant, lying prostrate--mountainous,\ncolossal, but blinded, bound, and ignorant of his strength. And now a\ndream of resistance haunts him, hope battling with fear; until suddenly\nhe stirs, and a fetter snaps--and a thrill shoots through him, to the\nfarthest ends of his huge body, and in a flash the dream becomes an act!\nHe starts, he lifts himself; and the bands are shattered, the burdens\nroll off him--he rises--towering, gigantic; he springs to his feet, he\nshouts in his newborn exultation--\"\n\nAnd the speaker's voice broke suddenly, with the stress of his feelings;\nhe stood with his arms stretched out above him, and the power of his\nvision seemed to lift him from the floor. The audience came to its feet\nwith a yell; men waved their arms, laughing aloud in their excitement.\nAnd Jurgis was with them, he was shouting to tear his throat; shouting\nbecause he could not help it, because the stress of his feeling was more\nthan he could bear. It was not merely the man's words, the torrent\nof his eloquence. It was his presence, it was his voice: a voice with\nstrange intonations that rang through the chambers of the soul like the\nclanging of a bell--that gripped the listener like a mighty hand about\nhis body, that shook him and startled him with sudden fright, with\na sense of things not of earth, of mysteries never spoken before, of\npresences of awe and terror! There was an unfolding of vistas before\nhim, a breaking of the ground beneath him, an upheaving, a stirring,\na trembling; he felt himself suddenly a mere man no longer--there were\npowers within him undreamed of, there were demon forces contending,\nage-long wonders struggling to be born; and he sat oppressed with pain\nand joy, while a tingling stole down into his finger tips, and his\nbreath came hard and fast. The sentences of this man were to Jurgis like\nthe crashing of thunder in his soul; a flood of emotions surged up\nin him--all his old hopes and longings, his old griefs and rages and\ndespairs. All that he had ever felt in his whole life seemed to come\nback to him at once, and with one new emotion, hardly to be described.\nThat he should have suffered such oppressions and such horrors was bad\nenough; but that he should have been crushed and beaten by them, that he\nshould have submitted, and forgotten, and lived in peace--ah, truly that\nwas a thing not to be put into words, a thing not to be borne by a human\ncreature, a thing of terror and madness! \"What,\" asks the prophet, \"is\nthe murder of them that kill the body, to the murder of them that kill\nthe soul?\" And Jurgis was a man whose soul had been murdered, who had\nceased to hope and to struggle--who had made terms with degradation\nand despair; and now, suddenly, in one awful convulsion, the black and\nhideous fact was made plain to him! There was a falling in of all the\npillars of his soul, the sky seemed to split above him--he stood there,\nwith his clenched hands upraised, his eyes bloodshot, and the veins\nstanding out purple in his face, roaring in the voice of a wild beast,\nfrantic, incoherent, maniacal. And when he could shout no more he still\nstood there, gasping, and whispering hoarsely to himself: \"By God! By\nGod! By God!\"\n\n\nChapter 29\n\n\nThe man had gone back to a seat upon the platform, and Jurgis realized\nthat his speech was over. The applause continued for several minutes;\nand then some one started a song, and the crowd took it up, and the\nplace shook with it. Jurgis had never heard it, and he could not make\nout the words, but the wild and wonderful spirit of it seized upon\nhim--it was the \"Marseillaise!\" As stanza after stanza of it thundered\nforth, he sat with his hands clasped, trembling in every nerve. He\nhad never been so stirred in his life--it was a miracle that had been\nwrought in him. He could not think at all, he was stunned; yet he knew\nthat in the mighty upheaval that had taken place in his soul, a new man\nhad been born. He had been torn out of the jaws of destruction, he had\nbeen delivered from the thraldom of despair; the whole world had been\nchanged for him--he was free, he was free! Even if he were to suffer as\nhe had before, even if he were to beg and starve, nothing would be the\nsame to him; he would understand it, and bear it. He would no longer\nbe the sport of circumstances, he would be a man, with a will and a\npurpose; he would have something to fight for, something to die for,\nif need be! Here were men who would show him and help him; and he would\nhave friends and allies, he would dwell in the sight of justice, and\nwalk arm in arm with power.\n\nThe audience subsided again, and Jurgis sat back. The chairman of the\nmeeting came forward and began to speak. His voice sounded thin and\nfutile after the other's, and to Jurgis it seemed a profanation. Why\nshould any one else speak, after that miraculous man--why should they\nnot all sit in silence? The chairman was explaining that a collection\nwould now be taken up to defray the expenses of the meeting, and for the\nbenefit of the campaign fund of the party. Jurgis heard; but he had not\na penny to give, and so his thoughts went elsewhere again.\n\nHe kept his eyes fixed on the orator, who sat in an armchair, his head\nleaning on his hand and his attitude indicating exhaustion. But suddenly\nhe stood up again, and Jurgis heard the chairman of the meeting saying\nthat the speaker would now answer any questions which the audience might\ncare to put to him. The man came forward, and some one--a woman--arose\nand asked about some opinion the speaker had expressed concerning\nTolstoy. Jurgis had never heard of Tolstoy, and did not care anything\nabout him. Why should any one want to ask such questions, after an\naddress like that? The thing was not to talk, but to do; the thing was\nto get bold of others and rouse them, to organize them and prepare for\nthe fight! But still the discussion went on, in ordinary conversational\ntones, and it brought Jurgis back to the everyday world. A few minutes\nago he had felt like seizing the hand of the beautiful lady by his side,\nand kissing it; he had felt like flinging his arms about the neck of the\nman on the other side of him. And now he began to realize again that he\nwas a \"hobo,\" that he was ragged and dirty, and smelled bad, and had no\nplace to sleep that night!\n\nAnd so, at last, when the meeting broke up, and the audience started to\nleave, poor Jurgis was in an agony of uncertainty. He had not thought of\nleaving--he had thought that the vision must last forever, that he had\nfound comrades and brothers. But now he would go out, and the thing\nwould fade away, and he would never be able to find it again! He sat in\nhis seat, frightened and wondering; but others in the same row wanted to\nget out, and so he had to stand up and move along. As he was swept down\nthe aisle he looked from one person to another, wistfully; they were all\nexcitedly discussing the address--but there was nobody who offered to\ndiscuss it with him. He was near enough to the door to feel the night\nair, when desperation seized him. He knew nothing at all about that\nspeech he had heard, not even the name of the orator; and he was to go\naway--no, no, it was preposterous, he must speak to some one; he must\nfind that man himself and tell him. He would not despise him, tramp as\nhe was!\n\nSo he stepped into an empty row of seats and watched, and when the crowd\nhad thinned out, he started toward the platform. The speaker was gone;\nbut there was a stage door that stood open, with people passing in and\nout, and no one on guard. Jurgis summoned up his courage and went in,\nand down a hallway, and to the door of a room where many people were\ncrowded. No one paid any attention to him, and he pushed in, and in a\ncorner he saw the man he sought. The orator sat in a chair, with his\nshoulders sunk together and his eyes half closed; his face was ghastly\npale, almost greenish in hue, and one arm lay limp at his side. A big\nman with spectacles on stood near him, and kept pushing back the crowd,\nsaying, \"Stand away a little, please; can't you see the comrade is worn\nout?\"\n\nSo Jurgis stood watching, while five or ten minutes passed. Now and then\nthe man would look up, and address a word or two to those who were\nnear him; and, at last, on one of these occasions, his glance rested\non Jurgis. There seemed to be a slight hint of inquiry about it, and a\nsudden impulse seized the other. He stepped forward.\n\n\"I wanted to thank you, sir!\" he began, in breathless haste. \"I could\nnot go away without telling you how much--how glad I am I heard you.\nI--I didn't know anything about it all--\"\n\nThe big man with the spectacles, who had moved away, came back at this\nmoment. \"The comrade is too tired to talk to any one--\" he began; but\nthe other held up his hand.\n\n\"Wait,\" he said. \"He has something to say to me.\" And then he looked\ninto Jurgis's face. \"You want to know more about Socialism?\" he asked.\n\nJurgis started. \"I--I--\" he stammered. \"Is it Socialism? I didn't know.\nI want to know about what you spoke of--I want to help. I have been\nthrough all that.\"\n\n\"Where do you live?\" asked the other.\n\n\"I have no home,\" said Jurgis, \"I am out of work.\"\n\n\"You are a foreigner, are you not?\"\n\n\"Lithuanian, sir.\"\n\nThe man thought for a moment, and then turned to his friend. \"Who is\nthere, Walters?\" he asked. \"There is Ostrinski--but he is a Pole--\"\n\n\"Ostrinski speaks Lithuanian,\" said the other. \"All right, then; would\nyou mind seeing if he has gone yet?\"\n\nThe other started away, and the speaker looked at Jurgis again. He had\ndeep, black eyes, and a face full of gentleness and pain. \"You must\nexcuse me, comrade,\" he said. \"I am just tired out--I have spoken every\nday for the last month. I will introduce you to some one who will be\nable to help you as well as I could--\"\n\nThe messenger had had to go no further than the door, he came back,\nfollowed by a man whom he introduced to Jurgis as \"Comrade Ostrinski.\"\nComrade Ostrinski was a little man, scarcely up to Jurgis's shoulder,\nwizened and wrinkled, very ugly, and slightly lame. He had on a\nlong-tailed black coat, worn green at the seams and the buttonholes; his\neyes must have been weak, for he wore green spectacles that gave him\na grotesque appearance. But his handclasp was hearty, and he spoke in\nLithuanian, which warmed Jurgis to him.\n\n\"You want to know about Socialism?\" he said. \"Surely. Let us go out and\ntake a stroll, where we can be quiet and talk some.\"\n\nAnd so Jurgis bade farewell to the master wizard, and went out.\nOstrinski asked where he lived, offering to walk in that direction;\nand so he had to explain once more that he was without a home. At the\nother's request he told his story; how he had come to America, and\nwhat had happened to him in the stockyards, and how his family had been\nbroken up, and how he had become a wanderer. So much the little man\nheard, and then he pressed Jurgis's arm tightly. \"You have been through\nthe mill, comrade!\" he said. \"We will make a fighter out of you!\"\n\nThen Ostrinski in turn explained his circumstances. He would have asked\nJurgis to his home--but he had only two rooms, and had no bed to offer.\nHe would have given up his own bed, but his wife was ill. Later on, when\nhe understood that otherwise Jurgis would have to sleep in a hallway,\nhe offered him his kitchen floor, a chance which the other was only too\nglad to accept. \"Perhaps tomorrow we can do better,\" said Ostrinski. \"We\ntry not to let a comrade starve.\"\n\nOstrinski's home was in the Ghetto district, where he had two rooms in\nthe basement of a tenement. There was a baby crying as they entered,\nand he closed the door leading into the bedroom. He had three young\nchildren, he explained, and a baby had just come. He drew up two chairs\nnear the kitchen stove, adding that Jurgis must excuse the disorder of\nthe place, since at such a time one's domestic arrangements were upset.\nHalf of the kitchen was given up to a workbench, which was piled with\nclothing, and Ostrinski explained that he was a \"pants finisher.\" He\nbrought great bundles of clothing here to his home, where he and his\nwife worked on them. He made a living at it, but it was getting harder\nall the time, because his eyes were failing. What would come when they\ngave out he could not tell; there had been no saving anything--a man\ncould barely keep alive by twelve or fourteen hours' work a day. The\nfinishing of pants did not take much skill, and anybody could learn it,\nand so the pay was forever getting less. That was the competitive wage\nsystem; and if Jurgis wanted to understand what Socialism was, it was\nthere he had best begin. The workers were dependent upon a job to exist\nfrom day to day, and so they bid against each other, and no man could\nget more than the lowest man would consent to work for. And thus\nthe mass of the people were always in a life-and-death struggle with\npoverty. That was \"competition,\" so far as it concerned the wage-earner,\nthe man who had only his labor to sell; to those on top, the exploiters,\nit appeared very differently, of course--there were few of them, and\nthey could combine and dominate, and their power would be unbreakable.\nAnd so all over the world two classes were forming, with an unbridged\nchasm between them--the capitalist class, with its enormous fortunes,\nand the proletariat, bound into slavery by unseen chains. The latter\nwere a thousand to one in numbers, but they were ignorant and helpless,\nand they would remain at the mercy of their exploiters until they were\norganized--until they had become \"class-conscious.\" It was a slow\nand weary process, but it would go on--it was like the movement of a\nglacier, once it was started it could never be stopped. Every\nSocialist did his share, and lived upon the vision of the \"good time\ncoming,\"--when the working class should go to the polls and seize the\npowers of government, and put an end to private property in the means\nof production. No matter how poor a man was, or how much he suffered, he\ncould never be really unhappy while he knew of that future; even if he\ndid not live to see it himself, his children would, and, to a Socialist,\nthe victory of his class was his victory. Also he had always the\nprogress to encourage him; here in Chicago, for instance, the movement\nwas growing by leaps and bounds. Chicago was the industrial center\nof the country, and nowhere else were the unions so strong; but their\norganizations did the workers little good, for the employers were\norganized, also; and so the strikes generally failed, and as fast as the\nunions were broken up the men were coming over to the Socialists.\n\nOstrinski explained the organization of the party, the machinery by\nwhich the proletariat was educating itself. There were \"locals\" in every\nbig city and town, and they were being organized rapidly in the smaller\nplaces; a local had anywhere from six to a thousand members, and there\nwere fourteen hundred of them in all, with a total of about twenty-five\nthousand members, who paid dues to support the organization. \"Local Cook\nCounty,\" as the city organization was called, had eighty branch locals,\nand it alone was spending several thousand dollars in the campaign. It\npublished a weekly in English, and one each in Bohemian and German; also\nthere was a monthly published in Chicago, and a cooperative publishing\nhouse, that issued a million and a half of Socialist books and pamphlets\nevery year. All this was the growth of the last few years--there had\nbeen almost nothing of it when Ostrinski first came to Chicago.\n\nOstrinski was a Pole, about fifty years of age. He had lived in Silesia,\na member of a despised and persecuted race, and had taken part in the\nproletarian movement in the early seventies, when Bismarck, having\nconquered France, had turned his policy of blood and iron upon the\n\"International.\" Ostrinski himself had twice been in jail, but he had\nbeen young then, and had not cared. He had had more of his share of the\nfight, though, for just when Socialism had broken all its barriers and\nbecome the great political force of the empire, he had come to America,\nand begun all over again. In America every one had laughed at the mere\nidea of Socialism then--in America all men were free. As if political\nliberty made wage slavery any the more tolerable! said Ostrinski.\n\nThe little tailor sat tilted back in his stiff kitchen chair, with his\nfeet stretched out upon the empty stove, and speaking in low whispers,\nso as not to waken those in the next room. To Jurgis he seemed a\nscarcely less wonderful person than the speaker at the meeting; he was\npoor, the lowest of the low, hunger-driven and miserable--and yet how\nmuch he knew, how much he had dared and achieved, what a hero he had\nbeen! There were others like him, too--thousands like him, and all of\nthem workingmen! That all this wonderful machinery of progress had been\ncreated by his fellows--Jurgis could not believe it, it seemed too good\nto be true.\n\nThat was always the way, said Ostrinski; when a man was first converted\nto Socialism he was like a crazy person--he could not understand how\nothers could fail to see it, and he expected to convert all the world\nthe first week. After a while he would realize how hard a task it was;\nand then it would be fortunate that other new hands kept coming, to save\nhim from settling down into a rut. Just now Jurgis would have plenty of\nchance to vent his excitement, for a presidential campaign was on, and\neverybody was talking politics. Ostrinski would take him to the next\nmeeting of the branch local, and introduce him, and he might join the\nparty. The dues were five cents a week, but any one who could not afford\nthis might be excused from paying. The Socialist party was a really\ndemocratic political organization--it was controlled absolutely by\nits own membership, and had no bosses. All of these things Ostrinski\nexplained, as also the principles of the party. You might say that there\nwas really but one Socialist principle--that of \"no compromise,\" which\nwas the essence of the proletarian movement all over the world. When a\nSocialist was elected to office he voted with old party legislators for\nany measure that was likely to be of help to the working class, but\nhe never forgot that these concessions, whatever they might be, were\ntrifles compared with the great purpose--the organizing of the working\nclass for the revolution. So far, the rule in America had been that\none Socialist made another Socialist once every two years; and if\nthey should maintain the same rate they would carry the country in\n1912--though not all of them expected to succeed as quickly as that.\n\nThe Socialists were organized in every civilized nation; it was an\ninternational political party, said Ostrinski, the greatest the world\nhad ever known. It numbered thirty million of adherents, and it cast\neight million votes. It had started its first newspaper in Japan, and\nelected its first deputy in Argentina; in France it named members of\ncabinets, and in Italy and Australia it held the balance of power and\nturned out ministries. In Germany, where its vote was more than a third\nof the total vote of the empire, all other parties and powers had united\nto fight it. It would not do, Ostrinski explained, for the proletariat\nof one nation to achieve the victory, for that nation would be crushed\nby the military power of the others; and so the Socialist movement was a\nworld movement, an organization of all mankind to establish liberty and\nfraternity. It was the new religion of humanity--or you might say it was\nthe fulfillment of the old religion, since it implied but the literal\napplication of all the teachings of Christ.\n\n\nUntil long after midnight Jurgis sat lost in the conversation of his\nnew acquaintance. It was a most wonderful experience to him--an almost\nsupernatural experience. It was like encountering an inhabitant of\nthe fourth dimension of space, a being who was free from all one's\nown limitations. For four years, now, Jurgis had been wondering and\nblundering in the depths of a wilderness; and here, suddenly, a hand\nreached down and seized him, and lifted him out of it, and set him upon\na mountain-top, from which he could survey it all--could see the paths\nfrom which he had wandered, the morasses into which he had stumbled, the\nhiding places of the beasts of prey that had fallen upon him. There\nwere his Packingtown experiences, for instance--what was there about\nPackingtown that Ostrinski could not explain! To Jurgis the packers had\nbeen equivalent to fate; Ostrinski showed him that they were the Beef\nTrust. They were a gigantic combination of capital, which had crushed\nall opposition, and overthrown the laws of the land, and was preying\nupon the people. Jurgis recollected how, when he had first come to\nPackingtown, he had stood and watched the hog-killing, and thought how\ncruel and savage it was, and come away congratulating himself that he\nwas not a hog; now his new acquaintance showed him that a hog was just\nwhat he had been--one of the packers' hogs. What they wanted from a hog\nwas all the profits that could be got out of him; and that was what they\nwanted from the workingman, and also that was what they wanted from\nthe public. What the hog thought of it, and what he suffered, were\nnot considered; and no more was it with labor, and no more with the\npurchaser of meat. That was true everywhere in the world, but it was\nespecially true in Packingtown; there seemed to be something about the\nwork of slaughtering that tended to ruthlessness and ferocity--it was\nliterally the fact that in the methods of the packers a hundred human\nlives did not balance a penny of profit. When Jurgis had made himself\nfamiliar with the Socialist literature, as he would very quickly, he\nwould get glimpses of the Beef Trust from all sorts of aspects, and he\nwould find it everywhere the same; it was the incarnation of blind and\ninsensate Greed. It was a monster devouring with a thousand mouths,\ntrampling with a thousand hoofs; it was the Great Butcher--it was the\nspirit of Capitalism made flesh. Upon the ocean of commerce it sailed\nas a pirate ship; it had hoisted the black flag and declared war upon\ncivilization. Bribery and corruption were its everyday methods. In\nChicago the city government was simply one of its branch offices; it\nstole billions of gallons of city water openly, it dictated to the\ncourts the sentences of disorderly strikers, it forbade the mayor to\nenforce the building laws against it. In the national capital it had\npower to prevent inspection of its product, and to falsify government\nreports; it violated the rebate laws, and when an investigation was\nthreatened it burned its books and sent its criminal agents out of the\ncountry. In the commercial world it was a Juggernaut car; it wiped out\nthousands of businesses every year, it drove men to madness and suicide.\nIt had forced the price of cattle so low as to destroy the stock-raising\nindustry, an occupation upon which whole states existed; it had ruined\nthousands of butchers who had refused to handle its products. It divided\nthe country into districts, and fixed the price of meat in all of them;\nand it owned all the refrigerator cars, and levied an enormous tribute\nupon all poultry and eggs and fruit and vegetables. With the millions\nof dollars a week that poured in upon it, it was reaching out for\nthe control of other interests, railroads and trolley lines, gas and\nelectric light franchises--it already owned the leather and the grain\nbusiness of the country. The people were tremendously stirred up over\nits encroachments, but nobody had any remedy to suggest; it was the task\nof Socialists to teach and organize them, and prepare them for the time\nwhen they were to seize the huge machine called the Beef Trust, and use\nit to produce food for human beings and not to heap up fortunes for a\nband of pirates. It was long after midnight when Jurgis lay down upon\nthe floor of Ostrinski's kitchen; and yet it was an hour before he\ncould get to sleep, for the glory of that joyful vision of the people of\nPackingtown marching in and taking possession of the Union Stockyards!\n\n\nChapter 30\n\n\nJurgis had breakfast with Ostrinski and his family, and then he went\nhome to Elzbieta. He was no longer shy about it--when he went in,\ninstead of saying all the things he had been planning to say, he started\nto tell Elzbieta about the revolution! At first she thought he was out\nof his mind, and it was hours before she could really feel certain that\nhe was himself. When, however, she had satisfied herself that he was\nsane upon all subjects except politics, she troubled herself no\nfurther about it. Jurgis was destined to find that Elzbieta's armor was\nabsolutely impervious to Socialism. Her soul had been baked hard in the\nfire of adversity, and there was no altering it now; life to her was the\nhunt for daily bread, and ideas existed for her only as they bore upon\nthat. All that interested her in regard to this new frenzy which had\nseized hold of her son-in-law was whether or not it had a tendency to\nmake him sober and industrious; and when she found he intended to look\nfor work and to contribute his share to the family fund, she gave him\nfull rein to convince her of anything. A wonderfully wise little woman\nwas Elzbieta; she could think as quickly as a hunted rabbit, and in half\nan hour she had chosen her life-attitude to the Socialist movement.\nShe agreed in everything with Jurgis, except the need of his paying his\ndues; and she would even go to a meeting with him now and then, and sit\nand plan her next day's dinner amid the storm.\n\nFor a week after he became a convert Jurgis continued to wander about\nall day, looking for work; until at last he met with a strange fortune.\nHe was passing one of Chicago's innumerable small hotels, and after some\nhesitation he concluded to go in. A man he took for the proprietor was\nstanding in the lobby, and he went up to him and tackled him for a job.\n\n\"What can you do?\" the man asked.\n\n\"Anything, sir,\" said Jurgis, and added quickly: \"I've been out of work\nfor a long time, sir. I'm an honest man, and I'm strong and willing--\"\n\nThe other was eying him narrowly. \"Do you drink?\" he asked.\n\n\"No, sir,\" said Jurgis.\n\n\"Well, I've been employing a man as a porter, and he drinks. I've\ndischarged him seven times now, and I've about made up my mind that's\nenough. Would you be a porter?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"It's hard work. You'll have to clean floors and wash spittoons and fill\nlamps and handle trunks--\"\n\n\"I'm willing, sir.\"\n\n\"All right. I'll pay you thirty a month and board, and you can begin\nnow, if you feel like it. You can put on the other fellow's rig.\"\n\nAnd so Jurgis fell to work, and toiled like a Trojan till night. Then\nhe went and told Elzbieta, and also, late as it was, he paid a visit to\nOstrinski to let him know of his good fortune. Here he received a great\nsurprise, for when he was describing the location of the hotel Ostrinski\ninterrupted suddenly, \"Not Hinds's!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Jurgis, \"that's the name.\"\n\nTo which the other replied, \"Then you've got the best boss in\nChicago--he's a state organizer of our party, and one of our best-known\nspeakers!\"\n\nSo the next morning Jurgis went to his employer and told him; and the\nman seized him by the hand and shook it. \"By Jove!\" he cried, \"that lets\nme out. I didn't sleep all last night because I had discharged a good\nSocialist!\"\n\nSo, after that, Jurgis was known to his \"boss\" as \"Comrade Jurgis,\" and\nin return he was expected to call him \"Comrade Hinds.\" \"Tommy\" Hinds,\nas he was known to his intimates, was a squat little man, with broad\nshoulders and a florid face, decorated with gray side whiskers.\nHe was the kindest-hearted man that ever lived, and the\nliveliest--inexhaustible in his enthusiasm, and talking Socialism all\nday and all night. He was a great fellow to jolly along a crowd, and\nwould keep a meeting in an uproar; when once he got really waked up, the\ntorrent of his eloquence could be compared with nothing save Niagara.\n\nTommy Hinds had begun life as a blacksmith's helper, and had run away\nto join the Union army, where he had made his first acquaintance with\n\"graft,\" in the shape of rotten muskets and shoddy blankets. To a\nmusket that broke in a crisis he always attributed the death of his only\nbrother, and upon worthless blankets he blamed all the agonies of his\nown old age. Whenever it rained, the rheumatism would get into his\njoints, and then he would screw up his face and mutter: \"Capitalism, my\nboy, capitalism! 'Ecrasez l'infame!'\" He had one unfailing remedy for\nall the evils of this world, and he preached it to every one; no matter\nwhether the person's trouble was failure in business, or dyspepsia, or\na quarrelsome mother-in-law, a twinkle would come into his eyes and he\nwould say, \"You know what to do about it--vote the Socialist ticket!\"\n\nTommy Hinds had set out upon the trail of the Octopus as soon as the war\nwas over. He had gone into business, and found himself in competition\nwith the fortunes of those who had been stealing while he had been\nfighting. The city government was in their hands and the railroads were\nin league with them, and honest business was driven to the wall; and\nso Hinds had put all his savings into Chicago real estate, and set out\nsinglehanded to dam the river of graft. He had been a reform member\nof the city council, he had been a Greenbacker, a Labor Unionist, a\nPopulist, a Bryanite--and after thirty years of fighting, the year 1896\nhad served to convince him that the power of concentrated wealth could\nnever be controlled, but could only be destroyed. He had published a\npamphlet about it, and set out to organize a party of his own, when a\nstray Socialist leaflet had revealed to him that others had been\nahead of him. Now for eight years he had been fighting for the\nparty, anywhere, everywhere--whether it was a G.A.R. reunion, or a\nhotel-keepers' convention, or an Afro-American business-men's banquet, or\na Bible society picnic, Tommy Hinds would manage to get himself invited\nto explain the relations of Socialism to the subject in hand. After that\nhe would start off upon a tour of his own, ending at some place between\nNew York and Oregon; and when he came back from there, he would go out\nto organize new locals for the state committee; and finally he would\ncome home to rest--and talk Socialism in Chicago. Hinds's hotel was a\nvery hot-bed of the propaganda; all the employees were party men, and if\nthey were not when they came, they were quite certain to be before they\nwent away. The proprietor would get into a discussion with some one in\nthe lobby, and as the conversation grew animated, others would gather\nabout to listen, until finally every one in the place would be crowded\ninto a group, and a regular debate would be under way. This went on\nevery night--when Tommy Hinds was not there to do it, his clerk did it;\nand when his clerk was away campaigning, the assistant attended to it,\nwhile Mrs. Hinds sat behind the desk and did the work. The clerk was an\nold crony of the proprietor's, an awkward, rawboned giant of a man, with\na lean, sallow face, a broad mouth, and whiskers under his chin,\nthe very type and body of a prairie farmer. He had been that all his\nlife--he had fought the railroads in Kansas for fifty years, a Granger,\na Farmers' Alliance man, a \"middle-of-the-road\" Populist. Finally, Tommy\nHinds had revealed to him the wonderful idea of using the trusts instead\nof destroying them, and he had sold his farm and come to Chicago.\n\nThat was Amos Struver; and then there was Harry Adams, the assistant\nclerk, a pale, scholarly-looking man, who came from Massachusetts, of\nPilgrim stock. Adams had been a cotton operative in Fall River, and the\ncontinued depression in the industry had worn him and his family out,\nand he had emigrated to South Carolina. In Massachusetts the percentage\nof white illiteracy is eight-tenths of one per cent, while in South\nCarolina it is thirteen and six-tenths per cent; also in South Carolina\nthere is a property qualification for voters--and for these and other\nreasons child labor is the rule, and so the cotton mills were driving\nthose of Massachusetts out of the business. Adams did not know this, he\nonly knew that the Southern mills were running; but when he got there\nhe found that if he was to live, all his family would have to work, and\nfrom six o'clock at night to six o'clock in the morning. So he had set\nto work to organize the mill hands, after the fashion in Massachusetts,\nand had been discharged; but he had gotten other work, and stuck at it,\nand at last there had been a strike for shorter hours, and Harry Adams\nhad attempted to address a street meeting, which was the end of him.\nIn the states of the far South the labor of convicts is leased to\ncontractors, and when there are not convicts enough they have to be\nsupplied. Harry Adams was sent up by a judge who was a cousin of the\nmill owner with whose business he had interfered; and though the life\nhad nearly killed him, he had been wise enough not to murmur, and at\nthe end of his term he and his family had left the state of South\nCarolina--hell's back yard, as he called it. He had no money for\ncarfare, but it was harvest-time, and they walked one day and worked\nthe next; and so Adams got at last to Chicago, and joined the Socialist\nparty. He was a studious man, reserved, and nothing of an orator; but\nhe always had a pile of books under his desk in the hotel, and articles\nfrom his pen were beginning to attract attention in the party press.\n\nContrary to what one would have expected, all this radicalism did not\nhurt the hotel business; the radicals flocked to it, and the commercial\ntravelers all found it diverting. Of late, also, the hotel had become a\nfavorite stopping place for Western cattlemen. Now that the Beef Trust\nhad adopted the trick of raising prices to induce enormous shipments of\ncattle, and then dropping them again and scooping in all they needed,\na stock raiser was very apt to find himself in Chicago without money\nenough to pay his freight bill; and so he had to go to a cheap hotel,\nand it was no drawback to him if there was an agitator talking in the\nlobby. These Western fellows were just \"meat\" for Tommy Hinds--he\nwould get a dozen of them around him and paint little pictures of \"the\nSystem.\" Of course, it was not a week before he had heard Jurgis's\nstory, and after that he would not have let his new porter go for the\nworld. \"See here,\" he would say, in the middle of an argument, \"I've got\na fellow right here in my place who's worked there and seen every bit of\nit!\" And then Jurgis would drop his work, whatever it was, and come, and\nthe other would say, \"Comrade Jurgis, just tell these gentlemen what you\nsaw on the killing-beds.\" At first this request caused poor Jurgis the\nmost acute agony, and it was like pulling teeth to get him to talk; but\ngradually he found out what was wanted, and in the end he learned to\nstand up and speak his piece with enthusiasm. His employer would sit by\nand encourage him with exclamations and shakes of the head; when Jurgis\nwould give the formula for \"potted ham,\" or tell about the condemned\nhogs that were dropped into the \"destructors\" at the top and immediately\ntaken out again at the bottom, to be shipped into another state and made\ninto lard, Tommy Hinds would bang his knee and cry, \"Do you think a man\ncould make up a thing like that out of his head?\"\n\nAnd then the hotel-keeper would go on to show how the Socialists had the\nonly real remedy for such evils, how they alone \"meant business\" with\nthe Beef Trust. And when, in answer to this, the victim would say that\nthe whole country was getting stirred up, that the newspapers were full\nof denunciations of it, and the government taking action against it,\nTommy Hinds had a knock-out blow all ready. \"Yes,\" he would say, \"all\nthat is true--but what do you suppose is the reason for it? Are you\nfoolish enough to believe that it's done for the public? There are\nother trusts in the country just as illegal and extortionate as the Beef\nTrust: there is the Coal Trust, that freezes the poor in winter--there\nis the Steel Trust, that doubles the price of every nail in your\nshoes--there is the Oil Trust, that keeps you from reading at night--and\nwhy do you suppose it is that all the fury of the press and the\ngovernment is directed against the Beef Trust?\" And when to this the\nvictim would reply that there was clamor enough over the Oil Trust, the\nother would continue: \"Ten years ago Henry D. Lloyd told all the truth\nabout the Standard Oil Company in his Wealth versus Commonwealth; and\nthe book was allowed to die, and you hardly ever hear of it. And now, at\nlast, two magazines have the courage to tackle 'Standard Oil' again, and\nwhat happens? The newspapers ridicule the authors, the churches defend\nthe criminals, and the government--does nothing. And now, why is it all\nso different with the Beef Trust?\"\n\nHere the other would generally admit that he was \"stuck\"; and Tommy\nHinds would explain to him, and it was fun to see his eyes open. \"If you\nwere a Socialist,\" the hotel-keeper would say, \"you would understand that\nthe power which really governs the United States today is the Railroad\nTrust. It is the Railroad Trust that runs your state government,\nwherever you live, and that runs the United States Senate. And all of\nthe trusts that I have named are railroad trusts--save only the Beef\nTrust! The Beef Trust has defied the railroads--it is plundering them\nday by day through the Private Car; and so the public is roused to\nfury, and the papers clamor for action, and the government goes on the\nwar-path! And you poor common people watch and applaud the job, and\nthink it's all done for you, and never dream that it is really the grand\nclimax of the century-long battle of commercial competition--the final\ndeath grapple between the chiefs of the Beef Trust and 'Standard Oil,'\nfor the prize of the mastery and ownership of the United States of\nAmerica!\"\n\n\nSuch was the new home in which Jurgis lived and worked, and in which his\neducation was completed. Perhaps you would imagine that he did not do\nmuch work there, but that would be a great mistake. He would have cut\noff one hand for Tommy Hinds; and to keep Hinds's hotel a thing of\nbeauty was his joy in life. That he had a score of Socialist arguments\nchasing through his brain in the meantime did not interfere with\nthis; on the contrary, Jurgis scrubbed the spittoons and polished\nthe banisters all the more vehemently because at the same time he was\nwrestling inwardly with an imaginary recalcitrant. It would be pleasant\nto record that he swore off drinking immediately, and all the rest\nof his bad habits with it; but that would hardly be exact. These\nrevolutionists were not angels; they were men, and men who had come up\nfrom the social pit, and with the mire of it smeared over them. Some of\nthem drank, and some of them swore, and some of them ate pie with their\nknives; there was only one difference between them and all the rest of\nthe populace--that they were men with a hope, with a cause to fight\nfor and suffer for. There came times to Jurgis when the vision seemed\nfar-off and pale, and a glass of beer loomed large in comparison; but\nif the glass led to another glass, and to too many glasses, he had\nsomething to spur him to remorse and resolution on the morrow. It was\nso evidently a wicked thing to spend one's pennies for drink, when the\nworking class was wandering in darkness, and waiting to be delivered;\nthe price of a glass of beer would buy fifty copies of a leaflet, and\none could hand these out to the unregenerate, and then get drunk upon\nthe thought of the good that was being accomplished. That was the way\nthe movement had been made, and it was the only way it would progress;\nit availed nothing to know of it, without fighting for it--it was a\nthing for all, not for a few! A corollary of this proposition of course\nwas, that any one who refused to receive the new gospel was personally\nresponsible for keeping Jurgis from his heart's desire; and this, alas,\nmade him uncomfortable as an acquaintance. He met some neighbors with\nwhom Elzbieta had made friends in her neighborhood, and he set out to\nmake Socialists of them by wholesale, and several times he all but got\ninto a fight.\n\nIt was all so painfully obvious to Jurgis! It was so incomprehensible\nhow a man could fail to see it! Here were all the opportunities of the\ncountry, the land, and the buildings upon the land, the railroads, the\nmines, the factories, and the stores, all in the hands of a few private\nindividuals, called capitalists, for whom the people were obliged to\nwork for wages. The whole balance of what the people produced went to\nheap up the fortunes of these capitalists, to heap, and heap again, and\nyet again--and that in spite of the fact that they, and every one about\nthem, lived in unthinkable luxury! And was it not plain that if the\npeople cut off the share of those who merely \"owned,\" the share of those\nwho worked would be much greater? That was as plain as two and two makes\nfour; and it was the whole of it, absolutely the whole of it; and yet\nthere were people who could not see it, who would argue about everything\nelse in the world. They would tell you that governments could not manage\nthings as economically as private individuals; they would repeat and\nrepeat that, and think they were saying something! They could not see\nthat \"economical\" management by masters meant simply that they, the\npeople, were worked harder and ground closer and paid less! They were\nwage-earners and servants, at the mercy of exploiters whose one thought\nwas to get as much out of them as possible; and they were taking\nan interest in the process, were anxious lest it should not be done\nthoroughly enough! Was it not honestly a trial to listen to an argument\nsuch as that?\n\nAnd yet there were things even worse. You would begin talking to some\npoor devil who had worked in one shop for the last thirty years, and\nhad never been able to save a penny; who left home every morning at six\no'clock, to go and tend a machine, and come back at night too tired to\ntake his clothes off; who had never had a week's vacation in his life,\nhad never traveled, never had an adventure, never learned anything,\nnever hoped anything--and when you started to tell him about\nSocialism he would sniff and say, \"I'm not interested in that--I'm an\nindividualist!\" And then he would go on to tell you that Socialism was\n\"paternalism,\" and that if it ever had its way the world would stop\nprogressing. It was enough to make a mule laugh, to hear arguments like\nthat; and yet it was no laughing matter, as you found out--for how many\nmillions of such poor deluded wretches there were, whose lives had been\nso stunted by capitalism that they no longer knew what freedom was! And\nthey really thought that it was \"individualism\" for tens of thousands\nof them to herd together and obey the orders of a steel magnate, and\nproduce hundreds of millions of dollars of wealth for him, and then let\nhim give them libraries; while for them to take the industry, and run it\nto suit themselves, and build their own libraries--that would have been\n\"Paternalism\"!\n\nSometimes the agony of such things as this was almost more than Jurgis\ncould bear; yet there was no way of escape from it, there was nothing\nto do but to dig away at the base of this mountain of ignorance and\nprejudice. You must keep at the poor fellow; you must hold your temper,\nand argue with him, and watch for your chance to stick an idea or\ntwo into his head. And the rest of the time you must sharpen up your\nweapons--you must think out new replies to his objections, and provide\nyourself with new facts to prove to him the folly of his ways.\n\nSo Jurgis acquired the reading habit. He would carry in his pocket a\ntract or a pamphlet which some one had loaned him, and whenever he had\nan idle moment during the day he would plod through a paragraph, and\nthen think about it while he worked. Also he read the newspapers, and\nasked questions about them. One of the other porters at Hinds's was a\nsharp little Irishman, who knew everything that Jurgis wanted to know;\nand while they were busy he would explain to him the geography of\nAmerica, and its history, its constitution and its laws; also he gave\nhim an idea of the business system of the country, the great railroads\nand corporations, and who owned them, and the labor unions, and the big\nstrikes, and the men who had led them. Then at night, when he could get\noff, Jurgis would attend the Socialist meetings. During the campaign one\nwas not dependent upon the street corner affairs, where the weather\nand the quality of the orator were equally uncertain; there were\nhall meetings every night, and one could hear speakers of national\nprominence. These discussed the political situation from every point of\nview, and all that troubled Jurgis was the impossibility of carrying off\nbut a small part of the treasures they offered him.\n\nThere was a man who was known in the party as the \"Little Giant.\" The\nLord had used up so much material in the making of his head that there\nhad not been enough to complete his legs; but he got about on the\nplatform, and when he shook his raven whiskers the pillars of capitalism\nrocked. He had written a veritable encyclopedia upon the subject, a book\nthat was nearly as big as himself--And then there was a young\nauthor, who came from California, and had been a salmon fisher, an\noyster-pirate, a longshoreman, a sailor; who had tramped the country and\nbeen sent to jail, had lived in the Whitechapel slums, and been to the\nKlondike in search of gold. All these things he pictured in his books,\nand because he was a man of genius he forced the world to hear him. Now\nhe was famous, but wherever he went he still preached the gospel of\nthe poor. And then there was one who was known at the \"millionaire\nSocialist.\" He had made a fortune in business, and spent nearly all of\nit in building up a magazine, which the post office department had tried\nto suppress, and had driven to Canada. He was a quiet-mannered man, whom\nyou would have taken for anything in the world but a Socialist agitator.\nHis speech was simple and informal--he could not understand why any\none should get excited about these things. It was a process of economic\nevolution, he said, and he exhibited its laws and methods. Life was a\nstruggle for existence, and the strong overcame the weak, and in turn\nwere overcome by the strongest. Those who lost in the struggle were\ngenerally exterminated; but now and then they had been known to save\nthemselves by combination--which was a new and higher kind of strength.\nIt was so that the gregarious animals had overcome the predaceous; it\nwas so, in human history, that the people had mastered the kings. The\nworkers were simply the citizens of industry, and the Socialist movement\nwas the expression of their will to survive. The inevitability of the\nrevolution depended upon this fact, that they had no choice but to unite\nor be exterminated; this fact, grim and inexorable, depended upon no\nhuman will, it was the law of the economic process, of which the editor\nshowed the details with the most marvelous precision.\n\nAnd later on came the evening of the great meeting of the campaign, when\nJurgis heard the two standard-bearers of his party. Ten years before\nthere had been in Chicago a strike of a hundred and fifty thousand\nrailroad employees, and thugs had been hired by the railroads to commit\nviolence, and the President of the United States had sent in troops\nto break the strike, by flinging the officers of the union into jail\nwithout trial. The president of the union came out of his cell a ruined\nman; but also he came out a Socialist; and now for just ten years he had\nbeen traveling up and down the country, standing face to face with the\npeople, and pleading with them for justice. He was a man of electric\npresence, tall and gaunt, with a face worn thin by struggle and\nsuffering. The fury of outraged manhood gleamed in it--and the tears of\nsuffering little children pleaded in his voice. When he spoke he paced\nthe stage, lithe and eager, like a panther. He leaned over, reaching out\nfor his audience; he pointed into their souls with an insistent finger.\nHis voice was husky from much speaking, but the great auditorium was as\nstill as death, and every one heard him.\n\nAnd then, as Jurgis came out from this meeting, some one handed him\na paper which he carried home with him and read; and so he became\nacquainted with the \"Appeal to Reason.\" About twelve years previously a\nColorado real-estate speculator had made up his mind that it was wrong\nto gamble in the necessities of life of human beings: and so he had\nretired and begun the publication of a Socialist weekly. There had come\na time when he had to set his own type, but he had held on and won out,\nand now his publication was an institution. It used a carload of paper\nevery week, and the mail trains would be hours loading up at the depot\nof the little Kansas town. It was a four-page weekly, which sold for\nless than half a cent a copy; its regular subscription list was a\nquarter of a million, and it went to every crossroads post office in\nAmerica.\n\nThe \"Appeal\" was a \"propaganda\" paper. It had a manner all its own--it\nwas full of ginger and spice, of Western slang and hustle: It collected\nnews of the doings of the \"plutes,\" and served it up for the benefit\nof the \"American working-mule.\" It would have columns of the deadly\nparallel--the million dollars' worth of diamonds, or the fancy\npet-poodle establishment of a society dame, beside the fate of Mrs.\nMurphy of San Francisco, who had starved to death on the streets, or of\nJohn Robinson, just out of the hospital, who had hanged himself in New\nYork because he could not find work. It collected the stories of graft\nand misery from the daily press, and made a little pungent paragraphs\nout of them. \"Three banks of Bungtown, South Dakota, failed, and\nmore savings of the workers swallowed up!\" \"The mayor of Sandy Creek,\nOklahoma, has skipped with a hundred thousand dollars. That's the kind\nof rulers the old partyites give you!\" \"The president of the Florida\nFlying Machine Company is in jail for bigamy. He was a prominent\nopponent of Socialism, which he said would break up the home!\" The\n\"Appeal\" had what it called its \"Army,\" about thirty thousand of the\nfaithful, who did things for it; and it was always exhorting the \"Army\"\nto keep its dander up, and occasionally encouraging it with a prize\ncompetition, for anything from a gold watch to a private yacht or an\neighty-acre farm. Its office helpers were all known to the \"Army\" by\nquaint titles--\"Inky Ike,\" \"the Bald-headed Man,\" \"the Redheaded Girl,\"\n\"the Bulldog,\" \"the Office Goat,\" and \"the One Hoss.\"\n\nBut sometimes, again, the \"Appeal\" would be desperately serious. It sent\na correspondent to Colorado, and printed pages describing the overthrow\nof American institutions in that state. In a certain city of the country\nit had over forty of its \"Army\" in the headquarters of the Telegraph\nTrust, and no message of importance to Socialists ever went through that\na copy of it did not go to the \"Appeal.\" It would print great broadsides\nduring the campaign; one copy that came to Jurgis was a manifesto\naddressed to striking workingmen, of which nearly a million copies had\nbeen distributed in the industrial centers, wherever the employers'\nassociations had been carrying out their \"open shop\" program. \"You have\nlost the strike!\" it was headed. \"And now what are you going to do about\nit?\" It was what is called an \"incendiary\" appeal--it was written by a\nman into whose soul the iron had entered. When this edition appeared,\ntwenty thousand copies were sent to the stockyards district; and they\nwere taken out and stowed away in the rear of a little cigar store, and\nevery evening, and on Sundays, the members of the Packingtown locals\nwould get armfuls and distribute them on the streets and in the houses.\nThe people of Packingtown had lost their strike, if ever a people had,\nand so they read these papers gladly, and twenty thousand were hardly\nenough to go round. Jurgis had resolved not to go near his old home\nagain, but when he heard of this it was too much for him, and every\nnight for a week he would get on the car and ride out to the stockyards,\nand help to undo his work of the previous year, when he had sent Mike\nScully's ten-pin setter to the city Board of Aldermen.\n\nIt was quite marvelous to see what a difference twelve months had\nmade in Packingtown--the eyes of the people were getting opened! The\nSocialists were literally sweeping everything before them that election,\nand Scully and the Cook County machine were at their wits' end for an\n\"issue.\" At the very close of the campaign they bethought themselves of\nthe fact that the strike had been broken by Negroes, and so they sent\nfor a South Carolina fire-eater, the \"pitchfork senator,\" as he was\ncalled, a man who took off his coat when he talked to workingmen,\nand damned and swore like a Hessian. This meeting they advertised\nextensively, and the Socialists advertised it too--with the result\nthat about a thousand of them were on hand that evening. The \"pitchfork\nsenator\" stood their fusillade of questions for about an hour, and then\nwent home in disgust, and the balance of the meeting was a strictly\nparty affair. Jurgis, who had insisted upon coming, had the time of\nhis life that night; he danced about and waved his arms in his\nexcitement--and at the very climax he broke loose from his friends,\nand got out into the aisle, and proceeded to make a speech himself! The\nsenator had been denying that the Democratic party was corrupt; it\nwas always the Republicans who bought the votes, he said--and here was\nJurgis shouting furiously, \"It's a lie! It's a lie!\" After which he went\non to tell them how he knew it--that he knew it because he had bought\nthem himself! And he would have told the \"pitchfork senator\" all his\nexperiences, had not Harry Adams and a friend grabbed him about the neck\nand shoved him into a seat.\n\n\nChapter 31\n\n\nOne of the first things that Jurgis had done after he got a job was to\ngo and see Marija. She came down into the basement of the house to meet\nhim, and he stood by the door with his hat in his hand, saying, \"I've\ngot work now, and so you can leave here.\"\n\nBut Marija only shook her head. There was nothing else for her to\ndo, she said, and nobody to employ her. She could not keep her past a\nsecret--girls had tried it, and they were always found out. There were\nthousands of men who came to this place, and sooner or later she would\nmeet one of them. \"And besides,\" Marija added, \"I can't do anything. I'm\nno good--I take dope. What could you do with me?\"\n\n\"Can't you stop?\" Jurgis cried.\n\n\"No,\" she answered, \"I'll never stop. What's the use of talking about\nit--I'll stay here till I die, I guess. It's all I'm fit for.\" And that\nwas all that he could get her to say--there was no use trying. When\nhe told her he would not let Elzbieta take her money, she answered\nindifferently: \"Then it'll be wasted here--that's all.\" Her eyelids\nlooked heavy and her face was red and swollen; he saw that he was\nannoying her, that she only wanted him to go away. So he went,\ndisappointed and sad.\n\nPoor Jurgis was not very happy in his home-life. Elzbieta was sick a\ngood deal now, and the boys were wild and unruly, and very much the\nworse for their life upon the streets. But he stuck by the family\nnevertheless, for they reminded him of his old happiness; and when\nthings went wrong he could solace himself with a plunge into the\nSocialist movement. Since his life had been caught up into the current\nof this great stream, things which had before been the whole of life\nto him came to seem of relatively slight importance; his interests were\nelsewhere, in the world of ideas. His outward life was commonplace and\nuninteresting; he was just a hotel-porter, and expected to remain one\nwhile he lived; but meantime, in the realm of thought, his life was a\nperpetual adventure. There was so much to know--so many wonders to\nbe discovered! Never in all his life did Jurgis forget the day before\nelection, when there came a telephone message from a friend of Harry\nAdams, asking him to bring Jurgis to see him that night; and Jurgis\nwent, and met one of the minds of the movement.\n\nThe invitation was from a man named Fisher, a Chicago millionaire who\nhad given up his life to settlement work, and had a little home in the\nheart of the city's slums. He did not belong to the party, but he was\nin sympathy with it; and he said that he was to have as his guest that\nnight the editor of a big Eastern magazine, who wrote against Socialism,\nbut really did not know what it was. The millionaire suggested that\nAdams bring Jurgis along, and then start up the subject of \"pure food,\"\nin which the editor was interested.\n\nYoung Fisher's home was a little two-story brick house, dingy and\nweather-beaten outside, but attractive within. The room that Jurgis saw\nwas half lined with books, and upon the walls were many pictures, dimly\nvisible in the soft, yellow light; it was a cold, rainy night, so a\nlog fire was crackling in the open hearth. Seven or eight people were\ngathered about it when Adams and his friend arrived, and Jurgis saw to\nhis dismay that three of them were ladies. He had never talked to people\nof this sort before, and he fell into an agony of embarrassment. He\nstood in the doorway clutching his hat tightly in his hands, and made a\ndeep bow to each of the persons as he was introduced; then, when he was\nasked to have a seat, he took a chair in a dark corner, and sat down\nupon the edge of it, and wiped the perspiration off his forehead with\nhis sleeve. He was terrified lest they should expect him to talk.\n\nThere was the host himself, a tall, athletic young man, clad in evening\ndress, as also was the editor, a dyspeptic-looking gentleman named\nMaynard. There was the former's frail young wife, and also an elderly\nlady, who taught kindergarten in the settlement, and a young college\nstudent, a beautiful girl with an intense and earnest face. She only\nspoke once or twice while Jurgis was there--the rest of the time she sat\nby the table in the center of the room, resting her chin in her hands\nand drinking in the conversation. There were two other men, whom young\nFisher had introduced to Jurgis as Mr. Lucas and Mr. Schliemann; he\nheard them address Adams as \"Comrade,\" and so he knew that they were\nSocialists.\n\nThe one called Lucas was a mild and meek-looking little gentleman of\nclerical aspect; he had been an itinerant evangelist, it transpired,\nand had seen the light and become a prophet of the new dispensation.\nHe traveled all over the country, living like the apostles of old, upon\nhospitality, and preaching upon street-corners when there was no hall.\nThe other man had been in the midst of a discussion with the editor when\nAdams and Jurgis came in; and at the suggestion of the host they resumed\nit after the interruption. Jurgis was soon sitting spellbound, thinking\nthat here was surely the strangest man that had ever lived in the world.\n\nNicholas Schliemann was a Swede, a tall, gaunt person, with hairy hands\nand bristling yellow beard; he was a university man, and had been a\nprofessor of philosophy--until, as he said, he had found that he was\nselling his character as well as his time. Instead he had come to\nAmerica, where he lived in a garret room in this slum district, and made\nvolcanic energy take the place of fire. He studied the composition of\nfood-stuffs, and knew exactly how many proteids and carbohydrates his\nbody needed; and by scientific chewing he said that he tripled the value\nof all he ate, so that it cost him eleven cents a day. About the first\nof July he would leave Chicago for his vacation, on foot; and when he\nstruck the harvest fields he would set to work for two dollars and a\nhalf a day, and come home when he had another year's supply--a hundred\nand twenty-five dollars. That was the nearest approach to independence\na man could make \"under capitalism,\" he explained; he would never marry,\nfor no sane man would allow himself to fall in love until after the\nrevolution.\n\nHe sat in a big arm-chair, with his legs crossed, and his head so far in\nthe shadow that one saw only two glowing lights, reflected from the fire\non the hearth. He spoke simply, and utterly without emotion; with the\nmanner of a teacher setting forth to a group of scholars an axiom in\ngeometry, he would enunciate such propositions as made the hair of\nan ordinary person rise on end. And when the auditor had asserted\nhis non-comprehension, he would proceed to elucidate by some new\nproposition, yet more appalling. To Jurgis the Herr Dr. Schliemann\nassumed the proportions of a thunderstorm or an earthquake. And yet,\nstrange as it might seem, there was a subtle bond between them, and he\ncould follow the argument nearly all the time. He was carried over the\ndifficult places in spite of himself; and he went plunging away in mad\ncareer--a very Mazeppa-ride upon the wild horse Speculation.\n\nNicholas Schliemann was familiar with all the universe, and with man\nas a small part of it. He understood human institutions, and blew them\nabout like soap bubbles. It was surprising that so much destructiveness\ncould be contained in one human mind. Was it government? The purpose\nof government was the guarding of property-rights, the perpetuation\nof ancient force and modern fraud. Or was it marriage? Marriage\nand prostitution were two sides of one shield, the predatory man's\nexploitation of the sex-pleasure. The difference between them was a\ndifference of class. If a woman had money she might dictate her own\nterms: equality, a life contract, and the legitimacy--that is, the\nproperty-rights--of her children. If she had no money, she was a\nproletarian, and sold herself for an existence. And then the subject\nbecame Religion, which was the Archfiend's deadliest weapon. Government\noppressed the body of the wage-slave, but Religion oppressed his mind,\nand poisoned the stream of progress at its source. The working-man was\nto fix his hopes upon a future life, while his pockets were picked in\nthis one; he was brought up to frugality, humility, obedience--in short\nto all the pseudo-virtues of capitalism. The destiny of civilization\nwould be decided in one final death struggle between the Red\nInternational and the Black, between Socialism and the Roman Catholic\nChurch; while here at home, \"the stygian midnight of American\nevangelicalism--\"\n\nAnd here the ex-preacher entered the field, and there was a lively\ntussle. \"Comrade\" Lucas was not what is called an educated man; he knew\nonly the Bible, but it was the Bible interpreted by real experience. And\nwhat was the use, he asked, of confusing Religion with men's perversions\nof it? That the church was in the hands of the merchants at the moment\nwas obvious enough; but already there were signs of rebellion, and if\nComrade Schliemann could come back a few years from now--\n\n\"Ah, yes,\" said the other, \"of course, I have no doubt that in a hundred\nyears the Vatican will be denying that it ever opposed Socialism, just\nas at present it denies that it ever tortured Galileo.\"\n\n\"I am not defending the Vatican,\" exclaimed Lucas, vehemently. \"I am\ndefending the word of God--which is one long cry of the human spirit for\ndeliverance from the sway of oppression. Take the twenty-fourth chapter\nof the Book of Job, which I am accustomed to quote in my addresses as\n'the Bible upon the Beef Trust'; or take the words of Isaiah--or of the\nMaster himself! Not the elegant prince of our debauched and vicious art,\nnot the jeweled idol of our society churches--but the Jesus of the awful\nreality, the man of sorrow and pain, the outcast, despised of the world,\nwho had nowhere to lay his head--\"\n\n\"I will grant you Jesus,\" interrupted the other.\n\n\"Well, then,\" cried Lucas, \"and why should Jesus have nothing to do with\nhis church--why should his words and his life be of no authority among\nthose who profess to adore him? Here is a man who was the world's first\nrevolutionist, the true founder of the Socialist movement; a man whose\nwhole being was one flame of hatred for wealth, and all that wealth\nstands for,--for the pride of wealth, and the luxury of wealth, and the\ntyranny of wealth; who was himself a beggar and a tramp, a man of the\npeople, an associate of saloon-keepers and women of the town; who again\nand again, in the most explicit language, denounced wealth and\nthe holding of wealth: 'Lay not up for yourselves treasures on\nearth!'--'Sell that ye have and give alms!'--'Blessed are ye poor, for\nyours is the kingdom of Heaven!'--'Woe unto you that are rich, for ye\nhave received your consolation!'--'Verily, I say unto you, that a rich\nman shall hardly enter into the kingdom of Heaven!' Who denounced in\nunmeasured terms the exploiters of his own time: 'Woe unto you, scribes\nand pharisees, hypocrites!'--'Woe unto you also, you lawyers!'--'Ye\nserpents, ye generation of vipers, how can ye escape the damnation of\nhell?' Who drove out the business men and brokers from the temple with a\nwhip! Who was crucified--think of it--for an incendiary and a disturber\nof the social order! And this man they have made into the high priest of\nproperty and smug respectability, a divine sanction of all the horrors\nand abominations of modern commercial civilization! Jeweled images are\nmade of him, sensual priests burn incense to him, and modern pirates of\nindustry bring their dollars, wrung from the toil of helpless women\nand children, and build temples to him, and sit in cushioned seats and\nlisten to his teachings expounded by doctors of dusty divinity--\"\n\n\"Bravo!\" cried Schliemann, laughing. But the other was in full\ncareer--he had talked this subject every day for five years, and had\nnever yet let himself be stopped. \"This Jesus of Nazareth!\" he cried.\n\"This class-conscious working-man! This union carpenter! This agitator,\nlaw-breaker, firebrand, anarchist! He, the sovereign lord and master\nof a world which grinds the bodies and souls of human beings into\ndollars--if he could come into the world this day and see the things\nthat men have made in his name, would it not blast his soul with horror?\nWould he not go mad at the sight of it, he the Prince of Mercy and Love!\nThat dreadful night when he lay in the Garden of Gethsemane and writhed\nin agony until he sweat blood--do you think that he saw anything worse\nthan he might see tonight upon the plains of Manchuria, where men march\nout with a jeweled image of him before them, to do wholesale murder for\nthe benefit of foul monsters of sensuality and cruelty? Do you not know\nthat if he were in St. Petersburg now, he would take the whip with which\nhe drove out the bankers from his temple--\"\n\nHere the speaker paused an instant for breath. \"No, comrade,\" said the\nother, dryly, \"for he was a practical man. He would take pretty little\nimitation lemons, such as are now being shipped into Russia, handy for\ncarrying in the pockets, and strong enough to blow a whole temple out of\nsight.\"\n\nLucas waited until the company had stopped laughing over this; then\nhe began again: \"But look at it from the point of view of practical\npolitics, comrade. Here is an historical figure whom all men reverence\nand love, whom some regard as divine; and who was one of us--who lived\nour life, and taught our doctrine. And now shall we leave him in the\nhands of his enemies--shall we allow them to stifle and stultify his\nexample? We have his words, which no one can deny; and shall we not\nquote them to the people, and prove to them what he was, and what he\ntaught, and what he did? No, no, a thousand times no!--we shall use his\nauthority to turn out the knaves and sluggards from his ministry, and we\nshall yet rouse the people to action!--\"\n\nLucas halted again; and the other stretched out his hand to a paper on\nthe table. \"Here, comrade,\" he said, with a laugh, \"here is a place for\nyou to begin. A bishop whose wife has just been robbed of fifty thousand\ndollars' worth of diamonds! And a most unctuous and oily of bishops!\nAn eminent and scholarly bishop! A philanthropist and friend of labor\nbishop--a Civic Federation decoy duck for the chloroforming of the\nwage-working-man!\"\n\nTo this little passage of arms the rest of the company sat as\nspectators. But now Mr. Maynard, the editor, took occasion to remark,\nsomewhat naively, that he had always understood that Socialists had a\ncut-and-dried program for the future of civilization; whereas here were\ntwo active members of the party, who, from what he could make out, were\nagreed about nothing at all. Would the two, for his enlightenment, try\nto ascertain just what they had in common, and why they belonged to the\nsame party? This resulted, after much debating, in the formulating of\ntwo carefully worded propositions: First, that a Socialist believes in\nthe common ownership and democratic management of the means of producing\nthe necessities of life; and, second, that a Socialist believes that\nthe means by which this is to be brought about is the class conscious\npolitical organization of the wage-earners. Thus far they were at\none; but no farther. To Lucas, the religious zealot, the co-operative\ncommonwealth was the New Jerusalem, the kingdom of Heaven, which is\n\"within you.\" To the other, Socialism was simply a necessary step toward\na far-distant goal, a step to be tolerated with impatience. Schliemann\ncalled himself a \"philosophic anarchist\"; and he explained that an\nanarchist was one who believed that the end of human existence was the\nfree development of every personality, unrestricted by laws save those\nof its own being. Since the same kind of match would light every one's\nfire and the same-shaped loaf of bread would fill every one's stomach,\nit would be perfectly feasible to submit industry to the control of a\nmajority vote. There was only one earth, and the quantity of material\nthings was limited. Of intellectual and moral things, on the other hand,\nthere was no limit, and one could have more without another's\nhaving less; hence \"Communism in material production, anarchism in\nintellectual,\" was the formula of modern proletarian thought. As soon\nas the birth agony was over, and the wounds of society had been healed,\nthere would be established a simple system whereby each man was credited\nwith his labor and debited with his purchases; and after that the\nprocesses of production, exchange, and consumption would go on\nautomatically, and without our being conscious of them, any more than\na man is conscious of the beating of his heart. And then, explained\nSchliemann, society would break up into independent, self-governing\ncommunities of mutually congenial persons; examples of which at present\nwere clubs, churches, and political parties. After the revolution, all\nthe intellectual, artistic, and spiritual activities of men would be\ncared for by such \"free associations\"; romantic novelists would be\nsupported by those who liked to read romantic novels, and impressionist\npainters would be supported by those who liked to look at impressionist\npictures--and the same with preachers and scientists, editors and actors\nand musicians. If any one wanted to work or paint or pray, and could\nfind no one to maintain him, he could support himself by working part of\nthe time. That was the case at present, the only difference being that\nthe competitive wage system compelled a man to work all the time to\nlive, while, after the abolition of privilege and exploitation, any\none would be able to support himself by an hour's work a day. Also the\nartist's audience of the present was a small minority of people, all\ndebased and vulgarized by the effort it had cost them to win in the\ncommercial battle, of the intellectual and artistic activities which\nwould result when the whole of mankind was set free from the nightmare\nof competition, we could at present form no conception whatever.\n\nAnd then the editor wanted to know upon what ground Dr. Schliemann\nasserted that it might be possible for a society to exist upon an hour's\ntoil by each of its members. \"Just what,\" answered the other, \"would be\nthe productive capacity of society if the present resources of science\nwere utilized, we have no means of ascertaining; but we may be sure it\nwould exceed anything that would sound reasonable to minds inured to\nthe ferocious barbarities of capitalism. After the triumph of the\ninternational proletariat, war would of course be inconceivable; and\nwho can figure the cost of war to humanity--not merely the value of the\nlives and the material that it destroys, not merely the cost of keeping\nmillions of men in idleness, of arming and equipping them for battle\nand parade, but the drain upon the vital energies of society by the\nwar attitude and the war terror, the brutality and ignorance, the\ndrunkenness, prostitution, and crime it entails, the industrial\nimpotence and the moral deadness? Do you think that it would be too much\nto say that two hours of the working time of every efficient member of a\ncommunity goes to feed the red fiend of war?\"\n\nAnd then Schliemann went on to outline some of the wastes of\ncompetition: the losses of industrial warfare; the ceaseless worry and\nfriction; the vices--such as drink, for instance, the use of which had\nnearly doubled in twenty years, as a consequence of the intensification\nof the economic struggle; the idle and unproductive members of the\ncommunity, the frivolous rich and the pauperized poor; the law and the\nwhole machinery of repression; the wastes of social ostentation, the\nmilliners and tailors, the hairdressers, dancing masters, chefs and\nlackeys. \"You understand,\" he said, \"that in a society dominated by\nthe fact of commercial competition, money is necessarily the test of\nprowess, and wastefulness the sole criterion of power. So we have,\nat the present moment, a society with, say, thirty per cent of the\npopulation occupied in producing useless articles, and one per cent\noccupied in destroying them. And this is not all; for the servants\nand panders of the parasites are also parasites, the milliners and the\njewelers and the lackeys have also to be supported by the useful members\nof the community. And bear in mind also that this monstrous disease\naffects not merely the idlers and their menials, its poison penetrates\nthe whole social body. Beneath the hundred thousand women of the elite\nare a million middle-class women, miserable because they are not of the\nelite, and trying to appear of it in public; and beneath them, in turn,\nare five million farmers' wives reading 'fashion papers' and trimming\nbonnets, and shop-girls and serving-maids selling themselves into\nbrothels for cheap jewelry and imitation seal-skin robes. And then\nconsider that, added to this competition in display, you have, like\noil on the flames, a whole system of competition in selling! You have\nmanufacturers contriving tens of thousands of catchpenny devices,\nstorekeepers displaying them, and newspapers and magazines filled up\nwith advertisements of them!\"\n\n\"And don't forget the wastes of fraud,\" put in young Fisher.\n\n\"When one comes to the ultra-modern profession of advertising,\"\nresponded Schliemann--\"the science of persuading people to buy what they\ndo not want--he is in the very center of the ghastly charnel house\nof capitalist destructiveness, and he scarcely knows which of a dozen\nhorrors to point out first. But consider the waste in time and energy\nincidental to making ten thousand varieties of a thing for purposes\nof ostentation and snobbishness, where one variety would do for use!\nConsider all the waste incidental to the manufacture of cheap qualities\nof goods, of goods made to sell and deceive the ignorant; consider the\nwastes of adulteration,--the shoddy clothing, the cotton blankets, the\nunstable tenements, the ground-cork life-preservers, the adulterated\nmilk, the aniline soda water, the potato-flour sausages--\"\n\n\"And consider the moral aspects of the thing,\" put in the ex-preacher.\n\n\"Precisely,\" said Schliemann; \"the low knavery and the ferocious cruelty\nincidental to them, the plotting and the lying and the bribing, the\nblustering and bragging, the screaming egotism, the hurrying and\nworrying. Of course, imitation and adulteration are the essence of\ncompetition--they are but another form of the phrase 'to buy in the\ncheapest market and sell in the dearest.' A government official has\nstated that the nation suffers a loss of a billion and a quarter dollars\na year through adulterated foods; which means, of course, not only\nmaterials wasted that might have been useful outside of the human\nstomach, but doctors and nurses for people who would otherwise have\nbeen well, and undertakers for the whole human race ten or twenty years\nbefore the proper time. Then again, consider the waste of time and\nenergy required to sell these things in a dozen stores, where one would\ndo. There are a million or two of business firms in the country,\nand five or ten times as many clerks; and consider the handling and\nrehandling, the accounting and reaccounting, the planning and worrying,\nthe balancing of petty profit and loss. Consider the whole machinery\nof the civil law made necessary by these processes; the libraries of\nponderous tomes, the courts and juries to interpret them, the lawyers\nstudying to circumvent them, the pettifogging and chicanery, the hatreds\nand lies! Consider the wastes incidental to the blind and haphazard\nproduction of commodities--the factories closed, the workers idle,\nthe goods spoiling in storage; consider the activities of the stock\nmanipulator, the paralyzing of whole industries, the overstimulation of\nothers, for speculative purposes; the assignments and bank failures,\nthe crises and panics, the deserted towns and the starving populations!\nConsider the energies wasted in the seeking of markets, the sterile\ntrades, such as drummer, solicitor, bill-poster, advertising agent.\nConsider the wastes incidental to the crowding into cities, made\nnecessary by competition and by monopoly railroad rates; consider\nthe slums, the bad air, the disease and the waste of vital energies;\nconsider the office buildings, the waste of time and material in the\npiling of story upon story, and the burrowing underground! Then take\nthe whole business of insurance, the enormous mass of administrative and\nclerical labor it involves, and all utter waste--\"\n\n\"I do not follow that,\" said the editor. \"The Cooperative Commonwealth\nis a universal automatic insurance company and savings bank for all its\nmembers. Capital being the property of all, injury to it is shared\nby all and made up by all. The bank is the universal government\ncredit-account, the ledger in which every individual's earnings and\nspendings are balanced. There is also a universal government bulletin,\nin which are listed and precisely described everything which the\ncommonwealth has for sale. As no one makes any profit by the sale, there\nis no longer any stimulus to extravagance, and no misrepresentation; no\ncheating, no adulteration or imitation, no bribery or 'grafting.'\"\n\n\"How is the price of an article determined?\"\n\n\"The price is the labor it has cost to make and deliver it, and it is\ndetermined by the first principles of arithmetic. The million workers in\nthe nation's wheat fields have worked a hundred days each, and the total\nproduct of the labor is a billion bushels, so the value of a bushel of\nwheat is the tenth part of a farm labor-day. If we employ an arbitrary\nsymbol, and pay, say, five dollars a day for farm work, then the cost of\na bushel of wheat is fifty cents.\"\n\n\"You say 'for farm work,'\" said Mr. Maynard. \"Then labor is not to be\npaid alike?\"\n\n\"Manifestly not, since some work is easy and some hard, and we should\nhave millions of rural mail carriers, and no coal miners. Of course the\nwages may be left the same, and the hours varied; one or the other will\nhave to be varied continually, according as a greater or less number of\nworkers is needed in any particular industry. That is precisely what is\ndone at present, except that the transfer of the workers is accomplished\nblindly and imperfectly, by rumors and advertisements, instead of\ninstantly and completely, by a universal government bulletin.\"\n\n\"How about those occupations in which time is difficult to calculate?\nWhat is the labor cost of a book?\"\n\n\"Obviously it is the labor cost of the paper, printing, and binding of\nit--about a fifth of its present cost.\"\n\n\"And the author?\"\n\n\"I have already said that the state could not control intellectual\nproduction. The state might say that it had taken a year to write the\nbook, and the author might say it had taken thirty. Goethe said that\nevery bon mot of his had cost a purse of gold. What I outline here is\na national, or rather international, system for the providing of the\nmaterial needs of men. Since a man has intellectual needs also, he will\nwork longer, earn more, and provide for them to his own taste and in his\nown way. I live on the same earth as the majority, I wear the same kind\nof shoes and sleep in the same kind of bed; but I do not think the same\nkind of thoughts, and I do not wish to pay for such thinkers as the\nmajority selects. I wish such things to be left to free effort, as\nat present. If people want to listen to a certain preacher, they get\ntogether and contribute what they please, and pay for a church and\nsupport the preacher, and then listen to him; I, who do not want to\nlisten to him, stay away, and it costs me nothing. In the same way there\nare magazines about Egyptian coins, and Catholic saints, and flying\nmachines, and athletic records, and I know nothing about any of them.\nOn the other hand, if wage slavery were abolished, and I could earn some\nspare money without paying tribute to an exploiting capitalist,\nthen there would be a magazine for the purpose of interpreting\nand popularizing the gospel of Friedrich Nietzsche, the prophet of\nEvolution, and also of Horace Fletcher, the inventor of the noble\nscience of clean eating; and incidentally, perhaps, for the discouraging\nof long skirts, and the scientific breeding of men and women, and the\nestablishing of divorce by mutual consent.\"\n\nDr. Schliemann paused for a moment. \"That was a lecture,\" he said with a\nlaugh, \"and yet I am only begun!\"\n\n\"What else is there?\" asked Maynard.\n\n\"I have pointed out some of the negative wastes of competition,\"\nanswered the other. \"I have hardly mentioned the positive economies\nof co-operation. Allowing five to a family, there are fifteen million\nfamilies in this country; and at least ten million of these live\nseparately, the domestic drudge being either the wife or a wage slave.\nNow set aside the modern system of pneumatic house-cleaning, and the\neconomies of co-operative cooking; and consider one single item, the\nwashing of dishes. Surely it is moderate to say that the dish-washing\nfor a family of five takes half an hour a day; with ten hours as a day's\nwork, it takes, therefore, half a million able-bodied persons--mostly\nwomen to do the dish-washing of the country. And note that this is most\nfilthy and deadening and brutalizing work; that it is a cause of anemia,\nnervousness, ugliness, and ill-temper; of prostitution, suicide, and\ninsanity; of drunken husbands and degenerate children--for all of which\nthings the community has naturally to pay. And now consider that in each\nof my little free communities there would be a machine which would wash\nand dry the dishes, and do it, not merely to the eye and the touch,\nbut scientifically--sterilizing them--and do it at a saving of all the\ndrudgery and nine-tenths of the time! All of these things you may\nfind in the books of Mrs. Gilman; and then take Kropotkin's Fields,\nFactories, and Workshops, and read about the new science of agriculture,\nwhich has been built up in the last ten years; by which, with made soils\nand intensive culture, a gardener can raise ten or twelve crops in a\nseason, and two hundred tons of vegetables upon a single acre; by which\nthe population of the whole globe could be supported on the soil now\ncultivated in the United States alone! It is impossible to apply such\nmethods now, owing to the ignorance and poverty of our scattered farming\npopulation; but imagine the problem of providing the food supply of our\nnation once taken in hand systematically and rationally, by scientists!\nAll the poor and rocky land set apart for a national timber reserve, in\nwhich our children play, and our young men hunt, and our poets dwell!\nThe most favorable climate and soil for each product selected; the\nexact requirements of the community known, and the acreage figured\naccordingly; the most improved machinery employed, under the direction\nof expert agricultural chemists! I was brought up on a farm, and I know\nthe awful deadliness of farm work; and I like to picture it all as\nit will be after the revolution. To picture the great potato-planting\nmachine, drawn by four horses, or an electric motor, ploughing the\nfurrow, cutting and dropping and covering the potatoes, and planting a\nscore of acres a day! To picture the great potato-digging machine,\nrun by electricity, perhaps, and moving across a thousand-acre field,\nscooping up earth and potatoes, and dropping the latter into sacks! To\nevery other kind of vegetable and fruit handled in the same way--apples\nand oranges picked by machinery, cows milked by electricity--things\nwhich are already done, as you may know. To picture the harvest fields\nof the future, to which millions of happy men and women come for a\nsummer holiday, brought by special trains, the exactly needful number to\neach place! And to contrast all this with our present agonizing system\nof independent small farming,--a stunted, haggard, ignorant man, mated\nwith a yellow, lean, and sad-eyed drudge, and toiling from four o'clock\nin the morning until nine at night, working the children as soon as they\nare able to walk, scratching the soil with its primitive tools, and shut\nout from all knowledge and hope, from all their benefits of science and\ninvention, and all the joys of the spirit--held to a bare existence\nby competition in labor, and boasting of his freedom because he is too\nblind to see his chains!\"\n\nDr. Schliemann paused a moment. \"And then,\" he continued, \"place\nbeside this fact of an unlimited food supply, the newest discovery of\nphysiologists, that most of the ills of the human system are due to\noverfeeding! And then again, it has been proven that meat is unnecessary\nas a food; and meat is obviously more difficult to produce than\nvegetable food, less pleasant to prepare and handle, and more likely\nto be unclean. But what of that, so long as it tickles the palate more\nstrongly?\"\n\n\"How would Socialism change that?\" asked the girl-student, quickly. It\nwas the first time she had spoken.\n\n\"So long as we have wage slavery,\" answered Schliemann, \"it matters not\nin the least how debasing and repulsive a task may be, it is easy to\nfind people to perform it. But just as soon as labor is set free, then\nthe price of such work will begin to rise. So one by one the old, dingy,\nand unsanitary factories will come down--it will be cheaper to build\nnew; and so the steamships will be provided with stoking machinery, and\nso the dangerous trades will be made safe, or substitutes will be found\nfor their products. In exactly the same way, as the citizens of\nour Industrial Republic become refined, year by year the cost of\nslaughterhouse products will increase; until eventually those who want\nto eat meat will have to do their own killing--and how long do you think\nthe custom would survive then?--To go on to another item--one of the\nnecessary accompaniments of capitalism in a democracy is political\ncorruption; and one of the consequences of civic administration by\nignorant and vicious politicians, is that preventable diseases kill off\nhalf our population. And even if science were allowed to try, it could\ndo little, because the majority of human beings are not yet human beings\nat all, but simply machines for the creating of wealth for others. They\nare penned up in filthy houses and left to rot and stew in misery, and\nthe conditions of their life make them ill faster than all the doctors\nin the world could heal them; and so, of course, they remain as centers\nof contagion, poisoning the lives of all of us, and making happiness\nimpossible for even the most selfish. For this reason I would seriously\nmaintain that all the medical and surgical discoveries that science can\nmake in the future will be of less importance than the application of\nthe knowledge we already possess, when the disinherited of the earth\nhave established their right to a human existence.\"\n\nAnd here the Herr Doctor relapsed into silence again. Jurgis had noticed\nthat the beautiful young girl who sat by the center-table was listening\nwith something of the same look that he himself had worn, the time when\nhe had first discovered Socialism. Jurgis would have liked to talk to\nher, he felt sure that she would have understood him. Later on in the\nevening, when the group broke up, he heard Mrs. Fisher say to her, in\na low voice, \"I wonder if Mr. Maynard will still write the same things\nabout Socialism\"; to which she answered, \"I don't know--but if he does\nwe shall know that he is a knave!\"\n\n\nAnd only a few hours after this came election day--when the long\ncampaign was over, and the whole country seemed to stand still and hold\nits breath, awaiting the issue. Jurgis and the rest of the staff of\nHinds's Hotel could hardly stop to finish their dinner, before they\nhurried off to the big hall which the party had hired for that evening.\n\nBut already there were people waiting, and already the telegraph\ninstrument on the stage had begun clicking off the returns. When the\nfinal accounts were made up, the Socialist vote proved to be over four\nhundred thousand--an increase of something like three hundred and fifty\nper cent in four years. And that was doing well; but the party was\ndependent for its early returns upon messages from the locals, and\nnaturally those locals which had been most successful were the ones\nwhich felt most like reporting; and so that night every one in the hall\nbelieved that the vote was going to be six, or seven, or even eight\nhundred thousand. Just such an incredible increase had actually been\nmade in Chicago, and in the state; the vote of the city had been 6,700\nin 1900, and now it was 47,000; that of Illinois had been 9,600, and\nnow it was 69,000! So, as the evening waxed, and the crowd piled in, the\nmeeting was a sight to be seen. Bulletins would be read, and the people\nwould shout themselves hoarse--and then some one would make a speech,\nand there would be more shouting; and then a brief silence, and more\nbulletins. There would come messages from the secretaries of neighboring\nstates, reporting their achievements; the vote of Indiana had gone from\n2,300 to 12,000, of Wisconsin from 7,000 to 28,000; of Ohio from 4,800\nto 36,000! There were telegrams to the national office from enthusiastic\nindividuals in little towns which had made amazing and unprecedented\nincreases in a single year: Benedict, Kansas, from 26 to 260; Henderson,\nKentucky, from 19 to 111; Holland, Michigan, from 14 to 208; Cleo,\nOklahoma, from 0 to 104; Martin's Ferry, Ohio, from 0 to 296--and many\nmore of the same kind. There were literally hundreds of such towns;\nthere would be reports from half a dozen of them in a single batch of\ntelegrams. And the men who read the despatches off to the audience were\nold campaigners, who had been to the places and helped to make the\nvote, and could make appropriate comments: Quincy, Illinois, from 189 to\n831--that was where the mayor had arrested a Socialist speaker! Crawford\nCounty, Kansas, from 285 to 1,975; that was the home of the \"Appeal\nto Reason\"! Battle Creek, Michigan, from 4,261 to 10,184; that was the\nanswer of labor to the Citizens' Alliance Movement!\n\nAnd then there were official returns from the various precincts and\nwards of the city itself! Whether it was a factory district or one of\nthe \"silk-stocking\" wards seemed to make no particular difference in the\nincrease; but one of the things which surprised the party leaders\nmost was the tremendous vote that came rolling in from the stockyards.\nPackingtown comprised three wards of the city, and the vote in the\nspring of 1903 had been 500, and in the fall of the same year, 1,600.\nNow, only one year later, it was over 6,300--and the Democratic vote\nonly 8,800! There were other wards in which the Democratic vote had\nbeen actually surpassed, and in two districts, members of the state\nlegislature had been elected. Thus Chicago now led the country; it had\nset a new standard for the party, it had shown the workingmen the way!\n\n--So spoke an orator upon the platform; and two thousand pairs of eyes\nwere fixed upon him, and two thousand voices were cheering his every\nsentence. The orator had been the head of the city's relief bureau in\nthe stockyards, until the sight of misery and corruption had made him\nsick. He was young, hungry-looking, full of fire; and as he swung his\nlong arms and beat up the crowd, to Jurgis he seemed the very spirit of\nthe revolution. \"Organize! Organize! Organize!\"--that was his cry. He\nwas afraid of this tremendous vote, which his party had not expected,\nand which it had not earned. \"These men are not Socialists!\" he cried.\n\"This election will pass, and the excitement will die, and people will\nforget about it; and if you forget about it, too, if you sink back and\nrest upon your oars, we shall lose this vote that we have polled to-day,\nand our enemies will laugh us to scorn! It rests with you to take your\nresolution--now, in the flush of victory, to find these men who have\nvoted for us, and bring them to our meetings, and organize them and bind\nthem to us! We shall not find all our campaigns as easy as this one.\nEverywhere in the country tonight the old party politicians are studying\nthis vote, and setting their sails by it; and nowhere will they be\nquicker or more cunning than here in our own city. Fifty thousand\nSocialist votes in Chicago means a municipal-ownership Democracy in the\nspring! And then they will fool the voters once more, and all the powers\nof plunder and corruption will be swept into office again! But whatever\nthey may do when they get in, there is one thing they will not do, and\nthat will be the thing for which they were elected! They will not give\nthe people of our city municipal ownership--they will not mean to do it,\nthey will not try to do it; all that they will do is give our party\nin Chicago the greatest opportunity that has ever come to Socialism\nin America! We shall have the sham reformers self-stultified and\nself-convicted; we shall have the radical Democracy left without a lie\nwith which to cover its nakedness! And then will begin the rush that\nwill never be checked, the tide that will never turn till it has reached\nits flood--that will be irresistible, overwhelming--the rallying of the\noutraged workingmen of Chicago to our standard! And we shall organize\nthem, we shall drill them, we shall marshal them for the victory! We\nshall bear down the opposition, we shall sweep if before us--and Chicago\nwill be ours! Chicago will be ours! CHICAGO WILL BE OURS!”"