 CHAPTER 39 OF SISTER CARRI, CHAPTER 39 OF LIGHTS AND OF SHADOWS, THE PARTING OF WORLD, What hurts with God as the result of the termination was more self-assurance that each particular day was not the day. At the same time, Carrie passed through 30 days of mental distress. Her need of clothes, to say nothing of her desire for ornaments, grew rapidly as the fact developed that for all her work she was not to have them. The sympathy she felt for Hearstwood, at the time he asked her to tide him over, vanished with these newer urgings of decency. He was not always renewing his request, but this love of good appearance was. It insisted, and Carrie wished to satisfy it, wished more and more that Hearstwood was not in the way. Hearstwood reasoned, when he neared to last ten dollars, that he had better keep a little pocket change and not become wholly dependent for car fare, shaves and the like. So when the sum was still in his hand, he announced himself as penniless. I'm clear out, he said to Carrie one afternoon. I paid for some coal this morning, and they had took all but ten or fifteen cents. I've got some money there in my purse. Hearstwood went to get it, starting for a can of tomatoes. Carrie scarcely noticed that this was the beginning of the new order. He took out fifteen cents and bought the can with it. Thereafter it was drips and drabs of this sort, until one morning Carrie suddenly remembered that she would not be back until close to dinner time. We're all out of flour, she said. You'd better get some this afternoon. We haven't any meat, either. How would it be if we had liver and bacon? Suits me, said Hearstwood. Better get a half or three quarters of a pound of that. Half will be enough, volunteered Hearstwood. She opened her purse and laid down a half dollar. He pretended not to notice it. Hearstwood bought the flour, which all grocers sold in three and a half pound packages, for thirteen cents, and paid fifteen cents for a half pound of liver and bacon. He left the packages together with a balance of thirty-two cents upon the kitchen table where Carrie found it. It did not escape her that the change was accurate. There was something sad in realizing that, after all, all that he wanted of her was something to eat. She felt as if hard feelings were unjust. Maybe he would get something yet. He had no vices. That very afternoon, however, on going into the theater, one of the chorus girls passed her, all newly arrayed, in a pretty-modeled tweed suit which took Carrie's eye. The young girl wore a fine bunch of violets and seemed in high spirits. She smiled at Carrie good-naturedly as she passed, showing pretty, even teeth, and Carrie smiled back. She couldn't afford to dress well, thought Carrie, and so could I. If I could only keep my money, I have in the decent tie of any kind to wear. She put out her foot and looked at her shoe reflectively. I'll get a pair of shoes Saturday anyhow. I don't care what happens. One of the sweetest and most empathetic little chorus girls in the company made friends with her because in Carrie she found nothing to frighten her away. She was a gay little manion, unwitting of society's fierce conception of morality, but nonetheless, good to her neighbor and charitable. Little license was allowed the chorus in the manner of conversation, but nonetheless, some was indulged in. It's warm tonight, isn't it? said this girl, arrayed in pink fleshings and an imitation gold helmet. She also carried a shining shield. Yes it is, said Carrie, pleased that someone should talk to her. I'm almost roasting, said the girl. Carrie looked into her pretty face, with its large blue eyes, and saw little beads of moisture. There's more marching in this opera than I ever did before, added the girl. Have you been in others, asked Carrie, surprised at her experience? Lots of them, said the girl. Haven't you? This is my first experience. Oh, is it? I thought I saw you the time they ran the queen's mate here. No, said Carrie, shaking her head, not me. The conversation was interrupted by the Blair of the Orchestra and the sputtering of the calcium lights in the wings as the line was called to form for a new entrance. No further opportunity for conversation occurred, but the next evening, when they were getting ready for the stage, this girl appeared anew at her side. They say the show is going on the road next month. Is it, said Carrie? Yes, do you think you'll go? I don't know, I guess so, if they'll take me. Oh, they'll take you. I wouldn't go. They won't give you any more, and it will cost you everything you make to live. I never leave New York. There are too many shows going on here. Can you always get in another show? I always have. There's one going on up at the Broadway this month. I'm going to try and get in that if this one really goes. Carrie heard this with aroused intelligence. Evidently, it wasn't so very difficult to get on. Maybe she also could get a place if this show went away. Do they all pay about the same, she asked? Yes, sometimes you get a little more. This show doesn't pay very much. I get 12, said Carrie. Do you, said the girl? They pay me 15, and you do more work than I do. I wouldn't stand it if I were you. They're just giving you less because they think you don't know. You ought to be making 15, while I'm not, said Carrie. Well, you get more at the next place if you want it, went on the girl, who admired Carrie very much. You do fine, and the manager knows it. To say the truth, Carrie did unconsciously move about, with an air pleasing and somewhat distinctive. It was due wholly to her natural manner and total lack of self-consciousness. Do you suppose I could get more up at the Broadway? Of course you can, answered the girl. You come with me when I go. I'll do the talking. Carrie heard this, flushed with thankfulness. She liked this little gaslight soldier. She seemed so experienced and self-reliant in her tinsel helmet and military accruetraments. My future must be assured if I can always get work this way, thought Carrie. Still, in the morning, when her household duties would imprint upon her and Hearstwood sat there, a perfect load to contemplate, her fate seemed dismal and unrelieved. It did not take so very much to feed them under Hearstwood's close measured buying, and there would possibly be enough for rent, but it left nothing else. Carrie bought the shoes and some other things, which complicated the rent problem very seriously. Suddenly, a week from the fatal day, Carrie realized that they were going to rent short. I don't believe, she exclaimed, looking into her purse at breakfast, that I'll have enough to pay the rent. How much have you inquired, Hearstwood? Well, I've got $22, but there's everything to be paid for this week yet, and if I use all I get Saturday to pay this, there won't be any left for next week. Do you think your hotel man will open his hotel this month? I think so, returned Hearstwood. He said he would. After a while, Hearstwood said, don't worry about it, maybe the grocer will wait. He can do that. We've traded there long enough to make him trust us for a week or two. Do you think he will? She asked. I think so. On this account, Hearstwood, this very day, looked grocer Oslog clearly in the eye, as he ordered a pound of coffee and said, Do you mind carrying my account until the end of every week? No, no, Mr. Wheeler said, Mr. Oslog, Dad is all right. Hearstwood, still tactful and distressed, added nothing to this. It seemed an easy thing to do. He looked out of the door and then gathered up his coffee when ready and came away. The game of a desperate man had begun. Grant was paid and now came the grocer. Hearstwood managed by paving out of his own ten and collecting from Kerry at the end of the week. Then he delayed a day next time, settling with the grocer. And so soon had his ten bank, with Oslog getting his pay on this Thursday or Friday for last Saturday's bill. This entanglement made Kerry anxious for a change of some sort. Hearstwood did not seem to realize that she had a right to anything. He schemed to make what she earned cover all expenses, but seemed not to trouble over adding anything himself. He talks about worrying, thought Kerry. If he worried enough, he couldn't sit there and wait for me. He'd get something to do. No man could go seven months without finding something if he tried. The sight of him, always around in his untidy clothes and gloomy appearance, drove Kerry to seek relief in other places. Twice a week there were matinees, and then Hearstwood ate a cold snack, which he prepared himself. Two other days there were rehearsals beginning at ten in the morning, and lasting until one. Now to this Kerry added a few visits to one or two chorus girls, including the blue-eyed soldier of the golden helmet. She did it because it was pleasant, and the relief from dullness of the home over which her husband brooded. The blue-eyed soldier's name was Osborne, Lola Osborne. Her room was in 19th Street, near 4th Avenue, a block now given up wholly to office buildings. Here she had a comfortable back room, looking over a collection of backyards, in which grew a number of shade trees pleasant to see. Isn't your home in New York, she asked of Lola one day? Yes, but I can't get along with my people. They always want me to do what they want. Do you live here? Yes, said Kerry, with your family. Kerry was ashamed to say that she was married. She had talked so much about getting more salary, and confessed to so much anxiety about her future, that now, when the direct question of fact was waiting, she could not tell this girl. With some relatives she answered. Ms. Osborne took it for granted that, like herself, Kerry's time was her own. She invariably asked her to stay, proposing little outings and other things of that sort, until Kerry began neglecting her dinner hours. Hearst would notice that, but felt in no position to quarrel with her. Several times she came so late, as scarcely to have an hour, in which to patch up a meal, and start for the theatre. Do you rehearse in the afternoons, Hearst would once ask, concealing almost completely the cynical protest and regret which prompted it. No, I was looking around for another place, said Kerry. As a matter of fact she was, but only in such a way as furnished the least straw of an excuse. Ms. Osborne and she had gone to the office of the manager, who was to produce the new opera at the Broadway, and returned straight to the former's room, where they had been since three o'clock. Kerry felt this question to be an infringement on her liberty. She did not take into account how much liberty she was securing. Only the last step, the newest freedom, must not be questioned. Hearst would saw it all clearly enough. He was shrewd after his kind, and yet there was enough decency in the man to stop him from making an effectual protest. In his almost inexplicable apathy, he was content to droop supinely while Kerry drifted out of his life. Just as he was willing supinely to see opportunity pass beyond his control. He could not help clinging and protesting in a mild, irritating, and ineffectual way. However, a way that simply widened the breach by slow degrees. A further enlargement of this chasm between them came when the manager, looking between the wings upon the brightly lighted stage, where the chorus was going through some of its glittering evolutions, said to the master of the ballet, who is that fourth girl there on the right, the one coming round at the end now? Oh, said the ballet master, that's Miss Modenda. She's good looking. Why don't you let her head that line? I will, said the man. Just do that. She'll look better there than the woman you've got. All right, I'll do that, said the master. The next evening, Kerry was called out, much as if for an error. You lead your company tonight, said the master. Yes, sir, said Kerry. Put snap into it, he added. We must have snap. Yes, sir, replied Kerry. Astonished at this change, she thought that the here to four leader must be L, but when she saw her in the line, with a distinct expression of something unfavorable in her eye, she began to think that perhaps it was merit. She had a chic way of tossing her head to one side and holding her arms as if for action, not listlessly. In front of the line, this showed up even more effectually. That girl knows how to carry yourself, said the manager another evening. He began to think that he should like to talk with her. If he hadn't made it a rule to have nothing to do with the members of the chorus, he would have approached her most unbendingly. Put that girl at the head of the white column, he suggested to the man in charge of the ballet. The white column consisted of some twenty girls, all in snow white flannel, trimmed with silver and blue. Its leader was most stunningly arrayed in the same colors, elaborated, however, with epaulettes and the belt of silver, with the short sword dangling at one side. Carrie was fitted for this costume, and a few days later appeared, proud of her new laurels. She was especially gratified to find that her salary was now eighteen instead of twelve. Hirstwood heard nothing about this. I'll not give him the rest of my money, said Carrie. I do enough. I am going to get me something to wear. As a matter of fact, during the second month, she had been buying for herself as recklessly as she dared, regardless of the consequences. There were impending more complications, rent day, and more extension of the credit system in the neighborhood. Now, however, she proposed to do better by herself. Her first move was to buy a shirt waist, and in studying these she found how little her money would buy, how much if she could only use all. She forgot that if she were alone, she would have to pay for a room and board, and imagined that every cent of her eighteen could be spent for clothes and things that she liked. At last she picked upon something, which not only used up all her surplus above twelve, but invaded at some. She knew she was going too far, but her feminine love of finery prevailed. The next day, Hirstwood said, we owe the grocer five dollars and forty cents this week. Do we, said Carrie, frowning a little? She looked in her purse to leave it. I've only got it eight dollars and twenty cents all together. We owe the milkman sixty cents, said it, Hirstwood. Yes, and there's the coalman, said Carrie. Hirstwood said nothing. He had seen the new things that she was buying, the way she was neglecting household duties, the readiness with which she was slipping out afternoons and staying. He felt that something was going to happen. All at once she spoke. I don't know, she said. I can't do it all. I don't earn enough. This was a direct challenge. Hirstwood had to take it up. He tried to be calm. I don't want you to do it all, he said. I only want a little help until I can get something to do. Oh, yes, answered Carrie. That's always the way. It takes more than I can earn to pay for things. I don't see what I'm going to do. Well, I tried to get something, he exclaimed. What do you want me to do? You couldn't have tried so very hard, said Carrie. I got something. Well, I did, he said, angered almost a harsh words. You needn't throw up your success to me. All I ask is for you to do what you want. All I ask was a little help until I could get something. I'm not down yet. I'll come up all right. He tried to speak steadily, but his voice trembled a little. Carrie's anger melted in an instant. She felt ashamed. Well, she said, here's the money, and emptied it out on the table. I haven't got quite enough to pay it all. If they can wait until Saturday, though, I'll have some more. You keep it, said Herswood, sadly. I only want enough to pay the grocer. She put it back and proceeded to get dinner early and in good time. Her little bravado made her feel as if she ought to make amends. In a little while their old thoughts returned to both. She's making more than she says, thought Herswood. She says she's making 12. But they wouldn't buy all those things. I don't care. Let her keep her money. I'll get something again one of these days. Then she can go to the deuce. He only said this in his anger, but it prefigured a possible course of action and attitude well enough. I don't care, thought Carrie. He ought to be told to get out and do something. It isn't right that I should support him. In these days, Carrie was introduced to several youths, friends of Miss Osbourne, who were of the kind most aptly described as gay and festive. They called once to get Miss Osbourne for an afternoon drive. Carrie was with her at the time. Come and go along, said Lola. No, I can't, said Carrie. Oh yes, come and go. What have you got to do? I have to be home by five, said Carrie. What for? Oh dinner. They'll take us to dinner, said Lola. Oh no, said Carrie. I won't go. I can't. Oh, do come. They're awful nice boys. We'll get you back in time. We're only going for a drive in Central Park. Carrie thought awhile and at last yielded. Now I must be back by half past four, she said. The information went in one ear of Lola and out the other. After Druitt and Hurstwood, there was the least touch of cynicism in their attitude toward younger men, especially of the gay and frivolous sort. She fell a little older than they. Some of their pretty compliments seemed silly. Still, she was young in heart and body and youth appealed to her. Oh, we'll be right back, Ms. Madenda, said one of the chaps bowing. You wouldn't think we'll keep you over time now, would you? Well, I don't know, said Carrie, smiling. They were off for a drive. She, looking about and noticing fine clothing. The young man voicing those silly pleasantries and weak quips, which passed for humor in coy circles. Carrie saw the great park parade of carriages beginning at the 59th Street entrance and winding past the Museum of Art to the exit at 110th Street and 7th Avenue. Her eye was once more taken by the show of wealth. The elaborate costumes, elegant harnesses, spirited horses, and above all, the beauty. Once more, the plague of poverty galled her. But now she forgot in a measure her own troubles, so far as to forget Hurstwood. He waited until four, five, and even six. It was getting dark when he got up out of his chair. I guess she isn't coming home, he said grimly. That's the way he thought. She's getting a start now. I'm out of it. Carrie had really discovered her neglect. But only at a quarter after five, and the open carriage was now far up 7th Avenue, near the Harlem River. What time is it, she inquired? I must be getting back. A quarter after five, said her companion, consulting an elegant open-faced watch. Oh, dear me, exclaimed Carrie. Then she settled back with a sigh. There's no use crying over spelt milk, she said. It's too late. Of course it is, said the youth, who saw visions of a fine dinner now and such invigorating talk as would result in a reunion after the show. He was greatly taken with Carrie. We'll drive down to Delmonico's now, and have something there, won't we, Orrin? To be sure, replied Orrin gaily. Carrie thought of Hearstwood. Never before had she neglected dinner without an excuse. They drove back, and at 6.15 sat down to dine. It was the sherry incident over again. The remembrance of which came painfully back to Carrie. She remembered Mrs. Vance, who had never called again after Hearstwood's reception and aims. At this figure her mind halted. It was a strong, clear vision. He liked better books than she read, better people than she associated with. His ideals burned in her heart. It's fine to be a good actress, came distinctly back. What sort of an actress was she? What are you thinking about, Miss Madenda, inquired her merry companion? Come now, let's see if I can guess. Oh no, said Carrie, don't try. She shook it off and ate. She forgot in part, and was merry. When it came to an after-theater proposition, however, she shook her head. No, she said, I can't. I have a previous engagement. Oh no, Miss Madenda, pleaded the youth. No, said Carrie, I can't. You've been so kind, but you'll have to excuse me. The youth looked exceedingly crestfallen. Cheer up, old man, whispered his companion. We'll go around anyhow. She may change her mind. End of Chapter 39 Chapter 40 of Sister Carrie This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Andrea Deans. Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser. Chapter 40 A Public Descension A Final Appeal There was no after-theater lark, however, so far as Carrie was concerned. She made her way homeward, thinking about her absence. Herstead was asleep, but roused up to look as she passed through to her own bed. Is that you, he said? Yes, she answered. The next morning at breakfast, she felt like apologizing. I couldn't get home last evening, she said. Oh, Carrie, he answered. What's the youth saying that? I don't care. You needn't tell me that, though. I couldn't, said Carrie, her color rising. Then, seeing that he looked as if he said. I know, she exclaimed. Oh, all right, I don't care. From now on, her indifference to the flat was even greater. There seemed no common ground on which they could talk to one another. She let herself be asked for expenses. It became so with him that he hated to do it. He preferred standing off the butcher and bake her. He ran up a grocery bell of $16 with Oslog laying in the supply of staple articles so that they would not have to buy any of those things for some time to come. Then he changed his grocery. It was the same with Butcher and several others. Carrie never heard anything of this directly from him. He asked for such as he could expect. Drifting farther and farther into a situation which could have but one ending. In this fashion, September went by. Isn't Mr. Drake going to open his hotel, Carrie asked several times? Yes, he won't do it before October, though, now. Carrie became disgusted. Such a man, she said to herself frequently. More and more she visited. She put most of her spare money in clothes, which, after all, was not an astonishing amount. At last, the opera she was with announced its departure within four weeks. Last two weeks of the great comic opera success, the etc., was upon all billboards and in the newspapers before she acted. I'm not going out on the road, said Ms. Osborne. Carrie went with her to apply to another manager. Ever had any experience, was one of his questions? I'm with the company at the casino now. Oh, you are, he said. The end of this was another engagement at 20 per week. Carrie was delighted. She began to feel that she had a place in the world. People recognized the ability. So changed was her state, that the home atmosphere became intolerable. It was all poverty and trouble there, or it seemed to be, because it was a load to bear. It became a place to keep away from. Still, she slept there and did a fair amount of work, keeping it in order. Keeping it in order. It was a sitting place for Hearstwood. He sat and rocked, rocked and read, enveloped in the gloom of his own fate. October went by, and November. It was the dead of winter almost, before he knew it, and there he sat. Carrie was doing better, that he knew. Her clothes were improved now, even fine. He saw her coming and going, sometimes picturing to himself her eyes. Little eating had finned him somewhat. He had no appetite. His clothes, too, were a poor man's clothes. Talk about getting something had become even too threadbare and ridiculous for him. So he folded his hands and waited, for what he could not anticipate. At last, however, troubles became too thick. The hounding of creditors, the indifference of Carrie, the silence of the flat, and presence of winter all joined to produce a climax. It was affected by the arrival of Oslog personally, when Carrie was there. I call about my bell, said Mr. Oslog. Carrie was only faintly surprised. How much is it, she asked. Sixteen dollars, he replied. Oh, that much, said Carrie. Is this right, she asked, turning to Hearstwood? Yes, he said. Well, I never heard anything about it. She looked as if she thought he had been contracting some needless expense. Well, we had it all right, he answered. Then he went to the door. I can't pay you anything on that today, he said mildly. Well, when can you, said the grocer? Not before Saturday, anyhow, said Hearstwood. Huh, returned the grocer. This is fine. I must have that. I need the money. Carrie was standing farther back in the room, hearing it all. She was greatly distressed. It was so bad and commonplace. Hearstwood was annoyed also. Well, he said, there's no use talking about it now. If you'll come in Saturday, I'll pay you something on it. The grocery man went away. How are we going to pay it, asked Carrie, astonished by the bell. We can't do it. Well, you don't have to, he said. He can't get what he can't get. He'll have to wait. I don't see how we ran up. Such a bell is that, said Carrie. Well, we ate it, said Hearstwood. It's funny, she replied, still doubting. What's the use of your standing there and talking like that now? He asked. Do you think I've had it alone? You talk as if I'd taken something. Well, it's too much anyhow, said Carrie. I oughtn't to be made to pay for it. I've got more than I can pay for now. All right, replied Hearstwood, sitting down in silence. He was sick of the grind of this thing. Carrie went out and very sad, determined to do something. There had been appearing in the papers about this time, rumors and notices of an approaching strike on the trolley lines in Brooklyn. There was general dissatisfaction as to the hours of labor required and the wages paid. As usual, and for some inexplicable reason, the men chose the winner for the forcing of the hand of their employers and the settlement of their difficulties. Hearstwood had been reading of this thing and wondering concerning the huge tie-up, which would follow a day or two before this trouble with Carrie, it came on a cold afternoon, when everything was gray and it threatened to snow, the papers announced that the men had been called out on all the lines. He was so utterly idle, and his mind felled with the numerous predictions which had been made concerning the scarcity of labor this winter and the panicky state of the financial market. Hearstwood read this with interest. He noted the claims of the striking motormen and conductors, who said that they had been want to receive $2 a day in times past, but that for a year or more, trippers had been introduced, which cut down their chance of livelihood one-half and increased their hours of servitude from 10 to 12 and even 14. These trippers were men put on during the busy and rush hours to take a car out for one trip. The compensation paid for such a trip was only 25 cents. When the rush or busy hours were over, they were laid off. Worst of all, no men might know when he was going to get a car. He must come to the barns in the morning and wait around in fair and foul weather until such time as he was needed. Two trips were an average reward for so much waiting, a little over three hours' work for 50 cents. The work of waiting was not counted. The men complained that this system was extending and that the time was not far off when but a few of the 7,000 employees would have regular $2 a day work at all. They demanded that the system be abolished and that 10 hours be considered a day's work, barring unavoidable delays, with $2.25 pay. They demanded immediate acceptance of these terms, which the various trolley companies refused. Hearst went at first, sympathized with the demands of these men. Indeed, it is a question whether he did not always sympathize with them to the end, belie him as his actions might. Reading nearly all the news, he was attracted first by the scareheads with which the trouble was noted in the world. He read it fully, the names of the 7 companies involved, the number of men, their foolish to strike in this sort of weather, he thought to himself, let them win if they can, though. The next day there was even a larger notice of it. Brooklyn Knights Walk, said the world. Knights of labor tie up the trolley lines across the bridge. About 7,000 men out. Hearst would read this, formulating to himself his own idea of what would be the outcome. He was a great believer in the strength of corporations. They can't win, he said concerning the men. They haven't any money. The police will protect the companies. They've got to. The public has to have its cars. He didn't sympathize with the corporations, but strength was with them. So was property and public utility. Those fellows can't win, he thought. Among other things, he noticed a circular issued by one of the companies which read Atlantic Avenue Railroad Special Notice. The motormen and conductors and other employees of this company, having abruptly left its service, an opportunity is now given to all loyal men who have struck against their will to be reinstated, providing they will make their applications by 12 o'clock noon on Wednesday, January 16th. Such men will be given employment with guaranteed protection in the order in which such applications are received and runs and positions assigned them accordingly. Otherwise, they will be considered discharged and every vacancy will be filled by a new man as soon as his services can be secured. Signed, Benjamin Norton, president. He also noted among the Juanads, one which read, wanted 50 skilled motormen accustomed to Westinghouse system to run U.S. mail cars only in the city of Brooklyn, protection guaranteed. He noted particularly in each the protection guaranteed. It signified to him the unassailable power of the companies. They've got the militia on their side, he thought. There isn't anything those men can do. While this was still in his mind, the incident with Oslog and Kerry occurred. There had been a good deal to irritate him, but this seemed much the worse. Never before had she accused him of stealing, or very near that. She doubted the naturalness of so large a bill, and he had worked so hard to make expenses seem light. He was doing butcher and baker in order not to call on her. He had eaten very little, almost nothing. Damn it all, he said. I can get something, I'm not down yet. He thought that he really must do something now. It was too cheap to sit around after such an insinuation as this. Why, after a little, he would be standing anything. He got up and looked out the window into the chilly street. It came gradually into his mind as he stood there to go to Brooklyn. Why not, his mind said. Anyone could get work there. You'll get to a day. How about accidents, said a voice. You might get hurt. Oh, there won't be much of that, he answered. They've called out the police. Anyone who wants to rent a car will be protected all right. You don't know how to rent a car, rejoined the voice. I won't apply as a motorman, he answered. I can ring up fares all right. They'll want motormen mostly. They'll take anyone that I know. For several hours, he argued pro and con with this mental counselor, feeling no need to act at once in a manner so sure of profit. In the morning, he put on his best clothes, which were poor enough, and began stirring about, putting some bread and meat into a page of a newspaper. Carrie watched him, interested in this new move. Where are you going? She asked. Over to Brooklyn, he answered. Then, seeing her still inquisitive, he added, I think I can get on over there. On the trolley lines, said Carrie, astonished, yes, he rejoined. Aren't you afraid, she asked, of what he answered? The police are protecting them. The papers said four men were hurt yesterday. Yes, he returned, but you can't go by what the papers say. They'll run the cars all right. He looked rather determined now, in the desolate sort of way, and Carrie felt very sorry. Something of the old Hearstwood was there, at least the shadow, of what was once shrewd and pleasant strength. Outside it was cloudy, and blowing a few flakes of snow. What a day to go over there, thought Carrie. Now he laughed before she did. Now he laughed before she did, which was a remarkable thing, and tramped Eastward to Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, where he took the car. He had read that scores of applicants were applying at the office of the Brooklyn City Railroad Building, and were being received. He made his way there by horse car and ferry, a dark, silent man, to the offices in question. It was a long way, for no cars were running, and the day was cold, but he trudged along grimly. Once in Brooklyn, he could clearly see and feel that a strike was on. People showed that in their manner. Along the routes of certain tracks, not a car was running. About certain corners and nearby saloons, small groups of men were lounging. Several spring-ragons passed him, equipped with plain wooden chairs, and labeled Flatbush, or Prospect Park, fair, ten cents. He noticed cold and even gloomy faces. Labor was having its little war. When he came near the office in question, he saw a few men standing around and some policemen. On the fire corners were the other men, whom he took to be strikers, watching. All the houses were small and wooden. The streets poorly paved. After New York, Brooklyn looked actually poor and hard up. He made his way into the heart of the small group, eyed by policemen and the men already there. When did the officers address him? What are you looking for? I want to see if I can get a place. The offices are up those steps, said the blue coat. His face was a very neutral thing to contemplate. In his heart of hearts he sympathized with the strikers and hated the scab. In his heart of hearts also, he felt the dignity and use of the police force, which commanded order. Of its true social significance, he never once dreamed. His was not the mind for that. The two feelings blended in him, neutralized, one another with him. He would have fought for this man as determinedly as for himself, and yet only so far as commanded, strip him of his uniform, and he would have soon picked his side. Hurstwood ascended the dusty flight of stairs and entered a small, dust-colored office, in which were a railing, a long desk, and several clerks. Well, sir, said a mill-aged man, looking up at him from the long desk. Do you want to hire any men, inquired Hurstwood? What are you, a motor man? No, I'm not anything, said Hurstwood. He was not at all abashed by his position. He knew these people needed men. If one didn't take him, another would. This man could take him or leave him, just as he chose. Well, we prefer experienced men, of course, said the man. He paused, while Hurstwood smiled indifferently. Then he added, Still, I guess you can learn. What's your name? Wheeler, said Hurstwood. The man wrote an order on a small card. Take that to our barns, he said, and give it to the foreman. He'll show you what to do. Hurstwood went down and out. He walked straight away, in the direction indicated, while the policeman looked after him. There's another wants to try it, said Officer Kiley, to Officer Macy. I have my mind he'll get his fill, return the letter quietly. They had been in strikes before. End of Chapter 40 Chapter 41 of Sister Kerry This is a Leap of Ocs recording. All Leap of Ocs recordings are in the public domain. All Leap of Ocs recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Leapofox.org. Recording by Andrea Deans, Sister Kerry, by Theodore Dreiser, Chapter 41, The Strike. The barn at which Hurstwood applied was exceedingly shorthanded, and was being operated practically by three men as directors. There were a lot of green hands around, queer, hungry-looking men, who look as if want had driven them to desperate means. They tried to be lively and willing, but there was an air of hanged-dog diffidence about the place. Hurstwood went back through the barns and out into a large enclosed lot, where were a series of tracks and loops. A half-dozen cars were there, manned by instructors. Each with a pupil at the lever. More pupils were waiting at one of the rear doors of the barn. In silence Hurstwood viewed this scene and waited. His companions took his eye for a while, though they did not interest him much more than the cars. They were an uncomfortable-looking gang, however. One or two were very thin and lean. Several were quite stout. The several others were rob-owned and sallow, as if they had been beaten upon by all sorts of rough weather. Did you see by the paper they are going to call out the militia? Hurstwood heard one of them remark. Oh, they'll do that, replied the other. They always do. Think we're liable to have much trouble? Said another, whom Hurstwood did not see. Not very. That scotch-man that went out on the last car, put in a voice, told me that they hit him in the car with a cinder. A small nervous laugh accompanied this. One of those fellows on the Fifth Avenue line must have had a hell of a time according to the papers, drawled another. They broke his car windows and pulled him off into the street for the police could stop him. Yes, but there are more police around today, was added by another. Hurstwood hear-cannoned without much mental comment. These talkers seemed scared to him. Their garbling was feverish. Things said to quiet their own minds. He looked out into the yard and waited. Two of the men got quite near him, but behind his back. They were rather social, and he listened to what they said. Are you a railroad man, said one? Me? No. I've always worked in a paper factory. I had a job in Newark until last October, returned the other with reciprocal feeling. There were some words which passed too low to hear. Then the conversation became strong again. I don't blame these fellers for striking, said one. They've got the right of it, all right, but I had to get something to do. Same here, said the other. If I had any job in Newark, I wouldn't be over here taking chances like these. It's hell these days, ain't it? said the man. A poor man ain't nowhere. You could starve by God, right in the streets, and there ain't most no one would help you. Right you are, said the other. The job I had I lost because they shut down. They run off summer and lay up a big stock, and then shut down. Hearstwood paid some little attention to this. Somehow he felt a little superior to these two, a little better off. To him these were ignorant and commonplace, poor sheep in the driver's hand, poor devils, he thought, speaking out of the thoughts and feelings of a bygone period of success. Next, said one of the instructors. Your next, said a neighbor, touching him. He went out and climbed on the platform. The instructor took it for granted that no preliminaries were needed. You see this handle, he said, reaching up to an electric cutoff, which was fastened to the roof. This throws the current off or on. If you want to reverse the car, you turn it over here. If you want to send it forward, you put it over here. If you want to cut off the power, you keep it in the middle. Hearstwood smiled at the simple information. Now this handle here regulates your speed. To hear, he said, pointing with his finger, gives you about four miles an hour. This is eight. When it's full on, you'll make about 14 miles an hour. Hearstwood watched him calmly. He had seen motormen work before. He knew just about how they did it and was sure he could do as well with a very little practice. The instructor explained a few more details and then said, now we'll back her up. Hearstwood stood placidly by while the car rolled back into the yard. One thing you want to be careful about and that is to start easy. Give one degree time to act before you start another. The one fall of most men is that they always want to throw her wide open. That's bad. It's dangerous too. Where's out the motor? You don't want to do that. I see, said Hearstwood. He waited and waited while the man talked on. Now you take it, he said, finally. The ex-manager laid hand to the lever and pushed it gently as he thought. It worked much easier than he imagined, however, with the result that the car jerked quickly forward, throwing him back against the door. He straightened up sheepishly while the instructor stopped the car with a break. You want to be careful about that was all he said. Hearstwood found, however, that handling a break and regulating speed were not so instantly mastered as he had imagined. Once or twice he would have plowed through the rear fence, if it had not been for the hand and word of his companion. The latter was rather patient with him, but he never smiled. You've got to get the knack of working both arms at once, he said. It takes a little practice. One o'clock came while he was still on the car practicing, and he began to feel hungry. The day set in snowing, and he was cold. He grew weary of running to and fro on the short track. They ran the car to the end and both got off. Hearstwood went into the barn and saw the car step, pulling out his paper-wrapped lunch from his pocket. There was no water, and the bread was dry, but he enjoyed it. There was no ceremony about dining. He swallowed and looked about, contemplating the dull, holy labor of the thing. It was disagreeable, miserably disagreeable, in all its phases. Not because it was bitter, but because it was hard. It would be hard to anyone, he thought. After eating, he stood about as before, waiting until his turn came. The intention was to give him an afternoon of practice, but the greater part of the time was spent in waiting around. At last evening came, and with a hunger and a debate with himself as to how he should spend the night. It was half past five. He must soon eat. If he tried to go home, it would take him two hours and a half of cold walking and riding. Besides, he had orders to report at seven the next morning, and going home would necessitate his rising at an unholy and disagreeable hour. He had only something like a dollar and fifteen cents of Carrie's money, with which he had intended to pay the two weeks' cold bill before the present idea struck him. They must have some place around here, he thought. Where does that fellow from Newark stay? Finally, he decided to ask. There was a young fellow standing near one of the doors in the cold, waiting a last turn. He was a mere boy in years, twenty-one about, but with a body lank and long because of probation. A little good living would have made this youth plump and swaggering. How do they arrange this if a man hasn't any money, inquired Hearstwood discreetly. The fellow turned a keen, watchful face on the inquirer. You mean he eat, he replied? Yes, and sleep. I can't go back to New York to sleep. The foreman will fix you up if you ask him, I guess. He did me. That so? Yes, I just told him I didn't have anything. Gee, I couldn't go home. I live way over in Hoboken. Hearstwood only cleared his throat by way of acknowledgement. They've got a place upstairs, though, I understand. I don't know what sort of a thing it is. But I don't know what sort of a thing it is. Pretty tough, I guess. He gave me a meal ticket this afternoon. I know that wasn't much. Hearstwood smiled grimly and the boy laughed. It ain't no fun, is it, he inquired, wishing vainly for a cheery reply. Not much answered Hearstwood. I'd tackle him now, volunteered the youth. He may go away. He may go away. Hearstwood did so. Is it there some place I could stay around here tonight, he inquired? If I have to go back to New York, I'm afraid I won't. There are some cots upstairs interrupted the man, if you want one of them. That'll do, he ascended. He meant to ask for a meal ticket, but the seemingly proper moment never came, and he decided to pay himself that night. I'll ask him in the morning. He ate in a cheap restaurant in the vicinity, and being cold and lonely, went straight off to sink the loft in question. The company was not attempting to run cars after nightfall. It was so advised by the police. The rooms seemed to have been a lounging place for night workers. There were some nine cots in the place, two or three wooden chairs, a soap box, and a small round-bellied stove, in which a fire was blazing. Early as he was, another man was there before him. The ladder was sitting beside the stove, warming his hands. Hirstwood approached and held out his own toward the fire. He was sick of the bareness and privation of all things connected with his venture, but was stealing himself to hold out. He fancied he could for a while. Cold, isn't it, said the early guest. Rather, along silence. Not much of a place to sleep in, is it, said the man. Bare than nothing, replied Hirstwood. Another silence. I believe I'll turn in, said the man. Rising, he went to one of the cots and stretched himself, removing only his shoes, and pulling the one blanket and dirty old comforter over him in a sort of bundle. The sight disgusted Hirstwood, but he did not dwell on it. Choosing to gaze into the stove, and think of something else. Presently, he decided to retire and picked a cat, also removing his shoes. While he was doing so, the youth who had advised him to come here entered, and seeing Hirstwood tried to be genial. Bare in nothing, he observed, looking around. Hirstwood did not take this to himself. He thought it to be an expression of individual satisfaction, and so did not answer. The youth imagined he was out of sorts, and set to whistling softly. Seeing another man asleep, he quit that, and lapsed into silence. Hirstwood made the best of a bad thing to do, and he left the house. Hirstwood made the best of a bad lot by keeping on his clothes, and pushing away the dirty covering from his head, but at last he dozed in sheer weariness. The covering became more and more comfortable, its character was forgotten, and he pulled it about his neck and slept. In the morning he was aroused out of a pleasant dream by several men stirring about in the cold, cheerless room. He had been back in Chicago in fancy, in his own comfortable home. Jessica had been arranging to go somewhere, and he had been talking with her about it. This was so clear in his mind that he was startled now by the contrast of this room. He raised his head, and the cold bitter reality jarred him into wakefulness. Guess I'd better get up, he said. There was no water on this floor. He put on his shoes in the cold and stood up, shaking himself in his stiffness. His clothes felt disagreeable. His hair bad. Hell, he muttered as he put on his hat. Downstairs things were stirring again. He found a hydrant with a trowel which had once been used for horses, but there was no towel here, and his handkerchief was soiled from yesterday. He contended himself with wetting his eyes with the ice cold water. Then he sought the foreman, who was already on the ground. Had your breakfast yet inquired that worthy? No, said Hearstwood. Better get it then. Your car won't be ready for a little while. Hearstwood hesitated. Could you let me have a meal ticket, he asked, with an effort. Here you are, said the man, handing a one. He breakfasted, as poorly as the night before, on some fried steak and bad coffee. Then he went back. Here, said the foreman, motioning him, when he came in, you take this car out in a few minutes. Hearstwood climbed up on the platform in the gloomy barn and waited for his signal. He was nervous, and yet the thing was a relief. Anything was better than the barn. On this, the fourth day of the strike, the situation had taken a turn for the worse. The strikers, following the counsel of their leaders and the newspapers, had struggled peaceably enough. There had been no great violence done. Cars had been stopped, it is true, and the men argued with. Some crews had been won over and let away, some windows broken, some jeering and yelling done, but in no more than five or six instances had men been seriously injured. These by crowds, whose acts the leaders disclaimed. Idleness, however, and the side of the company, backed by the police, triumphant, angered the men. They saw that each day more cars were going on. Each day more declarations were being made by the company officials that the effective opposition of the strikers was broken. This put desperate thoughts in the minds of the men. Peaceful methods meant, they saw, that the companies would soon run all their cars, and those who had complained would be forgotten. There was nothing so helpful to the companies as peaceful methods. All at once they blazed forth, and for a week there was storm and stress. Cars were assailed, men attacked, police struggled with, tracks torn up, and shots fired. Until it last street fights and mob movements became frequent, and the city was invested with militia. Hurstwood knew nothing of the change of temper. Run your car out, called the foreman, waving a vigorous hand at him, a green conductor jumped up behind and rang the bell twice as a signal to start. Hurstwood turned the lever and ran the car out through the door into the street in front of the barn. Here two brownie policemen got up beside him on the platform, one on either hand. At the sound of a gong near the barn door, two bells were given by the conductor, and Hurstwood opened his lever. The two policemen looked about them calmly. "'Tis cold all right this morning,' said the one on the left, who possessed a rich brogue. "'I had enough of it yesterday,' said the other. "'I wouldn't want a steady job of this, nor I.' Neither paid the slightest attention to Hurstwood, who stood facing the cold wind, which was chilling him completely, and thinking of his orders. Keep a steady gait,' the foreman had said. "'Don't stop for anyone who doesn't look like a real passenger. Whatever you do, don't stop for a crowd.'" The two officers kept silent for a few moments. "'The last man must have gone through all right,' said the officer on the left. "'I don't see his car anywhere.'" "'Who's on there?' asked the second officer, referring, of course, to its compliment of policemen. Schaefer and Ryan. There was another silence in which the car ran smoothly along. There were not so many houses along this part of the way. Hurstwood did not see many people, either. The situation was not wholly disagreeable to him. He would do well enough. He was brought out of this feeling by the sudden appearance of a curve ahead, which he had not expected. He shut off the current and did an energetic turn at the break, but not in time to avoid an unnaturally quick turn. It shook him up and made him feel like making apologetic remarks, but he refrained. "'You want to look out for them, things,' said the officer on the left, condescendingly. "'That's right,' agreed Hurstwood, shame-facedly. "'There's lots of them on this line,' said the officer on the right. "'Around the corner, a more populated way appeared. "'One or two pedestrians were in view ahead. "'A boy, coming out of a gate with a tin milk bucket, gave Hurstwood his first objectionable greeting. "'Skab!' he yelled. "'Skab!' Hurstwood heard it, but tried to make no comment, even to himself. He knew he would get there, and much more of the same sort, probably. "'Ain't a corner farther up, a man stood by the track and signaled the car to stop. "'Never mind him,' said one of the officers. "'He's up to some game.' Hurstwood obeyed. At the corner he saw the wisdom of it. No sooner did the man perceive the intention to ignore him than he shook his fist. "'Ah, you bloody coward!' he yelled. "'Some half-dozen men, standing on the corner, flung taunts and jeers after the speeding car. "'Hurstwood winced the least bit. "'The real thing was slightly worse than the thoughts of it had been. "'Now came in sight three or four blocks farther on, a heap of something on the track. "'They've been at work here all right,' said one of the policemen. "'We'll have an argument, maybe,' said the other. "'Hurstwood ran the car close and stopped. "'He had not done so wholly, however, before a crowd gathered about. "'It was composed of ex-motorman and conductors in part, "'with a sprinkling of friends and sympathizers. "'Come off the car, partner,' said one of the men, "'and the voice meant to be conciliatory. "'You don't want to take the bread out of another man's mouth, do you?' "'Hurstwood held to his break and lever, pale and very uncertain what to do.' "'Stand back,' yelled one of the officers, leaning over the platform railing. "'Clear out of this now. Give the man a chance to do his work.' "'Listen, partner,' said the leader, ignoring the policemen and addressing Hurstwood. "'We're all working men, like yourself. If you were a regular motorman, and had been treated as we've been, you wouldn't want anyone to come in and take your place, would you? You wouldn't want anyone to do you out of your chance to get your rights, would you?' "'Shut her off, shut her off,' urged the other of the policemen, roughly. "'Get out of this now.' And he jumped the railing and landed before the crowd and began shoving. Instantly the other officer was down beside him. "'Stand back now,' they yelled. "'Get out of this. What the hell do you mean? Out now!' "'It was like a small swarm of bees. "'Don't shove me,' said one of the strikers, determinedly. "'I'm not doing anything. "'Get out of this,' cried the officer, swinging his club. "'I'll give you bad on the scouts. Back now.' "'What the hell,' cried another of the strikers, pushing the other way, adding at the same time some lusty oaths. Crack came in officer's club on his forehead. He blinked his eyes blindly a few times, wobbled on his legs, threw up his hands, and staggered back. In return a swift fist landed on the officer's neck. Infuriated by this, the latter plunged left and right, laying about madly with his club. He was ably assisted by his brother of the blue, who poured ponderous oaths upon the troubled waters. No severe damage was done, owing to the agility of the strikers and keeping out of reach. They stood about the sidewalk now and jeered. Where is the conductor yelled one of the officers, getting his eye on that individual, who had come nervously forward to stand by Hearstwood? The latter had stood gazing upon the scene, with more astonishment than fear. "'Why don't you come down here and get those stones off the track?' inquired the officer. "'What are you standing there for?' "'Do you want to stay here all day? Get down!' Hearstwood breathed heavily in excitement, and jumped down with a nervous conductor, as if he had been called. "'Hurry up now,' said the other policeman. Cold as it was, these officers were hot and mad. Hearstwood worked with the conductor, lifting stone after stone, and warming himself by the work. "'Oh, you scab you,' yelled the crowd. "'You coward, steal a man's job, will you? "'Rob the poor, will you? "'You thief, we'll get you yet now. Wait!' Not all of this was delivered by one man. It came from here and there, incorporated with much more of the same sort and curses. "'Work, you black guards,' yelled a voice. "'Do the dirty work. "'You're the suckers that keep the poor people down.' "'May God starve you yet,' yelled an old Irish woman, who now threw open the nearby window and stuck out her head. "'Yes, and you,' she added, catching the eye of one of the policemen. "'You bloody mother-in-thife, crack my son over the head, will you? You hard-hearted mother-in-divill. Ah ye, but the officer turned a duffier. "'Go to the devil, you old hag,' he half-muttered, as he stared round upon the scattered company. Now the stones were off, and Hearstwood took his place again, amid a continued chorus of epithets. Both officers got up beside him, and the conductor rang the bell, when, bang, bang, through window and door came rocks and stones. One narrowly grazed Hearstwood's head. Another shattered the window behind. "'Throw open your lever,' yelled one of the officers, grabbing it to handle himself. Hearstwood complied, and the car shot away, followed by a rattle of stones and a rain of curses. That so-and-so hit me in the neck, said one of the officers. I gave him a good crack for it, though. I think I must have left spots on some of them, said the other. I know that big guy that called us a so-and-so, said the first. I'll get him yet for that. I thought we were in for it, sure, once there, said the second. Hearstwood, warmed and excited, gazed steadily ahead. It was an astonishing experience for him. He had read of these things, but the reality seemed something altogether new. He was no coward in spirit. The fact that he had suffered this much now, rather operated to arouse a stolid determination to stick it out. He did not recur in thought to New York or the flat. This one trip seemed a consuming thing. They now ran into the business heart of Brooklyn uninterrupted. People gazed at the broken windows of the car, and at Hearstwood in his plain clothes. Voice is called scab now and then, as well as other epithets, but no crowd attacked the car. At the downtown end of the line, one of the officers went to call up his station and report the trouble. There's a gang out there, he said, laying for us yet. Better send someone over there and clean them out. The car ran back more quietly. Hooded, watched, flung at, but not attacked. Hearstwood breathed freely when he saw the barns. Well, he observed to himself. I came out of that all right. The car was turned in, and he was allowed to loaf a while, but later he was again called. This time a new team of officers was aboard. Slightly more confident, he sped the car along the commonplace streets, and felt somewhat less fearful. On one side, however, he suffered intensely. The day was raw, with a sprinkling of snow, and a gusty wind made all the more intolerable by the speed of the car. His clothing was not intended for this sort of work. He shivered, stamped his feet, and beat his arms as he had seen other motormen do in the past, but said nothing. The novelty and danger of the situation modified, in a way, his disgust and distress at being compelled to be here, but not enough to prevent him from feeling grim and sour. This was a dog's life, he thought. It was a tough thing to have to come to. The one thought that strengthened him was the insult offered by Cary. He was not down so low as to take all that, he thought. He could do something, this even, for a while. It would get better. He would save a little. A boy threw a clot of mud while he was thus reflecting, and hit him upon the arm. It hurt sharply, and angered him more than he had been any time since morning. The little cur, he muttered. Hurt you, asked one of the policemen? No, he answered. At one of the corners, where the car slowed up because of a turn, an ex-motorman, standing on the sidewalk, called to him. Won't you come out, partner, and be a man? Remember, we're fighting for decent days' wages, that's all. We've got families to support. The man seemed most peaceably inclined. Hurst would pretend not to see him. He kept his eyes straight on before, and opened the lever wide. The voice had something appealing in it. All morning this went on, and long into the afternoon. He made three such trips. The dinner he had was no stay for such work, and the cold was telling on him. At each end of the line he stopped the thaw out, but he could have groaned at the anguish of it. One of the barn men, out of pity, loaned him a heavy cap and a pair of sheepskin gloves, and for once he was extremely thankful. On the second trip of the afternoon he ran into a crowd about halfway along the line that had blocked the car's progress with an old telegraph pole. Get that thing off the track, shouted the two policemen. Yah, yah, yah, yelled the crowd. Get it off yourself. The two policemen got down, and Hurst would start to follow. You stay there, one called. Someone will run away with your car. Amid the babble of voices, Hurst would herd one close beside him. Come down, partner, and be a man. Don't fight the poor. Leave that to the corporations. He saw the same fellow who had called to him from the corner. Now as before he pretended not to hear him. Come down, the man repeated gently. You don't want to fight poor men. Don't fight at all. It was the most philosophic and just suitical motorman. A third policeman joined the other two from somewhere, and someone ran to telephone for more officers. Hurst would gazed about, determined, but fearful. A man grabbed him by the coat. Come off of that, he exclaimed, jerking at him and trying to pull him over the railing. Let go, said Hurst would savagely. I'll show you, you scab, cried a young Irishman. Jumping up on the car and aiming a blow at Hurst would. The latter ducked and caught it on the shoulder instead of the jaw. Away from here shouted an officer, hastening to the rescue, and adding of course the usual oaths. Hurst would recover himself, pale and trembling. It was becoming serious with him now. People were looking up and jeering at him. One girl was making faces. He began to waver in his resolution. When a patrol wagon rolled up and more officers dismounted. Now the track was quickly cleared and the release affected. Let her go now, quick, said the officer, and again he was off. The end came with a real mob, which met the car on its return trip, a mile or two from the barns. It was an exceedingly poor looking neighborhood. He wanted to run fast through it, but again the track was blocked. He saw a man carrying something out to it when he was yet a half dozen blocks away. There they are again, exclaimed one policeman. I'll give him something this time, said the second officer, whose patience was becoming worn. Hurst would suffer to quam of body as the car rolled up. As before the crowd began hooting, but now rather than come near they threw things. One or two windows were smashed and Hurst would dodge the stone. Both policemen ran out toward the crowd, but the latter replied by running toward the car. A woman, a mere girl in appearance, was among these bearing a rough stick. She was exceedingly wrathful and struck at Hurstwood, who dodged. Thereupon her companions, duly encouraged, jumped on the car and pulled Hurstwood over. He had hardly time to speak or shout before he fell. That go of me, he said, falling on the side. Ah, you sucker, he heard someone say. Kicks and blows rained on him. He seemed to be suffocating. Then two men seemed to be dragging him off and he wrestled for freedom. Let up, said a voice. You're all right, stand up. He was let loose and recovered himself. Now he recognized two officers. He felt as if he would faint from exhaustion. Something was wet on his chin. He put up his hand and felt, then looked. It was red. They cut me, he said, foolishly, fishing for his handkerchief. Now, now, said one of the officers, it's only a scratch. His senses became clear now and he looked around. He was standing in the little store where they left him for the moment. Outside he could see, as he stood wiping his chin, the car and the excited crowd. A patrol wagon was there and another. He walked over and looked out. It was an ambulance backing in. He saw some energetic charging by the police and the rest being made. Come on now if you want to take your car, said an officer, opening the door and looking in. He walked out, feeling rather uncertain of himself. He was very cold and frightened. Where's the conductor, he asked? Oh, he's not here now, said the policeman. Hurstwood went toward the car and stepped nervously on. As he did so, there was a pistol shot. Something stung his shoulder. Who fired that? He heard an officer exclaim, by God, who did that? Both left him, running toward a certain building. He paused a moment and then got down. George exclaimed Hurstwood weakly. This is too much for me. He walked nervously to the corner and hurried down the side street. Oh, he said, drying in his breath. A half block away, a small girl gazed at him. You'd better sneak, she called. He walked homeward in a blinding snowstorm, reaching the ferry by dusk. The cabins were filled with comfortable souls, who studied him curiously. His head was still in such a world that he felt confused. All the wonder of the twinkling lights on the river, in a white storm, passed for nothing. He trudged doggedly on until he reached the flat. There he entered and found the room warm. Carrie was gone. A couple of evening papers were lying on the table where she left them. He lit the gas and sat down. Then he got up and stripped to examine his shoulder. It was a mere scratch. He washed his hands and face, still in a brown study, apparently, and combed his hair. Then he looked for something to eat, and finally his hunger gone, sat down in his comfortable rocking chair. It was a wonderful relief. He put his hand to his chin, forgetting for the moment the papers. Well, he said after a time his nature recovering itself. That's a pretty tough game over there. Then he turned and saw the papers. With half a sigh he picked up the world. Strike spreading in Brooklyn, he read. Riding breaks out in all parts of the city. He adjusted his paper very comfortably and continued. It was the one thing he read with absorbing interest. Recording by Andrea Deans. Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser. Chapter 42. A touch of spring, the empty shell. Those who look upon Herswood's Brooklyn venture as an error of judgment will nonetheless realize the negative influence on him of the fact that he had tried and failed. Carrie got a wrong idea of it. He said so little that she imagined he encountered nothing worse than the ordinary roughness, quitting so soon the face of this seemed trifling. He did not want to work. She was now one of a group of Oriental beauties, who, in the second act of the comic opera, were paraded by the vizier before the new potentate as the treasures of his harem. There was no word assigned to any of them, but on the evening when Herswood was housing himself in the loft of the streetcar barn, the leading comedian and star, feeling exceedingly facetious, said in a profound voice, which created a ripple of laughter. Well, who are you? It merely happened to be Carrie who was curtsying before him. It might as well have been any of the others so far as he was concerned. He expected no answer, and a dull one would have been reproved. But Carrie, whose experience and belief in herself gave her daring, curtsied sweetly again, and answered, I am yours truly. It was a trivial thing to say, and yet something in the way she did it caught the audience, which laughed heartily at the mock fierce potentate towering before the young woman. The comedian also liked it, hearing the laughter. I thought your name was Smith, he returned, endeavouring to get the last laugh. Carrie almost trembled for her daring after she had said this. All members of the company had been warned that to interpolate lines or business, men of fine or worse, she did not know what to think. As she was standing in her proper position in the wings, awaiting another entry, the great comedian made his exit past her and paused in recognition. You can just leave that in here after, he remarked, seeing how intelligent she appeared. Don't add any more, though. Thank you, said Carrie humbly. When he went on, she found herself trembling violently. Well, you're in luck, remarked another member of the chorus. There isn't another one of us has got a line. There was no gain saying the value of this. Everybody in the company realized that she had got a start. Carrie hugged herself when next evening the lines got the same applause. She went home rejoicing, knowing that soon something must come of it. It was Hearstwood who by his presence caused her merry thoughts to flee and replace them with sharp longings for an end of distress. The next day she asked him about his venture. They're not trying to run any cars except with police. They don't want anyone just now, not before next week. Next week came, but Carrie saw no change. Hearstwood seemed more apathetic than ever. He saw her off mornings to rehearsals and the like with utmost calm. He read and read. Several times he found himself staring at an item, but thinking of something else. The first of these lapses that he sharply noticed concerned a hilarious party he had once attended at a driving club of which he had been a member. He sat gazing downward and gradually thought he heard the old voices and the clink of glasses. You're a dandy Hearstwood, his friend Walker said. He was standing again, well dressed, smiling, good natured, the recipient of encores for a good story. All at once he looked up. The room was so still it seemed ghostlike. He heard the clock ticking audibly and half suspected that he had been dozing. The paper was so straight in his hands, however, and the items he had been reading so directly before him that he rid himself of the doze idea. Still it seemed peculiar. When it occurred a second time, however, it did not seem quite so strange. Butcher and grocery men, Baker and Coleman, not the group with whom he was then dealing, but those who had trusted him to the limit called. He meant them all blandly, becoming deft in excuse. At last he became bold, pretended to be out, or waved them off. They can't get blood out of a turnip, he said. If I had it, I'd pay them. Carrie's little soldier friend, Miss Osborn, seeing her succeeding, had become a sort of satellite. Little Osborn could never of herself amount to anything. She seemed to realize it in a sort of pussy-like way, and instinctively concluded to cling with her soft little claws to Carrie. Oh, you'll get up, she kept telling Carrie with admiration. You're so good. Timid as Carrie was, she was strong in capability. The reliance of others made her feel as if she must, and when she must, she dared. Experience of the world and of necessity was in her favor. No longer the lightest word of a man made her head dizzy. She had learned that men could change and fail. Flattery in its most palpable form had lost its force with her. It required superiority, kindly superiority, to move her. The superiority of a genius like Ames. I don't like the actors in our company, she told Lola one day. They're also stuck on themselves. Don't you think Mr. Barkley's pretty nice, inquired Lola, who had received a condescending smile or two from that quarter? Oh, he's nice enough, answered Carrie, but he isn't sincere. He assumes such an error. Lola felt for her first hold upon Carrie in the following manner. Are you paying room rent where you are? Certainly, answered Carrie. Why? I know where I could get the loveliest room and bath cheap. It's too big for me, but it would be just right for two. And the rent is only six dollars a week for both. Where? said Carrie. In 17th Street. Well, I don't know if I'd care to change, said Carrie, who was already turning over the three dollar rate in her mind. She was thinking if she had only herself to support, this would leave her 17 for herself. Nothing came of this until after the Brooklyn adventure of Hearstwoods and her success with the speaking part. Then she began to feel as if she must be free. She thought of leaving Hearstwood and thus making him act for himself, but he had developed such peculiar traits, she feared he might resist any effort to throw him off. He might hunt her out at the show and hound her in that way. She did not wholly believe that he would, but he might. This, she knew, would be an embarrassing thing if he made himself conspicuous in any way. It troubled her greatly. Things were precipitated by the offer of a better part. One of the actresses playing the part of a modest sweetheart gave notice of leaving and Carrie was selected. How much are you going to get? asked Miss Osborne on hearing the good news. I didn't ask him, said Carrie. Well, find out. Goodness, you'll never get anything if you don't ask. Tell them you must have forty dollars anyhow. Oh no, said Carrie. Certainly, exclaimed Lola. Ask him anyway. Carrie succumbed to this prompting, waiting, however, until the manager gave her notice of what clothing she must have to fit the part. How much do I get? she inquired. Thirty-five dollars, he replied. Carrie was too much astonished and delighted to think of mentioning forty. She was nearly beside herself and almost hugged Lola, who clung to her at the news. It isn't as much as you ought to get, said the latter, especially when you got to buy clothes. Carrie remembered this with a start. Where to get the money? She had none laid up for such an emergency. Rent day was drying near. I'll not do it, she said, remembering her necessity. I don't use the flat. I'm not going to give up my money this time. I'll move. Fitting into this came another appeal from Miss Osborne, more urgent than ever. Come live with me, won't you? she pleaded. We can have the loveliest room. It won't cost you hardly anything that way. I'd like to, said Carrie, frankly. Oh, do, said Lola, we'll have such a good time. Carrie thought awhile. I believe I will, she said, and then added. I'll have to see first, though. With the idea thus grounded, rent day approaching, and close calling for instant purchase, she soon found excuse in Herswood's lassitude. He said less and drew more than ever. As rent day approached, an idea grew in him. It was fostered by the demands of creditors and the impossibility of holding up many more. Twenty-eight dollars was too much for rent. It's hard on her, he thought. We could get a cheaper place. Stirred with this idea, he spoke at the breakfast table. Don't you think we pay too much rent here, he asked? Indeed I do, said Carrie, not catching his drift. I should think we could get a smaller place, he suggested. We don't need four rooms. Her countenance, had he been scrutinizing her, would have exhibited the disturbance she found at this evidence of his determination to stay by her. He saw nothing remarkable in asking her to come down lower. Oh, I don't know, she answered, growing weary. There must be places around here where we could get a couple of rooms, which would do just as well. Her heart revolted, never, she thought. Who would furnish the money to move? To think of being in two rooms with him. She resolved to spend her money for clothes quickly, before something terrible happened. That very day she did it. Having done so, there was but one other thing to do. Lola, she said, visiting her friend. I think I'll come. Oh, jolly, cried the latter. Can we get it right away, she asked, meaning the room? Certainly, cried Lola. They went to look at it. Carrie had saved ten dollars from her expenditures, enough for this and her board beside. Her enlarged salary would not begin for ten days yet, would not reach her for seventeen. She paid half of the six dollars with her friend. Now, I've just enough to get on to the end of the week, she confided. Oh, I've got some, said Lola. I've got twenty-five dollars if you need it. No, said Carrie. I guess I'll get along. They decided to move Friday, which was two days away. Now that the thing was settled, Carrie's heart misgave her. She felt very much like a criminal in the matter. Each day, looking at Hearstwood, she had realized that, along with the discreableness of his attitude, there was something pathetic. She looked at him the same evening, and she had made up her mind to go. And now he seemed not so shiftless and worthless, but run down and beaten upon by chance. His eyes were not keen, his face marked, his hands flabby. She thought his hair had a touch of gray. All unconscious of his doom, he wracked and read his paper while she glanced at him. Knowing that the end was so near, she became rather solicitous. Will you go over and get some canned peaches? She asked Hearstwood, laying down a two-dollar bell. Certainly, he said, looking in wonder at the money. See if you can get some nice asparagus, she added. I'll cook it for dinner. Hearstwood rose and took the money, slipping on his overcoat and getting his hat. Carrie noticed that both of these articles of apparel were old and poor-looking in appearance. It was plain enough before, but now it came home with peculiar force. Perhaps he couldn't help it, after all. He had done well in Chicago. She remembered his fine appearance the days he met her in the park. Then he was so sprightly, so clean. Had it been all his fault? He came back and laid the change down with the food. You'd better keep it, she observed. We'll need other things. No, he said, with a sort of pride. You keep it. Oh, go on and keep it, she replied, rather unnerved. There'll be other things. He wondered at this, not knowing the pathetic figure he had become in her eyes. She restrained herself with difficulty from showing a quiver in her voice. To say truly, this would have been Carrie's attitude in any case. She had looked back at times upon her parting from Druett and had regretted that she had served him so badly. She hoped she would never meet him again, but she was ashamed of her conduct. Not that she had any choice in the final separation. She had gone willingly to seek him, with sympathy in her heart, when Hearstwood had reported him ill. There was something cruel somewhere, and not being able to track it mentally to its logical layer, she concluded with feeling that he would never understand what Hearstwood had done and would see hard-hearted decision in her deed, hence her shame. Not that she cared for him. She did not want to make anyone who had been good to her feel badly. She did not realize what she was doing by allowing these feelings to possess her. Hearstwood, noticing the kindness, conceived better of her. Carrie's good natured anyhow, he thought. Going to Miss Osborn's that afternoon, she found that little lady packing and singing. Why don't you come over with me today, she asked. Oh, I can't, said Carrie. I'll be there Friday. Would you mind lending me the twenty-five dollars you spoke of? Why no, said Lola, going for her purse. I want to get some other things, said Carrie. Oh, that's all right, answered the little girl, good-naturedly, glad to be of service. It had been days since Hearstwood had done more than go to the grocery or to the newsstand. Now the weariness of indoors was upon him. Had been for two days, but chill gray weather had held him back. Friday broke fair and warm. It was one of those lovely harbingers of spring. Given as the sign in dreary winter, the earth is not forsaken of warmth and beauty. The blue heaven, holding its one golden orb, poured down a crystal wash of warm light. It was plain, from the voice of the sparrows, that all was healthy and outside. Carrie raised the front windows and felt the south wind blowing. It's lovely out today, she remarked. Is it, said Hearstwood? After breakfast he immediately got his other clothes. Will you be back for lunch, asked Carrie nervously? No, he said. He went out into the streets and tramped north along Seventh Avenue, idly fixing upon the Harlem River as an objective point. He had seen some ships up there, the time he had called upon the brewers. He wondered how the territory thereabouts was growing. Passing 59th Street, he took the west side of Central Park, which he followed to 78th Street. Then he remembered the neighborhood and turned over to look at the massive buildings erected. It was very much improved. The gray open spaces were filling up. Coming back, he kept to the park until 110th Street and then turned into Seventh Avenue again, reaching the pretty river by one o'clock. There it ran, winding before his gaze, shining brightly in the clear light, between the undulating banks on the right and the tall, tree-covered heights on the left. The spring-like atmosphere woke him to a sense of his loveliness, and for a few moments he stood looking at it, folding his hands behind his back. Then he turned and followed it toward the east side, idly seeking the ships he had seen. It was four o'clock before the waning day, with its suggestion of a cooler evening, caused him to return. He was hungry and would enjoy eating in the warm room. When he reached the flat by half past five, it was still dark. He knew that Kerry was not there, not only because there was no light showing through the transom, but because the evening papers were stuck between the outside knob and the door. He opened with his key and went in. Everything was still dark. Lighting the gas, he sat down, preparing to wait a little while. Even if Kerry did come now, dinner would be late. He read until six, then got up to fix something for himself. As he did so, he noticed that the room seemed a little queer. What was it? He looked around, as if he missed something, and then saw an envelope near where he had been sitting. It spoke for itself, almost without further action on his part. Reaching over, he took it, a sort of chill settling upon him, even while he reached. The crackle of the envelope in his hands was loud. Green paper money lay soft within the note. Dear George, he read, crunching the money in one hand. I'm going away. I'm not coming back anymore. It's no use trying to keep up the flat. I can't do it. I wouldn't mind helping you, if I could, but I can't support us both, and pay the rent. I need what little I make to pay for my clothes. I'm leaving twenty dollars. It's all I have just now. You can do whatever you like with the furniture. I won't want it. Kerry. He dropped the note and looked quietly round. Now he knew what he missed. It was the little ornamental clock, which was hers. It had gone from the mantelpiece. He went into the front room, his bedroom, the parlor, lighting the gas as he went. From the chiffonniere had gone the knickknacks of silver and plate. From the tabletop, the lace coverings. He opened the wardrobe, no clothes of hers. He opened the drawers, nothing of hers. Her trunk was gone from its accustomed place. Back in his own room hung his old clothes, just as he had left them. Nothing else was gone. He stepped onto the parlor and stood for a few moments looking vacantly at the floor. The silence grew oppressive. The little flat seemed wonderfully deserted. He wholly forgot that he was hungry, that it was only dinner time. It seemed later in the night. Suddenly he found that the money was still in his hands. There were twenty dollars in all, as she had said. Now he walked back, leaving the lights ablaze, and feeling as if the flat were empty. I'll get out of this, he said to himself. Then the sheer loneliness of his situation rushed upon him in full. Left me, he muttered, and repeated, left me. The place had been so comfortable, where he had spent so many days of war, was now a memory. Something colder and chillier confronted him. He sat down in his chair, resting his chin in his hand. Mere sensation, without thought, holding him. Then something like a bereaved affection and self-pity swept over him. She neededn't have gone away, he said. I'd have got something. He sat a long while without rocking, and added quite clearly out loud, I tried, didn't I? At midnight he was still rocking, staring at the floor. End of Chapter 42