Sister Carrie: A Novel
“Oh, now, 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.”
Chapter XL. A PUBLIC DISSENSION: A FINAL APPEAL
There was no after-theatre lark, however, so far as Carrie was
concerned. She made her way homeward, thinking about her absence.
Hurstwood 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 apologising.
“I couldn’t get home last evening,” she said.
“Ah, Carrie,” he answered, “what’s the use saying that? I don’t care.
You needn’t tell me that, though.”
“I couldn’t,” said Carrie, her colour 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 baker. He ran up a
grocery bill of sixteen dollars with Oeslogge, laying in a 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 the 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 Miss 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 twenty per week.
Carrie was delighted. She began to feel that she had a place in the
world. People recognised ability.
So changed was her state that the home atmosphere became intolerable.
It was all poverty and trouble there, or 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. It was a
sitting place for Hurstwood. 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 rise. Little eating had thinned 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 effected by the arrival
of Oeslogge, personally, when Carrie was there.
“I call about my bill,” said Mr. Oeslogge.
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
Hurstwood.
“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 to-day,” he said, mildly.
“Well, when can you?” said the grocer.
“Not before Saturday, anyhow,” said Hurstwood.
“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. Hurstwood 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 bill. “I
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 bill as that,” said Carrie.
“Well, we ate it,” said Hurstwood.
“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 Hurstwood, sitting down in silence. He was sick of
the grind of this thing.
Carrie went out and there he sat, determining to do something.
There had been appearing in the papers about this time rumours and
notices of an approaching strike on the trolley lines in Brooklyn.
There was general dissatisfaction as to the hours of labour required
and the wages paid. As usual—and for some inexplicable reason—the men
chose the winter for the forcing of the hand of their employers and the
settlement of their difficulties.
Hurstwood 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 grey and it
threatened to snow, the papers announced that the men had been called
out on all the lines. Being so utterly idle, and his mind filled with
the numerous predictions which had been made concerning the scarcity of
labour this winter and the panicky state of the financial market,
Hurstwood read this with interest. He noted the claims of the striking
motormen and conductors, who said that they had been wont to receive
two dollars 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 ten to twelve,
and even fourteen. 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 twenty-five cents. When the rush or busy hours
were over, they were laid off. Worst of all, no man 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 fifty 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 out of 7,000 employees would have
regular two-dollar-a-day work at all. They demanded that the system be
abolished, and that ten 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.
Hurstwood at first sympathised with the demands of these men—indeed, it
is a question whether he did not always sympathise with them to the
end, belie him as his actions might. Reading nearly all the news, he
was attracted first by the scare-heads with which the trouble was noted
in the “World.” He read it fully—the names of the seven companies
involved, the number of men.
“They’re foolish to strike in this sort of weather,” he thought to
himself. “Let ’em win if they can, though.”
The next day there was even a larger notice of it. “Brooklynites Walk,”
said the “World.” “Knights of Labour Tie up the Trolley Lines Across
the Bridge.” “About Seven Thousand Men Out.”
Hurstwood 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 sympathise 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 twelve 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 want ads. 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 Oeslogge and Carrie
occurred. There had been a good deal to irritate him, but this seemed
much the worst. 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 had been “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. “Any one can get work over there. You’ll get
two 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. Any one who wants to run a car will be protected all right.”
“You don’t know how to run 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 anybody; that I know.”
For several hours he argued pro and con with this mental counsellor,
feeling no need to act at once in a matter 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.