Sister Carrie: A Novel
“Well, line up here. I’ll see what I can do. I haven’t a cent myself.”
They fell into a sort of broken, ragged line. One might see, now, some
of the chief characteristics by contrast. There was a wooden leg in the
line. Hats were all drooping, a group that would ill become a
second-hand Hester Street basement collection. Trousers were all warped
and frayed at the bottom and coats worn and faded. In the glare of the
store lights, some of the faces looked dry and chalky; others were red
with blotches and puffed in the cheeks and under the eyes; one or two
were rawboned and reminded one of railroad hands. A few spectators came
near, drawn by the seemingly conferring group, then more and more, and
quickly there was a pushing, gaping crowd. Some one in the line began
to talk.
“Silence!” exclaimed the captain. “Now, then, gentlemen, these men are
without beds. They have to have some place to sleep to-night. They
can’t lie out in the streets. I need twelve cents to put one of them to
bed. Who will give it to me?”
No reply.
“Well, we’ll have to wait here, boys, until some one does. Twelve cents
isn’t so very much for one man.”
“Here’s fifteen,” exclaimed a young man, peering forward with strained
eyes. “It’s all I can afford.”
“All right. Now I have fifteen. Step out of the line,” and seizing one
by the shoulder, the captain marched him off a little way and stood him
up alone.
Coming back, he resumed his place and began again.
“I have three cents left. These men must be put to bed somehow. There
are”—counting—“one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine,
ten, eleven, twelve men. Nine cents more will put the next man to bed;
give him a good, comfortable bed for the night. I go right along and
look after that myself. Who will give me nine cents?”
One of the watchers, this time a middle-aged man, handed him a
five-cent piece.
“Now, I have eight cents. Four more will give this man a bed. Come,
gentlemen. We are going very slow this evening. You all have good beds.
How about these?”
“Here you are,” remarked a bystander, putting a coin into his hand.
“That,” said the captain, looking at the coin, “pays for two beds for
two men and gives me five on the next one. Who will give me seven cents
more?”
“I will,” said a voice.
Coming down Sixth Avenue this evening, Hurstwood chanced to cross east
through Twenty-sixth Street toward Third Avenue. He was wholly
disconsolate in spirit, hungry to what he deemed an almost mortal
extent, weary, and defeated. How should he get at Carrie now? It would
be eleven before the show was over. If she came in a coach, she would
go away in one. He would need to interrupt under most trying
circumstances. Worst of all, he was hungry and weary, and at best a
whole day must intervene, for he had not heart to try again to-night.
He had no food and no bed.
When he neared Broadway, he noticed the captain’s gathering of
wanderers, but thinking it to be the result of a street preacher or
some patent medicine fakir, was about to pass on. However, in crossing
the street toward Madison Square Park, he noticed the line of men whose
beds were already secured, stretching out from the main body of the
crowd. In the glare of the neighbouring electric light he recognised a
type of his own kind—the figures whom he saw about the streets and in
the lodging-houses, drifting in mind and body like himself. He wondered
what it could be and turned back.
There was the captain curtly pleading as before. He heard with
astonishment and a sense of relief the oft-repeated words: “These men
must have a bed.” Before him was the line of unfortunates whose beds
were yet to be had, and seeing a newcomer quietly edge up and take a
position at the end of the line, he decided to do likewise. What use to
contend? He was weary to-night. It was a simple way out of one
difficulty, at least. To-morrow, maybe, he would do better.
Back of him, where some of those were whose beds were safe, a relaxed
air was apparent. The strain of uncertainty being removed, he heard
them talking with moderate freedom and some leaning toward sociability.
Politics, religion, the state of the government, some newspaper
sensations, and the more notorious facts the world over, found
mouthpieces and auditors there. Cracked and husky voices pronounced
forcibly upon odd matters. Vague and rambling observations were made in
reply.
There were squints, and leers, and some dull, ox-like stares from those
who were too dull or too weary to converse.
Standing tells. Hurstwood became more weary waiting. He thought he
should drop soon and shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. At
last his turn came. The man ahead had been paid for and gone to the
blessed line of success. He was now first, and already the captain was
talking for him.
“Twelve cents, gentlemen—twelve cents puts this man to bed. He wouldn’t
stand here in the cold if he had any place to go.”
Hurstwood swallowed something that rose to his throat. Hunger and
weakness had made a coward of him.
“Here you are,” said a stranger, handing money to the captain.
Now the latter put a kindly hand on the ex-manager’s shoulder. “Line up
over there,” he said.
Once there, Hurstwood breathed easier. He felt as if the world were not
quite so bad with such a good man in it. Others seemed to feel like
himself about this.
“Captain’s a great feller, ain’t he?” said the man ahead—a little,
woebegone, helpless-looking sort of individual, who looked as though he
had ever been the sport and care of fortune.
“Yes,” said Hurstwood, indifferently.
“Huh! there’s a lot back there yet,” said a man farther up, leaning out
and looking back at the applicants for whom the captain was pleading.
“Yes. Must be over a hundred to-night,” said another.
“Look at the guy in the cab,” observed a third.
A cab had stopped. Some gentleman in evening dress reached out a bill
to the captain, who took it with simple thanks and turned away to his
line. There was a general craning of necks as the jewel in the white
shirt front sparkled and the cab moved off. Even the crowd gaped in
awe.
“That fixes up nine men for the night,” said the captain, counting out
as many of the line near him. “Line up over there. Now, then, there are
only seven. I need twelve cents.”
Money came slowly. In the course of time the crowd thinned out to a
meagre handful. Fifth Avenue, save for an occasional cab or foot
passenger, was bare. Broadway was thinly peopled with pedestrians. Only
now and then a stranger passing noticed the small group, handed out a
coin, and went away, unheeding.
The captain remained stolid and determined. He talked on, very slowly,
uttering the fewest words and with a certain assurance, as though he
could not fail.
“Come; I can’t stay out here all night. These men are getting tired and
cold. Some one give me four cents.”
There came a time when he said nothing at all. Money was handed him,
and for each twelve cents he singled out a man and put him in the other
line. Then he walked up and down as before, looking at the ground.
The theatres let out. Fire signs disappeared. A clock struck eleven.
Another half-hour and he was down to the last two men.
“Come, now,” he exclaimed to several curious observers; “eighteen cents
will fix us all up for the night. Eighteen cents. I have six. Somebody
give me the money. Remember, I have to go over to Brooklyn yet
to-night. Before that I have to take these men down and put them to
bed. Eighteen cents.”
No one responded. He walked to and fro, looking down for several
minutes, occasionally saying softly: “Eighteen cents.” It seemed as if
this paltry sum would delay the desired culmination longer than all the
rest had. Hurstwood, buoyed up slightly by the long line of which he
was a part, refrained with an effort from groaning, he was so weak.
At last a lady in opera cape and rustling skirts came down Fifth
Avenue, accompanied by her escort. Hurstwood gazed wearily, reminded by
her both of Carrie in her new world and of the time when he had
escorted his own wife in like manner.
While he was gazing, she turned and, looking at the remarkable company,
sent her escort over. He came, holding a bill in his fingers, all
elegant and graceful.
“Here you are,” he said.
“Thanks,” said the captain, turning to the two remaining applicants.
“Now we have some for to-morrow night,” he added.
Therewith he lined up the last two and proceeded to the head, counting
as he went.
“One hundred and thirty-seven,” he announced. “Now, boys, line up.
Right dress there. We won’t be much longer about this. Steady, now.”
He placed himself at the head and called out “Forward.” Hurstwood moved
with the line. Across Fifth Avenue, through Madison Square by the
winding paths, east on Twenty-third Street, and down Third Avenue wound
the long, serpentine company. Midnight pedestrians and loiterers
stopped and stared as the company passed. Chatting policemen, at
various corners, stared indifferently or nodded to the leader, whom
they had seen before. On Third Avenue they marched, a seemingly weary
way, to Eighth Street, where there was a lodging-house, closed,
apparently, for the night. They were expected, however.
Outside in the gloom they stood, while the leader parleyed within. Then
doors swung open and they were invited in with a “Steady, now.”
Some one was at the head showing rooms, so that there was no delay for
keys. Toiling up the creaky stairs, Hurstwood looked back and saw the
captain, watching; the last one of the line being included in his broad
solicitude. Then he gathered his cloak about him and strolled out into
the night.
“I can’t stand much of this,” said Hurstwood, whose legs ached him
painfully, as he sat down upon the miserable bunk in the small,
lightless chamber allotted to him. “I’ve got to eat, or I’ll die.”
Chapter XLVI. STIRRING TROUBLED WATERS
Playing in New York one evening on this her return, Carrie was putting
the finishing touches to her toilet before leaving for the night, when
a commotion near the stage door caught her ear. It included a familiar
voice.
“Never mind, now. I want to see Miss Madenda.”
“You’ll have to send in your card.”
“Oh, come off! Here.”
A half-dollar was passed over, and now a knock came at her
dressing-room door. Carrie opened it.
“Well, well!” said Drouet. “I do swear! Why, how are you? I knew that
was you the moment I saw you.”
Carrie fell back a pace, expecting a most embarrassing conversation.
“Aren’t you going to shake hands with me? Well, you’re a dandy! That’s
all right, shake hands.”
Carrie put out her hand, smiling, if for nothing more than the man’s
exuberant good-nature. Though older, he was but slightly changed. The
same fine clothes, the same stocky body, the same rosy countenance.
“That fellow at the door there didn’t want to let me in, until I paid
him. I knew it was you, all right. Say, you’ve got a great show. You do
your part fine. I knew you would. I just happened to be passing
to-night and thought I’d drop in for a few minutes. I saw your name on
the programme, but I didn’t remember it until you came on the stage.
Then it struck me all at once. Say, you could have knocked me down with
a feather. That’s the same name you used out there in Chicago, isn’t
it?”
“Yes,” answered Carrie, mildly, overwhelmed by the man’s assurance.
“I knew it was, the moment I saw you. Well, how have you been, anyhow?”
“Oh, very well,” said Carrie, lingering in her dressing-room. She was
rather dazed by the assault. “How have you been?”
“Me? Oh, fine. I’m here now.”
“Is that so?” said Carrie.
“Yes. I’ve been here for six months. I’ve got charge of a branch here.”
“How nice!”
“Well, when did you go on the stage, anyhow?” inquired Drouet.