The Jungle
no more than he would have had he stayed upon earth. And meantime his
father had thought the last thought about him that he meant to; he was
going to think of himself, he was going to fight for himself, against
the world that had baffled him and tortured him!
So he went on, tearing up all the flowers from the garden of his soul,
and setting his heel upon them. The train thundered deafeningly, and a
storm of dust blew in his face; but though it stopped now and then
through the night, he clung where he was—he would cling there until he
was driven off, for every mile that he got from Packingtown meant
another load from his mind.
Whenever the cars stopped a warm breeze blew upon him, a breeze laden
with the perfume of fresh fields, of honeysuckle and clover. He snuffed
it, and it made his heart beat wildly—he was out in the country again!
He was going to _live_ in the country! When the dawn came he was
peering out with hungry eyes, getting glimpses of meadows and woods and
rivers. At last he could stand it no longer, and when the train stopped
again he crawled out. Upon the top of the car was a brakeman, who shook
his fist and swore; Jurgis waved his hand derisively, and started
across the country.
Only think that he had been a countryman all his life; and for three
long years he had never seen a country sight nor heard a country sound!
Excepting for that one walk when he left jail, when he was too much
worried to notice anything, and for a few times that he had rested in
the city parks in the winter time when he was out of work, he had
literally never seen a tree! And now he felt like a bird lifted up and
borne away upon a gale; he stopped and stared at each new sight of
wonder—at a herd of cows, and a meadow full of daisies, at hedgerows
set thick with June roses, at little birds singing in the trees.
Then he came to a farm-house, and after getting himself a stick for
protection, he approached it. The farmer was greasing a wagon in front
of the barn, and Jurgis went to him. “I would like to get some
breakfast, please,” he said.
“Do you want to work?” said the farmer.
“No,” said Jurgis. “I don’t.”
“Then you can’t get anything here,” snapped the other.
“I meant to pay for it,” said Jurgis.
“Oh,” said the farmer; and then added sarcastically, “We don’t serve
breakfast after 7 A.M.”
“I am very hungry,” said Jurgis gravely; “I would like to buy some
food.”
“Ask the woman,” said the farmer, nodding over his shoulder. The
“woman” was more tractable, and for a dime Jurgis secured two thick
sandwiches and a piece of pie and two apples. He walked off eating the
pie, as the least convenient thing to carry. In a few minutes he came
to a stream, and he climbed a fence and walked down the bank, along a
woodland path. By and by he found a comfortable spot, and there he
devoured his meal, slaking his thirst at the stream. Then he lay for
hours, just gazing and drinking in joy; until at last he felt sleepy,
and lay down in the shade of a bush.
When he awoke the sun was shining hot in his face. He sat up and
stretched his arms, and then gazed at the water sliding by. There was a
deep pool, sheltered and silent, below him, and a sudden wonderful idea
rushed upon him. He might have a bath! The water was free, and he might
get into it—all the way into it! It would be the first time that he had
been all the way into the water since he left Lithuania!
When Jurgis had first come to the stockyards he had been as clean as
any workingman could well be. But later on, what with sickness and cold
and hunger and discouragement, and the filthiness of his work, and the
vermin in his home, he had given up washing in winter, and in summer
only as much of him as would go into a basin. He had had a shower bath
in jail, but nothing since—and now he would have a swim!
The water was warm, and he splashed about like a very boy in his glee.
Afterward he sat down in the water near the bank, and proceeded to
scrub himself—soberly and methodically, scouring every inch of him with
sand. While he was doing it he would do it thoroughly, and see how it
felt to be clean. He even scrubbed his head with sand, and combed what
the men called “crumbs” out of his long, black hair, holding his head
under water as long as he could, to see if he could not kill them all.
Then, seeing that the sun was still hot, he took his clothes from the
bank and proceeded to wash them, piece by piece; as the dirt and grease
went floating off downstream he grunted with satisfaction and soused
the clothes again, venturing even to dream that he might get rid of the
fertilizer.
He hung them all up, and while they were drying he lay down in the sun
and had another long sleep. They were hot and stiff as boards on top,
and a little damp on the underside, when he awakened; but being hungry,
he put them on and set out again. He had no knife, but with some labor
he broke himself a good stout club, and, armed with this, he marched
down the road again.
Before long he came to a big farmhouse, and turned up the lane that led
to it. It was just supper-time, and the farmer was washing his hands at
the kitchen door. “Please, sir,” said Jurgis, “can I have something to
eat? I can pay.” To which the farmer responded promptly, “We don’t feed
tramps here. Get out!”
Jurgis went without a word; but as he passed round the barn he came to
a freshly ploughed and harrowed field, in which the farmer had set out
some young peach trees; and as he walked he jerked up a row of them by
the roots, more than a hundred trees in all, before he reached the end
of the field. That was his answer, and it showed his mood; from now on
he was fighting, and the man who hit him would get all that he gave,
every time.
Beyond the orchard Jurgis struck through a patch of woods, and then a
field of winter grain, and came at last to another road. Before long he
saw another farmhouse, and, as it was beginning to cloud over a little,
he asked here for shelter as well as food. Seeing the farmer eying him
dubiously, he added, “I’ll be glad to sleep in the barn.”
“Well, I dunno,” said the other. “Do you smoke?”
“Sometimes,” said Jurgis, “but I’ll do it out of doors.” When the man
had assented, he inquired, “How much will it cost me? I haven’t very
much money.”
“I reckon about twenty cents for supper,” replied the farmer. “I won’t
charge ye for the barn.”
So Jurgis went in, and sat down at the table with the farmer’s wife and
half a dozen children. It was a bountiful meal—there were baked beans
and mashed potatoes and asparagus chopped and stewed, and a dish of
strawberries, and great, thick slices of bread, and a pitcher of milk.
Jurgis had not had such a feast since his wedding day, and he made a
mighty effort to put in his twenty cents’ worth.
They were all of them too hungry to talk; but afterward they sat upon
the steps and smoked, and the farmer questioned his guest. When Jurgis
had explained that he was a workingman from Chicago, and that he did
not know just whither he was bound, the other said, “Why don’t you stay
here and work for me?”
“I’m not looking for work just now,” Jurgis answered.
“I’ll pay ye good,” said the other, eying his big form—“a dollar a day
and board ye. Help’s terrible scarce round here.”
“Is that winter as well as summer?” Jurgis demanded quickly.
“N—no,” said the farmer; “I couldn’t keep ye after November—I ain’t got
a big enough place for that.”
“I see,” said the other, “that’s what I thought. When you get through
working your horses this fall, will you turn them out in the snow?”
(Jurgis was beginning to think for himself nowadays.)
“It ain’t quite the same,” the farmer answered, seeing the point.
“There ought to be work a strong fellow like you can find to do, in the
cities, or some place, in the winter time.”
“Yes,” said Jurgis, “that’s what they all think; and so they crowd into
the cities, and when they have to beg or steal to live, then people ask
’em why they don’t go into the country, where help is scarce.” The
farmer meditated awhile.
“How about when your money’s gone?” he inquired, finally. “You’ll have
to, then, won’t you?”
“Wait till she’s gone,” said Jurgis; “then I’ll see.”
He had a long sleep in the barn and then a big breakfast of coffee and
bread and oatmeal and stewed cherries, for which the man charged him
only fifteen cents, perhaps having been influenced by his arguments.
Then Jurgis bade farewell, and went on his way.
Such was the beginning of his life as a tramp. It was seldom he got as
fair treatment as from this last farmer, and so as time went on he
learned to shun the houses and to prefer sleeping in the fields. When
it rained he would find a deserted building, if he could, and if not,
he would wait until after dark and then, with his stick ready, begin a
stealthy approach upon a barn. Generally he could get in before the dog
got scent of him, and then he would hide in the hay and be safe until
morning; if not, and the dog attacked him, he would rise up and make a
retreat in battle order. Jurgis was not the mighty man he had once
been, but his arms were still good, and there were few farm dogs he
needed to hit more than once.
Before long there came raspberries, and then blackberries, to help him
save his money; and there were apples in the orchards and potatoes in
the ground—he learned to note the places and fill his pockets after
dark. Twice he even managed to capture a chicken, and had a feast, once
in a deserted barn and the other time in a lonely spot alongside of a
stream. When all of these things failed him he used his money
carefully, but without worry—for he saw that he could earn more
whenever he chose. Half an hour’s chopping wood in his lively fashion
was enough to bring him a meal, and when the farmer had seen him
working he would sometimes try to bribe him to stay.
But Jurgis was not staying. He was a free man now, a buccaneer. The old
_Wanderlust_ had got into his blood, the joy of the unbound life, the
joy of seeking, of hoping without limit. There were mishaps and
discomforts—but at least there was always something new; and only think
what it meant to a man who for years had been penned up in one place,
seeing nothing but one dreary prospect of shanties and factories, to be
suddenly set loose beneath the open sky, to behold new landscapes, new
places, and new people every hour! To a man whose whole life had
consisted of doing one certain thing all day, until he was so exhausted
that he could only lie down and sleep until the next day—and to be now
his own master, working as he pleased and when he pleased, and facing a
new adventure every hour!
Then, too, his health came back to him, all his lost youthful vigor,
his joy and power that he had mourned and forgotten! It came with a
sudden rush, bewildering him, startling him; it was as if his dead
childhood had come back to him, laughing and calling! What with plenty
to eat and fresh air and exercise that was taken as it pleased him, he
would waken from his sleep and start off not knowing what to do with
his energy, stretching his arms, laughing, singing old songs of home
that came back to him. Now and then, of course, he could not help but
think of little Antanas, whom he should never see again, whose little
voice he should never hear; and then he would have to battle with
himself. Sometimes at night he would waken dreaming of Ona, and stretch
out his arms to her, and wet the ground with his tears. But in the
morning he would get up and shake himself, and stride away again to
battle with the world.
He never asked where he was nor where he was going; the country was big
enough, he knew, and there was no danger of his coming to the end of
it. And of course he could always have company for the