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UPTON SINCLAIR was born of a prominent
but impoverished family in Baltimore,
Maryland, on September 20, 1878. At the age of fifteen he
began writing dime novels in order to pay his way through
the College of the City of New York. While doing :raduate
work at Columbia University he wrote six novels, incluting
King Midas (1901), [he Journal of Arthur Stirling (1903),.
and Manassas (1904). In 1906, he published The Jungle,
the first indication of his Conversion to socialism; this

‘Yealistic study of inhuman conditions in the Chicago ’stock- —

yards aided in the passage of the “ure food Jaws anu won
Sinclair wide literary recognition. He invested the money he
made from its sale im a Utopian experiment, The Helicon
Hall Colony at Englewood, New Jersey. In 1915, he moved
to California where he later conducted four unsuccessful
campaigns for public office. Between 1917 and 1927, he

wrote a series of pamphlets on various aspects of American

life: The Profits of Religion (1918); The Brass_ Check
(1919), a study of journalism; [The Goose-Step (1923) and
The Goslings (1924), dealing with education; Mammonart
(1925); and Money Writes! (1927). In 1934, he united
large sections of the unemployed and progressive elements
in an EPIC (End Poveriy in California) league which cap-
tured the Democratic party machinery, and nearly won him
the governorship of California. Later books include World’s
End (i940); Dragon’s feeth (1942), for which he was
awarded a Pulitzer Prize; O Shepherd, Speak! (1949); and
Another Pamela (1950).

THE JUNGLE

WITH AN AFTERWORD BY

ROBERT B. DOWNS

SpA SIGNET CLASSIC
Published by
The New American Library

a a a a a a a a a es Pa a 6 a a a a eat

CAREFULLY SELECTED, EDITED, AND PRINTED,
SIGNET CLASSICS PROVIDE A TREASURY OF THE WORLD'S GREAT
WRITINGS IN HANDOSOMELY DESIGNED VOLUMES.

DO a a a a I a a Fn a a a a at SOS

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Copyright, 1905, 1906, by Upton Sinclair
2 AFTERWORD © BY °
“-\ THE NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY OF WORLD LITERATURE, INC.
a Ninth Printing
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SIGNET TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
HEOCHO EN OHICAGO, U.S.A.

SIGNET CLASSICS
are published by
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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

TO THE WORKINGMEN OF AMERICA

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I. was four o’clock when the ceremony was over and the
carriages began to arrive. There had been a crowd following
all the way, owing to the exuberance of Marija Berczyn-
skas. The occasion rested heavily upon Marija’s broad shoul-
ders—it was her task to see that all things went in due form
and after the best home traditions, and, fiying wildly hither
and thither, bowling every one out of the way, and scolding
and exhorting all day with her tremendous voice, Marija was
too eager to see that others conformed to the proprieties to
consider them herself. She had left the church last of all,
and, desiring to arrive first at the hall, had issued orders to
the coachman to drive faster. When that personage had de-
veloped a will of his own in the matter, Marija had flung up
the window of the carriage, and, leaning out, proceeded to
tell him her opinion of him, first in Lithuanian, which he
did not understand, and then in Polish, which he did. Having
the advantage of her in altitude, the driver had stood his
ground and even ventured to attempt to speak, and the re-
sult had been a furious altercation, which, continuing all the
way down Ashland Avenue, had added a new swarm of
urchins to the cortége at each side street for half a mile.

This was unfortunate, for already there was a throng be-
fore the door. The music had started up, and half a block
away you could hear the dull “broom, broom” of a cello,
with the squeaking of two fiddles which vied with each other
in intricate and altitudinous gymnastics. Seeing the throng,
Marija abandoned precipitately the debate concerning the
ancestors of her coachman, and springing from the moving
carriage, plunged in and proceeded to clear a way to the
hall. Once within, she turned and began to push the other
way, roaring, meantime, “Eik! Eik! Uzdaryk-duris!’ in tones
which made the orchestral uproar sound like fairy music.

7

a

“7. GRAIEZUNAS, PASILINKSMINIMAMS DARZAS. VYNAS. SZNAP-
SAS. WINES AND LIQUORS. UNION HEADQUARTERS”’—that was
the way the signs ran. The reader, who perhaps has never held
much converse in the language of far-off Lithuania, will be
glad of the explanation that the place was the rear room of
a saloon in that part of Chicago known as “back of the
yards.” This information is definite and suited to the matter
of fact, but how pitifully inadequate it would have seemed
to one who understood that it was also the supreme hour of
ecstasy in the life of one of God’s gentlest creatures, the
scene of the wedding feast and the joy-transfiguration of lit-
tle Ona -Lukoszaite!

She stood in the doorway, shepherded by Cousin Marija,

_ breathless from pushing through the crowd, and in her hap-

piness painful to look upon. There was a light of wonder in
her eyes and her lids trembled, and her otherwise wan little
face was flushed. She wore a muslin dress, conspicuously
white, and a stiff little veil coming to her shoulders. There
were five pink paper roses twisted in the veil, and eleven
bright-green rose leaves. There were new white cotton gloves
upon her hands, and as she stood staring about her she
twisted them together feverishly. It was almost too much for
her—you could see the pain of too great emotion in her face,
and all the tremor of her form. She was so young—not quite
sixteen—and small for her age, a mere child; and she had
just been married—and married to Jurgis,’ of all men, to
Jurgis Rudkus, he with the white flower in the buttonhole
of his new black suit, he with the mighty shoulders and the
giant hands.

Ona was blue-eyed and fair, while Jurgis had great black
eyes with beetling brows, and thick black hair that curled in
waves about his ears—in short, they were one of those in-
congruous and impossible married couples with which
Mother Nature so often wills to confound all prophets, be-
fore and after. Jurgis could take up a two-hundred-and-fifty-
pound quarter of beef and carry it into a car without a stag-
ger, or even a thought; and now he stood in a far corner,
frightened as a hunted animal, and obliged to moisten his
lips with his tongue each time before he could answer the
congratulations of his friends.

Gradually there was effected a separation between the
spectators and the guests—a separation at least sufficiently

1Pronounced Yoorghis.
8

ee

complete for working purposes. There was no time during
the festivities which ensued when there were not groups of
onlookers in the doorways and the corners, and if any one
of these onlookers came sufficiently close, or looked suffi-
ciently hungry, a chair was offered him, and he was invited
to the feast. It was one of the laws of the veselija that no
one goes hungry, and, while a rule made in the forests of
Lithuania is hard to apply in the stockyards district of Chi-
cago, with its quarter of a million inhabitants, still they did
their best, and the children who ran in from the street, and
even the dogs, went out again happier. A charming infor-
mality was one of the characteristics of this celebration.
The men wore their hats, or, if they wished, they took them
off, and their coats with them; they ate when and where they
pleased, and moved as often as they pleased. There were to
be speeches and singing, but no one had to listen who did
not care to; if he wished, meantime, to speak or sing him-
self, he was perfectly free. The resulting medley of sound
distracted no one, save possibly alone the babies, of which
there were present a number equal to the total possessed by
all the guests invited. There was no other place for the babies
to be, and so part of the preparations for the evening con-
sisted of a collection of cribs and carriages in one corner.
In these the babies slept,.three or four together, or wakened
together, as the case might be. Those who were still older,
and could reach the tables, marched about munching con-
tentedly at meat bones and bologna sausages.

The room is about thirty feet square, with whitewashed
walls, bare save for a calendar, a picture of a race horse,
and a family tree in a gilded frame. To the right there is a
door from the saloon, with a few loafers in the doorway,
and in the corner beyond it a bar, with a presiding genius
clad in soiled white, with waxed black mustaches and a care-
fully oiled curl plastered against one side of his forehead.
In the opposite corner are two tables, filling a third of the
room and laden with dishes and cold viands, which a few of
the hungrier guests are already munching. At the head,
where sits the bride, is a snow-white cake, with an Eiffel
tower of constructed decoration, with sugar roses and two an-
gels upon it, and a generous sprinkling of pink and green
and yellow candies. Beyond opens a door into the kitchen,
where there is a glimpse to be had of a range with much
steam ascending from it, and many women, old and young,

9

rushing hither and thither. In the corner to the left are the
three musicians, upon a little platform, toiling heroically to
make some impression upon the hubbub; also the babies,
similarly occupied, and an open window whence the popu-
lace imbibes the sights and sounds and odors.

Suddenly some of the steam begins to advance, and, peer-
ing through it, you discern Aunt Elizabeth, Ona’s step-
mother—Teta Elzbieta, as they call her—bearing aloft a
great platter of stewed duck. Behind her is Kotrina, making
her way cautiously, staggering beneath a similar burden;
and half a minute later there appears old Grandmother Ma-
jauszkiene, with a big yellow bowl of smoking potatoes,
nearly as big as herself. So, bit by bit, the feast takes form—
there is a ham and a dish of sauerkraut, boiled rice, maca-
roni, bologna sausages, great piles of penny buns, bowls of
milk, and foaming pitchers of beer. There is also, not six
feet from your back, the bar, where you may order all you
please and do not have to pay for it. “Eiksz! Graicziau!”
screams Marija Berczynskas, and falls to work herself—for
there is more upon the stove inside that will be spoiled if it
be not eaten.

So, with laughter and shouts and endless badinage and
merriment, the guests take their places. The young men, who
for the most part have been huddled near the door, summon
their resolution and advance, and the shrinking Jurgis is
poked and scolded by the old folks until he consents to seat
himself at the right hand of the bride. The two bridesmaids,
whose insignia of office are paper wreaths, come next, and
after them the rest of the guests, old and young, boys and
girls. The spirit of the occasion takes hold of the stately
bartender, who condescends to a plate of stewed duck: even
the fat policeman—whose duty it will be, later in the eve-
ning, to break up the fights—draws up a chair to the foot of
the table. And the children shout and the babies yell, and
everyone laughs and sings and chatters—while above all the
deafening clamor Cousin Marija shouts orders to the
musicians.

The musicians—how shall one begin to describe them?
All this time they have been there, playing in a mad frenzy
—all of this scene must be read, or said, or sung, to music.
It is the music which makes it what it is: it is the music
which changes the place from the rear room of a saloon in
back of the yards to a fairy place, a wonderland, a little
corner of the high mansions of the sky.

10

The little person who leads this trio is an inspired man.
His fiddle is out of tune, and there is no rosin on his bow,
but still he is an inspired man—the hands of the muses have
been laid upon him. He plays like one possessed by a demon,
by a whole horde of demons. You can feel them in the air
round about him, capering frenetically; with their invisible
feet they set the pace, and the hair of the leader of the or-
chestra rises on end, and his eyeballs start from their sockets,
as he toils to keep up with them.

Tamoszius Kuszleika is his name, and he has taught him-
self to play the violin by practising all night, after working
all day on the “killing beds.” He is in his shirtsleeves, with a
vest figured with faded gold horseshoes, and a pink-striped
shirt, suggestive of peppermint candy. A pair of military
trousers, light blue with a yellow stripe, serve to give that
suggestion of authority proper to the leader of a band. He is
only about five feet high, but even so these trousers are
about eight inches short of the ground. You wonder where
he can have gotten them—or rather you would wonder, if
the excitement of being in his presence left you time to think
of such things.

For he is an inspired man. Every inch of him is inspired
—you might almost say inspired separately. He stamps with
his feet, he tosses his head, he sways and swings to and fro;
he has a wizened-up little face, irresistibly comical, and,
when he executes a turn or a flourish, his brows knit and his
lips work and his eyelids wink—the very ends of his necktie
bristle out. And every now and then he turns upon his com-
panions, nodding, signaling, beckoning frantically—with
every inch of him appealing, imploring, in behalf of the muses
and their call.

For they are hardly worthy of Tamoszius, the other two
members of the orchestra. The second violin is a Slovak, a
tall, gaunt man with black-rimmed spectacles and the mute
and patient look of an overdriven mule; he responds to the
whip but feebly, and then always falls back into his old rut.
The third man is very fat, with a round, red, sentimental
nose, and he plays with his eyes turned up to the sky and a
look of infinite yearning. He is playing a bass part upon his
cello, and so the excitement is nothing to him; no matter
what happens in the treble, it is his task to saw out one long-
drawn and lugubrious note after another, from four o’clock
in the afternoon until nearly the same hour next morning,
for his third of the total income of one dollar per hour.

11

Before the feast has been five minutes under way, Tamos-
zius Kuszleika has risen in his excitement; a minute or two
more and you see that he is beginning to edge over toward
the tables. His nostrils are dilated «nd his breath comes fast
—his demons are driving him. He nods and shakes his head
at his companions, jerking at them with his violin, until at
last the long form of the second violinist also rises up. In the
end, all three of them begin advancing. step by step, upon
the banqueters, Valentinavyczia. the cellist, bumping along
with his instrument between notes. Finally all three are
gathered at the foot of the tables, and there Tamoszius
mounts upon a stool.

Now he is in his glory, dominating the scene. Some of the
people are eating, some are laughing and talking—but you
will make a great mistake if you think there is one of them
who does not hear him. His notes are never true, and his
fiddle buzzes on the low ones and squeaks and scratches on
the high; but these things they heed no more than they heed
the dirt and noise and squalor about them—it is out of this
material that they have to build their lives, with it that they
have to utter their souls. And this is their utterance; merry
and boisterous, or mournful and wailing, or passionate and
rebellious, this music is their music, music of home. It
stretches out its arms to them, they have only to give them-
selves up. Chicago and its saloons and its slums fade away—
there are green meadows and sunlit rivers, mighty forests
and snow-clad hills. They behold home landscapes and child-
hood scenes returning; old loves and friendships begin to
waken, old joys and griefs to laugh and weep. Some fall
back and close their eyes, some beat upon the table. Now
and then one leaps up with a cry and calls for this song or
that, and then the fire leaps brighter in Tamoszius’s eyes, and
he flings up his fiddle and shouts to his companions, and away
they go in mad career. The company takes up the choruses,
and men and women cry out like all possessed; some leap
to their feet and stamp upon the floor, lifting their glasses
and pledging each other. Before long it occurs to some one
to demand an old wedding song, which celebrates the beauty
of the bride and the joys of love. In the excitement of this
masterpiece Tamoszius Kuszleika begins to edge in between
the tables, making his way toward the head, where sits the
bride. There is not a foot of space between the chairs of the
guests. and Tamoszius is so short that he pokes them with
his boy whenever he reaches over for the low notes. but

12

still he presses in, and insists relentlessly that his compan-
ions must follow. During their progress, needless to say, the
sounds of the cello are pretty well extinguished, but at last
the three are at the head, and Tamoszius takes his station at
the right hand of the bride and begins, to pour out his soul
in melting strains.

Little Ona is too excited to eat. Once in a while she tastes
a little something when Cousin Marija pinches her elbow
and reminds her, but, for the most part, she sits gazing with
the same fearful eyes of wonder. Teta Elzbieta is all in a
flutter, like a hummingbird; her sisters, too, keep running up
behind her, whispering, breathless. But Ona seems scarcely
to hear them—the music keeps calling, and the far-off look
comes back, and she sits with her hands pressed together
over her heart. Then the tears begin to come into her eyes,
and as she is ashamed to wipe them away, and ashamed
to let them run down her cheeks, she turns and shakes her
head a little, and then flushes red when she sees that Jurgis
is watching her. When in the end Tamoszius Kuszleika has
reached her side, and is waving his magic wand above her,
Ona’s cheeks are scarlet, and she looks as if she would have
to get up and run away. .

In this crisis, however, she is saved by Marija Berczyn-
skas, whom the muses suddenly visit. Marija is fond of a
song, a song of lovers’ parting; she wishes to hear it, and, as
the musicians do not know it, she has risen, and is proceed-

,. ing to teach them. Marija is short, but powerful in build. She

ey works in a canning factory, and all day long she-handles
cans of beef that weigh fourteen pounds. She has a broad
Slavic face, with prominent red cheeks. When she opens her
mouth, it is tragical, but you cannot help thinking of a horse.
She wears a blue flannel shirtwaist, which is now rolled up
at the sleeves, disclosing her brawny arms; she has a carving
fork in her hand, with which she pounds on the table to
mark the time. As she roars her song, in a voice of which it
is enough to say that it leaves no portion of the room vacant,
the three musicians follow her, laboriously and note by
note, but averaging one note behind; thus they toil through
stanza after stanza of a love-sick swain’s lamentation:

Sudiev’ kvietkeli, tu brangiausis;
Sudiev’ ir laime, man biednam,
Matau—paskyre teip Aukszcziausis,
Jog vargt ant svieto reik vienam!

13

\ When the song is over, it is time for the speech, and old
Dede Antanas rises to his feet. Grandfather Anthony, Jurgis’
father, is not more than sixty years of age, but you would
think that he was eighty. He has been only six months in
America, and the change has not done him good. In his
manhood he worked in a cotton mill, but then a coughing
fell upon him, and he had to leave; out in the country the
trouble disappeared, but he has been working in the pickle
rooms at Durham’s, and the breathing of the cold, damp air
all day has brought it back. Now as he rises he is seized
with a coughing fit and holds himself by his chair and turns
away his wan and battered face until it passes.

Generally it is the custom for the speech at a veselija to
be taken out of one of the books and learned by heart, but
in his youthful days Dede Antanas used to be a scholar,
and really make up all the love letters of his friends. Now it
is understood that he has composed an original speech of
congratulation and benediction, and this is one of the events
of the day. Even the boys, who are romping about the room,

| draw near and listen, and some of the women sob and wipe
their aprons in their eyes. It is very solemn, for Antanas

_ Rudkus has become possessed of the idea that he has not

' much longer to stay with his children. His speech leaves them
all so tearful that one of the guests, Jokubas Szedvilas, who
keeps a delicatessen store on Halsted Street, and is fat and
hearty, is moved to rise and say that things may not be as

/ \ bad as that, and then to go on and make a little speech of his

own, in which he showers congratulations and prophecies

of happiness upon the bride and groom, proceeding to par-
ticulars which greatly delight the young men, but which cause

Ona to blush more furiously than ever. Jokubas possesses

what his wife complacently describes as poetiszka vaidintuve

—a poetical imagination.

Now a good many of the guests have finished, and, since
there is no pretense of ceremony, the banquet begins to break
up. Some of the men gather about the bar; some wander
about, laughing and singing; here and there will be a little
group, chanting merrily, and in sublime indifference to the
others and to the orchestra as well. Everybody is more or
less restless—one would guess that something is on their
minds. And so it proves. The last tardy diners are scarcely
given time to finish, before the tables and the débris are
shoved into the corner, and the chairs and the babies piled
out of the way, and the real celebration of the evening be-

14

gins. Then Tamoszius Kuszleika, after replenishing himself
with a pot of beer, returns to his platform, and, standing up,
reviews the scene; he taps authoritatively upon the side of
his violin, then tucks it carefully under his chin, then waves
his bow in an elaborate flourish, and finally smites the sound-
ing strings and closes his eyes, and floats away in spirit upon
the wings of a dreamy waltz. His companion follows, but with
his eyes open, watching where he treads, so to speak; and
finally Valentinavyczia, after waiting for a little and beating
with his foot to get the time, casts up his eyes to the ceiling
and begins to saw—‘“Broom! Broom! Broom!”

The company pairs off quickly, and the whole room is soon
in motion. Apparently nobody knows how to waltz, but that
is nothing of any consequence—there is music, and they
dance, each as he pleases, just as before they sang. Most of
them prefer the “two-step,” especially the young, with whom
it is the fashion. The older people have dances from home,
strange and complicated steps which they execute with grave
solemnity. Some do not dance anything at all, but simply
hold each other’s hands and allow the undisciplined joy of
motion to express itself with their feet. Among these are

+ Tokubas Szedvilas and his wife, Lucija, who together keep

* the delicatessen store, and consume nearly as much as they
sell; they are too fat to dance, but they stand in the middle
of the floor, holding each other fast in their arms, rocking
slowly from side to side and grinning seraphically, a picture
of toothless and perspiring ecstasy.

Of these older people many wear clothing reminiscent in
some detail of home—an embroidered waistcoat or stomach-
er, or a gayly colored handkerchief, or a coat with large
cuffs and fancy buttons. All these things are carefully avoid-
ed by the young, most of whom have learned to speak Eng-
lish and to affect the latest style of clothing. The girls wear

,_Teady-made dresses or shirtwaists, and some of them look
“\ Quite pretty. Some of the young men you would take to be
» . Americans, of the type of clerks, but for the fact that they
\ wear their hats in the room. Each of these younger couples

affects a style of its own in dancing. Some hold each other
tightly, some at a cautious distance. Some hold their arms out
stiffly, some drop them loosely at their sides. Some dance
springily, some glide softly, some move with grave dignity.
There are boisterous couples, who tear wildly about the
toom, knocking every one out of their way. There are nervous
couples, whom these frighten, and who cry, “Nustok! Kas

15 4 A\\

yra?” at them as they pass. Each couple is paired for the
evening—you will never see them change about. There is
Alena Jasaityte, for instance, who has danced unending
hours with Juozas Raczius, to whom she is engaged. Alena is
the beauty of the evening, and she would be really beautiful
if she were not so proud. She wears a white shirtwaist, which
represents, perhaps, half a week’s labor painting cans. She
holds her skirt with her hand as she dances, with stately
precision, after the manner of the grandes dames. Juozas
is driving one of Durham’s wagons, and is making big wages.
He affects a “tough” aspect, wearing his hat on one side and
keeping a cigarette in his mouth all the evening. Then there
is Jadvyga Marcinkus, who is also beautiful, but humble.
Jadvyga likewise paints cans, but then she has an invalid
mother and three little sisters to support by it, and so she
does not spend her wages for shirtwaists. Jadvyga is small
and delicate, with jet-black eyes and hair, the latter twisted
into a little knot and tied on the top of her head. She wears
an old white dress which she has made herself and worn to
parties for the past five years; it is high-waisted—almost
under her arms, and not very becoming—but that does not
trouble Jadvyga, who is dancing with her Mikolas. She is
small, while he is big and powerful; she nestles in his arms
as if she would hide herself from view, and leans her head
upon his shoulder. He in turn has clasped his arms tightly
around her, as if he would carry her away; and so she dances,
and will dance the entire evening, and would dance forever,
in ecstasy of bliss. You would smile, perhaps, to see them—
but you would not smile if you knew all the story. This is the
fifth year, now, that Jadvyga has been engaged to Mikolas,
and her heart is sick. They would have been married in the
beginning, only Mikolas has a father who is drunk all day,
and he is the only other man in a large family. Even so they
might have managed it (for Mikolas is a skilled man) but for
cruel accidents which have almost taken the heart out of
them. He is a beef boner, and that is a dangerous trade,
especially when you are on piecework and trying to earn a
bride. Your hands are slippery, and your knife is slippery,
and you are toiling like mad, when somebody happens to
speak to you, or you strike a bone. Then your hand slips up
on the blade, and there is a fearful gash. And that would not
be so bad, only for the deadly contagion. The cut may heal,
but you never can tell. Twice now, within the last three
years, Mikolas has been lying at home with blood poisoning
16

—once for three months and once for nearly seven. The
last time, too, he lost his job, and that meant six weeks more
of standing at the doors of the packing houses, at six o’clock
on bitter winter mornings, with a foot of snow on the ground
and more in the air. There are learned people who can tell
you out of the statistics that beef boners make forty cents
an hour, but, perhaps, these people have never looked into a
beef boner’s hands.

When Tamoszius and his companions stop for a rest, as
perforce they must, now and then, the dancers halt where
they are and wait patiently. They never seem to tire, and
there is no place for them to sit down if they did. It is only
for a minute, anyway, for the leader starts up again, in spite
of all the protests of the other two. This time it is another
sort of a dance, a Lithuanian dance. Those who prefer to,
go on with the two-step, but the majority go through an intri-
cate series of motions, resembling more fancy skating than a
dance. The climax of it is a furious prestissimo, at which the
couples seize hands and begin a mad whirling. This is quite ir-
resistible, and every one in the room joins in, until the place be-
comes a maze of flying skirts and bodies, quite dazzling to
look upon. But the sight of sights at this moment is Tamoszius
Kuszleika. The old fiddle squeaks and shrieks in protest, but
Tamoszius has no mercy. The sweat starts out on his forehead,
and he bends over like a cyclist on the last lap of a race. His
body shakes and throbs like a runaway steam engine, and the
ear cannot follow the flying showers of notes—there is a pale-
blue mist where you look to see his bowing arm. With a
most wonderful rush he comes to the end of the tune, and
flings up his hands and staggers back exhausted; and with a
final shout of delight the dancers fly apart, reeling here and
there, bringing up against the walls of the room.

After this there is beer for every one, the musicians in-
cluded, and the revelers take a long breath and prepare for

the great event of the evening, which is the acziavimas.

-/The acziavimas is a ceremony which, once begun, will con-

—<—

) tinue for three or four hours, and it involves one uninter-

rupted dance. The guests form a great ring, locking hands,
and, when the music starts up, begin to move around in a
circle. In the centre stands the bride, and, one by one, the
men step into the enclosure and dance with her. Each dances
for several minutes—as long as he pleases; it is a very merry
proceeding, with laughter and singing, and when the guest
has finished, he finds himself face to face with Teta Elzbieta,
17

who holds the hat. Into it he drops a sum of money—a dol-

lar, or perhaps five dollars, according to his power, and his
estimate of the value of the privilege. The guests are ex-
"pected to pay for this entertainment; if they be proper
guests, they will see that there is a neat sum left over for the
\ bride and bridegroom to start life upon.

Most fearful they are to contemplate, the expenses of this
entertainment. They will certainly be over two hundred
dollars, and may be three hundred; and three hundred dol-
lars is more than the year’s income of many a person in this
room. There are able-bodied men here who work from early
morning until late at night, in ice-cold cellars with a quarter
of an inch of water on the floor—men who for six or seven
months in the year never see the sunlight from Sunday after-
noon till the next Sunday morning—and who cannot earn
three hundred dollars in a year. There are little children
here, scarce in their teens, who can hardly see the top of the
work benches—whose parents have lied to get them their
places—and who do not make the half of three hundred
dollars a year, and perhaps not even the third of it. And
then to spend such a sum, all in a single day of your life, at
a wedding feast! (For obviously it is the same thing, whether
you spend it at once for your own wedding, or in a long
time, at the weddings of all your friends.)

It is very imprudent, it is tragic—but, ah, it is so beautiful!
Bit by bit these poor people have given up everything else;
but to this they cling with all the power of their souls—they
cannot give up the veselija! To do that would mean, not
merely to be defeated, but to acknowledge defeat—and the
difference between these two things is what keeps the world
going. The veselija has come down to them from a far-off
time, and the meaning of it was that one might dwell within
the cave and gaze upon shadows, provided only that once in
his lifetime he could break his chains, and feel his wings, and
behold the sun; provided that once in his lifetime he might
testify to the fact that life, with all its cares and its terrors, is
no such great thing after all, but merely a bubble upon the
surface of a river, a thing that one may toss about and play
with as a juggler tosses his golden balls, a thing that one may
quaff, like a goblet of rare red wine. Thus having known him-
self for the master of things, a man could go back to his
toil and live upon the memory all his days.

Endlessly the dancers swung around and around—when
18

they were dizzy they swung the other way. Hour after hour
this had continued—the darkness had fallen and the room
was dim from the light of two smoky oil lamps. The mu-
sicians had spent all their fine frenzy by now, and played
only one tune, wearily, ploddingly. There were twenty bars
or so of it, and when they came to the end they began again.
Once every ten minutes or so they would fail to begin again,
but instead would sink back exhausted, a circumstance which
invariably brought on a painful and terrifying scene, that
made the fat policeman stir uneasily in his sleeping place
behind the door.

It was all Marija Berczynskas. Marija was one of those
hungry souls who cling with desperation to the skirts of the
retreating muse. All day long she had been in a state of won-
derful exaltation, and now it was leaving—and she would
not let it go. Her soul cried out in the words of Faust, “Stay,
thou art fair!” Whether it was by beer, or by shouting, or by
music, or by motion, she meant that it should not go. And
she would go back to the chase of it—and no sooner be
fairly started than her chariot would be thrown off the track,
so to speak, by the stupidity of those thrice-accursed mu-
sicians. Each time, Marija would emit a howl and fly at them,
shaking her fists in their faces, stamping upon the floor,
purple and incoherent with rage. In vain the frightened
Tamoszius would attempt to speak, to plead the limitations
of the flesh; in vain would the puffing and breathless ponas
Jokubas insist, in vain would Teta Elzbieta implore.
“Szalin!” Marija would scream. “Palauk! isz kelio! What are
you paid for, children of hell?” And so, in sheer terror, the
orchestra would strike up again, and Marija would return to
her place and take up her task.

She bore all the burden of the festivities now. Ona was
kept up by her excitement, but all of the women and most of
the men were tired—the soul of Marija was alone uncon-
quered. She drove on the dancers—what had once been the
ring had now the shape of a pear, with Marija at the stem,
pulling one way and pushing the other, shouting, stamping,
singing, a very volcano of energy. Now and then someone
coming in or out would leave the door open, and the night
air was chill; Marija as she passed would stretch out her foot
and kick the doorknob, and slam would go the door! Once
this procedure was the cause of a calamity of which Sebasti-
jonas Szedvilas was the hapless victim. Little Sebastijonas,
aged three, had been wandering about oblivious to all things,

19 ,

holding turned up over his mouth a bottle of liquid known
as “pop,” pink-colored, ice-cold, and delicious. Passing
through the doorway the door smote him full, and the shriek
which followed brought the dancing to a halt. Marija, who
threatened horrid murder a hundred times a day, and would
weep over the injury of a fly, seized little Sebastijonas in
her arms and bid fair to smother him with kisses. There was
a long rest for the orchestra, and plenty of refreshments,
while Marija was making her peace with her victim, seating
him upon the bar, and standing beside him and holding to
his lips a foaming schooner of beer.

In the meantime there was going on in another corner of
the room an anxious conference between Teta Elzbieta
and Dede Antanas, and a few of the more intimate friends
of the family. A trouble was come upon them. The veselija
is a compact, a compact not expressed, but therefore only
the more binding upon all. Every one’s share was different—
and yet every one knew perfectly well what his share was,
and strove to give a little more. Now, however, since they
had come to the new country, all this was changing; it
seemed as if there must be some subtle poison in the air that
one breathed here—it was affecting all the young men at
once. They would come in crowds and fill themselves with
a fine dinner, and then sneak off. One would throw another’s
hat out of the window, and both would go out to get it,
and neither would be seen again. Or now and then half a
dozen of them would get together and march out openly,
Staring at you, and making fun of you to your face. Still
others, worse yet, would crowd about the bar, and at the
expense of the host drink themselves sodden, paying not
the least attention to any one, and leaving it to be thought
that either they had danced with the bride already, or meant
to later on.

All these things were going on now, and the family was
helpless with dismay. So long they had toiled, and such an
outlay they had made! Ona stood by, her eyes wide with
terror. Those frightful billsk—how they had haunted her,
each item gnawing at her soul all day and spoiling her rest
at night. How often she had named them over one by one
and figured on them as she went to work—fifteen dollars for
the hall, twenty-two dollars and a quarter for the ducks,
twelve dollars for the musicians, five dollars at the church,
and a blessing of the Virgin besides—and so on without an
end! Worst of all was the frightful bill that was still to come

20

from Graiczunas for the beer and liquor that might be con-
sumed. One could never get in advance more than a guess as
to this from a saloon-keeper—and then, when the time came
he always came to you scratching his head and saying that
he had guessed too low, but that he had done his best—
your guests had gotten so very drunk. By him you were sure
to be cheated unmercifully, and that even though you thought
yourself the dearest of the hundreds of friends he had. He
would begin to serve your guests out of a keg that was half
full, and finish with one that was half empty, and then you
would be charged for two kegs of beer. He would agree to
serve a certain quality at a certain price, and when the time
came you and your friends would be drinking some horrible
poison that could not be described. You might complain,
but you would get nothing for your pains but a ruined
evening; while, as for going to law about it, you might as well
go to heaven at once. The saloon-keeper stood in with all the
big politics men in the district, and when you had once
found out what it meant to get into trouble with such people,
you would know enough to pay what you were told to
pay and shut up.

What made all this the more painful was that it was so
hard on the few that had really done their best. There was
poor old ponas Jokubas, for instance—he had already given
five dollars, and did not every one know that Jokubas Szed-
vilas had just mortgaged his delicatessen store for two hun-
dred dollars to meet several months’ overdue rent? And
then there was withered old poni Aniele—who was a widow,
and had three children, and the rheumatism besides, and did
washing for the tradespeople on Halsted Street at prices it
would break your heart to hear named. Aniele had given the
entire profit of her chickens for several months. Eight of
them she owned, and she kept them in a little place fenced
around on her backstairs. All day long the children of
Aniele were raking in the dump for food for these chickens;
and sometimes, when the competition there was too fierce,
you might see them on Halsted Street, walking close to the
gutters, and with their mother following to see that no one
robbed them of their finds. Money could not tell the value
of these chickens to old Mrs. Jukniene—she valued them
differently, for she had a feeling that she was getting some-
thing for nothing by means of them—that with them she
was getting the better of a world that was getting the better

21

of her in so many other ways. So she watched them every
hour of the day, and had learned to see like an owl at
night to watch them then. One of them had been stolen long
ago, and not a month passed that some one did not try to
steal another. As the frustrating of this one attempt involved
a score of false alarms, it will be understood what a tribute
old Mrs. Jukniene brought, just because Teta Elzbieta had
once loaned her some money for a few days and saved her
from being turned out of her house.

More and more friends gathered round while the lamen-
tation about these things was going on. Some drew nearer,
hoping to overhear the conversation, who were themselves
‘among the guilty—and surely that was a thing to try the
patience of a saint. Finally there came Jurgis, urged by some-
one, and the story was retold to him. Jurgis listened in
silence, with his great black eyebrows knitted. Now and then
there would come a gleam underneath them and he would
glance about the room. Perhaps he would have liked to go
at some of those fellows with his big clenched fists; but then,
doubtless, he realized how little good it would do him. No
bill would be any less for turning out any one at this time,
and then there would be the scandal—and Jurgis wanted
nothing except to get away with Ona and to let the world go
its own way. So his hands relaxed and he merely said quietly:
“It is done, and there is no use in weeping, Teta Elzbieta.”
Then his look turned toward Ona, who stood close to his
side, and he saw the wide look of terror in her eyes. “Little
one,” he said, in a low voice, “do not worry—it will not
matter to us. We will pay them all somehow. I will work
harder.” That was always what Jurgis said. Ona had grown
used to it as the solution of all difficulties—“I will work
harder!” He had said that in Lithuania when one official had
taken his passport from him, and another had arrested him
for being without it, and the two had divided a third of his
belongings. He had said it again in New York, when the
smooth-spoken agent had taken them in hand and made them
pay such high prices, and almost prevented their leaving his
place, in spite of their paying. Now he said it a third time,
and Ona drew a deep breath; it was so wonderful to have a
husband, just like a grown woman—and a husband who
could solve all problems, and who was so big and strong!

The last sob of little Sebastijonas has been stifled, and
the orchestra has once more been reminded of its duty.

22

The ceremony begins again—but there are few now left to
dance with, and so very soon the collection is over and pro-
miscuous dances once more begin. It is now after midnight,
however, and things are not as they were before. The dancers
are full and heavy—most of them have been drinking hard,
and have long ago passed the stage of exhilaration. They
dance in monotonous measure, round after round, hour
after hour, with eyes fixed upon vacancy, as if they were
only half conscious, in a constantly growing stupor. The men
grasp the women very tightly, but there will be half an hour
together when neither will see the other’s face. Some couples
do not care to dance, and have retired to the corners, where
they sit with their arms enlaced. Others, who have been
drinking still more, wander about the room, bumping into
everything; some are in groups of two or three, singing,
each group its own song. As time goes on there is a variety
of drunkenness, among the younger men especially. Some
stagger about in each other’s arms, whispering maudlin words
—others start quarrels upon the slightest pretext, and come to
blows and have to be pulled apart. Now the fat policeman
wakens definitely, and feels of his club to see that it is ready
for business. He has to be prompt—for these two-o’clock-in-
the-morning fights, if they once get out of hand, are like a
forest fire, and may mean the whole reserves at the station.
The thing to do is to crack every fighting head that you see,
before there are so many fighting heads that you cannot
crack any of them. There is but scant account kept of
cracked heads in back of the yards, for men who have to
crack the heads of animals all day seem to get into the
habit, and to practise on their friends, and even on their
families, between times. This makes it a cause for congratu-
lation that by modern methods a very few men can do the
painfully necessary work of headcracking for the whole of
the cultured world.

There is no fight that night—perhaps because Jurgis, too,
is watchful—even more so than the policeman. Jurgis has
drunk a great deal, as any one naturally would on an oc-
casion when it all has to be paid for, whether it is drunk or
not, but he is a very steady man, and does not easily lose his
temper. Only once there is a tight shave—and that is the fault
of Marija Berczynskas. Marija has apparently concluded
about two hours ago that if the altar in the corner, with the
deity in soiled white, be not the true home of the muses, it is,
at any rate, the nearest substitute on earth attainable. And

23

Marija is just fighting drunk when there come to her ears the
facts about the villains who have not paid that night. Marija
goes on the warpath straight off, without even the prelimi-
nary of a good cursing, and when she is pulled off it is with
the coat collars of two villains in her hands. Fortunately, the
policeman is disposed to be reasonable, and so it is not
Marija who is flung out of the place.

All this interrupts the music for not more than a minute
or two. Then again the merciless tune begins—the tune that
has been played for the last halfhour without one single
change. It is an American tune this time, one which they have
picked up on the streets; all seem to know the words of it
—or, at any rate, the first line of it, which they hum to
themselves, over and over again without rest: “In the good
old summer time—in the good old summer time! In the
good old summer time—in the good old summer time!” There
seems to be something hypnotic about this, with its endlessly-
recurring dominant. It has put a stupor upon every one who
hears it, as well as upon the men who are playing it. No
one can get away from it, or even think of getting away from
it; it is three o’clock in the morning, and they have danced
out all their joy, and danced out all their strength, and all
the strength that unlimited drink can lend them—and still
there is no one among them who has the power to think of
stopping. Promptly at seven o’clock this same Monday morn-
ing they will every one of them have to be in their places at
Durham’s or Brown’s or Jones’s, each in his working clothes.
If one of them be a minute late, he will be docked an hour’s
pay, and if he be many minutes late, he will be apt to find
his brass check turned to the wall, which will send him out
to join the hungry mob that waits every morning at the
gates of the packing houses, from six o’clock until nearly
half-past eight. There is no exception to this rule, not even
little Ona—who has asked for a holiday the day after her
wedding day, a holiday without pay, and been refused. While
there are so many who are anxious to work as you wish,
there is no occasion for incommoding yourself with those who
must work otherwise.

‘Little Ona is nearly ready to faint—and half in a stupor
herself, because of the heavy scent in the room. She has not
taken a drop, but every one else there is literally burning al-
cohol, as the lamps are burning oil; some of the men who
are sound asleep in their chairs or on the floor are reeking of
it so that you cannot go near them. Now and then Jurgis

24

gazes at her hungrily—he has long since forgotten his shy-
ness; but then the crowd is there, and he still waits and
watches the door, where a carriage is supposed to come. It
does not, and finally he will wait no longer, but comes up to
Ona, who turns white and trembles. He puts her shawl about
her and then his own coat. They live only two blocks away,
and Jurgis does not care about the carriage.

There is almost no farewell—the dancers do not notice
them, and all of the children and many of the old folks have
fallen asleep of sheer exhaustion. Dede Antanas is asleep,
and so are the Szedvilases, husband and wife, the former
snoring in octaves. There is Teta Elzbieta, and Marija, sobbing
loudly; and then there is only the silent night, with the stars
beginning to pale a little in the east. Jurgis, without a word,
lifts Ona in his arms, and strides out with her, and she sinks
her head upon his shoulder with a moan. When he reaches
home he is not sure whether she has fainted or is asleep,
but when he has to hold her with one hand while he unlocks
the door, he sees that she has opened her eyes.

“You shall not go to Brown’s today, little one,” he whispers,
as he climbs the stairs, and she catches his arm in terror,
gasping: “No! No! I dare not! It will ruin us!”

But he answers her again: “Leave it to me; leave it to me.
I will earn more money—lI will work harder.”

KKKKKEK Bi wm»

J uRGIS talked lightly about work, because he was young.
They told him stories about the breaking down of men, there
in the stockyards of Chicago, and of what had happened to
them afterwards—stories to make your flesh creep, but Jurgis
would only laugh. He had only been there four months, and
he was young, and a giant besides. There was too much health
in him. He could not even imagine how it would feel to be
beaten. “That is well enough for men like you,” he would
say, “silpnas, puny fellows—but my back is broad.”

Jurgis was like a boy, a boy from the country. He was the
sort of man the bosses like to get hold of, the sort they make
it a grievance they cannot get hold of. When he was told to
go to a certain place, he would go there on the run. When he
had nothing to do for the moment, he would stand round
fidgeting, dancing, with the overflow of energy that was in

25

him. If he were working in a line of men, the line always
moved too slowly for him, and you could pick him out by his
impatience and restlessness. That was why he had been picked

out on one important occasion; for Jurgis had stood outside

of Brown and Company’s “Central Time Station” not more
than half an hour, the second day of his arrival in Chicago,
before he had been beckoned by one of the bosses. Of this he
was very proud, and it made him more disposed than ever to
laugh at the pessimists. In vain would they all tell him that
there were men in that crowd from which he had been
chosen who had stood there a month—yes, many months—
and not been chosen yet. “Yes,”* he would say, “but what sort
of men? Broken-down tramps and good-for-nothings, fellows
who have spent all their money drinking, and want to get
more for it. Do you want me to believe that with these arms”
—and he would clench his fists and hold them up in the air,
so that you might see the rolling muscles—“that with these
arms people will ever let me starve?”

“Tt is plain,” they would answer to this, “that you have
come from the country, and from very far in the country.”
And this was the fact, for Jurgis had never seen a city, and
scarcely even a fair-sized town, until he had set out to make
his fortune in the world and earn his right to Ona. His father,
and his father’s father before him, and as many ancestors
back as legend could go, had lived in that part of Lithuania

{known as Brelovicz, the Imperial Forest. This is a great tract

of a hundred thousand acres, which from time immemorial
has been a hunting preserve of the nobility. There are a very
few peasants settled in it, holding title from ancient times,
and one of these was Antanas Rudkus, who had been reared

~ himself, and had reared his children in turn, upon half a

dozen acres of cleared land in the midst of a wilderness.
There had been one son besides Jurgis, and one sister. The
former had been drafted into the army; that had-been over
ten years ago, but since that day nothing had ever been
heard of him. The sister was married, and her husband had
bought the place when old Antanas had decided to go with his
son.

It was nearly a year and a half ago that Jurgis had met
Ona, at a horse fair a hundred miles from home. Jurgis had
never expected to get married—he had laughed at it as a
foolish trap for a man to walk into; but here, without ever
having spoken a word to her, with no more than the exchange.
of half a dozen smiles, he found himself, purple in the face

26

with embarrassment and terror, asking her parents to sell her
to him for his wife—and o.iering his father’s two horses he
had been sent to the fair to sell. But Ona’s father proved as
a rock—the girl was yet a child, and he was a rich man, and
his daughter was not to be had in that way. So Jurgis went
home with a heavy heart, and that spring and summer toiled
and tried hard to forget. In the fall, after the harvest was
over, he saw that it would not do, and tramped the full fort-
night’s journey that lay between him and Ona.

He found an unexpected state of affairs—for the girl’s
father had died, and his estate was tied up with creditors;
Jurgis’s heart leaped as he realized that now the prize was
within his reach. There was Elzbieta Lukoszaite, Teta, or
Aunt, as they called her, Ona’s stepmother, and there were
her six children, of all ages. There was also her brother
Jonas, a dried-up little man who had worked upon the farm.
They were people of great consequence, as it seemed to
Jurgis, fresh out of the woods; Ona knew how to read, and
knew many other things that he did not know; and now the
farm had been sold, and the whole family was adrift—all
they owned in the world being about seven hundred rubles,
which is half as many dollars. They would have had three
times that, but it had gone to court, and the judge had de-
cided against them, and it had cost the balance to get him
to change his decision.

Ona might have married and left them, but she would not,
for she loved Teta Elzbieta. It was Jonas who suggested
that they all go to America, where a friend-of-his had gotten”
rich. He would work, for his part, and the women would
work, and some of the children, doubtless—they would live
somehow. Jurgis, too, had heard of America. That was a
country where, they said, a man might earn three rubles a
day, and Jurgis figured what three rubles a day would mean,
with prices as they were where he lived, and decided forth-
with that he would go to America and marry, and be a rich
man in the bargain. In that country, rich or poor, a man was
free, it was said; he did not have to go into the army, he did
not have to pay out his money to rascally officials—he might
do as he pleased, and count himself as good as any other
man. So America was a place of which lovers and young
people dreamed. If one could only manage to get the price
of a passage, he could count his troubles at an end.

It was arranged that they should leave the following
' spring, and meantime Jurgis sold himself to a contractor for
27

a certain time, and tramped nearly four hundred miles from
home with a gang of men to work upon a railroad in
Smolensk. This was a fearful experience, with filth and bad
food and cruelty and overwork, but Jurgis stood it and came
out in fine trim, and with eighty rubles sewed up in his coat.
He did not drink or fight, because he was thinking all the
time of Ona, and for the rest, he was a quiet, steady man,
who did what he was told to, did not lose his temper often,
and when he did lose it made the offender anxious that he
should not lose it again. When they paid him off he dodged
the company gamblers and dramshops, and so they tried to
kill him; but he escaped, and tramped it home, working at
odd jobs, and sleeping always with one eye open.

So in the summer time they had all set out for America.
At the last moment there joined them Marija Berczynskas,
who was a cousin of Ona’s. Marija was an orphan, and had
worked since childhood for a rich farmer at Vilna, who
beat her regularly. It was only at the age of twenty that it
had occurred to Marija to try her strength, when she had
risen up and nearly murdered the man, and then come away.

There were twelve in all in the party, five adults and six
children—and Ona, who was a little of both. They had a
hard time on the passage; there was an agent who helped
them, but he proved a scoundrel, and got them into a trap
with some officials, and cost them a good deal of their
precious money, which they clung to with such horrible
fear. This happened to them again in New York—for, of
course, they knew nothing about the country, and had no
one to tell them, and it was easy for a man in a blue uni-
form-to lead them away, and to take them to a hotel and
keep them there, and make them pay enormous charges to
get away. The law says that the rate card shall be on the
door of a hotel, but it does not say that it shall be in Lithu-
anian.

It was in the stockyards that Jonas’s friend had gotten
rich, and so to Chicago the party was bound. They knew
that one word, Chicago—and that was all they needed to
know, at least until they reached the city. Then, tumbled
out of the cars without ceremony, they were no better off
than before; they stood staring down the vista of Dearborn
Street, with its big black buildings towering in the distance,
unable to realize that they had arrived, and why, when they
said “Chicago,” people no longer pointed in some direction,

28

but instead looked perplexed, or laughed, or went on without
paying any attention. They were pitiable in their helpless-
ness; above all things they stood in deadly terror of any sort
of person in official uniform, and so whenever they saw
a policeman they would cross the street and hurry by. For
the whole of the first day they wandered about in the midst
of deafening confusion, utterly lost; and it was only at
night that, cowering in the doorway of a house, they were
finally discovered and taken by a policeman to the station.
In the morning an interpreter was found, and they were
taken and put upon a car, and taught a new word—“*stock-
yards.” Their delight at discovering that they were to get
out of this adventure without losing another share of their
possessions, it would not be possible to describe.

They sat and stared out of the window. They were on a
street which seemed to run on forever, mile after mile—
thirty-four of them, if they had known it—and each side of
it one uninterrupted row of wretched little two-story frame
buildings. Down every side street they could see, it was the
same—never a hill and never a hollow, but always the same
endless vista of ugly and dirty little wooden buildings. Here
and there would be a bridge crossing a filthy creek, with
hard-baked mud shores and dingy sheds and docks along
it; here and there would be a railroad crossing, with a tangle
of switches, and locomotives puffing, and rattling freight
cars filing by; here and there would be a great factory, a dingy
building with innumerable windows in it, and immense vol-
umes of smoke pouring from the chimneys, darkening the
air above and making filthy the earth beneath. But after each
of these interruptions, the desolate procession would begin
again—the procession of dreary little buildings.

A full hour before the party reached the city they had
begun to note the perplexing changes in the atmosphere.
It grew darker all the time, and upon the earth the grass
seemed to grow less green. Every minute, as the train sped
on, the colors of things became dingier; the fields were
grown parched and yellow, the landscape hideous and bare.
And along with the thickening smoke they began to notice
another circumstance, a strange, pungent odor. They were
not sure that it was unpleasant, this odor; some might
have called it sickening, but their taste in odors was not
developed, and they were only sure that it was curious.
Now, sitting in the trolley car, they realized that they were
on their way to the home of it—that they had travelled all

29

the way from Lithuania to it. It was now no longer some-
thing far off and faint, that you caught in whiffs; you could
literally taste it, as well as smell it—you could take hold of
it, almost, and examine it at your leisure. They .were divided
in their opinions about it. It was an elemental odor, raw and
crude; it was rich, almost rancid, sensual, and strong. There
were some who drank it in as if it were an intoxicant; there
were others who put their handkerchiefs to their faces. The
new emigrants were still tasting it, lost in wonder, when sud-
denly the car came to a halt, and the door was flung open,
and a voice shouted—“Stockyards!”

They were left standing upon the corner, staring; down a
side street there were two rows of brick houses, and between
them a vista: half a dozen chimneys, tall as the tallest of
buildings, touching the very sky—and leaping from them
half a dozen columns of smoke, thick, oily, and black as
night. It might have come from the center of the world,
this smoke, where the fires of the ages still smoulder. It
came as if self-impelled, driving all before it, a perpetual
explosion. It was inexhaustible; one stared, waiting to see
it stop, but still the great streams rolled out. They spread
in vast clouds overhead, writhing, curling; then, uniting in
one giant river, they streamed away down the sky, stretching
a black pall as far as the eye could reach.

Then the party became aware of another strange thing.
This, too, like the odor, was a thing elemental; it was a
sound, a sound made up of ten thousand little sounds. You
scarcely noticed it at first—it sunk into your consciousness,
a vague disturbance, a trouble. It was like the murmuring
of the bees in the spring, the whisperings of the forest; it
suggested endless activity, the rumblings of a world in mo-
tion. It was only by an effort that one could realize that it
was made by animals, that it was the distant lowing of ten
thousand cattle, the distant grunting of ten thousand swine.

They would have liked to follow it up, but, alas, they
had no time for adventures just then. The policeman on the
corner was beginning to watch them, and so, as usual, they
started up the street. Scarcely had they gone a block, how-
ever, before Jonas was heard to give a cry, and began
pointing excitedly across the street. Before they could gather
the meaning of his breathless ejaculations he had bounded
away, and they saw him enter a shop, over which was a
sign: J. SZEDVILAS, DELICATESSEN. When he came out
again it was in company with a very stout gentleman in

30

shirt sleeves and an apron, clasping Jonas by both hands and
laughing hilariously. Then Teta Elzbieta recollected sud-
denly that Szedvilas had been the name of the mythical
friend who had made his fortune in America. To find that
he had been making it in the delicatessen business was an
extraordinary piece of good fortune at this juncture; though
it was well on in the morning, they had not breakfasted,
and the children were beginning to whimper.

Thus was the happy ending of a woeful voyage. The two
families literally fell upon each other’s necks—for it had
been years since Jokubas Szedvilas had met a man from his
part of Lithuania. Before half the day they were lifelong
friends. Jokubas understood all the pitfalls of this new world,
and could explain all of its mysteries; he could tell them the
things they ought to have done in the different emergencies
—and what was still more to the point, he could tell them
what to do now. He would take them to poni Aniele, who
kept a boarding house the other side of the yards; old Mrs.
Jukniene, he explained, had not what one would call choice
accommodations, but they might do for the moment. To this
Teta Elzbieta hastened to respond that nothing could be too
cheap to suit them just then, for they were quite terrified
over the sums they had had to expend. A very few days of
practical experience in this land of high wages had been
sufficient to make clear to them the cruel fact that it was
also a land of high prices, and that in it the poor man was
almost as poor as in any other corner of the earth; and so
there vanished in a night all the wonderful dreams of wealth
that had been haunting Jurgis. What had made the discovery
all the more painful was that they were spending, at Ameri-
can prices, money which they had earned at home rates of
wages—and so were really being cheated by the world! The
last two days they had all but starved themselves—it made
them quite sick to pay the prices that the railroad people asked
therm for food.

Yet, when they saw the home of the Widow Jukniene
they could not but recoil, even so. In all their journey they
had seen nothing so bad as this. Poni Aniele had a four-
room flat in one of that wilderness of two-story frame tene-
ments that lie “back of the yards.” There were four such
flats in each building, and each of the four was a “board-
ing house” for the occupancy of foreigners—Lithuanians,
Poles, Slovaks, or Bohemians. Some of these places were
kept by private persons, some were co-operative. There would

31

be an average of half a dozen boarders to each room—
sometimes there were thirteen or fourteen to one room, fifty
or sixty to a flat. Each one of the occupants furnished his
own accommodations—that is, a mattress and some bedding.
The mattresses would be spread upon the floor in rows—
and there would be nothing else in the place except a stove.
It was by no means unusual for two men to own the same
mattress in common, one working by day and using it by
night, and the other working at night and using it in the
daytime. Very frequently a lodging-house keeper would rent
the same beds to double shifts of men.

Mrs. Jukniene -was a wizened up little woman, with a
wrinkled face. Her home was unthinkably filthy; you could
not enter by the front door at all, owing to the mattresses,
and when you tried to go up the backstairs you found that
she had walled up most of the porch with old boards to make
a place to keep her chickens. It was a standing jest of the
boarders that Aniele cleaned house by letting the chickens
loose in the rooms. Undoubtedly this did keep down the
vermin, but it seemed probable, in view of all the circum-
stances, that the old lady regarded it rather as feeding the
chickens than as cleaning the rooms. The truth was that she
had definitely given up the idea of cleaning anything, under
pressure of an attack of rheumatism, which had kept her
doubled up in one corner of her room for over a week,
during which time eleven of her boarders, heavily in her
debt, had conluded to try their chances of employment in
Kansas City. This was July, and the fields were green. One
never saw the fields, nor any green thing whatever in Pack-
ingtown; but one could go out on the road and “hobo it,” as
the men phrased it, and see the country, and have a long
rest, and an easy time riding on the freight cars.

Such was the home to which the new arrivals were wel-
comed. There was nothing better to be had—they might
not do so well by looking further, for Mrs. Jukniene had at
least kept one room for herself and her three little children,
and now offered to share this with the women and the
girls of the party. They could get bedding at a second-
hand store, she explained, and they would not need any,
while the weather was so hot—doubtless they would afl.
sleep on the sidewalk such nights as this, as did nearly all of
her guests. “Tomorrow,” Jurgis said, when they were left
alone, “tomorrow I will get a job, and perhaps Jonas will

3Z

get one also; and then we can get a place of our own.”

Later that afternoon he and Ona went out to take a walk
and look about them, to see more of this district which was
to be their home. In back of the yards the dreary two-story
frame houses were scattered farther apart, and there were
great spaces bare—that seemingly had been overlooked by
the great sore of a city as it spread itself over the surface of
the prairie. These bare places were grown up with dingy, yel-
low weeds, hiding innumerable tomato cans; innumerable
children played upon them, chasing one another. here and
there, screaming and fighting. The most uncanny thing about
this neighborhood was the number of the children; you
thought there must be a school just out, and it was only
after long acquaintance that you were able to realize that
there was no school, but that these were the children of
the neighborhood—that there were so many children to the
block in Packingtown that nowhere on its streets could a
horse and buggy move faster than a walk!

It could not move faster anyhow, on account of the state
of the streets. Those through which Jurgis and Ona were
walking resembled streets less than they did a miniature
topographical map. The roadway was commonly several
feet lower than the level of the houses, which were some-
times joined by high boardwalks; there were no pavements
—there were mountains and valleys and rivers, gullies
and ditches, and great hollows full of stinking green
water. In these pools the children played, and rolled
about in the mud of the streets; here and there one noticed
them digging in it, after trophies which they had stumbled
on. One wondered about this, as also about the swarms of
flies which hung about the scene, literally blackening the air,
and the strange, fetid odor which assailed one’s nostrils, a
ghastly odor, of all the dead things of the universe. It im-
pelled the visitor to questions—and then the residents would
explain, quietly, that all this was “made” land, and that it
had been “made” by using it as a dumping ground for the
city garbage. After a few years the unpleasant effect of this
would pass away, it was said; but meantime, in hot weather
—and especially when it rained—the flies were apt to be
annoying. Was it not unhealthful? the stranger would ask,
and the residents would answer, “Perhaps; but there is no
telling.”

A little way further on, and Jurgis and Ona, staring open-
eyed and wondering, came to the place where this “made”

33

ground was in process of making. Here was a great hole,
perhaps two city blocks square, and with long files of garbage
wagons creeping into it. The place had an odor for which
there are no polite words, and it was sprinkled over with
children, who raked in it from dawn till dark. Sometimes
visitors from the packing houses would wander out to see
this “dump,” and they would stand by and debate as to .
whether the children were eating the food they got, or
merely collecting it for the chickens at home. Apparently
none of them ever went down to find out.

Beyond this dump there stood a great brickyard, with
smoking chimneys. First they took out the soil to make
bricks, and then they filled it up again with garbage, which
seemed to Jurgis and Ona a felicitous arrangement, charac-
teristic of an enterprising country like America. A little
way beyond was another great hole, which they had emptied
and not yet filled up. This held water, and all summer it
stood there, with the nearby soil draining into it, festering
and stewing in the sun; and then, when winter came, some-
body cut the ice on it, and sold it to the people of the city.
This, too, seemed to the newcomers an economical arrange-
ment; for they did not read the newspapers, and their heads
were not full of troublesome thoughts about “germs.”

They stood there while the sun went down upon this
scene, and the sky in the west turned blood red, and the tops
of the houses shone like fire. Jurgis and Ona were not think-
ing of the sunset, however—their backs were turned to it,
and all their thoughts were of Packingtown, which they could
see so plainly in the distance. The line of the buildings stood
clear-cut and black against the sky; here and there out of the
mass rose the great chimneys, with the river of smoke
streaming away to the end of the world. It was a study in
colors now, this smoke; in the sunset light it was black and
brown and gray and purple. All the sordid suggestions of
the place were gone—in the twilight it was a vision of
power. To the two who stood watching while the darkness
swallowed it up, it seemed a dream of wonder, with its tale
of human energy, of things being done, of employment for
thousands upon thousands of men, of opportunity and free-
dom, of life and love and joy. When they came away, arm
in arm, Jurgis was saying, “Tomorrow I shall go there and
get a job!”

34

KEKE EK EK x 1 39 99 99 99 99 9D

I. his capacity as delicatessen’ vender, Jokubas Szedvilas
had many acquaintances. Among these was one of the spe-
cial policemen employed by Durham, whose duty it fre-
quently was to pick out men for employment. Jokubas had
never tried it, but he expressed a certainty that he could
get some of his friends a job through this man. It was agreed,
after consultation, that he should make the effort with old
Antanas and with Jonas. Jurgis was confident of his ability
to get work for himself, unassisted by any one.

As we have said before, he was not mistaken in this. He
had gone to Brown’s and stood there not more than half
an hour before one of the bosses noticed his form towering
above the rest, and signalled to him. The cology which
followed was brief and to the point:

“Speak English?”

“No; Lit-uanian.” (Jurgis had studied this word care-
fully.)

“Job?”

“Je.” (A nod.)

“Worked here before?”

“No ’stand.”

(Signals and gesticulations on the part of the boss. Vigor-
ous Shakes of the head by Jurgis.)

“Shovel guts?”

“No ’stand.” (More shakes of the head.)

“Zarnos. Pagaiksztis. Szluota!” (Imitative motions.)

Je’

“See door. Durys?” (Pointing.)

Je?"

“To-morrow, seven o’clock. Understand? Rytoj! Priesz-
pietys! Septyni!”

“Dekui, tamistai!” (Thank you, sir.) And that was all.
Jurgis turned away, and then in a sudden rush the full
realization of his triumph swept over him, and he gave a yell
and a jump, and started off on a run. He had a job! He had
a job! And he went all the way home as if upon wings, and
burst into the house like a cyclone, to the rage of the numer-
ous lodgers who had just turned in for their daily sleep.

Meantime Jokubas had been to see his friend the police-

35

man, and received encouragement, so it was a happy party.
There being no more to be done that day, the shop was left
under the care of Lucija, and her husband sallied forth to
-show his friends the sights of Packingtown. Jokubas did this
with the air of a country gentleman escorting a party of
visitors over his estate; he was an old-time resident, and
all these wonders had grown up under his eyes, and he had
a personal pride in them. The packers might own the land,
but he claimed the landscape, and there was no one to say
nay to this.

They passed down the busy street that led to the yards.
It was still early morning, and everything was at its high
tide of activity. A steady stream of employees was pouring
through the gate—employees of the higher sort, at this
hour, clerks and stenographers and such. For the women
there were waiting big two-horse wagons, which set off at
a gallop as fast as they were filled. In the distance there was
heard again the lowing of the cattle, a sound as of a far-off
ocean calling. They followed it this time, as eager as chil-
dren in sight of a circus menagerie—which, indeed, the scene
a good deal resembled. They crossed the railroad tracks,
and then on each side of the street were the pens full of
cattle; they would have stopped to look, but Jokubas hurried
them on, to where there was a stairway and a raised gallery,
from which everything could be seen. Here they stood, star-
ing, breathless with wonder.

There is over a square mile of space in the yards, and
more than half of it is occupied by cattle pens; north and
south as far as the eye can reach there stretches a sea of
pens. And they were all filled—so many cattle no one had
ever dreamed existed in the world. Red cattle, black, white,
and yellow cattle; old cattle and young cattle; great bellow-
ing bulls and little calves not an hour born; meek-eyed
milch cows and fierce, long-horned Texas steers. The sound
of them here was as of all the barnyards of the universe; and
as for counting them—it would have taken all day simply
to count the pens. Here and there ran long alleys, blocked
at intervals by gates; and Jokubas told them that the number
of these gates was twenty-five thousand. Jokubas had re-
cently been reading a newspaper article which was full of
Statistics such as that, and he was very proud as he repeated
them and made his guests cry out with wonder. Jurgis too
had a little of this sense of pride. Had he not just gotten a

36

job, and become a sharer in all this activity, a cog in this
marvelous machine?

Here and there about the alleys galloped men upon horse-
back, booted, and carrying long whips; they were very busy,
calling to each other, and to those who were driving the
cattle. They were drovers and stock-raisers, who had come
from far states, and brokers and commission-merchants,
and buyers for all the big packing houses. Here and there
they would stop to imspect a bunch of cattle, and there
would be a parley, brief and businesslike. The buyer would
nod or drop his whip, and that would mean a bargain; and
he would note it in his little book, along with hundreds of
others he had made that morning. Then Jokubas pointed out
the place where the cattle were driven to be weighed
upon a great scale that would weigh a hundred thousand
pounds at once and record it automatically. It was near to
the east entrance that they stood, and all along this east
side of the yards ran the railroad tracks, into which the
cars were run, loaded with cattle. All night long this had
been going on, and now the pens were full; by tonight
they would all be empty, and the same thing would be done
again.

“And what will become of all these creatures?” cried Teta
Elzbieta.

“By tonight,” Jokubas answered, “they will all be killed
and cut up; and over there on the other side of the packing
houses are more frailroad tracks, where the cars come to
take them away.”

There were two hundred and fifty miles of track within
the yards, their guide went on to tell them. They brought
about ten thousand head of cattle every day, and as many
hogs, and half as many sheep—which meant some eight or
ten million live creatures turned into food every year. One
stood and watched, and little by little caught the drift of the
tide, as it set in the direction of the packing houses. There
were groups of cattle being driven to the chutes, which were
roadways about fifteen feet wide, raised high above the pens.
In these chutes the stream of animals was continuous; it was
-quite uncanny to watch them, pressing on to their fate, all
unsuspicious—a very river of death. Our friends were not
poetical, and the sight suggested to them no metaphors of
human destiny; they thought only of the wonderful efficiency
of it all. The chutes into which the hogs went climbed high
up—to the very top of the distant buildings, and Jokubas ex-

af

plained that the hogs went up by the power of their own legs,
and tlien their weight carried them back through all the
processes necessary to make them into pork.

“They don’t waste anything here,” said the guide, and
then he laughed and added a witticism, which he was pleased
that his unsophisticated friends should take to be his own:
“They use everything about the hog except the squeal.” In
front of Brown’s General Office building there grows a
tiny plot of grass, and this, you may learn, is the only bit of
green thing in Packingtown; likewise this jest about the
hog and his squeal, the stock in trade of all the guides, is
the one gleam of humor that you will find there.

After they had seen enough of the pens, the party went
up the street, to the mass of buildings which occupy the
centre of the yards. These buildings, made of brick and
stained with innumerable layers of Packingtown smoke, were
painted all over with advertising signs, from which the
visitor realized suddenly that he had come to the home of
many of the torments of his life. It was here that they made
those products with the wonders of which they pestered
him so—by placards that defaced the landscape when he
traveled, and by staring advertisements in the newspapers
and magazines—by silly little jingles that he could not get
out of his mind, and gaudy pictures that lurked for him
around every street corner. Here was where they made
Brown’s Imperial Hams and Bacon, Brown’s Dressed Beef,
Brown’s Excelsior Sausages! Here was the headquarters of
Durham’s Pure Leaf Lard, of Durham’s Breakfast Bacon,
Durham’s Canned Beef, Potted Ham, Deviled Chicken,
Peerless Fertilizer!

Entering one of the Durham buildings, they found a
number of other visitors waiting, and before long there came
a guide, to escort them through the place. They make a great
feature of showing strangers through the packing plants, for
it is a good advertisement. But ponas Jokubas whispered ma-
liciously that the visitors did not see any more than the pack-
ers wanted them to.

They climbed a long series of stairways outside of the
building, to the top -of its five or six stories. Here were the
chute, with its river of hogs, all patiently toiling upward;
there was a place for them to rest to cool off, and then
through another passageway they went into a room from
which there is no returning for hogs.

It was a long, narrow room, with a gallery along it for

38

visitors. At the head there was a great iron wheel, about
twenty feet in circumference, with rings here and there along
its edge. Upon both sides of this wheel there was a narrow
space, into which came the hogs at the end of their journey;
in the midst of them stood a great burly Negro, bare-armed
and bare-chested. He was resting for the moment, for the
wheel had stopped while men were cleaning up. In a minute
or two, however, it began slowly to revolve, and then the men
upon each side of it sprang to work. They had chains which
they. fastened about the leg of the nearest hog, and the
other end of the chain they hooked into one of the rings
upon the wheel. So, as the wheel turned, a hog was suddenly
jerked off his feet and borne aloft.

At the same instant the ear was assailed by a most terrify-
ing shriek; the visitors started in alarm, the women turned
pale and shrank back. The shriek was followed by another,
louder and yet more agonizing—for once started upon that
journey, the hog never came back; at the top of the wheel he
was shunted off upon a trolley, and went sailing down the
room. And meantime another was swung up, and then an-
other, and another, until there was a double line of them, each
dangling by a foot and kicking in frenzy—and squealing.
The uproar was appalling, perilous to the eardrums; one
feared there was too much sound for the room to hold—that
the walls must give way or the ceiling crack. There were high
squeals and low squeals, grunts, and wails of agony; there
would come a momentary lull, and then a fresh outburst,
louder than ever, surging up to a deafening climax. It was too
much for some of the visitors—the men would look at each
other, laughing nervously, and the women would stand
with hands clenched, and the blood rushing to their faces,
and the tears starting in their eyes.

Meantime, heedless of all these things, the men upon the
floor were going about their work. Neither squeals of hogs
nor tears of visitors made any difference to them; one by one
they hooked up the hogs, and one by one with a swift stroke
they slit their throats. There was a long line of hogs, with
squeals and life-blood ebbing away together, until at last each
started again, and vanished with a splash into a huge vat of
boiling water. _

It was all so very businesslike that one watched it fasci-
nated. It was pork-making by machinery, pork-making by
applied mathematics. And yet somehow the most matter-of-
fact person could not help thinking of the hogs; they were

39

so innocent, they came so very trustingly; and they were so
very human in their protests—and so perfectly within their
rights! They had done nothing to deserve it, and it was add-
ing insult to injury, as the thing was done here, swinging
them up in this cold-blooded, impersonal way, without a
pretence at apology, without the homage of a tear. Now and
then a visitor wept, to be sure; but this slaughtering ma-
chine ran on, visitors or no visitors. It was like some horrible
crime committed in a dungeon, all unseen and unheeded,
buried out of sight and of memory.

One could not stand and watch very long without be-
coming philosophical, without beginning to deal in symbols
and similes, and to hear the hog-squeal of the universe.
Was it permitted to believe that there was nowhere upon
the earth, or above the earth, a heaven for hogs, where they
were requited for all this suffering? Each one of these hogs
was a separate creature. Some were white hogs, some were
black; some were brown, some were spotted; some were old,
some were young; some were long and lean, some were
monstrous. And each of them had an individuality of his
own, a will of his own, a hope and a heart’s desire; each
was full of self-confidence, of self-importance, and a sense
of dignity. And trusting and strong in faith he had gone
about his business, the while a black shadow hung over him
and a horrid Fate waited in his pathway. Now suddenly it
had swooped upon him, and had seized him by the leg. Re-
lentless, remorseless, it was; all his protests, his screams,
were nothing to it—it did its cruel will with him, as if his
wishes, his feelings, had simply no existence at all; it cut
his throat and vatched him gasp out his life. And now was
one to believe that there was nowhere a god of hogs, to
whom this hog-personality was precious, to whom these
hog-squeals and agonies had a meaning? Who would take
this hog into his arms and comfort him, reward him for his
work well done, and show him the meaning of his sacrifice?
Perhaps some glimpse of all this was in the thoughts of our
humble-minded Jurgis, as he turned to go on with the rest
of the party, and muttered: “Dieve—but I'm glad Im not a
hog!”

The carcass hog was scooped out of the vat by machinery,
and then it fell to the second floor, passing on the way
through a wonderful machine with numerous scrapers, which
adjusted themselves to the size and shape of the animal,
and sent it out at the other end with nearly all of its bristles

40

’

~

removed. It was then again strung up by machinery, and
sent upon another troliey ride; this time passing between two
lines of men, who sat upon a raised platform, each doing a
certain single thing to the carcass as it came to him. One
scraped the outside of a leg; another scraped the inside of
the same leg. One with a swift stroke cut the throat; an-
other with two swift strokes severed the head, which fell to
the floor and vanished through a hole. Another made a slit
down the body; a second opened the body wider; a third
with a saw cut the breastbone; a fourth loosened the en-
trails; a fifth pulled them out—and they also slid through
a hole in the floor. There were men to scrape each side and
men to scrape the back; there were men to clean the carcass
inside, to trim it and wash it. Looking down this room, one
saw, creeping slowly, a line of dangling hogs a hundred
yards in length; and for every yard there was a man, work-
ing as if a demon were after him. At the end of this hog’s
progress every inch of the carcass had been gone over
several times, and then it was rolled into the chilling room,
where it stayed for twenty-four hours, and where a stranger
might lose himself in a forest of freezing hogs.
Before the carcass was admitted here, however, it had to
pass a government inspector, who sat in the doorway and
felt of the glands in the neck for tuberculosis. This govern-
ment inspector did not have the manner of a man who was
worked to death; he was apparently not haunted by a fear
that the hog might get by him before he had finished his
testing. If you were a sociable person, he was quite willing
to enter into conversation with you, and to explain to you
the deadly nature of the ptomaines which are found in tuber-
cular pork; and while he was talking with you you could
hardly be so ungrateful as to notice that a dozen carcasses
were passing him untouched. This inspector wore an impos-
ing silver badge, and he gave an atmosphere of authority to
the scene, and, as it were, put the stamp of official ap-
proval upon the things which were done in Durham’s.
Jurgis went down the line with the rest of the visitors,
staring open-mouthed, lost in wonder. He had dressed hogs
himself in the forest of Lithuania; but he had never expected
to live to see one hog dressed by several hundred men. It
was like a wonderful poem to him, and he took it all in
guilelessly—even to the conspicuous signs demanding im-
maculate cleanliness of the employees. Jurgis was vexed
when the cynical Jokubas translated these signs with sar-
41

castic comments, offering to take them to the secret rooms
where the spoiled meats went to be doctored.

The party descended to the next floor, where the various
waste materials were treated. Here came the entrails, to be
scraped and washed clean for sausage casings; men and
women worked here in the midst of a sickening stench, which
caused the visitors to hasten by, gasping. To another room
came all the scraps to be “tanked,” which meant boiling
and pumping off the grease to make soap and lard; below they
took out the refuse, and this, too, was a region in which the
visitors did not linger. In still other places men were en-
gaged in cutting up the carcasses that had been through the
chilling rooms. First there were the “splitters,” the most
expert workmen in the plant, who earned as high as fifty
cents an hour, and did not a thing all day except chop
hogs down the middle. Then there were “cleaver men,”
great giants with muscles of iron; each had two men to at-
tend him—to slide the half carcass in front of him on the
table, and hold it while he chopped it, and then turn each
piece so that he might chop it once more. His cleaver had a
blade about two feet long, and he never made but one cut; he
made it so neatly, too, that his implement did not smite
through and dull itself—there was just enough force for a
perfect cut, and no more. So through various yawning holes
there slipped to the floor below—to one room hams, to an-
other forequarters, to another sides of pork. One might go
down to this floor and see the pickling rooms, where the
hams were put into vats, and the great smoke rooms, with
their airtight iron doors. In other rooms they prepared
salt pork—there were whole cellars full of it, built up in
great towers to the ceiling. In yet other rooms they were
putting up meat in boxes and barrels, and wrapping hams
and bacon in oiled paper, sealing and labeling and sewing
them. From the doors of these rooms went men with loaded
trucks, to the platform where freight cars were waiting to
be filled; and one went out there and realized with a start
that he had come at last to the ground floor of this enor-
mous building.

Then the party went across the street to where they did
the killing of beef—where every hour they turned four or
five hundred cattle into meat. Unlike the place they had
left, all this work was done on one floor, and instead of
there being one line of carcasses which moved to the work-
men, there were fifteen or twenty lines, and the men moved

42

from one to another of these. This made a scene of intense
activity, a picture of human power wonderful to watch. It
was all in one great room, like a circus amphitheater, with a
gallery for visitors running over the center.

Along one side of the room ran a narrow gallery, a few
feet from the floor, into which gallery the cattle were
driven by men with goads which gave them electric shocks.
Once crowded in here, the creatures were prisoned, each in a
separate pen, by gates that shut, leaving them no room to
turn around, and while they stood bellowing and plunging,
over the top of the pen there leaned one of the “knockers,”
armed with a sledge hammer, and watching for a chance
to deal a blow. The room echoed with the thuds in quick
succession, and the stamping and kicking of the steers. The
instant the animal had fallen, the “knocker” passed on to
another, while a second man raised a lever, and the side of
the pen was raised, and the animal, still kicking and strug-
gling, slid out to the “killing bed.” Here a man put shackles
about one leg, and pressed another lever, and the body was
jerked up into the air. There were fifteen or twenty such
pens, and it was a matter of only a couple of minutes to
knock fifteen or twenty cattle and roll them out. Then once
more the gates were opened, and another lot rushed in; and
so out of each pen there rolled a steady stream of carcasses,
which the men upon the killing beds had to get out of the
way.

The manner in which they did this was something to be
seen and never forgotten. They worked with furious in-
tensity, literally upon the run—at a pace with which there
is nothing to be compared except a football game. It was all
highly specialized labor, each man having his task to do;
generally this would consist of only two or three specific
cuts, and he would pass down the line of fifteen or twenty
carcasses, making these cuts upon each. First there came
the “butcher,” to bleed them; this meant one swift stroke,
so swift that you could not see it—only the flash of the
knife; and before you could realize it, the man had darted
on to the next line, and a stream of bright red was pouring
out upon the floor. This floor was half an inch deep with
blood, in spite of the best efforts of men who kept shoveling
it through holes; it must have made the floor slippery, but no
One could have guessed this by watching the men at work.

The carcass hung for a few minutes to bleed; there was
no time lost, however, for there were several hanging in

43

each line, and one was always ready. It was let down to
the ground, and there came the “headsman,” whose task it
was to sever the head, with two or three swift strokes. Then
came the “floorsman,” to make the first cut in the skin; and
then another to finish ripping the skin down the center; and
then half a dozen more in swift succession, to finish the
skinning. After they were through, the carcass was again
swung up, and while a man with a stick examined the
skin, to make sure that it had not been cut, and another
rolled it up and tumbled it through one of the inevitable
holes in the floor, the beef proceeded on its journey. There
were men to cut it, and men to split it, and men to gut
it and scrape it clean inside. There were some with hoses
which threw jets of boiling water upon it, and others who
removed the feet and added the final touches. In the end, as
with the hogs, the finished beef was run into the chilling
room, to hang its appointed time.

The visitors were taken there and shown them, all neatly
hung in rows, labelled conspicuously with the tags of the
government inspectors—and some, which had been killed
by a special process, marked with the sign of the “kosher”
rabbi, certifying that it was fit for sale to the orthodox.
And then the visitors were taken to the other parts of the
building, to see what became of each particle of the waste
material that had vanished through the floor; and to the
pickling rooms, and the salting rooms, the canning rooms,
and the packing rooms, where choice meat was prepared
for shipping in refrigerator cars, destined to be eaten in all
the four corners of civilization. Afterward they went outside,
wandering about among the mazes of buildings in which
was done the work auxiliary to this great industry. There
was scarcely a thing needed in the business that Durham
and Company did not make for themselves. There was a
great steam power plant and an electricity plant. There was a
barrel factory, and a boiler repair shop. There was a building
to which the grease was piped, and made into soap and
lard, and then there was a factory for making lard cans, and
another for making soap boxes. There was a building in
which the bristles were cleaned and dried, for the making of
hair cushions and such things; there was a building where the
skins were dried and tanned, there was another where heads
and feet were made into glue, and another where bones were
made into fertilizer. No tiniest particle of organic matter
was wasted in Durham’s. Out of the horns of the cattle they

Ae

' made combs, buttons, hairpins, and imitation ivory; out of

_ the shin bones and other big bones they cut knife and tooth

_ brush handles, and mouthpieces for pipes; out of the hoofs

_ they cut hairpins and buttons, before they made the rest
into glue. From such things as feet, knuckles, hide clip-
pings, and sinews came such strange and unlikely products
as gelatin, isinglass, and phosphorus, bone black, shoe black-
ing, and bone oil. They had curled-hair works for the cattle
tails, and a “wool pullery” for the sheep skins; they made pep-
sin from the stomachs of the pigs, and albumen from the
blood, and violin strings from the ill-smelling entrails. When
there was nothing else to be done with a thing, they first
put it into a tank and got out of it all the tallow and grease,
and then they made it into fertilizer. All these industries
were gathered into buildings near by, connected by galleries
and railroads with the main establishment, and it was esti-
mated that they had handled nearly a quarter of a billion
of animals since the founding of the plant by the elder Dur-
ham a generation and more ago. If you counted with it the
other big plants-—and they were now really all one—it was,
so Jokubas informed them, the greatest aggregation of labor
and capital ever gathered in one place. It employed thirty
thousand men; it supported directly two hundred and fifty
thousand people in its neighborhood, and indirectly it sup-
ported half a million. It sent its products to every country
in the civilized world, and it furnished the food for no less
than thirty million people!

To all of these things our friends would listen open-
mouthed—it seemed to them impossible of belief that
anything so stupendous could have been devised by mortal
man. That was why to Jurgis it seemed almost profanity to
speak about the place as did Jokubas, sceptically; it was a
thing as tremendous as the universe—the laws and ways of
its working no more than the universe to be questioned or
understood. All that a mere man could do, it seemed to
Jurgis, was to take a thing like this as he found it, and do as
he was told; to be given a place in it and a share in its
wonderful activities was a blessing to be grateful for, as one
was grateful for the sunshine and the rain. Jurgis was even
glad that he had not seen the place before meeting with his
triumph, for he felt that the size of it would have over-
whelmed him. But now he had been admitted—he was’a
part of it all! He had the feeling that this whole huge estab-
lishment had taken him under its protection, and had be-

; 45

come responsible for his welfare. So guileless was he, and
ignorant of the nature of business, that he did not even
realize that he had become an employee of Brown’s, and that
Brown and Durham were supposed by all the world to be
deadly rivals—were even required to be deadly rivals by the
law of the land, and ordered to try to ruin each other
under penalty of fine and imprisonment!

KKKeKcce GZ »»»»»»

Be cers at seven the next morning Jurgis reported for
work. He came to the door that had been pointed out to him,
and there he waited for nearly two hours. The boss had
meant for him to enter, but had not said this, and so it was
only when on his way out to hire another man that he came
upon Jurgis. He gave him a good cursing, but as Jurgis did
not understand a word of it he did not object. He followed
the boss, who showed him where to put his street clothes,
and waited while he donned the working clothes he had
bought in a secondhand shop and brought with him in a
bundle: then he led him to the “killing beds.” The work
which Jurgis was to do here was very simple, and it took
him but a few minutes to learn it. He was provided with a
stiff besom, such as is used by street sweepers, and it was
his place to follow down the line the man who drew out the
smoking entrails from the carcass of the steer; this mass was
to be swept into a trap, which was then closed, so that no
one might slip into it. As Jurgis came in, the first cattle of the
morning were just making their appearance, and so, with
scarcely time to look about him, and none to speak to any-
one, he fell to work. It was a sweltering day in July, and
the place ran with steaming hot blood—one waded in it on
the floor. The stench was almost overpowering, but to Jurgis
it was nothing. His whole soul was dancing with joy—he was
at work at last! He was at work and earning money! All day
long he was figuring to himself. He was paid the fabulous
sum of seventeen and a half cents an hour, and as it proved
a rush day and he worked until nearly seven o’clock in the
evening, hé went home to the family with the tidings that
he had earned more than a dollar and a half in a single day!

At home, also, there was more good news; so much of it
at once that there was quite a celebration in Aniele’s hall

. 46

bedroom. Jonas had been to have an interview with the spe-
cial policeman to whom Szedvilas had introduced him, and
had been taken to see several of the bosses, with the result
that one had promised him a job the beginning of the next
week. And then there was Marija Berczynskas, who, fired
with jealousy by the success of Jurgis, had set out upon her
own responsibility to get a place. Marija had nothing to take
with her save her two brawny arms and the word “job,”
laboriously learned; but with these she had marched about
Packingtown all day, entering every door where there were
signs of activity. Out of some she had been ordered with
curses; but Marija was not afraid of man or devil, and asked
every one she saw—visitors and strangers, or work people
like herself, and once or twice even high and lofty office per-
sonages, who stared at her as if they thought she was crazy.
In the end, however, she had reaped her reward. In one of the
smaller plants she had stumbled upon a room where scores of
women and girls were sitting at long tables preparing smoked
beef in cans; and wandering through room after room, Marija
came at last to the place where the sealed cans were being
painted and labelled, and here she had the good fortune to
encounter the “forelady.” Marija did not understand then, as
she was destined to understand later, what there was attrac-
tive to a “forelady’’ about the combination of a face full of
boundless good nature and the muscles of a dray horse; but
the woman had told her to come the next day and she would
perhaps give her a chance to learn the trade of painting cans.
The painting of cans being skilled piece work, and paying
as much as two dollars a day, Marija burst in upon the fam-
ily with the yell of a Comanche Indian, and fell to capering
about the room so as to frighten the baby almost into convul-
sions.

Better luck than all this could hardly have been hoped
_ for; there was only one of them left to seek a place. Jurgis
‘was determined that Teta Elzbieta should stay at home to
keep house, and that Ona should help her. He would not.
have Ona working—he was not that sort of a man, he said,
and she was not that sort of a woman. It would be a strange
thing if a man like him could not support the family, with
the help of the board of Jonas and Marija. He would not
even hear of letting the children go to work—there were
schools here in America for children, Jurgis had heard, to
which they could go for nothing. That the priest would ob-
ject to these schools was something of which he had as yet

47

no idea, and for the present his mind was made up that the
children of Teta Elzbieta should have as fair a chance as
any other children. The oldest of them, little Stanislovas, was
but thirteen, and small for his age at that, and while the old-
est son of Szedvilas was only twelve, and had worked for
over a year at Jones’, Jurgis would have it that Stanislovas
should learn to speak English, and grow up to be a skilled
man.

So there was only old Dede Antanas; Jurgis would have
had him rest too, but he was forced to acknowledge that
this was not possible, and, besides, the old man would not
hear it spoken of—it was his whim to insist that he was as
lively as any boy. He had come to America as full of hope
as the best of them; and now he was the chief problem that
worried his son. For everyone that Jurgis spoke to assured
him that it was a waste of time to seek employment for the
old man in Packingtown. Szedvilas told him that the packers
did not even keep the men who had grown old in their own
service—to say nothing of taking on new ones. And not only
was it the rule here, it was the rule everywhere in America,
so far as he knew. To satisfy Jurgis he had asked the police-
man, and brought back the message that the thing was not
to be thought of. They had not told this to old Anthony, who
had consequently spent the two days wandering about from
one part of the yards to another, and had now come home
to hear about the triumph of the others, smiling bravely and
saying that it would be his turn another day.

Their good luck, they felt, had given them the right to
think about a home; and sitting out on the doorstep that
summer evening, they held consultation about it, and Jurgis
took occasion to broach a weighty subject. Passing down the
avenue to work that morning he had seen two boys leaving an
advertisement from house to house; and seeing that there
were pictures upon it, Jurgis had asked for one, and had
rolled it up and tucked it into his shirt. At noontime a man
with whom he had been talking had read it to him and told
him a little about it, with the result that Jurgis had conceived
a wild idea.

He brought out the placard, which was quite a work of
art. It was nearly two feet long, printed on calendered paper,
with a selection of colors so bright that they shone even in
the moonlight. The center of the placard was occupied by a
house, brilliantly painted, new, and dazzling. The roof of it
was of a purple hue, and trimmed with gold; the house it-

48

self was silvery, and the doors and windows red. It was a
two-story building, with a porch in front, and a very fancy
scrollwork around the edges; it was complete in every tini-
est detail, even the doorknob, and there was a hammock on
the porch and white lace curtains in the windows. Under-
neath this, in one corner, was a picture of a husband and
wife in loving embrace; in the opposite corner was a cradle,
with fluffy curtains drawn over it, and a smiling cherub hov-
ering upon silver-colored wings. For fear that the significance
of all this should be lost, there was a label, in Polish, Lithu-
anian, and German—“Dom. Namai. Heim.” ““Why pay rent?”
the linguistic circular went on to demand. “Why not own
your own home? Do you know that you can buy one for
less than your rent? We have built thousands of homes which
are now occupied by happy families.”.—So it became elo-
quent, picturing the blissfulness of married life in a house
with nothing to pay. It even quoted “Home, Sweet Home,”
and made bold to translate it into Polish—though for some
reason it omitted the Lithuanian of this. Perhaps the trans-
lator found it a difficult matter to be sentimental in a lan-
guage in which a sob is known as a gukcziojimas and a smile
as a nusiszypsojimas.

Over this document the family pored long, while Ona
spelled out its contents. It appeared that this house con-
tained four rooms, besides a basement, and that it might be
bought for fifteen hundred dollars, the lot and all. Of this,
only three hundred dollars had to be paid down, the bal-
ance being paid at the rate of twelve dollars a month. These
were frightful sums, but then they were in America, where
people talked about such without fear. They had learned
that they would have to pay a rent of nine dollars a month
for a flat, and there was no way of doing better, unless the
family of twelve was to exist in one or two rooms, as at pres-
ent. If they paid rent, of course, they might pay forever, and
be no better off; whereas, if they could only meet the extra
expense in the beginning, there would at last come a time
when they would not have any rent to pay for the rest of
their lives.

They figured it up. There was a little left of the money
belonging to Teta Elzbieta, and there was a little left to Jur-
gis. Marija had about fifty dollars pinned up somewhere in
her stockings, and Grandfather Anthony had part of the
money he had gotten for his farm. If they all combined, they
would have enough to make the first payment; and if they

49

had employment, so that they could be sure of the future, it
might really prove the best plan. It was, of course, not a
thing even to be talked of lightly; it was a thing they would
have to sift to the bottom. And yet, on the other hand, if they
were going to make the venture, the sooner they did it the
better; for were they not paying rent all the time, and living
in a most horrible way besides? Jurgis was used to dirt—
there was nothing could scare a man who had been with a
railroad gang, where one could gather up the fleas off the
floor of the sleeping room by the handful. But that sort of
thing would not do for Ona. They must have a better place of
some sort very soon—Jurgis said it with all the assurance of
a man who had just made a dollar and fifty-seven cents in a
single day. Jurgis was at a loss to understand why, with
wages as they were, so many of the people of this district
should live the way they did.

The next day Marija went to see her “forelady,” and was
told to report the first of the week, and learn the business of
can painter. Marija went home, singing out loud all the
way, and was just in time to join Ona and her stepmother
as they were setting out to go and make inquiry concerning
the house. That evening the three made their report to the
men—the thing was altogether as represented in the circular,
or at any rate so the agent had said. The houses lay to the
south, about a mile and a half from the yards; they were
wonderful bargains, the gentleman had assured them—per-
sonally, and for their own good. He could do this, so he ex-
plained to them, for the reason that he had himself no in-
terest in their sale—he was merely the agent for a company
that had built them. These were the last, and the company
was going out of business, so if any one wished to take ad-
vantage of this wonderful no-rent plan, he would have to be
very quick. As a matter of fact there was just a little uncer-
tainty as to whether there was a single house left; for the
agent had taken so many people to see them, and for all he
knew the company might have parted with the last. Seeing
Teta Elzbieta’s evident grief at this news, he added, after
some hesitation, that if they really intended to make a pur-
chase, he would send a telephone message at his own ex-
pense, and have one of the houses kept. So it had finally
been arranged—and they were to go and make an inspection
the following Sunday morning.

That was Thursday; and all the rest of the week the kill-
ing gang at Brown’s worked at full pressure, and Jurgis

50

cleared a dollar seventy-five every day. That was at the rate
of ten and one-half dollars a week, or forty-five a month;
Jurgis was not able to figure, except it was a very simple
sum, but Ona was like lightning at such things, and she
worked out the problem for the family. Marija and Jonas
were each to pay sixteen dollars a month board, and the old
man insisted that he could do the same as soon as he got a
place—which might be any day now. That would make nine-
ty-three dollars. Then Marija and Jonas were between them
to take a third share in the house, which would leave only
eight dollars a month for Jurgis to contribute to the pay-
ment. So they would have eighty-five dollars a month—or,
supposing that Dede Antanas did not get work at once, sev-
enty dollars a month—which ought surely to be sufficient
for the support of a family of twelve.

An hour before the time on Sunday morning the entire
party set out. They had the address written on a piece of
paper, which they showed to someone now and then. It
proved to be a long mile and a half, but they walked it, and
half an hour or so later the agent put in an appearance. He
was a smooth and florid personage, elegantly dressed, and he
spoke their language freely, which gave him a great advan-
tage in dealing with them. He escorted them to the house,
which was one of a long row of the typical frame dwellings
of the neighborhood, where architecture is a luxury that is
dispensed with. Ona’s heart sank, for the house was not as it
was shown in the picture; the color-scheme was different, for
one thing, and then it did not seem quite so big. Still, it was
freshly painted, and made a considerable show. It was all
brand-new, so the agent told them, but he talked so inces-
santly that they were quite confused, and did not have time to
ask many questions. There were all sorts of things they had
made up their minds to inquire about, but when the time
came, they either forgot them or lacked the courage. The
other houses in the row did not seem to be new, and few of
them seemed to be occupied. When they ventured to hint at
this, the agent’s reply was that the purchasers would be mov-
ing in shortly. To press the matter would have seemed to be
doubting his word, and never in their lives had any one of
them ever spoken to a person of the class called “gentleman”
except with deference and humility.

The house had a basement, about two feet below the street
line, and a single story, about six feet above it, reached by a
flight of steps. In addition there was an attic, made by the

31

peak of the roof, and having one small window in each end.
The street in front of the house was unpaved and unlighted,
and the view from it consisted of a few exactly similar
houses, scattered here and there upon lots grown up with
dingy brown weeds. The house inside contained four rooms,
plastered white; the basement was but a frame, the walls be-
ing unplastered and the floor not laid. The agent explained
that the houses were built that way, as the purchasers gen-
erally preferred to finish the basements to suit their own
taste. The attic was also unfinished—the family had been fig-
uring that in case of an emergency they could rent this attic,
but they found that there was not even a floor, nothing but
joists, and beneath them the lath and plaster of the ceiling
below. All of this, however, did not chill their ardor as much
as might have been expected, because of the volubility of the
agent. There was no end to the advantages of the house, as
he set them forth, and he was not silent for an instant; he
showed them everything, down to the locks on the doors and
the catches on the windows, and how to work them. He
showed them the sink in the kitchen, with running water and
a faucet, something which Teta Elzbieta had never in her
wildest dreams hoped to possess. After a discovery such as
that it would have seemed ungrateful to find any fault, and so
they tried to shut their eyes to other defects.

Still, they were peasant people, and they hung on to their
money by instinct; it was quite in vain that the agent hinted
at promptness—they would see, they would see, they told
him, they could not decide until they had had more time.
And so they went home again, and all day and evening there
was figuring and debating. It was an agony to them to have
to make up their minds in a matter such as this. They never
could agree all together; there were so many arguments
upon each side, and one would be obstinate, and no sooner
would the rest have convinced him than it would transpire
that his arguments had caused another to waver. Once, in the
evening, when they were all in harmony, and the house was as
good as bought, Szedvilas came in and upset them again.
Szedvilas had no use for property owning. He told them
cruel stories of people who had been done to death in this
“buying a home” swindle. They would be almost sure to get
into a tight place and lose all their money, and there was no
end of expense that one could never foresee; and the
house might be good-for-nothing from top to bottom—
how was a poor man to know? Then, too, they would swindle

52

you with the contract—and how was a poor man to wunder-
stand anything about a contract? It was all nothing but rob-
bery, and there was no safety but in keeping out of it. And
pay rent? asked Jurgis. Ah, yes, to be sure, the other an-
swered, that too was robbery. It was all robbery, for a poor
man. After half an hour of such depressing conversation,
they had their minds quite made up that they had been saved
at the brink of a precipice; but then Szedvilas went away,
and Jonas, who was a sharp little man, reminded them that
the delicatessen business was a failure, according to its pro-
prietor, and that this might account for his pessimistic views.
Which, of course, reopened the subject!

The controlling factor was that they could not stay
where they were—they had to go somewhere. And when they
gave up the house plan and decided to rent, the prospect of
paying out nine dollars a month forever they found just as
hard to face. All day and all night for nearly a whole week
they wrestled with the problem, and then in the end Jurgis
took the responsibility. Brother Jonas had gotten his job, and
was pushing a truck in Durham’s, and the killing gang at
Brown’s continued to work early and late, so that Jurgis grew
more confident every hour, more certain of his mastership.
It was the kind of thing the man of the family had to decide
and carry through, he told himself. Others might have failed
at it, but he was not the failing kind—he would show them
how to do it. He would work all day, and all night, too, if
need be; he would never rest until the house was paid for
and his people had a home. So he told them, and so in the
end the decision was made.

They had talked about looking at more houses before they
made the purchase; but then they did not know where any
more were, and they did not know any way of finding out.
The one they had seen held the sway in their thoughts; when-
ever they thought of themselves in a house, it was this house
that they thought of. And so they went and told the agent that
they were ready to make the agreement. They knew, as an
abstract proposition, that in matters of business all men are
to be accounted liars, but they could not but have been in-
fluenced by all they had heard from the eloquent agent, and
were quite persuaded that the house was something they had
run a risk of losing by their delay. They drew a deep breath
when he told them that they were still in time.

They were to come on the morrow, and he would have
the papers all drawn up. This matter of papers was one in

Be:

which Jurgis understood to the full the need of caution; yet
he could not go himself—every one told him that he could
not get a holiday, and that he might lose his job by asking.
So there was nothing to be done but to trust it to the women,
with Szedvilas, who promised to go with them. Jurgis spent a
whole evening impressing upon them the seriousness of the
occasion—and then finally, out of innumerable hiding places
about their persons and in their baggage, came forth the
precious wads of money, to be done up tightly in a little bag
and sewed fast in the lining of Teta Elzbieta’s dress.

Early in the morning they sallied forth. Jurgis had given
them so many instructions and warned them against so many
perils, that the women were quite pale with fright, and even
the imperturbable delicatessen vender, who prided himself
upon being a business man, was ill at ease. The agent had the
deed all ready, and invited them to sit down and read it;
this Szedvilas proceeded to do—a painful and laborious proc-
ess, during which the agent drummed upon the desk. Teta
Elzbieta was so embarrassed that the perspiration came out
upon her forehead in beads; for was not this reading as much
as to say plainly to the gentleman’s face that they doubted
his honesty? Yet Jokubas Szedvilas read on and on; and
presently there developed that he had good reason for doing
so. For a horrible suspicion had begun dawning in his mind;
he knitted his brows more and more as he read. This was not
a deed of sale at all, so far as he could see—it provided only
for the renting of the property! It was hard to tell, with all
this strange legal jargon, words he had never heard before;
but was not this plain—‘“the party of the first part hereby
covenants and agrees to rent to the said party of the second
part!” And then again—‘‘a monthly rental of twelve dollars,
for a period of eight years and four months!” Then Szedvilas
took off his spectacles, and looked at the agent, and stam-
mered a question.

The agent was most polite, and explained that that was
the usual formula; that it was always arranged that the
property should be merely rented. He kept trying to show
them something in the next paragraph; but Szedvilas could
not get by the word “rental”—and when he translated it to
Teta Elzbieta, she too was thrown into a fright. They would
not own the home at all, then, for nearly nine years! The
agent, with infinite patience, began to explain again; but
no explanation would do now. Elzbieta had firmly fixed in her
mind the last solemn warning of Jurgis: “If there is anything

54

wrong, do not give him the money, but go out and get a
lawyer.” It was an agonizing moment, but she sat in the chair,
her hands clenched like death, and made a fearful effort, sum-
moning all her powers, and gasped out her purpose.

Jokubas translated her words. She expected the agent to
fly into a passion, but he was, to her bewilderment, as ever
imperturbable; he even offered to go and get a lawyer for her,
but she declined this. They went a long way, on purpose to
find a man who would not be a confederate. Then let any one
imagine their dismay, when, after half an hour, they came
in with a lawyer, and heard him greet the agent by his first
name!

They felt that all was lost; they sat like prisoners sum-
moned to hear the reading of their death warrant. There was
nothing more that they could do—they were trapped! The
lawyer read over the deed, and when he had read it he in-
formed Szedvilas that it was all perfectly regular, that the
deed was a blank deed such as was often used in these sales.
And was the price as agreed? the old man asked—three
hundred dollars down, and the balance at twelve dollars a
month, till the total of fifteen hundred dollars had been paid?

Yes, that was correct. And it was for the sale of such and
such a house—the house and lot and everything? Yes—and the
lawyer showed him where that was all written. And it was all
perfectly regular—there were no tricks about it of any sort?
They were poor people, and this was all they had in the world,
and if there was anything wrong they would be ruined. And
so Szedvilas went on, asking one trembling question after
another, while the eyes of the women folks were fixed upon
him in mute agony. They could not understand what he was
saying, but they knew that upon it their fate depended. And
when at last he had questioned until there was no more ques-
tioning to be done, and the time came for them to make up
their minds, and either close the bargain or reject it, it was
all that poor Teta Elzbieta could do to keep from bursting
into tears. Jokubas had asked her if she wished to sign; he
had asked her twice—and what could she say? How did she
know if this lawyer were telling the truth—that he was not in
the conspiracy? And yet, how could she say so—what ex-
cuse could she give? The eyes of every one in the room were
upon her, awaiting her decision, and at last, half blind with
her tears, she\began fumbling in her jacket, where she had
pinned the precious money. And she brought it out and un-
wrapped it before the men. All of this Ona sat watching,

a5

from a corner of the room, twisting her hands together, mean-
time, in a fever of fright. Ona longed to cry out and tell her
stepmother to stop, that it was all a trap, but there seemed to
be something clutching her by the throat, and she could not
make a sound. And so Teta Elzbieta laid the money on the
table, and the agent picked it up and counted it, and then
wrote them a receipt for it and passed them the deed. Then
he gave a sigh of satisfaction, and rose and shook hands with
them all, still as smooth and polite as at the beginning. Ona
had a dim recollection of the lawyer telling Szedvilas that his
charge was a dollar, which occasioned some debate, and more
agony, and then, after they had paid that, too, they went out
into the street, her stepmother clutching the deed in her
hand. They were so weak from fright that they could not
walk, dut had to sit down on the way.

So they went home, with a deadly terror gnawing at their
souls, and that evening Jurgis came home and heard their
story, and that was the end. Jurgis was sure that they had
been swindled, and were ruined, and he tore his hair and
cursed like a madman, swearing that he would kill the agent
that very night. In the end he seized the paper and rushed out
of the house, and all the way across the yards to Halsted
Street. He dragged Szedvilas out from his supper, and together
they rushed to consult another lawyer. When they entered
his office the lawyer sprang up, for Jurgis looked like a crazy
person, with flying hair and bloodshot eyes. His companion
explained the situation, and the lawyer took the paper and
began to read it, while Jurgis stood clutching the desk with
knotted hands, trembling in every nerve.

Once or twice the lawyer looked up and asked a question
of Szedvilas; the other did not know a word that he was say-
ing, but his eyes were fixed upon the lawyer’s face, striving in
an agony of dread to read his mind. He saw the lawyer look
up and laugh, and he gave a gasp; the man said something
to Szedvilas, and Jurgis turned upon his friend, his heart ai-
most stopping.

“Well?” he panted.

“He says it is all right,” said Szedvilas.

“All right!”

“Yes, he says it is just as it should be.” And Jurgis, in his
relief, sank down into a chair.

“Are you sure of it?” he gasped, and made Szedvilas
translate question after question. He could not hear it often
enough; he could not ask with enough variations. Yes, they

56

had bought the house, they had really bought it. It belonged
to them, they had only to pay the money and it would be all
right. Then Jurgis covered his face with his hands, for there
were tears in his eyes, and he felt like a fool. But he had had
such a horrible fright; strong man as he was, it left him al-
most too weak to stand up.

The lawyer explained that the rental was a form—the
property was said to be merely rented until the last payment
had been made, the purpose being to make it easier to turn the
party out if he did not make the payments. So long as they
paid, however, they had nothing to fear, the house was all
theirs.

Jurgis was so grateful that he paid the half dollar the
lawyer asked without winking an eyelash, and then rushed
home to tell the news to the family. He found Ona in a faint
and the babies screaming, and the whole house in an uproar
—for it had been believed by all that he had gone to murder
the agent, It was hours before the excitement could be
‘calmed, and all through that cruel night Jurgis would wake up
now and then and hear Ona and her stepmother in the next
room, sobbing softly to themselves. |

KEKE EK 5 >> 9999.99.99

d eee had bought their home. It was hard for them to realize
that the wonderful house was theirs to move into whenever
they chose. They spent all their time thinking about it, and
what they were going to put into it. As their week with Aniele
was up in three days, they lost no time in getting ready.
They had to make some shift to furnish it, and every instant
of their leisure was given to discussing this.

A person who had such a task before him would not need
to look very far in Packingtown—he had only to walk up the
avenue and read the signs, or get into a streetcar, to obtain
full information as to pretty much everything a human
creature could need. It was quite touching, the zeal of people
to see that his health and happiness were provided for. Did
the person wish to smoke? There was a little discourse about
cigars, showing him exactly why the Thomas Jefferson Five-
cent Perfecto was the only cigar worthy of the name. Had
he, on the other hand, smoked too much? Here was a remedy
for the smoking habit, twenty-five doses for a quarter, and a

57

-

cure absolutely guaranteed in ten doses. In innumerable
ways such as this, the traveler found that somebody had been
busied to make smooth his paths through the world, and to
let him know what had been done for him. In Packingtown
the advertisements had a style all of their own, adapted to
the peculiar population. One would be tenderly solicitous.
“Is your wife pale?” it would inquire. “Is she discouraged,
does she drag herself about the house and find fault with
everything? Why do you not tell her to try Dr. Lanahan’s Life
Preservers?” Another would be jocular in tone, slapping you
on the back, so to speak. “Don’t be a chump!” it would ex-
claim. “Go and get the Goliath Bunion Cure.” “Get a move
on you!” would chime in another. “It’s easy, if you wear the
Eureka Two-fifty Shoe.”

Among these importunate signs was one that had caught
the attention of the family by its pictures. It showed two very
pretty little birds building themselves a home; and Marija
had asked an acquaintance to read it to her, and told them
that it related to the furnishing of a house. “Feather your
nest,” it ran—and went on to say that it could furnish all the
necessary feathers for a four-room nest for the ludicrously
small sum of seventy-five dollars. The particularly important
thing about this offer was that only a small part of the money
need be had at once—the rest one might pay a few dollars
every month. Our friends had to have some furniture,
there was no getting away from that, but their little fund of
money had sunk so low that they could hardly get to sleep at
night, and so they fled to this as their deliverance. There was
more agony and another paper for Elzbieta to sign, and then
one night when Jurgis came home, he was told the breathless
tidings that the furniture had arrived and was safely stowed
in the house: a parlor set of four pieces, a bedroom set of
three pieces, a dining-room table and four chairs, a toilet set
with beautiful pink roses painted all over it, an assortment of
crockery, also with pink roses—and so on. One of the plates in
the set had been found broken when they unpacked it, and
Ona was going to the store the first thing in the morning to
make them change it; also they had promised three saucepans,
and there had only two come, and did Jurgis think that they
were trying to cheat them?

The next day they went to the house, and when the men
came from work they ate a few hurried mouthfuls at Aniele’s,
and then set to work at the task of carrying their belongings
to their new home. The distance was in reality over two

58

2

miles, but Jurgis made two trips that night, each time with a

'

huze pile of mattresses and bedding on his head, with
bundles of clothing and bags and things tied up inside. Any-
where else in Chicago he would have stood a good chance
of being arrested, but the policemen in Packingtown were
apparently used to these informal movings, and contented
themselves with a cursory examination now and then. It
was quite wonderful to see how fine the house looked, with
all the things in it, even by the dim light of a lamp: it was
really home, and almost as exciting as the placard had de-
scribed it. Ona was fairly dancing, and she and Cousin
Marija took Jurgis by the arm and escorted him from room
to room, sitting in each chair by turns, and then insisting that
he should do the same. One chair squeaked with his great
weight, and they screamed with fright, and woke the baby
and brought everybody running. Altogether it was a great
day, and tired as they were, Jurgis and Ona sat up late, con-
tented simply to hold each other and gaze in rapture about
the room. They were going to be married as soon as they
could get everything settled, and a little spare money put by,
and this was to be their home—that little room yonder
would be theirs!

It was in truth a never-ending delight, the fixing up of
this house. They had no money to spend for the pleasure of
spending, but there were a few absolutely necessary things,
and the buying of these was a perpetual adventure for
Ona. It must always be done at night, so that Jurgis could
go along, and even if it were only a pepper cruet, or half a
dozen glasses for ten cents, that was enough for an expe-
dition. On Saturday night they came home with a great
basketful of things, and spread them out on the table, while
every one stood around, and the children climbed up on the
stairs, or howled to be lifted up to see. There were sugar and
salt and tea and crackers, and a can of lard and a milk pail,
and a scrubbing brush, and a pair of shoes for the second
oldest boy, and a can of oil, and a tack hammer, and a pound
of nails. These last were to be driven into the walls of the
kitchen and the bedrooms, to hang things on, and there was
a family discussion as to the place where each one was to
be driven. Then Jurgis would try to hammer, and hit his
fingers because the hammer was too sniall, and get mad
because Ona had refused to let him pay fifteen cents more
and get a bigger hammer, and Ona would be invited to try
it herself, and hurt her thumb, and cry out, which necessi-

59

tated the thumb’s being kissed by Jurgis. Finally, after every
one had had a try, the nails would be driven, and something
hung up. Jurgis had come home with a big packing box on his
head, and he sent Jonas to get another that he had
bought. He meant to take one side out of these tomorrow,
and put shelves in them, and make them into bureaus and
places to keep things for the bedrooms. The nest which
had been advertised had not included feathers for quite so
many birds as there were in this family.

They had, of course, put their dining table in the kitchen,
and the dining room was used as the bedroom of Teta
Elzbieta and five of her children. She and the two youngest
slept in the only bed, and the other three had a mattress on
the floor. Ona and her cousin dragged a mattress into the
parlor and slept at night, and the three men and the oldest
boy slept in the other room, having nothing but the very
level floor to rest on for the present. Even so, however,
they slept soundly—it was necessary for Teta Elzbieta to
pound more than once on the door at a quarter past five every
morning. She would have ready a great pot full of steam-
ing black coffee, and oatmeal and bread and smoked sau-
sages; and then she would fix them their dinner pails with
more thick slices of bread with lard between them—they
could not afford butter—and some onions and a piece of
cheese, and so they would tramp away to work.

This was the first time in his life that he had ever really
worked, it seemed to Jurgis; it was the first time that he had
ever had anything to do which took all he had in him.
Jurgis had stood with the rest up in the gallery and watched
the men on the killing beds, marvelling at their speed and
power as if they had been wonderful machines; it some-
how never occurred to one to think of the flesh-and-blood
side of it—tthat is, not until he actually got down into the
pit and took off his coat. Then he saw things in a different
light, he got at the inside of them. The pace they set here,
it was one that called for every faculty of a man—from the
instant the first steer fell till the sounding of the noon whis-
tle, and again from half-past twelve till heaven only knew
what hour in the late afternoon or evening, there was never
one instant’s rest for a man, for his hand or his eye or his
brain. Jurgis saw how they managed it; there were portions
of the work which determined the pace of the rest, and for
these they had picked men whom they paid high wages,
and whom they changed frequently. You might easily pick

60

™

out these pacemakers, for they worked under the eye of the

bosses, and they worked like men possessed. This was
called “speeding up the gang,” and if any man could not
keep up with the pace, there were hundreds outside begging
to try.

Yet Jurgis did not mind it; he rather enjoyed it. It saved
him the necessity of flinging his arms about and fidgeting
as he did in most work. He would laugh to himself as he
ran down the line, darting a glance now and then at the
man ahead of him. It was not the pleasantest work one
could think of, but it was necessary work, and what more
had a man the right to ask than a chance to do something
useful, and to get good pay for doing it?

So Jurgis thought, and so he spoke, in his bold, free way;
very much to his surprise, he found that it had a tendency
to get him into trouble. For most of the men here took a
fearfully different view of the thing. He was quite dismayed
when he first began to find it out—that most of the men
hated their work. It seemed strange, it was even terrible,
when you came to find out the universality of the sentiment,
but it was certainly the fact—they hated their work. They
hated the bosses and they hated the owners, they hated the
whole place, the whole neighborhood—even the whole city,
with an all-inclusive hatred, bitter and fierce. Women and
little children would fall to cursing about it; it was rotten,
rotten as hell—everything was rotten. When Jurgis would
ask them what they meant, they would begin to get sus-
picious, and content themselves with saying, “Never mind,
you stay here and see for yourself.”

One of the first problems that Jurgis ran upon was that
of the unions. He had had no experience with unions, and
he had to have it explained to him that the men were banded
together for the purpose of fighting for their rights. Jurgis
asked them what they meant by their rights, a question in
which he was quite sincere, for he had not any idea of any
rights that he had, except the right to hunt for a job, and do
as he was told when he got it. Generally, however, this
harmless question would only make his fellow working-
men lose their tempers and call him a fool. There was a dele-
gate of the butcher-helpers’ union who came to see Jurgis
to enroll him; and when Jurgis found that this meant that
he would have to part with some of his money, he froze up
directly, and the delegate, who was an Irishman and only
knew a few words of Lithuanian, lost his temper and began

61

to threaten him. In the end Jurgis got into a fine, rage,
and made it sufficiently plain that it would take more than
one Irishman to scare him into a union. Little by little he
gathered that the main thing the men wanted was to put a
stop to the habit of “speeding up”; they were trying their
best to force a lessening of the pace, for there were some,
they said, who could not keep up with it, whom it was kill-
ing. But Jurgis had no sympathy with such ideas as this—
he could do the work himself, and so could the rest of them,
he declared, if they were good for anything. If they couldn’t
do it, let them go somewhere else. Jurgis had not studied
the books, and he would not have known how to pronounce
“laissez faire”; but he had been round the world enough to
know that a man has to shift for himself in it, and that if
he gets the worst of it, there is nobody to listen to him holler.

Yet there have been known to be philosophers and plain
men who swore by Malthus in the books, and would, never-
theless, subscribe to a relief fund in time of a famine. It
was the same with Jurgis, who consigned the unfit to de-
struction, while going about all day sick at heart because of
his poor old father, who was wandering somewhere in the
yards begging for a chance to earn his bread. Old Antanas
had been a worker ever since he was a child; he had run
away from home when he was twelve, because his father
beat him for trying to learn to read. And he was a faithful
man, too; he was a man you might leave alone for a month,
if only you had made him understand what you wanted him
to do in the meantime. And now here he was, worn out in
soul and body, and with no more place in the world
than a sick dog. He had his home, as it happened, and
someone who would care for him if he never got a job; but
his son could not help thinking, suppose this had not been
the case. Antanas Rudkus had been into every building in
Packingtown by this time, and into nearly every room; he
had stood mornings among the crowd of applicants till the
very policemen had come to know his face and to tell him to
go home and give it up. He had been likewise to all the
stores and saloons for a mile about, begging for some little
thing to do, and everywhere they had ordered him out,
sometimes with curses, and not once even stopping to ask
him a question.

So, after all, there was a crack in the fine structure of
Jurgis’s faith in things as they are. The crack was wide
while Dede Antanas was hunting a job—and it was yet

62

_ wider when he finally got it. For one evening the old man
came home in a great state of excitement, with the tale
that he had been approached by a man in one of the cor-
ridors of the pickle rooms of Durham’s, and asked what
he would pay to get a job. He had not known what to
make of this at first; but the man had gone on with matter-
of-fact frankness to say that he could get him a job, pro-
vided that he were willing to pay one-third of his wages for
it. Was he a boss? Antanas had asked; to which the man
had replied that that was nobody’s business, but that he could
do what he said.

Jurgis had made some friends by this time, and he sought
one of them and asked what this meant. The friend, who
was named Tamoszius Kuszleika, was a sharp little man
who folded hides on the killing beds, and he listened to
what Jurgis had to say without seeming at all surprised.
They were common enough, he said, such cases of petty
graft. It was simply some boss who proposed to add a little
to his income. After Jurgis had been there awhile he would
know that the plants were simply honeycombed with rotten-
ness of that sort—the bosses grafted off the men, and they
grafted off each other, and someday the superintendent
would find out about the boss, and then he would graft off
the boss. Warming to the subject, Tamoszius went on to
explain the situation. Here was Durham’s, for instance,
owned by a man who was trying to make as much money
out of it as he could, and did not care in the least how
he did it; and underneath him, ranged in ranks and grades
like an army, were managers and superintendents and fore-
men, each one driving the man next below him and trying to
squeeze out of him as much work as possible. And all the
men of the same rank were pitted against each other; the
accounts of each were kept separately, and every man lived
in terror of losing his job, if another made a better record
than he. So from top to bottom the place was simply a seeth-
ing cauldron of jealousies and hatreds; there was no loyalty
or decency anywhere about it, there was no place in it where
a man counted for anything against a dollar. And worse
than there being no decency, there was not even any hon-
esty. The reason for that? Who could say? It must have
been old Durham in the beginning; it was a heritage which
the self-made merchant had left to his son, along with his
millions.

_Jurgis would find out these things for himself, if he stayed

63

there long enough: it was the men who had to do all the
dirty jobs, and so there was no deceiving them, and they
caught the spirit of the place, and did like all the rest.
Jurgis had come there, and thought he was going to make
himself useful, and rise and become a skilled man, but he
would soon find out his error—for nobody rose in Packing-
town by doing good work. You could lay that down for a
rule—if you met a man who was rising in Packingtown, you
met a knave. That man who had been sent to Jurgis’s father
by the boss, Ae would rise; the man who told tales and
spied upon his fellows would rise; but the man who minded
his own business and did his work—why, they would “speed
him up” till they had worn him out, and then they would
throw him into the gutter.

Jurgis went home with his head buzzing. Yet he could
not bring himself to believe such things—no, it could not
be so. Tamoszius was simply another of the grumblers. He
was a man who spent all his time fiddling, and he would go
to parties at night and not get home till sunrise, and so
of course he did not feel like work. Then, too, he was a
puny little chap, and so he had been left behind in the race,
and that was why he was sore. And yet so many strange
things kept coming to Jurgis’s notice every day!

He tried to persuade his father to have nothing to do
with the offer. But old Antanas had begged until he was
worn out, and all his courage was gone; he wanted a job,
any sort of a job. So the next day he went and found the
man who had spoken to him, and promised to bring him a
third of all he earned, and that same day he was put to
work in Durham’s cellars. It was a “pickle room,” where
there was never a dry spot to stand upon, and so he had
to take nearly the whole of his first week’s earnings to buy
him a pair of heavy-soled boots. He was a “squeedgie” man;
his job was to go about all day with a long-handled mop,
swabbing up the fioor. Except that it was damp and dark, it
was not an unpleasant job, in summer.

Now Antanas Rudkus was the meekest man that God
ever put on earth, and so Jurgis found it a striking con-
firmation of what the men all said, that his father had
been at work only two days before he came home as bitter
as any of them, and cursing Durham’s with all the power of
his soul. For they had set him to cleaning out the traps;
and the family sat round and listened in wonder while he
told them what that meant. It seemed that he was working

64

in the room where the men prepared the beef for canning,
and the beef had lain in vats full of chemicals, and men
with great forks speared it out and dumped it into trucks,
to be taken to the cooking room. When they had speared out
all they could reach, they emptied the vat on the floor,
and then with shovels scraped up the balance and dumped
it into the truck. This floor was filthy, yet they set Antanas
with his mop slopping the “pickle” into a hole that con-
nected with a sink, where it was caught and used over
again forever; and if that were not enough, there was a
trap in the pipe, where all the scraps of meat and odds and
ends of refuse were caught, and every few days it was the
old man’s task to clean these out, and shovel their contents
into one of the trucks with the rest of the meat!

This was the experience of Antanas; and then there came
also Jonas and Marija with tales to tell. Marija was working
for one of the independent packers, and was quite beside
herself and outrageous with triumph over the sums of
money she was making as a painter of cans. But one day she
walked home with a pale-faced little woman who worked
opposite. to her, Jadvyga Marcinkus by name, and Jadvyga
told her how she, Marija, had chanced to get her job.
She had taken the place of an Irish woman who had been
working in that factory ever since anyone could remember,
for over fifteen years, so she declared. Mary Dennis was
her name, and a long time ago she had been seduced, and
_ had a little boy; he was a cripple, and an epileptic, but still
he was all that she had in the world to love, and they
had lived in a little room alone somewhere back of Hal-
sted Street, where the Irish were. Mary had had consump-
tion, and all day long you might hear her coughing as she
worked; of late she had been going all to pieces, and when
Marija came, the “forelady’ had suddenly decided to turn
her off. The forelady had to come up to a certain standard
herself, and could not stop for sick people, Jadvyga ex-
plained. The fact that Mary had been there so long had not
made any difference to her—it was doubtful if she even
knew that, for both the forelady and the superintendent
were new people, having only been there two or three years
themselves. Jadvyga did not know what had become of
the poor creature; she would have gone to see her, but had
been sick herself. She had pains in her back all the time,
Jadvyga explained, and feared that she had womb trouble.

65 I
12

It was not fit work for a woman, handling fourteen-pound
_ cans all day.

It was a striking circumstance that Jonas, too, had gotten
his job by the misfortune of some other person. Jonas pushed
a truck loaded with hams from the smoke rooms to an ele-
vator, and thence to the packing rooms. The trucks were all
of iron, and heavy, and they put about threescore hams on
each of them, a load of more than a quarter of a ton. On the
uneven floor it was a task for a man to start one of these
trucks, unless he was a giant, and when it was once started
he naturally tried his best to keep it going. There was always
the boss prowling about, and if there was a second’s delay he
would fall to cursing; Lithuanians and Slovaks and such, who
could not understand what was said to them, the bosses were
wont to kick about the place like so many dogs. Therefore
these trucks went for the most part on the run, and the pred-
ecessor of Jonas had been jammed against the wall by one
and crushed in a horrible and nameless manner.

All of these were sinister incidents; but they were trifles
compared to what Jurgis saw with his own eyes before long.
One curious thing he had noticed, the very first day, in his
profession of shoveler of guts; which was the sharp trick of
the floor bosses whenever there chanced to come a “slunk”
calf. Any man who knows anything about butchering knows
that the flesh of a cow that is about to calve, or has just
calved, is not fit for food. A good many of these came every
day to the packing houses—and, of course, if they had cho-
sen, it would have been an easy matter for the packers to
keep them till they were fit for food. But for the saving of
time and fodder, it was the law that cows of that sort came
along with the others, and whoever noticed it would tell the
boss, and the boss would start up a conversation with the gov-
ernment inspector, and the two would stroll away. So in a
trice the carcass of the cow would be cleaned out, and the
entrails would have vanished; it was Jurgis’s task to
slide them into the trap, calves and all, and on the floor be-
low they took out these “slunk” calves, and butchered them
for meat, and used even the skins of them.

One day a man slipped and hurt his leg; and that after-
noon, when the last of the cattle had been disposed of, and
the men were leaving, Jurgis was ordered to remain and do
some special work which this injured man had usually done.
It was late, almost dark, and the government inspectors had
all gone, and there were only a dozen or two of men on the

66

floor. That day they had killed about four thousand cattle,
and these cattle had come in freight trains from far states,
and some of them had got hurt. There were some with bro-
ken legs, and some with gored sides; there were some that
had died, from what cause no one could say; and they were
all to be disposed of, here in darkness and silence. “Down-
ers,” the men called them; and the packing house had a spe-
cial elevator upon which they were raised to the killing beds,
where the gang proceeded to handle them, with an air of
businesslike nonchalance which said plainer than any words
that it was a matter of everyday routine. It took a couple of
hours to get them out of the way, and in the end Jurgis saw
them go into the chilling rooms with the rest of the meat,
being carefully scattered here and there so that they could
not be identified. When he came home that night he was in
a very somber mood, having begun to see at last how those
might be right who had laughed at him for his faith in Amer-

1Ca.
KKKKKEK GJ BYYHYD”

5 URGIS and Ona were very much in love; they had waited
a long time—it was now well into the second year, and Jurgis
judged everything by the criterion of its helping or hinder-
ing their union. All his thoughts were there; he accepted the
family because it was a part of Ona, and he was interested
in the house because it was to be Ona’s home. Even the
tricks and cruelties he saw at Durham’s had little meaning
for him just then, save as they might happen to affect his
future with Ona.

The marriage would have been at once, if they had had
their way; but this would mean that they would have to do
without any wedding feast, and when they suggested this
they came into conflict with the old people. To Teta Elz-
bieta especially the very suggestion was an affliction. What!
she would cry. To be married on the roadside like a parcel of
beggars! No! No!—Elzbieta had some traditions behind her;
she had been a person of importance in her girlhood—had
lived on a big estate and had servants, and might have mar-
ried well and been a lady, but for the fact that there had
been nine daughters and no sons in the family. Even so,
however, she knew what was decent, and clung to her tradi-

67

tions with desperation’ They were not going to lose all caste,
even if they had come to be unskilled laborers in Packing-
town; and that Ona had even talked of omitting a veselija
was enough to keep her stepmother lying awake all night. It
was in vain for them to say that they had so few friends;
they were bound to have friends in time, and then the friends
would talk about it. They must not give up what was right
for a little money—if they did, the money would never do
them any good, they could depend upon that. And Elzbieta
would call upon Dede Antanas to support her; there was a
fear in the souls of these two, lest this journey to a new
country might somehow undermine the old home virtues of
their children. The very first Sunday they had all been taken
to mass, and poor as they were, Elzbieta had felt it advisable
to invest a little of her resources in a representation of the
babe of Bethlehem, made in plaster, and painted in brilliant
colors. Though it was only a foot high, there was a shrine
with four snow-white steeples, and the Virgin standing with
her child in her arms, and the kings and shepherds and wise
men bowing down before him. It had cost fifty cents, but
Elzbieta had a feeling that money spent for such things was
not to be counted too closely, it would come back in hidden
ways. The piece was beautiful on the parlor mantel, and one
could not have a home without some sort of ornament.

The cost of the wedding feast would, of course be returned
to them; but the problem was to raise it even temporarily.
They had been in the neighborhood so short a time that they
could not get much credit, and there was no one except Szed-
vilas from whom they could borrow even a little. Evening
after evening Jurgis and Ona would sit and figure the ex-
penses, calculating the term of their separation. They could
not possibly manage it decently for less than two hundred
dollars, and even though they were welcome to count in the
whole of the earnings of Marija and Jonas, as a loan, they
could not hope to raise this sum in less than four or five
months. So Ona began thinking of seeking employment her-
self, saying that if she had even ordinarily good luck, she
might be able to take two months off the time. They were
just beginning to adjust themselves to this necessity, when
out of the clear sky there fell a thunderbolt upon them—a
calamity that scattered all their hopes to the four winds.

About a block away from them there lived another Lithu-
anian family, consisting of an elderly widow and one grown
son; their name was Majauszkis, and our friends struck up an

68

acquaintance with them before long. One evening they care
over for a visit, and naturally the first subject upon which
the conversation turned was the neighborhood and its his-
tory; and then Grandmother Majauszkiene, as the old lady
was called, proceeded to recite to them a string of horrors
that fairly froze their blood. She was a wrinkled-up and wiz-
ened personage—she must have been eighty—and as she
mumbled the grim story through her toothless gums, she
seemed a very old witch to them. Grandmother Majauszkiene
had lived in the midst of misfortune so long that it had come
to be her element, and she talked about starvation, sickness,
and death as other people might about weddings and holi-
days.

The thing came gradually. In the first place as to the house
they had bought, it was not new at all, as they had sup-
posed; it was about fifteen years old, and there was nothing
new upon it but the paint, which was so bad that it needed
to be put on new every year or two. The house was one of a
whole row that was built by a company which existed to make
money by swindling poor people. The family had paid fif-
teen hundred dollars for it, and it had not cost the builders
five hundred, when it was new—Grandmother Majauszkiene
knew that because her son belonged to a political organiza-
tion with a contractor who put up exactly such houses. They
used the very flimsiest and cheapest material; they built the
houses a dozen at a time, and they cared about nothing at all
except the outside shine. The family could take her word as to
the trouble they would have, for she had been through it all
—she and her son had bought their house in exactly the
same way. They had fooled the company, however, for her
son was a skilled man, who made as high as a hundred dol-
lars a month, and as he had had sense enough not to marry,
they had been able to pay for the house.

Grndmother Majauszkiene saw that her friends were puz-
zled at this remark; they did not quite see how paying for
the house was “fooling the company.” Evidently they were
very inexperienced. Cheap as the houses were, they were
sold with the idea that the people who bought them would
not be able to pay for them. When they failed—if it were
only by a single month—they would lose the house and all
that they had paid on it, and then the company would sell it
over again. And did they often get a chance to do that? Dieve!
(Grandmother Majauszkiene raised her hands.) They did it
—how often no one could say, but certainly more than half

69

OL

of the time. They might ask any one who knew anything at
all about Packingtown as to that; she had been living here
ever since this house was built, and she could tell them all
about it. And had it ever been sold before? Susimilkie! Why,
since it had been built, no less than four families that their
informant could name had tried to buy it and failed. She
would tell them a little about it.

The first family had been Germans. The families had all
been of different nmationalities—there had been a representa-
tive of several races that had displaced each other in the
stockyards. Grandmother Majauszkiene had come to Ameri-
ca with her son at a time when so far as she knew there
was only one other Lithuanian family in the district; the
workers had all been Germans then—skilled cattle-butchers
that the packers had brought from abroad to start the busi-
ness. Afterward, as cheaper labor had come, these Germans
had moved away. The next were the Irish—there had been
six or eight years when Packingtown had been a regular Irish
city. There were a few colonies of them still here, enough to
run all the unions and the police force and get all the graft;
but the most of those who were working in the packing houses
had gone away at the next drop in wages—after the big
strike. The Bohemians had come then, and after them the
Poles. People said that old man Durham himself was responsi-
ble for these immigrations; he had sworn that he would fix
the people of Packingtown so that they would never again
call a strike on him, and so he had sent his agents into every
city and village in Europe to spread the tale of the chances
of work and high wages at the stockyards. The people had
come in hordes, and old Durham had squeezed them tighter
and tighter, speeding them up and grinding them to pieces
and sending for new ones. The Poles, who had come by tens
of thousands, had been driven to the wall by the Lithu-
anians, and now the Lithuanians were giving way to the Slo-
vaks. Who there was poorer and more miserable than the
Slovaks, Grandmother Majauszkiene had no idea, but the
packers would find them, never fear. It was easy to bring
them, for wages were really much higher, and it was only
when it was too late that the poor people found out that
everything else was higher too. They were like rats in a trap,
that was the truth; and more of them were piling in every
day. By and by they would have their revenge, though, for
the thing was getting beyond human endurance, and the peo-
ple would rise and murder the packers. Grandmother Ma-

70

jauszkiene was a socialist, or some such strange thing; an-
other son of hers was working in the mines of Siberia, and the
old lady herself had made speeches in her time—which made
her seem all the more terrible to her present auditors.

They called her back to the story of the house. The Ger-
man family had been a good sort. To be sure there had been
a great many of them, which was a common failing in Pack-
ingtown; but they had worked hard, and the father had been
a steady man, and they had a good deal more than haif paid
for the house. But he had been killed in an elevator accident
in Durham’s.

Then there had come the Irish, and there had been lots of
them, too; the husband drank and beat the children—the
neighbors could hear them shrieking any night. They were
behind with their rent all the time, but the company was
good to them; there was some politics back of that, Grand-
mother Majauszkiene could not say just what, but the Laffer-
tys had belonged to the “War Whoop League,” which was a
sort of political club of all the thugs and rowdies in the dis-
trict, and if you belonged to that, you could never be ar-
rested for anything. Once upon a time old Lafferty had been
caught with a gang that had stolen cows from several of the
poor people of the neighborhood and butchered them in an
old shanty back of the yards and sold them. He had been in
jail only three days for it, and had come out laughing, and
had not even lost his place in the packing house. He had
gone all to ruin with the drink, however, and lost his power;
one of his sons, who was a good man, had kept him and
the family up for a year or two, but then he had got sick with
consumption.

That was another thing, Grandmother Majauzskiene in-
terrupted herself—this house was unlucky. Every family that
lived in it, someone was sure to get consumption. Nobody
could tell why that was; there must be something about a
house, or the way it was built—some folks said it was be-
cause the building had been begun in the dark of the moon.
There were dozens of houses that way in Packingtown.
Sometimes there would be a particular room that you could
point out—if anybody slept in that room he was just as good
as dead. With this house it had been the Irish first; and then
a Bohemian family had lost a child of it—though, to be sure,
that was uncertain, since it was hard to tell what was the
matter with children who worked in the yards. In those days
there had been no law about the age of children—the pack-

71

ers had worked all but the babies. At this remark the family
looked puzzled, and Grandmother Majauszkiene again had
to make an explanation—that it was against the law for chil-
dren to work before they were sixteen. What was the sense
of that? they asked. They had been thinking of letting little
Stanislovas go to work. Well, there was no need to worry,
Grandmother Majauszkiene said—the law made no difference
except that it forced people to lie about the ages of their
children. One would like to know what the lawmakers ex-
pected them to do; there were families that had no possible
means of support except the children, and the law provided
them no other way of getting a living. Very often a man could
get no work in Packingtown for months, while a child could
go and get a place easily; there was always some new ma-
chine, by which the packers could get as much work out of a
child as they had been able to get out of a man, and for a
third of the pay.

To come back to the house again, it was the woman of
the next family that had died. That was after they had been
there nearly four years, and this woman had had twins
regularly every year—and there had been more than you
could count when they moved in. After she died the man
would go to work all day and leave them to shift for them-
selves—the neighbors would help them now and _ then,
for they would almost freeze to death. At the end there
were three days that they were alone, before it was found
out that the father was dead. He was a “floorsman” at
Jones’, and a wounded steer had broken loose and mashed
him against a pillar. Then the children had been taken away,
and the company had sold the house that very same week to
a party of emigrants.

So this grim old woman went on with her tale of horrors.
How much of it was exaggeration—who could tell? It
was only too plausible. There was that about consumption,
for instance. They knew nothing about consumption what-
ever, except that it made people cough; and for two weeks
they had been worrying about a coughing spell of Antanas.
It seemed to shake him all over, and it never stopped; you
could see a red stain wherever he had spit upon the floor.

And yet all these things were as nothing to what came
a little later. They had begun to question the old lady as to
why one family had been unable to pay, trying to show
her by figures that it ought to have been possible; and Grand-
mother Majauszkiene had disputed their figures— “You say

72

{

twelve dollars a month; but that does not include the in-
terest.”

Then they stared at her. “Interest!” they cried.

“Interest on the money you still owe,” she answered.

“But we don’t have to pay any interest!’ they exclaimed,
three or four at once. “We only have to pay twelve dollars
each month.”

And for this she laughed at them. “You are like all the
rest,” she said; “they trick you and eat you alive. They
never sell the houses without interest. Get your deed, and
see:

Then, with a horrible sinking of the heart, Teta Elzbieta
unlocked her bureau and brought out the paper that had al-
ready caused them so many agonies. Now they sat round,
scarcely breathing, while the old lady, who could read
English, ran over it. “Yes,” she said, finally, “here it is, of
course: ‘With interest thereon monthly, at the rate of seven
per cent per annum.’ ”

And there followed a dead silence. “What does that
mean?” asked Jurgis finally, almost in a whisper.

“That means,” replied the other, “that you have to pay
them seven dollars next month, as well as the twelve dollars.”

Then again there was not a sound. It was sickening, like a
nightmare, in which suddenly something gives way beneath
you, and you feel yourself sinking, sinking, down into bot-
tomless abysses. As if in a flash of lightning they saw them-
selves—victims of a relentless fate, cornered, trapped, in the
grip of destruction. All the fair structure of their hopes
came crashing about their ears.—And all the time the old
woman was going on talking. They wished that she would be
still; her voice sounded like the croaking of some dismal
raven. Jurgis sat with his hands clenched and beads of
perspiration on his forehead, and there was a great lump in .
Ona’s throat, choking her. Then suddenly Teta Elzbieta broke
the silence with a wail, and Marija began to wring her hands
and sob, “Ai! Ai! Beda man!”

All their outcry did them no good, of course. There sat
Grandmother Majauszkiene, unrelenting, typifying fate. No,
- of course it was not fair, but then fairness had nothing to
do with it. And of course they had not known it. They had
not been intended to know it. But it was in the deed, and
that was all that was necessary, as they would find when the
time came.

Somehow or other they got rid of their guest, and then

a3

they passed a night of lamentation. The children woke up
and found out that something was wrong, and they wailed
and would not be comforted. In the morning, of course,
most of them had to go to work, the packing houses would
not stop for their sorrows; but by seven o’clock Ona and her
stepmother were standing at the door of the office of the
agent. Yes, he told them, when he came, it was quite true
that they would have to pay interest. And then Teta Elzbieta
broke forth into protestations and reproaches, so that the
people outside stopped and peered in at the window. The
agent was as bland as ever. He was deeply pained, he said.
He had not told them, simply because he had supposed they
would understand that they had to pay interest upon their
debt, as a matter of course.

So they came away, and Ona went down to the yards,
and at noontime saw Jurgis and told him. Jurgis took it
stolidly—he had made up his mind to it by this time. It
was a part of fate; they would manage it somehow—he
made his usual answer, “I will work harder.” It would upset
their plans for a time, and it would perhaps be necessary
for Ona to get work after all. Then Ona added that Teta
Elzbieta had decided that little Stanislovas would have to
work too. It was not fair to let Jurgis and her support the
family—the family would have to help as it could. Pre-
viously Jurgis had scouted this idea, but now knit his brows
and nodded his head slowly—yes, perhaps it would be best;
they would all have to make some sacrifices now.

So Ona set out that day to hunt for work, and at night
Marija came home saying that she had met a girl named.
Jasaityte who had a friend that worked in one of the wrap-
ping rooms in Brown’s, and might get a place for Ona
there; only the forelady was the kind that takes presents—
it was no use for any one to ask her for a place unless at
the same time they slipped a ten-dollar bill into her hand.
Jurgis was not in the least surprised at this now—he
merely asked what the wages of the place would be. So nego-
tiations were opened, and after an interview Ona came
home and reported that the forelady seemed to like her,
and had said that, while she was not sure, she thought she
might be able to put her at work sewing covers on hams,
a job at which she could earn as much as eight or ten dol-
lars a week. That was a bid, so Marija reported, after
consulting her friend; and then there was an anxious con-
ference at home. The work was done in one of the cellars,

74

and Jurgis did not want Ona to work in such a place; but
then it was easy work, and one could not have everything.
So in the end, Ona, with a ten-dollar bill burning a hole in
her palm, had another interview with the forelady.

Meantime Teta Elzbieta had taken Stanislovas to the
priest and gotten a certificate to the effect that he was two
years older than he was, and with it the little boy now sal-
lied forth to make his fortune in the world. It chanced that
Durham had just put in a wonderful new lard machine,
and when the special policeman in front of the time station
saw Stanislovas and his document, he smiled to himself
and told him to go—‘‘Czia! Czia!” pointing. And so Stanis-
lovas went down a long stone corridor, and up a flight of
stairs, which took him into a room lighted by electricity, with
the new machines for filling lard cans at work in it. The
lard was finished on the floor above, and it came in little
jets, like beautiful, wriggling, snow-white snakes of unpleas-
ant odor. There were several kinds and sizes of jets, and after
a certain precise quantity had come out, each stopped auto-
matically, and the wonderful machine made a turn, and took
the can under another jet, and so on, until it was filled
neatly to the brim, and pressed tightly, and smoothed off.
To attend to all this and fill several hundred cans of lard
per hour, there were necessary two human creatures, one
of whom knew how to place an empty lard can on a certain
spot every few seconds, and the other of whom knew how to
take a full lard can off a certain spot every few seconds and
set it upon a tray.

And so, after little Stanislovas had stood gazing timidly
about him for a few minutes, a man approached him, and*
asked what he wanted, to which Stanislovas said, “Job.”
Then the man said “How old?” and Stanislovas answered,
“Sixtin.” Once or twice every year a state inspector would
come wandering through the packing plants, asking a
child here and there how old he was; and so the packers
were very careful to comply with the law, which cost them
as much trouble as was now involved in the boss’s taking
the document from the little boy, and glancing at it, and
then sending it to the office to be filed away. Then he set
someone else at a different job, and showed the lad how
to place a lard can every time the empty arm of the re-
morseless machine came to him; and so was decided the
place in the universe of little Stanislovas, and his destiny
till the end of his days. Hour after hour, day after day,

gS

year after year, it was fated that he should stand upon a
certain square foot of floor from seven in the morning until
noon, and again from half-past twelve till half-past five,
making never a motion and thinking never a thought, save
for the setting of lard cans. In summer the stench of the
warm lard would be nauseating, and in winter the cans
would all but freeze to his naked little fingers in the un-
heated cellar. Half the year it would be dark as night when
he went in to work, and dark as night again when he came
out, and so he would never know what the sun looked like
on weekdays. And for this, at the end of the week, he
would carry home three dollars to his family, being his pay
at the rate of five cents per hour—just about his proper
share of the total earnings of the million and three-quarters
of children who are now engaged in earning their livings in
the United States.

And meantime, because they were young, and hope is not
to be stifled before its time, Jurgis and Ona were again
calculating; for they had discovered that the wages of
Stanislovas would a little more than pay the interest, which
left them just about as they had been before! It would
be but fair to them to say that the little boy was delighted
with his work, and at the idea of earning a lot of money;
and also that the two were very much in love with each
other.

KaKKKKKe BW »w»w»n»»»

A... summer long the family toiled, and in the fall they
had money enough for Jurgis and Ona to be married accord-
ing to home traditions of decency. In the latter part of No-
vember they hired a hall, and invited all their new ac-
quaintances, who came and left them over a hundred dollars
in debt.

It was a bitter and cruel experience, and it plunged them
into an agony of despair. Such a time, of all times, for them
to have it, when their hearts were made tender! Such a piti-
ful beginning it was for their married life; they loved
each other so, and they could not have the briefest respite!
It was a time when everything cried out to them that they
ought to be happy; when wonder burned in their hearts,

76

and leaped into flame at the slightest breath. They were
shaken to the depths of them, with the awe of love realized
—and was it so very weak of them that they cried out for a
little peace? They had opened their hearts, like flowers to
the springtime, and the merciless winter had fallen upon
them. They wondered if ever any love that had blossomed
in the world had been so crushed and trampled!

Over them, relentless and savage, there cracked the lash
of want; the morning after the wedding it sought them as
they slept, and drove them out before daybreak to work.
Ona was scarcely able to stand with exhaustion; but if she
were to lose her place they would be ruined, and she would
surely lose it if she were not on time that day. They all
had to go, even little Stanislovas, who was ill from over-
indulgence in sausages and sarsaparilla. All that day he
stood at his lard machine, rocking unsteadily, his eyes clos-
ing in spite of him; and he all but lost his place even so, for
the foreman booted him twice to waken him.

It was fully a week before they were all normal again,
and meantime, with whining children and cross adults, the
house was not a pleasant place to live in. Jurgis lost his
temper very little, however, all things considered. It was
because of Ona; the least glance at her was always enough
to make him control himself. She was so sensitive—she
was not fitted for such a life as this, and a hundred times a
day, when he thought of her, he would clench his hands and
fling himself again at the task before him. She was too good
for him, he told himself, and he was afraid, because she was
his. So long he had hungered to possess her, but now that
the time had come he knew that he had not earned thes
right; that she trusted him so was all her own simple good-
ness, and no virtue of his. But he was resolved that she
should never find this out, and so was always on the watch
to see that he did not betray any of his ugly self; he would
take care even in little matters, such as his manners, and
his habit of swearing when things went wrong. The tears
came so easily into Ona’s eyes, and she would look at him
so appealingly—it kept Jurgis quite busy making resolutions,
in addition to all the other things he had on his mind. It
was true that more things were going on at this time in the
mind of Jurgis than ever had in all his life before.

He had to protect her, to do battle for her against the
horror he saw about them. He was all that she had to look
to, and if he failed she would be lost; he would wrap his

77

arms about her, and try to hide her from the world. He
had learned the ways of things about him now. It was a war
of each against all, and the devil take the hindmost. You
did not give feasts to other people, you waited for them to
give feasts to you. You went about with your soul full of
suspicion and hatred; you understood that you were envi-
roned by hostile powers that were trying to get your money,
and who used all the virtues to bait their traps with. The
storekeepers plastered up their windows with all sorts of
lies to entice you; the very fences by the wayside, the lamp-
posts and telegraph poles, were pasted over with lies. The
great corporation which employed you lied to you, and lied
to the whole country—from top to bottom it was nothing
but one gigantic lie.

So Jurgis said that he understood it; and yet it was really
pitiful, for the struggle was so unfair—some had so much
the advantage! Here he was, for instance, vowing upon his
knees that he would save Ona from harm, and only a week
later she was suffering atrociously, and from the blow of an
enemy that he could not possibly have thwarted. There came
a day when the rain fell in torrents, and it being December,
to be wet with it and have to sit all day long in one of the
cold cellars of Brown’s was no laughing matter. Ona was
a working girl, and did not own waterproofs and such
things, and so Jurgis took her and put her on the street-
car. Now it chanced that this car line was owned by
gentlemen who were trying to make money. And the city
having passed an ordinance requiring them to give transfers,
they had fallen into a rage; and first they had made a rule

‘that transfers could be had only when the fare was paid; and
later, growing still uglier, they had made another—that the
passenger must ask for the transfer, the conductor was not
allowed to offer it. Now Ona had been told that she was to
get a transfer; but it was not her way to speak up, and so she
merely waited, following the conductor about with her eyes,
wondering when he would think of her. When at last the
time came for her to get out, she asked for the transfer, and
was refused. Not knowing what to make of this, she began
to argue with the conductor, in a language of which he did
not understand a word. After warning her several times, he
pulled the bell and the car went on—at which Ona burst into
tears. At the next corner she got out, of course, and as she
had no more money, she had to walk the rest of the way to
the yards in the pouring rain. And so all day long she sat

78

[ shivering, and came home at night with her teeth chattering
and pains in her head and back. For two weeks afterward
she suffered cruelly—and yet every day she had to drag
herself to her work. The forewoman was especially severe
with Ona, because she believed that she was obstinate on
account of having been refused a holiday the day after her
wedding. Ona had an idea that her “forelady” did not like
to have her girls marry—perhaps because she was old and
ugly and unmarried herself.

There were many such dangers, in which the odds were
all against them. Their children were not as well as they
had been at home; but how could they know that there was no
sewer to their house, and that the drainage of fifteen years
was in a cesspool under it? How could they know that the
pale-blue milk that they bought around the corner was
watered, and doctored with formaldehyde besides? When
the children were not well at home, Teta Elzbieta would
gather herbs and cure them; now she was obliged to go to
the drugstore and buy extracts—and how was she to know
that they were all adulterated? How could they find out that
their tea and coffee, their sugar and flour, had been doctored;
that their canned peas had been colored with copper salts,
and their fruit jams with aniline dyes? And even if they had
known it, what good would it have done them, since there was
no place within miles of them where any other sort was to be
had? The bitter winter was coming, and they had to save
money to get more clothing and bedding; but it would not
matter in the least how much they saved, they could not get
anything to keep them warm. All the clothing that was to be
had in the stores was made of cotton and shoddy, which
is made by tearing old clothes to pieces and weaving the fibre
again. If they paid higher prices, they might get frills and fan-
ciness, or be cheated; but genuine quality they could not ob-
tain for love nor money. A young friend of Szedvilas’, recent-
ly come from abroad, had become a clerk in a store on Ash-
land Avenue, and he narrated with glee a trick that had been
played upon an unsuspecting countryman by his boss. The
customer had desired to purchase an alarm clock, and the boss
had shown him two exactly similar, telling him that the
price of one was a dollar and of the other a dollar seventy-five.
Upon being asked what the difference was, the man had
wound up the first half-way and the second all the way, and
showed the customer how the latter made twice as much
noise; upon which the customer remarked that he was a

79

sound sleeper, and had better take the more expensive clock!
There is a poet who sings that

Deeper their heart grows and nobler their bearing,
Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died.

But it is not likely that he had reference to the kind of an-
guish that comes with destitution, that is so endlessly bitter
and cruel, and yet so sordid and petty, so ugly, so humiliat-
ing—unredeemed by the slightest touch of dignity or even of
pathos. It is a kind of anguish that poets have not commonly
dealt with; its very words are not admitted into the vocabu-
lary of poets—the details of it cannot be told in polite society
at all. How, for instance, could anyone expect to excite sym-
pathy among lovers of good literature by telling how a family
found their home alive with vermin, and of all the suffering
and inconvenience and humiliation they were put to, and
the hard-earned money they spent, in efforts to get rid of
them? After long hesitation and uncertainty they paid twenty-
five cents for a big package of insect-powder—a patent pre-
paration which chanced to be ninety-five per cent gypsum, a
harmless earth which had cost about two cents to prepare.
Of course it had not the least effect, except upon a few roaches
which had the misfortune to drink water after eating it, and
so got their inwards set in a coating of plaster of Paris. The
family, having no idea of this, and no more money to throw
away, had nothing to do but give up and submit to one more
misery for the rest of their days.

Then there was old Antanas. The winter came, and the
place where he worked was a dark, unheated cellar, where
you could see your breath all day, and where your fingers
sometimes tried to freeze. So the old man’s cough grew every
day worse, until there came a time when it hardly ever
stopped, and he had become a nuisance about the place. Then,
too, a still more dreadful thing happened to him; he worked
in a place where his feet were soaked in chemicals, and it was
not long before they had eaten through his new boots. Then
sores began to break out on his feet, and grow worse and
worse. Whether it was that his blood was bad, or there had
been a cut, he could not say, but he asked the men about it,
and learned that it was a regular thing—it was the saltpetre.
Every one felt it, sooner or later, and then it was all up with
him, at least for that sort of work. The sores would never

80

heal—in the end his toes would drop off, if he did not quit.
Yet old Antanas would not quit; he saw the suffering of his
family, and he remembered what it had cost him to get a job.
So he tied up his feet, and went on limping about and cough-
ing, until at last he fell to pieces, all at once and in a heap,
like the One-Horse Shay. They carried him to a dry place and
laid him on the floor, and that night two of the men helped
him home. The poor old man was put to bed, and though
he tried it every morning until the end, he never could get
up again. He would lie there and cough and cough, day and
night, wasting away to a mere skeleton. There came a time
when there was so little flesh on him that the bones began to
poke through—which was a horrible thing to see or even to
think of. And one night he had a choking fit, and a little
river of blood came out of his mouth. The family, wild with
terror, sent for a doctor, and paid half a dollar to be told
that there was nothing to be done. Mercifully the doctor did
not say this so that the old man could hear, for he was still
clinging to the faith that tomorrow or next day he would be
better, and could go back to his job. The company had sent
word to him that they would keep it for him—or rather Jurgis
had bribed one of the men to come one Sunday afternoon
and say they had. Dede Antanas continued to believe it, while
three more hemorrhages came, and then at last one morning
they found him stiff and cold. Things were not going well with
them then, and though it nearly broke Teta Elzbieta’s heart,
they were forced to dispense with nearly all the decencies of
a funeral; they had only a hearse, and one hack for the
women and children; and Jurgis, who was learning things fast,
spent all Sunday making a bargain for these, and he made it
in the presence of witnesses, so that when the man tried to
charge him for all sorts of incidentals, he did not have to pay.
For twenty-five years old Antanas Rudkus and his son had
dwelt in the forest together, and it was hard to part in this
way; perhaps it was just as well that Jurgis had to give all his
attention to the task of having a funeral without being bank-
rupted, and so had no time to indulge in memories and grief.

Now the dreadful winter was come upon them. In the
forests, ali summer long, the branches of the trees do battle
for light, and some of them lose and die; and then come the
raging blasts, and the storms of snow and hail, and strew
the ground with these weaker branches. Just so it was in
Packingtown; the whole district braced itself for the struggle

81

that was an agony, and those whose time was come died off
in hordes. All the year round they had been serving as cogs in
the great packing machine, and now was the time for the ren-
ovating of it, and the replacing of damaged parts. There
came pneumonia and grippe, stalking among them, seeking
for weakened constitutions; there was the annual harvest of
those whom tuberculosis had been dragging down. There
came cruel, cold, and biting winds, and blizzards of snow,
all testing relentlessly for failing muscles and impoverished
blood. Sooner or later came the day when the unfit one did
not report for work; and then, with no time lost in waiting,
and no inquiries or regrets, there was a chance for a new
hand.

The new hands were here by the thousands. All day long
the gates of the packing houses were besieged by starving
and penniless men; they came, literally, by the thousands
every single morning, fighting with each other for a chance
for life. Blizzards and cold made no difference to them, they
were always on hand; they were on hand two hours before
the sun rose, an hour before the work began. Sometimes their
faces froze, sometimes their feet and their hands; sometimes
they froze all together—but still they came, for they had no
other place to go. One day Durham advertised in the paper for
two hundred men to cut ice; and all that day the homeless
and starving of the city came trudging through the snow from
all over its two hundred square miles. That night forty score
of them crowded into the station house of the stockyards
district—they filled the rooms, sleeping in each other’s laps,
toboggan-fashion, and they piled on top of each other in the
corridors, till the police shut the doors and left some to freeze
outside. On the morrow, before daybreak, there were three
thousand at Durham’s, and the police reserves had to be sent
for to quell the riot. Then Durham’s bosses picked out
twenty of the biggest; the “two hundred” proved to have
been a printer’s error.

Four or five miles to the eastward lay the lake, and over
this the bitter winds came raging. Sometimes the thermometer
would fall to ten or twenty degrees below zero at night, and
in the morning the streets would be piled with snowdrifts up
to the first-floor windows. The streets through which our
friends had to go to their work were all unpaved and full of
deep holes and gullies; in summer, when it rained hard, a man
might have to wade to his waist to get to his house, and now
in winter it was no joke getting through these places, before

82

light in the morning and after dark at night. They would wrap
up in all they owned, but they could not wrap up against
exhaustion, and many a man gave out in these battles with
the snowdrifts, and lay down and fell asleep.

And if it was bad for the men, one may imagine how the
women and children fared. Some would ride in the cars, if
the cars were running, but when you are making only five
cents an hour, as was little Stanislovas, you do not like to
spend that much to ride two miles. The children would come
to the yards with great shawls about their ears, and so tied up
that you could hardly find them—and still there would be
accidents. One bitter morning in February the little boy who
worked at the lard machine with Stanislovas came about an
hour late, and screaming with pain. They unwrapped him, and
a man began vigorously rubbing his ears, and as they were
frozen stiff, it took only two or three rubs to break them short
off. As a result of this, little Stanislovas conceived a terror of
the cold that was almost a mania. Every morning, when it
came time to start for the yards, he would begin to cry and
protest. Nobody knew quite how to manage him, for threats
did no good—it seemed to be something that he could not
control, and they feared sometimes that he would go into con-
vulsions. In the end it had to be arranged that he always went
with Jurgis, and came home with him again, and often, when
the snow was deep, the man would carry him the whole
way on his shoulders. Sometimes Jurgis would be working
until late at night, and then it was pitiful, for there was no
place for the little fellow to wait, save in the doorways
or in a corner of the killing beds, and he would all but fall
asleep there, and freeze to death.

There was no heat upon the killing beds; the men might
exactly as well have worked out of doors all winter. For that
matter, there was very little heat anywhere in the building,
except in the cooking rooms and such places—and it was the
men who worked in these who ran the most risk of all, be-
cause whenever they had to pass to another room they had
to go through ice-cold corridors, and sometimes with noth-
ing on above the waist except a sleeveless undershirt. On
the killing beds you were apt to be covered with blood, and it
would freeze solid; if you leaned against a pillar, you would
freeze to that, and if you put your hand upon the blade of
your knife, you would run a chance of leaving your skin on
it. The men would tie up their feet in newspapers and old
sacks, and these would be soaked in blood and frozen, and

83

then soaked again, and so on, until by nighttime a man would
be walking on great lumps the size of the feet of an elephant.
Now and then, when the bosses were not looking, you would
see them plunging their feet and ankles into the steaming hot
carcass of the steer, or darting across the room to the hot-
water jets. The cruelest thing of all was that nearly all of
them—all of those who used knives—were unable to wear
gloves, and their arms would be white with frost and their
hands would grow numb, and then of course there would be
accidents. Also the air would be full of steam, from the hot
water and the hot blood, so that you could not see five feet
before you; and then, with men rushing about at the speed
they kept up on the killing beds, and all with butcher knives,
like razors, in their hands—well, it was to be counted as a
wonder that there were not more men slaughtered than cat-
tle.

And yet all this inconvenience they might have put up with,
if only it had not been for one thing—if only there had been
some place where they might eat. Jurgis had either to eat
his dinner amid the stench in which he had worked, or else
to rush, as did all his companions, to any one of the hundreds
of liquor stores which stretched out their arms to him. To
the west of the yards ran Ashland Avenue, and here was an
unbroken line of saloons—‘“Whiskey Row,” they called it; to
the north was Forty-seventh Street, where there were half a
dozen to the block, and at the angle of the two was “Whiskey
Point,” a space of fifteen or twenty acres, and containing
one glue factory and about two hundred saloons.

One might walk among these and take his choice: “Hot pea
soup and boiled cabbage today.” “Sauerkraut and hot frank-
furters. Walk in.” “Bean soup and stewed lamb. Welcome.”
All of these things were printed in many languages, as were
also the names of the resorts, which were infinite in their va-
riety and appeal. There was the “Home Circle” and the
“Cosey Corner”; there were “Firesides” and “Hearthstones”
and “Pleasure Palaces” and ‘“Wonderlands” and “Dream
Castles” and “Love’s Delights.” Whatever else they were
called, they were sure to be called “Union Headquarters,”
and to hold out a welcome to workingmen; and there was
always a warm stove, and a chair near it, and some friends to
laugh and talk with. There was only one condition attached,
—you must drink. If you went in not intending to drink, you
would be put out in no time, and if you were slow about going,
like as not you would get your head split open with a

84

beer bottle in the bargain. But all of the men understood the
convention and drank; they believed that by it they were get-
ting something for nothing—for they did not need to take
more than one drink, and upon the strength of it they might
fill themselves up with a good hot dinner. This did not al-
ways work out in practice, however, for there was pretty
sure to be a friend who would treat you, and then you would
have to treat him. Then some one else would come in—and,
anyhow, a few drinks were good for a man who worked hard.
As he went back he did not shiver so, he had more courage for
his task; the deadly brutalizing monotony of it did not afflict
him so—he had ideas while he worked, and took a more
cheerful view of his circumstances. On the way home, how-
ever, the shivering was apt to come on him again; and so he
would have to stop once or twice to warm up against the
cruel cold. As there were hot things to eat in this saloon too,
he might get home late to his supper, or he might not get home
at all. And then his wife might set out to look for him, and
she too would feel the cold; and perhaps she would have
some of the children with her—and so a whole family would
drift into drinking, as the current of a river drifts down-
stream. As if to complete the chain, the packers all paid their
men in checks, refusing all requests to pay in coin; and where
in Packingtown could a man go to have his check cashed
but to a saloon, where he could pay for the favor by spending
a part of the money?

From all of these things Jurgis was saved because of Ona.
He never would take but the one drink at noontime; and so he
got the reputation of being a surly fellow, and was not quite
welcome at the saloons, and had to drift about from one to
another. Then at night he would go straight home, helping
Ona and Stanislovas, or often putting the former on a car.
And when he got home perhaps he would have to trudge
several blocks, and come staggering back through the snow-
drifts with a bag of coal upon his shoulder. Home was not a
very attractive place—at least not this winter. They had only
been able to buy one stove, and this was a small one, and
proved not big enough to warm even the kitchen in the bitter-
est weather. This made it hard for Teta Eljzbieta all day, and
for the children when they could not get to school. At night
they would sit huddled around this stove, while they ate their
supper off their laps; and then Jurgis and Jonas would smoke
a pipe, after which they would all crawl into their beds to
get warm, after putting out the fire to save the coal. Then

85

they would have some frightful experiences with the cold.
They would sleep with all their clothes on, including their
overcoats, and put over them all the bedding and spare cloth-
ing they owned; the children would sleep all crowded into one
bed, and yet even so they could not keep warm. The outside
ones would be shivering and sobbing, crawling over the others
and trying to get down into the center, and causing a fight.
This old house with the leaky weather boards was a very
different thing from their cabins at home, with great thick
walls plastered inside and outside with mud; and the cold
which came upon them was a living thing, a demon-presence
in the room. They would waken in the midnight hours, when
everything was black; perhaps they would hear it yelling out-
side, or perhaps there would be deathlike stillness—and that
would be worse yet. They could feel the cold as it crept in
through the cracks, reaching out for them with its icy, death-
dealing fingers, and they would crouch and cower, and try
to hide from it, all in vain. It would come, and it would come;
a grisly thing, a specter born in the black caverns of terror; a
power primeval, cosmic, shadowing the tortures of the lost
souls flung out to chaos and destruction. It was cruel, iron-
hard; and hour after hour they would cringe in its grasp,
alone, alone. There would be no one to hear them if they cried
out; there would be no help, no mercy. And so on until morn-
ing—when they would go out to another day of toil, a little
weaker, a little nearer to the time when it would be their
turn to be shaken from the tree.

KKK EK KEK & >> 99 9D 39 99 2D

> on even by this deadly winter the germ of hope was not
to be kept from sprouting in their hearts. It was just at this
time that the great adventure befell Marija.

The victim was Tamoszius Kuszleika, who played the vio-
lin. Everybody laughed at them, for Tamoszius was petit
and frail, and Marija could have picked him up and carried
him off under one arm. But perhaps that was why she fas-
cinated him; the sheer volume of Marija’s energy was over-
whelming. That first night at the wedding Tamoszius had
hardly taken his eyes off her, and later on, when he came to
find that she had really the heart of a baby, her voice and
her violence ceased to terrify him, and he got the habit of

86

coming to pay her visits on Sunday afternoons. There was
no place to entertain company except in the kitchen, in the
midst of the family, and Tamoszius would sit there with his
hat between his knees, never saying more than half a dozen
words at a time, and turning red in the face before he man-
aged to say those, until finally Jurgis would clap him upon
the back, in his hearty way, crying, “Come now, brother, give
us a tune.” And then Tamoszius’s face would light up and
he would get out his fiddle, tuck it under his chin, and play.
And forthwith the soul of him would flame up and become
eloquent—it was almost an impropriety, for all the while his
gaze would be fixed upon Marija’s face until she would be-
gin to turn red and lower her eyes. There was no resisting
the music of Tamoszius, however; even the children would
sit awed and wondering, and the tears would run down Teta
Elzbieta’s cheeks. A wonderful privilege it was to be thus ad-
mitted into the soul of a man of genius, to be allowed to
share the ecstasies and the agonies of his inmost life.

Then there were other benefits accruing to Marija from
this friendship—benefits of a more substantial nature. Peo-
ple paid Tamoszius big money to come and make music on
state occasions, and also they would invite him to parties
and festivals, knowing well that he was too good-natured to
come without his fiddle, and that having brought it, he could
be made to play while others danced. Once he made bold to
ask Marija to accompany him to such a party, and Marija
accepted, to his great delight—after which he never went
anywhere without her, while if the celebration were given by
friends of his, he would invite the rest of the family also. In
any case Marija would bring back a huge pocketful of cakes
and sandwiches for the children, and stories of all the good
things she herself had managed to consume. She was com-
pelled, at these parties, to spend most of her time at the re-
freshment table, for she could not dance with anybody ex-
cept other women and very old men, Tamoszius was of an
excitable temperament, and afflicted with a frantic jealousy,
and any unmarried man who ventured to put his arm about
the ample waist of Marija would be certain to throw the
orchestra out of tune.

It was a great help to a person who had to toil all the
week to be able to look forward to some such relaxation as
this on Saturday nights. The family were too poor and too
hardworked to make many acquaintances; in Packingtown,
as a rule, people know only their near neighbors and shop-

87

mates, and so the place is like a myriad of little country vil-
lages. But now there was a member of the family who was per-
mitted to travel and widen her horizon, and so each week
there would be new personalities to talk about—how so-
and-so was dressed, and where she worked, and what she
got, and whom she was in love with; and how this man had
jilted his girl, and how she had quarrelled with the other
girl, and what had passed between them; and how another
man beat his wife, and spent all her earnings upon drink,
and pawned her very clothes. Some people would have
scorned this talk as gossip; but then one has to talk about
what one knows.

It was one Saturday night, as they were coming home
from a wedding, that Tamoszius found courage, and set
down his violin case in the street and spoke his heart; and
then Marija clasped him in her arms. She told them all about
it the next day, and fairly cried with happiness, for she said
that Tamoszius was a lovely man. After that he no longer
made love to her with his fiddle, but they would sit for hours
in the kitchen, blissfully happy in each other’s arms; it was
the tacit convention of the family to know nothing of what
was going on in that corner.

They were planning to be married in the spring, and have
the garret of the house fixed up, and live there. Tamoszius
made good wages; and little by little the family were paying
back their debt to Marija, so she ought soon to have enough
to start life upon—only, with her preposterous soft-hearted-
ness, she would insist upon spending a good part of her
money every week for things which she saw they needed.
Marija was really the capitalist of the party, for she had be-
come an expert can-painter by this time—she was getting
fourteen cents for every hundred and ten cans, and she could
paint more than two cans every minute. Marija felt, so to
speak, that she had her hand on the throttle, and the neigh-
borhood was vocal with her rejoicings.

Yet her friends would shake their heads and tell her to go
slow; one could not count upon such good fortune forever
—there were accidents that always happened. But Marija
was not to be prevailed upon, and went on planning and
dreaming of all the treasures she was going to have for her
home; and so, when the crash did come, her grief was pain-
ful to see.

For her canning factory shut down! Marija would about
as soon have expected to see the sun shut down—the huge

88

establishment had been to her a thing akin to the planets
and the seasons. But now it was shut! And they had not
given her any explanation, they had not even given her a
day’s warning; they had simply posted a notice one Saturday
that all hands would be paid off that afternoon, and would
not resume work for at least a month! And that was all that
there was to it—her job was gone!

It was the holiday rush that was over, the girls said in an-
swer to Marija’s inquiries; after that there was always a slack.
Sometimes the factory would start up on half time after a
while, but there was no telling—it had been known to stay
closed until way into the summer. The prospects were bad
at present, for truckmen who worked in the storerooms said
that these were piled up to the ceilings, so that the firm could
not have found room for another week’s output of cans.
And they had turned off three quarters of these men, which
was a still worse sign, since it meant that there were no or-
ders to be filled. It was all a swindle, can painting, said the
girls—you were crazy with delight because you were mak-
ing twelve or fourteen dollars a week, and saving half of it;
but you had to spend it all keeping alive while you were out,
and so your pay was really only half what you thought.

Marija came home, and because she was a person who
could not rest without danger of explosion, they first had a
great house cleaning, and then she set out to search Packing-
town for a job to fill up the gap. As nearly all the canning
establishments were shut down, and all the girls hunting
work, it will be readily understood that Marija did not find
any. Then she took to trying the stores and saloons, and
when this failed she even traveled over into the far-distant
regions near the lake front, where lived the rich people in
great palaces, and begged there for some sort of work that
could be done by a person who did not know English.

The men upon the killing beds felt also the effects of the
slump which had turned Marija out, but they felt it in a dif-
ferent way, and a way which made Jurgis understand at last
all their bitterness. The big packers did not turn their hands
off and close down, like the canning factories, but they began
to run for shorter and shorter hours. They had always re-
quired the men to be on the killing beds and ready for work
at seven o’clock, although there was almost never any work
to be done till the buyers out in the yards had gotten to work,
and some cattle had come over the chutes. That would often

ae:

RLS a a Se Ie ene ee

be ten or eleven o’clock, which was bad enough, in all con-
science; but now, in the slack season, they would perhaps not
have a thing for their men to do till late in the afternoon.
And so they would have to loaf around, in a place where the
thermometer might be twenty degrees below zero! At first
one would see them running about, or skylarking with each
other, trying to keep warm, but before the day was over
they would become quite chilled through and exhausted,
and, when the cattle finally came, so near frozen that to move
was an agony. And then suddenly the place would spring
into activity, and the merciless “speeding up” would begin!

There were weeks at a time when Jurgis went home after
such a day as this with not more than two hours’ work to his
credit—which meant about thirty-five cents. There were
many days when the total was less than half an hour, and
others when there was none at all. The general average was
six hours a day, which meant for Jurgis about six dollars a
week; and this six hours of work would be done after stand-
ing on the killing bed till one o’clock, or perhaps even three
or four o’clock, in the afternoon. Like as not there would
come a rush of cattle at the very end of the day, which the
men would have to dispose of before they went home, often
working by electric light till nine or ten, or even twelve or
one o’clock, and without a single instant for a bite of supper.
The men were at the mercy of the cattle. Perhaps the buyers
would be holding off for better prices—if they could scare
the shippers into thinking that they meant to buy nothing
that day, they could get their own terms. For some reason
the cost of fodder for cattle in the yards was much above the
market price—and you were not allowed to bring your own
fodder! Then, too, a number of cars were apt to arrive late
in the day, now that the roads were blocked with snow, and
the packers would buy their cattle that night, to get them
cheaper, and then would come into play their iron-clad rule,
that all cattle must be killed the same day they were bought.
There was no use kicking about this—there had been one
delegation after another to see the packers about it, only to
be told that it was the rule, and that there was not the slight-
est chance of its ever being altered. And so on Christmas
Eve Jurgis worked till nearly one o’clock in the morning, and
on Christmas Day he was on the killing bed at seven o’clock.

All this was bad, and yet it was not the worst. For after
all the hard work a man did, he was paid for only part of
it. Jurgis had once been among those who scoffed at the idea

90

of these huge concerns cheating; and so now he could ap-
preciate the bitter irony of the fact that it was precisely their
size which enabled them to do it with impunity. One of the
rules on the killing beds was that a man who was one min-
ute late was docked an hour, and this was economical, for he
was made to work the balance of the hour—he was not al-
lowed to stand round and wait. And on the other hand if he
came ahead of time he got no pay for that—though often
the bosses would start up the gang ten or fifteen minutes be-
fore the whistle. And this same custom they carried over to
the end of the day; they did not pay for any fraction of an
hour—for “broken time.”” A man might work full fifty min-
utes, but if there was no work to fill out the hour, there was
no pay for him. Thus the end of every day was a sort of lot-
tery—a struggle, all but breaking into open war between the
bosses and the men, the former trying to rush a job through
and the latter trying to stretch it out. Jurgis blamed the
bosses for this, though the truth to be told it was not always
their fault; for the packers kept them frightened for their
lives—and when one was in danger of falling behind the
standard, what was easier than to catch up by making the
gang work awhile “for the church”? This was a savage wit-
ticism the men had, which Jurgis had to have explained to
him. Old man Jones was great on missions and such things,
and so whenever they were doing some particularly disrep-
utable job, the men would wink at each other and say, “Now
we’re working for the church!”

One of the consequences of all these things was that Jur-
gis was no longer perplexed when he heard men talk of fight-
ing for their rights. He felt like fighting now himself, and
when the Irish delegate of the butcher-helpers’ union came to
him a second time, he received him in a far different spirit.
A wonderful idea it now seemed to Jurgis, this of the men—
that by combining they might be able to make a stand and
conquer the packers! Jurgis wondered who had first thought
of it, and when he was told that it was a common thing for
men to do in America, he got the first inkling of a meaning
in the phrase “a free country.” The delegate explained to him
how it depended upon their being able to get every man to
join and stand by the organization, and so Jurgis signified
that he was willing to do his share. Before another month
was by, all the working members of his family had union
cards, and wore their union buttons conspicuously and with
pride. For fully a week they were quite blissfully happy,

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;
7

thinking that belonging to a union meant an end of all their
troubles.

But only ten days after she had joined, Marija’s canning
factory closed down, and that blow quite staggered them.
They could not understand why the union had not pre-
vented it, and the very first time she attended a meeting
Marija got up and made a speech about it. It was a business
meeting, and was transacted in English, but that made no
difference to Marija; she said what was in her, and all the
pounding of the chairman’s gavel and all the uproar and con-
fusion in the room could not prevail. Quite apart from her
own troubles she was boiling over with a general sense of
the injustice of it, and she told what she thought of the pack-
ers, and what she thought of a world where such things were
allowed to happen, and then, while the echoes of the hall
rang with the shock of her terrible voice, she sat down again
and fanned herself, and the meeting gathered itself together
and proceeded to discuss the election of a recording secre-
tary.

Jurgis too had an adventure the first time he attended a
union meeting, but it was not of his own seeking. Jurgis had
gone with the desire to get into an inconspicuous corner and
see what was done; but this attitude of silent and open-eyed
attention had marked him out for a victim. Tommy Finne-
gan was a little Irishman, with big staring eyes and a wild
aspect, a “hoister” by trade, and badly cracked. Somewhere
back in the far-distant past Tommy Finnegan had had a
strange experience, and the burden of it rested upon him.
All the balance of his life he had done nothing but try to
make it understood. When he talked he caught his victim by
the buttonhole, and his face kept coming closer and closer
—which was trying, because his teeth were so bad. Jurgis did
not mind that, only he was frightened. The method of
operation of the higher intelligences was Tom Finnegan’s
theme, and he desired to find out if Jurgis had ever consid-
ered that the representation of things in their present similar-
ity might be altogether unintelligible upon a more elevated
plane. There were assuredly wonderful mysteries about the
developing of these things; and then, becoming confidential,
Mr. Finnegan proceeded to tell of some discoveries of his
own. “If ye have iver had onything to do wid shperrits,” said
he, and looked inquiringly at Jurgis, who kept shaking his
head. “Niver mind, niver mind,” continued the other, “but
their influences may be operatin’ upon ye; it’s shure as I’m

O2

tellin’ ye, it’s them that has the reference to the immejit sur-
roundin’s that has the most of power. It was vouchsafed to
me in me youthful days to be acquainted with shperrits’—
and so Tommy Finnegan went on, expounding a system of
philosophy, while the perspiration came out on Jurgis’s fore-
head, so great was his agitation and embarrassment. In the
end one of the men, seeing his plight, came over and rescued
him, but it was some time before he was able to find any
one to explain things to him, and meanwhile his fear lest the
strange little Irishman should get him cornered again was
enough to keep him dodging about the room the whole eve-
ning.

He never missed a meeting, however. He had picked up a
few words of English by this time, and friends would help
him to understand. They were often very turbulent meetings,
with half a dozen men declaiming at once, in as many dia-
lects of English, but the speakers were all desperately in
earnest, and Jurgis was in earnest too, for he understood that
a fight was on, and that it was his fight. Since the time of
his disillusionment, Jurgis had sworn to trust no man, ex-
cept in his own family, but here he discovered that he had
brothers in affliction, and allies. Their one chance for life
was in union, and so the struggle became a kind of crusade.
Jurgis had always been a member of the church, because it
was the right thing to be, but the church had never touched
him, he left all that for the women. Here, however, was a
new religion—one that did touch him, that took hold of
every fiber of him, and with all the zeal and fury of a con-
vert he went out as a missionary. There were many non-
union men among the Lithuanians, and with these he would
labor and wrestle in prayer, trying to show them the right.
Sometimes they would be obstinate and refuse to see it, and
Jurgis, alas, was not always patient! He forgot how he himself
had been blind, a short time ago—after the fashion of all
crusaders since the original ones, who set out to spread the
gospel of Brotherhood by force of arms.

KEE EK KE 9 dd 99 3D 99 99 9D

O.. of the first consequences of the discovery of the union

was that Jurgis became desirous of learning English. He want-

ed to know what was going on at the meetings, and to be
93

able to take part in them; and so he began to look about
him, and to try to pick up words. The children, who were at
school, and learning fast, would teach him a few, and a
friend loaned him a little book that had some in it, and Ona
would read them to him. Then Jurgis became sorry that he
could not read himself; and later on in the winter, when
some one told him that there was a night school that was
free, he went and enrolled. After that, every evening that
he got home from the yards in time, he would go to the
school; he would go even if he were in time for only half an
hour. They were teaching him both to read and to speak
English—and they would have taught him other things, if
only he had had a little time.

Also the union made another great difference with him—
it made him begin to pay attention to the country. It was the
beginning of democracy with him. It was a little state, the
union, a miniature republic; its affairs were every man’s af-
fairs, and every man had a real say about them. In other
words, in the union Jurgis learned to talk politics. In the
place where he had come from there had not been any poli-
tics—in Russia one thought of the government as an afflic-
tion like the lightning and the hail. “Duck, little brother,
duck,” the wise old peasants would whisper; “everything
passes away.” And when Jurgis had first come to America he
had supposed that it was the same. He had heard people say
that it was a free country—but what did that mean? He
found that here, precisely as in Russia, there were rich men
who owned everything; and if one could not find any work,
was not the hunger he began to feel the same sort of hunger?

When Jurgis had been working about three weeks at
Brown’s, there had come to him one noontime a man who
was employed as a night watchman, and who asked him if
he would not like to take out naturalization papers and be-
come a citizen. Jurgis did not know what that meant, but the
man explained the advantages. In the first place, it would
not cost him anything, and it would get him half a day off,
with his pay just the same; and then when election time
came he would be able to vote—and there was something
in that. Jurgis was naturally glad to accept, and so the
night watchman said a few words to the boss, and he was
excused for the rest of the day. When, later on, he wanted
a holiday to get married he could not get it; and as for a
holiday with pay just the same—what power had wrought
that miracle heaven only knew! However, he went with the

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se tat

1 aia aac tnd 2

man, who picked up several other newly landed immigrants,
Poles, Lithuanians, and Slovaks, and took. them all out-
side, where stood a great four-horse tally-ho coach, with
fifteen or twenty men already in it. It was a fine chance to
see the sights of the city, and the party had a merry time,
with plenty of beer handed up from inside. So they drove
downtown and stopped before an imposing granite build-
ing, in which they interviewed an official, who had the papers
all ready, with only the names to be filled in. So each man in
turn took an oath of which he did not understand a word,
and then was presented with a handsome ornamented docu-
ment with a big red seal and the shield of the United States
upon it, and was told that he had become a citizen of the
Republic and the equal of the President himself.

A month or two later Jurgis had another interview with
this same man, who told him where to go to “register.”
And then finally, when election day came, the packing
houses posted a notice that men who desired to vote might
remain away until nine that morning, and the same night
watchman took Jurgis and the rest of his flock into the
back room of a saloon, and showed each of them where and
how to mark a ballot, and then gave each two dollars, and
took them to the polling place, where there was a police-
man on duty especially to see that they got through all right.
Jurgis felt quite proud of this good luck till he got home
and met Jonas, who had taken the leader aside and whis-
pered to him, offering to vote three times for four dollars,
which offer had been accepted.

And now in the union Jurgis met men who explained all
this mystery to him; and he learned that America differed
from Russia in that its government existed under the form
of a democracy. The officials who ruled it, and got all the
graft, had to be elected first; and so there were two rival
sets of grafters, known as political parties, and the one
got the office which bought the most votes. Now and then
the election was very close, and that was the time the poor
man came in. In the stockyards this was only in national
and state elections, for in local elections the Democratic
party always carried everything. The ruler of the district
was therefore the Democratic boss, a little Irishman named
Mike Scully. Scully held an important party office in the
state, and bossed even the mayor of the city, it was
said; it was his boast that he carried the stockyards in his
pocket. He was an enormously rich man—he had a hand in

95

\

all the big graft in the neighborhood. It was Scully, for in-
stance, who owned that dump which Jurgis and Ona had
seen the first day of their arrival. Not only did he own the
dump, but he owned the brick factory as well; and first he
took out the clay and made it into bricks, and then he had
the city bring garbage to fill up the hole, so that he could
build houses to sell to the people. Then, too, he sold the
bricks to the city, at his own price, and the city came and
got them in its own wagons. And also he owned the other
hole nearby, where the stagnant water was; and it was he
who cut the ice and sold it; and what was more, if the men
told truth, he had not had to pay any taxes for the
water, and he had built the ice house out of city lumber,
and had not had to pay anything for that. The news-
papers had got hold of that story, and there had been a
scandal, but Scully had hired somebody to confess and take
all the blame, and then skip the country. It was said, too,
that he had built his brick kiln in the same way, and that
the workmen were on the city payroll while they did it;
however, one had to press closely to get these things out of
the men, for it was not their business, and Mike Scully
was a good man to stand in with. A note signed by him
was equal to a job any time at the packing houses; and
also he employed a good many men himself, and worked
them only eight hours a day, and paid them the highest
wages. This gave him many friends—all of whom he had
gotten together into the “War-Whoop League,” whose club-
house you might see just outside of the yards. It was the
biggest clubhouse, and the biggest club, in all Chicago; and
they had prize fights every now and then, and cock fights
and even dog fights. The policemen in the district all be-
longed to the league, and instead of suppressing the fights,
they sold tickets for them. The man that had taken Jurgis
to be naturalized was one of these “Indians,” as they were
called, and on election day there would be hundreds of
them out, and all with big wads of money in their pockets
and free drinks at every saloon in the district. That was an-
other thing, the men said—all the saloon keepers had to be
“Indians,” and to put up on demand, otherwise they could
not do business on Sundays, nor have any gambling at all.
In the same way Scully had all the jobs in the fire depart-
ment at his disposal, and all the rest of the city graft in the
stockyards district; he was building a block of flats some-
where up on Ashland Avenue, and the man who was over-
96

seeing it for him was drawing pay as a city inspector of
sewers. The city inspector of water pipes had been dead
and buried for over a year, but somebody was still drawing
his pay. The city inspector of sidewalks was a bar keeper
at the War-Whoop Café—and maybe he could not make
it uncomfortable for any tradesman who did not stand —
in with Scully!

Even the packers were in awe of him, so the men said.
It gave them pleasure to believe this, for Scully stood as
the people’s man, and boasted of it boldly when election day
came. The packers had wanted a bridge at Ashland Avenue,
but they had not been able to get it till they had seen Scully;
and it was the same with “Bubbly Creek,” which the city
had threatened to make the packers cover over, till Scully
had come to their aid. “Bubbly Creek” is an arm of the
Chicago River, and forms the southern boundary of the
yards; all the drainage of the square mile of packing houses
empties into it, so that it is really a great open sewer a
hundred or two feet wide. One long arm of it is blind, and
the filth stays there forever and a day. The grease and chem-
icals that are poured into it undergo all sorts of strange
transformations. which are the cause of its name; it is
constantly in motion, as if huge fish were feeding in it, or |
great leviathans were disporting themselves in its depths.
Bubbles of carbonic acid gas will rise to the surface and
burst, and make rings two or three feet wide. Here and
there the grease and filth have caked solid, and the creek
looks like a bed of lava; chickens walk about on it, feed-
ing, and many times an unwary stranger has started to stroll
across, and vanished temporarily. The packers used to leave
the creek that way, till every now and then the surface
would catch on fire and burn furiously, and the fire depart-
ment would have to come and put it out. Once, however, an
ingenious stranger came and started to gather this filth in
scows, to make lard out of; then the packers took the cue,
and got out an injunction to stop him, and afterwards gath-
ered it themselves. The banks of “Bubbly Creek” are plas-
tered thick with hairs, and this also the packers gather and
clean.

And there were things even stranger than this, according
to the gossip of the men. The packers had secret mains,
through which they stole billions of gallons of the city’s
water. The newspapers had been full of this scandal—
once there had even been an investigation, and an actual

97

uncovering of the pipes; but nobody had been punished,
and the thing went right on. And then there was the con-
demned meat industry, with its endless horrors. The peo-
ple of Chicago saw the government inspectors in Packing-
town, and they all took that to mean that they were pro-
tected from diseased meat; they did not understand that
these hundred and sixty-three inspectors had been appointed
at the request of the packers, and that they were paid by
the United States government to certify that all the diseased
meat was kept in the state. They had no authority beyond
that; for the inspection of meat to be sold in the city and
state the whole force in Packingtown consisted of three
henchmen of the local political machine!* And shortly after-
ward one of these, a physician, made the discovery that the
carcasses of steers which had been condemned as tubercular
by the government inspectors, and which therefore con-
tained ptomaines, which are deadly poisons, were left upon
an open platform and carted away to be sold in the city;
and so he insisted that these carcasses be treated with an in-
jection of kerosene—and was ordered to resign the same
week! So indignant were the packers that they went far-
ther, and compelled the mayor to abolish the whole bureau
of inspection; so that since then there has not been even a

*“Rules and Regulations for the Inspection of Live Stock
and their Products.” United States Department of Agriculture,
Bureau of Animal Industries, Order No. 125:—

SECTION 1. Proprietors of slaughterhouses, canning, salting,
packing, or rendering establishments engaged in the slaughtering
of cattle, sheep, or swine, or the packing of any of their prod-
ucts, the carcasses or products of which are to become sub-
jects of interstate or foreign commerce, shall make application
to the Secretary of Agriculture for inspection of said animals
and their products. ...

SECTION 15. Such rejected or condemned animals shall at
once be removed by the owners from the pens containing ani-
mals which have been inspected and found to be free from
disease and fit for human food, and shall be disposed of in
accordance with the laws, ordinances, and regulations of the
state and municipality in which said rejected or condemned
animals are located. ...

SECTION 25. A microscopic examination for trichine shall
be made of all swine products exported to countries requiring
such examination. No microscopic examination will be made of
hogs slaughtered for interstate trade, but this examination shall
be confined to those intended for the export trade.

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_ —-

pretence of any interference with the graft. There was said
to be two thousand dollars a week hush money from the
tubercular steers alone, and as much again from the hogs
which had died of cholera on the trains, and which you
might see any day being loaded into box cars and hauled
away to a place called Globe, in Indiana, where they made
a fancy grade of lard.

Jurgis heard of these things little by little, in the gossip of
those who were obliged to perpetrate them. It seemed as
if every time you met a person from a new department, you
heard of new swindles and new crimes. There was, for in-
stance, a Lithuanian who was a cattle butcher for the plant
where Marija had worked, which killed meat for canning
only; and to hear this man describe the animals which
came to his place would have been worthwhile for a Dante
or a Zola. It seemed that they must have agencies all over
the country, to hunt out old and crippled and diseased cattle
to be canned. There were cattle which had been fed on
“whiskey malt,” the refuse of the breweries, and had become
what the men called “steerly’—which means covered with
boils. It was a nasty job killing these, for when you plunged
your knife into them they would burst and splash foul-
smelling stuff into your face; and when a man’s sleeves
were smeared with blood, and his hands steeped in it, how
was he ever to wipe his face, or to clear his eyes so that
he could see? It was stuff such as this that made the “em-
balmed beef” that had killed several times as many United
States soldiers as all the bullets of the Spaniards; only the
army beef, besides, was not fresh canned, it was old stuff
that had been lying for years in the cellars.

Then one Sunday evening, Jurgis sat puffing his pipe by
the kitchen stove, and talking with an old fellow whom
Jonas had introduced, and who worked in the canning-
rooms at Durham’s; and so Jurgis learned a few things
about the great and only Durham canned goods, which had
become a national institution. They were regular alchemists
at Durham’s; they advertised a mushroom-catsup, and the
men who made it did not know what a mushroom looked
like. They advertised “potted chicken”—and it was like the
boarding-house soup of the comic papers, through which a
chicken had walked with rubbers on. Perhaps they had a
secret process for making chickens chemically—who
knows? said Jurgis’s friend; the things that went into the
mixture were tripe, and the fat of pork, and beef suet, and

99

hearts of beef, and finally the waste ends of veal, when
they had any. They put these up in several grades, and sold
them at several prices; but the contents of the cans all came
out of the same hopper. And then there was “potted game”
and “potted grouse,” “potted ham,” and “deviled ham”—
de-vyled, as the men called it. “De-vyled” ham was made
out of the waste ends of smoked beef that were too small to
be sliced by the machines; and also tripe, dyed with chemi-
cals so that it would not show white, and trimmings of hams
and corned beef, and potatoes, skins and all, and finally
-the hard cartilaginous gullets of beef, after the tongues had
been cut out. All this ingenious mixture was ground
up and flavored with spices to make it taste like something.
Anybody who could invent a new imitation had been sure
of a fortune from old Durham, said Jurgis’s informant, but it
was hard to think of anything new in a place where so
many sharp wits had been at work for so long; where men
welcomed tuberculosis in the cattle they were feeding, be-
cause it made them fatten more quickly; and where they
bought up all the old rancid butter left over in the grocery
stores of a continent, and “oxidized” it by a forced-air
process, to take away the odor, rechurned it with skim milk,
and sold it in bricks in the cities! Up to a year or two ago
it had been the custom to kill horses in the yards—osten-
sibly for fertilizer; but after long agitation the newspapers
had been able to make the public realize that the horses
were being canned. Now it was against the law to kill horses
in Packingtown, and the law was really complied with—for
the present, at any rate. Any day, however, one might see
sharp-horned and shaggy-haired creatures running with the
sheep—and yet what a job you would have to get the public
to believe that a good part of what it buys for lamb and
mutton is really goat’s flesh!

There was another interesting set of statistics that a per-
son might have gathered in Packingtown—those of the
various afflictions of the workers. When Jurgis had first in-
spected the packing plants with Szedvilas, he had marveled
while he listened to the tale of all the things that were
made out of the carcasses of animals, and of all the lesser
industries that were maintained there; now he found that
each one of these lesser industries was a separate little in-
ferno, in its way as horrible as the killing-beds, the source
and fountain of them all. The workers in each of them had
their own peculiar diseases. And the wandering visitor

100

might be sceptical about all the swindles, but he could not

-be sceptical about these, for the worker bore the evidence

of them about on his own person—generally he had only to
hold out his hand.
There were the men in the pickle rooms, for instance,
where old Antanas had gotten his death; scarce a one of
these that had not some spot of horror on his person. Let a
man so much as scrape his finger pushing a truck in the
pickle rooms, and he might have a sore that would put him
out of the world; all the joints in his fingers might be eaten
by the acid, one by one. Of the butchers and floorsmen,
the beef boners and trimmers, and all those who used knives,
you could scarcely find a person who had the use of his
thumb; time and time again the base of it had been slashed,
till it was a mere lump of flesh against which the man
pressed the knife to hold it. The hands of these men would be
criss-crossed with cuts, until you could no longer pretend to
count them or to trace them. They would have no nails,
—they had worn them off pulling hides; their knuckles were
swollen so that their fingers spread out like a fan. There were
men who worked in the cooking rooms, in the midst of
steam and sickening odors, by artificial light; in these rooms
the germs of tuberculosis might live for two years, but the
supply was renewed every hour. There were the beef luggers,
who carried two-hundred-pound quarters into the refrigera-
tor cars, a fearful kind of work, that began at four o’clock
in the morning, and that wore out the most powerful men in
a few years. There were those who worked in the chilling
rooms, and whose special disease was rheumatism; the time
limit that a man could work in the chilling rooms was
said to be five years. There were the wool pluckers, whose
hands went to pieces even sooner than the hands of the
pickle men; for the pelts of the sheep had to be painted with
acid to loosen the wool, and then the pluckers had to pull
out this wool with their bare hands, till the acid had eaten
their fingers off. There were those who made the tins for
the canned meat, and their hands, too, were a maze of cuts,
and each cut represented a chance for blood poisoning. Some
worked at the stamping machines, and it was very sel-
dom that one could work long there at the pace that was
set, and not give out and forget himself, and have a part
of his hand chopped off. There were the “hoisters,” as they
were called, whose task it was to press the lever which lifted
the dead cattle off the floor. They ran along upon a rafter,
101

peering down through the damp and the steam, and as old
Durham's architects had not built the killing room for the
convenience of the hoisters, at every few feet they would
have to stoop under a beam, say four feet above the one
they ran on, which got them into the habit of stooping,
so that in a few years they would be walking like chimpan-
zees. Worst of any, however, were the fertilizer men, and
those who served in the cooking rooms. These people could
not be shown to the visitor—for the odor of a fertilizer
man would scare any ordinary visitor at a hundred yards,
and as for the other men, who worked in tank rooms full of
steam, and in some of which there were open vats near the
level of the floor, their peculiar trouble was that they fell
into the vats; and when they were fished out, there was
never enough of them left to be worth exhibiting—some-
times they would be overlooked for days, till all but the
bones of them had gone out to the world as Durham’s Pure
Leaf Lard!

«cccce FQ »»»»»»

Disivc the early part of the winter the family had had
money enough to live and a little over to pay their debts
with, but when the earnings of Jurgis fell from nine or
ten dollars a week to five or six, there was no longer any-
thing to spare. The winter went, and the spring came, and
found them still living thus from hand to mouth, hanging on
day by day, with literally not a month’s wages between them
and starvation. Marija was in despair, for there was still no
word about the reopening of the canning factory, and her
savings were almost entirely gone. She had had to give up
all idea of marrying then; the family could not get along
without her—though for that matter she was likely soon to
become a burden even upon them, for when her money was
all gone, they would have to pay back what they owed her
in board. So Jurgis and Ona and Teta Elzbieta would hold
anxious conferences until late at night, trying to figure how
they could manage this too without starving.

Such were the cruel terms upon which their life was pos-
sible, that they might never have nor expect a single instant’s
-Tespite from worry, a single instant in which they were not
haunted by the thought of money. They would no sooner

102

escape, as by a miracle, from one difficulty, than a new one
would come into view. In addition to all their physical
hardships, there was thus a constant strain upon their minds;
they were harried all day and nearly all night by worry
and fear. This was in truth not living; it was scarcely even
existing, and they felt that it was too little for the price
they paid. They were willing to work all the time; and
when people did their best, ought they not to be able to
keep alive?

There seemed never to be an end to the things they had to
buy and to the unforeseen contingencies. Once their water-
pipes froze and burst, and when, in their ignorance, they
thawed them out, they had a terrifying flood in their house.
It happened while the men were away, and poor Elzbieta
rushed out into the street screaming for help, for she did not
even know whether the flood could be stopped, or whether
they were ruined for life. It was nearly as bad as the latter,
they found in the end, for the plumber charged them seventy-
five cents an hour, and seventy-five cents for another man who
had stood and watched him, and included all the time the
two had been going and coming, and also a charge for all
sorts of material and extras. And then again, when they went
to pay their January’s installment on the house, the agent
terrified them by asking them if they had had the insurance
attended to yet. In answer to their inquiry he showed them a
clause in the deed which provided that they were to keep the
house insured for one thousand dollars, as soon as the pres-
ent policy ran out, which would happen in a few days. Poor
Elzbieta, upon whom again fell the blow, demanded how
much it would cost them. Seven dollars, the man said; and
that night came Jurgis, grim and determined, requesting that
the agent would be good enough to inform him, once for all,
as to all the expenses they were liable for. The deed was
signed now, he said, with sarcasm proper to the new way of
life he had learned—the deed was signed, and so the agent
had no longer anything to gain by keeping quiet. And
Jurgis looked the fellow squarely in the eye, and so he did not
waste any time in conventional protests, but read him the
deed. They would have to renew the insurance every year;
they would have to pay the taxes, about ten dollars a year;
they would have to pay the water tax, about six dollars a year
—(Jurgis silently resolved to shut off the hydrant). This, be-
sides the interest and the monthly installments, would‘be all—
unless by chance the city should happen to decide to put in a

103

sewer or to lay a sidewalk. Yes, said the agent, they would
have to have these, whether they wanted them or not, if the
city said so. The sewer would cost them about twenty-two
dollars, and the sidewalk fifteen if it were wood, twenty-five
if it were cement.

So Jurgis went home again; it was a relief to know the
worst, at any rate, so that he could no more be surprised by
fresh demands. He saw now how they had been plundered,
but they were in for it, there was no turning back. They could
only go on and make the fight and win—for defeat was a
thing that could not even be thought of.

When the springtime came, they were delivered from the
dreadful cold, and that was a great deal; but in addition they
had counted on the money they would not have to pay for
coal—and it was just at this time that Marija’s board began to
fail. Then, too, the warm weather brought trials of its own;
each season had its trials, as they found. In the spring there
were cold rains, that turned the streets into canals and bogs;
the mud would be so deep that wagons would sink up to the
hubs, so that half a dozen horses could not move them. Then,
of course, it was impossible for anyone to get to work with
dry feet, and this was bad for men that were poorly clad and
shod, and still worse for women and children. Later came
midsummer, with the stifling heat, when the dingy killing
beds of Durham’s became a very purgatory; one time, in a
single day, three men fell dead from sunstroke. All day long
the rivers of hot blood poured forth, until, with the sun beat-
ing down, and the air motionless, the stench was enough to
knock a man over; all the old smells of a generation would be
drawn out by this heat—for there was never any washing of
the walls and rafters and pillars, and they were caked with
the filth of a lifetime. The men who worked on the killing
beds would come to reek with foulness, so that you could
smell one of them fifty feet away; there was simply no such
thing as keeping decent, the most careful man gave it up in
the end, and wallowed in uncleanness. There was not even a
place where a man could wash his hands, and the men ate as
much raw blood as food at dinnertime. When they were at
work they could not even wipe off their faces—they were as
helpless as newly born babes in that respect, and it may seem
like a small matter, but when the sweat began to run down
their necks and tickle them, or a fly to bother them, it was a
torture like being burned alive. Whether it was the slaugh-
ter houses or the dumps that were responsible, one could not

104

say, but with the hot weather there descended upon Packing-
town a veritable Egyptian plague of flies; there could be no
_ describing this—the houses would be black with them. There
| was no escaping; you might provide all your doors and win-
_ dows with screens, but their buzzing outside would be like
the swarming of bees, and whenever you opened the door
_ they would rush in as if a storm of wind were driving them.

Perhaps the summertime suggests to you thoughts of the
country, visions of green fields and mountains and sparkling
lakes. It had no such suggestion for the people in the yards.
The great packing machine ground on remorselessly, with-
out thinking of green fields, and the men and women and
children who were part of it never saw any green thing, not
even a flower. Four or five miles to the east of them lay the
blue waters of Lake Michigan, but for all the good it did them
_ it might have been as far away as the Pacific Ocean. They had

only Sundays, and then they were too tired to walk. They

were tied to the great packing machine, and tied to it for
_ life. The managers and superintendents and clerks of Packing-
_ town were all recruited from another class, and never from
the workers; they scorned the workers, the very meanest of
them. A poor devil of a bookkeeper who had been working
in Durham’s for twenty years at a salary of six dollars a
week, and might work there for twenty more and do no bet-
ter, would yet consider himself a gentleman, as far removed
as the poles from the most skilled worker on the killing beds;
he would dress differently, and live in another part of the
town, and come to work ata different hour of the day, and in
every way make sure that he never rubbed elbows with a
laboring man. Perhaps this was due to the repulsiveness of
the work; at any rate, the people who worked with their hands
| were a class apart, and were made to feel it.
In the late spring the canning factory started up again,
_ and so once more Marija was heard to sing, and the love music
of Tamoszius took on a less melancholy tone. It was not for
long, however; for a month or two later a dreadful calamity
fell upon Marija. Just one year and three days after she had
begun work as a can painter, she lost her job.

It was a long story. Marija insisted that it was because of her
activity in the union. The packers, of course, had spies in all
the unions, and in addition they made a practice of buying up
a certain number of the union Officials, as many as they
thought they needed. So every week they received reports

as to what was going on, and often they knew things before
105

the members of the union knew them. Anyone who was con-
sidered to be dangerous by them would find that he was not
a favorite with his boss, and Marija had been a great hand
for going after the foreign people and preaching to them.
However that might be, the known facts were that a few weeks
before the factory closed, Marija had been cheated out of her
pay for three hundred cans. The girls worked at a long table,
and behind them walked a woman with pencil and notebook,
keeping count of the number they finished. This woman was,
of course, only human, and sometimes made mistakes; when
this happened, there was no redress—if on Saturday you got
less money than you had earned, you had to make the best of
it. But Marija did not understand this, and made a disturb-
ance. Marija’s disturbances did not mean anything, and while
she had known only Lithuanian and Polish, they had done no
harm, for people only laughed at her and made her cry. But
now Marija was able to call names in English, and so she got
the woman who made the mistake to disliking her. Prob-
ably, as Marija claimed, she made mistakes on purpose after
that; at any rate, she made them, and the third time it hap-
pened Marija went on the war path and took the matter first to
the forelady, and when she got no satisfaction there, to the
superintendent. This was unheard-of presumption, but the
superintendent said he would see about it, which Marija took
to mean that she was going to get her money; after waiting
three days, she went to see the superintendent again. This
time the man frowned, and said that he had not had time to
attend to it, and when Marija, against the advice and warn-
ing of every one, tried it once more, he ordered her back to
her work in a passion. Just how things happened after that
Marija was not sure, but that afternoon the forelady told her
that her services would not be any longer required. Poor
Marija could not have been more dumbfounded had the
woman knocked her over the head; at first she could not be-
lieve what she heard, and then she grew furious and swore
that she would come anyway, that her place belonged to her.
In the end she sat down in the middle of the floor and wept
and wailed.

It was a cruel lesson, but then Marija was headstrong—:
she should have listened to those who had had experience.
The next time she would know her place, as the forelady
expressed it, and so Marija went out, and the family faced
the problem of an existence again. :

It was especially hard this time, for Ona was to be con-

106

fined before long, and Jurgis was trying hard to save up
money for this. He had heard dreadful stories of the mid-
wives, who grow as thick as fleas in Packingtown; and he
had made up his mind that Ona must have a man doctor.
Jurgis could be very obstinate when he wanted to, and he
was in this case, much to the dismay of the women, who
felt that a man doctor was an impropriety, and that the mat-
ter really belonged to them. The cheapest doctor they could
find would charge them fifteen dollars, and perhaps more
when the bill came in, and here was Jurgis, declaring that he
would pay it, even if he had to stop eating in the meantime!

Marija had only about twenty-five dollars left. Day after
day she wandered about the yards begging a job, but this time
without hope of finding it. Marija could do the work of an
able-bodied man, when she was cheerful, but discourage-
ment wore her out easily, and she would come home at night
a pitiable object. She learned her lesson this time, poor crea-
ture; she learned it ten times over. All the family learned it
along with her—that when you have once got a job in
Packingtown, you hang on to it, come what will.

Four weeks Marija hunted, and half of a fifth week. Of
course she stopped paying her dues to the union. She lost all
interest in the union, and cursed herself for a fool that she
had ever been dragged into one. She had about made up
her mind that she was a lost soul, when somebody told her of
an opening, and she went and got a place as a “beef trimmer.”
She got this because the boss saw that she had the muscles of
a man, and so he discharged a man and put Marija to do his
work, paying her a little more than half what he had been
paying before.

When she first came to Packingtown, Marija would have
scorned such work at this. She was in another canning fac-
tory, and her work was to trim the meat of those diseased
cattle that Jurgis had been told about not long before. She
was shut up in one of the rooms where the people seldom
saw the daylight; beneath her were the chilling rooms, where
the meat was frozen, and above her were the cooking rooms;
and so she stood on an ice-cold floor, while her head was
often so hot that she could scarcely breathe. Trimming beef
off the bones by the hundred-weight, while standing up from
early morning till late at night, with heavy boots on and
the floor always damp and full of puddles, liable to be
thrown out of work indefinitely because of a slackening in
the trade, liable again to be kept overtime in rush seasons,

107

and be worked till she trembled in every nerve and lost her
grip on her slimy knife, and gave herself a poisoned wound
—that was the new life that unfolded itself before Marija.
But because Marija was a human horse she merely laughed
and went at it; it would enable her to pay her board again,
and keep the family going. And as for Tamoszius—well, they
had waited a long time, and they could wait a little longer.
They could not possibly get along upon his wages alone, and
the family could not live without hers. He could come and
visit her, and sit in the kitchen and hold her hand, and he
must manage to be content with that. But day by day the
music of Tamoszius’s violin became more passionate and
heart-breaking, and Marija would sit with her hands clasped
and her cheeks wet and all her body atremble, hearing in the
wailing melodies the voices of the unborn generations which
cried out in her for life.

Marija’s lesson came just in time to save Ona from a similar
fate. Ona, too, was dissatisfied with her place, and had far
more reason than Marija. She did not tell half of her story
at home, because she saw it was a torment to Jurgis, and she
was afraid of what he might do. For a long time Ona had
seen that Miss Henderson, the forelady in her department,
did not like her. At first she thought it was the old-time mis-
take she had made in asking for a holiday to get married.
Then she concluded it must be because she did not give the
forelady a present occasionally—she was the kind that took
presents from the girls, Ona learned, and made all sorts of
discriminations in favor of those who gave them. In the end,
however, Ona discovered that it was even worse than that.
Miss Henderson was a newcomer, and it was some time be-
fore rumor made her out; but finally it transpired that she
was a kept-woman, the former mistress of the superintendent
of a department in the same building. He had put her there to
keep her quiet, it seemed—and that not altogether with suc-
cess, for once or twice they had been heard quarrelling. She
had the temper of a hyena, and soon the place she ran was a
witch’s caldron. There were some of the girls who were of
her own sort, who were willing to toady to her and flatter
her, and these would carry tales about the rest, and so the
furies were unchained in the place. Worse than this, the
woman lived in a bawdyhouse downtown, with a coarse,
red-faced Irishman named Connor, who was the boss of
the loading gang outside, and would make free with the girls

108

Pea

aa a Se eee

as they went to and from their work. In the slack seasons some
of them would go with Miss Henderson to this house down-
town—in fact, it would not be too much to say that she man-
aged her department at Brown’s in conjunction with it.
Sometimes women from the house would be given places
alongside of decent girls, and after other decent girls had
been turned off to make room for them. When you worked in
this woman’s department the house downtown was never
out of your thoughts all day—there were always whifts of it to
be caught, like the odor of the Packingtown rendering plants at
night, when the wind shifted suddenly. There would be stories
about it going the rounds; the girls opposite you would be
telling them and winking at you. In such a place Ona would
not have stayed a day, but for starvation, and, as it was, she
was never sure that she could stay the next day. She under-
stood now that the real reason that Miss Henderson hated her
was that she was a decent married girl, and she knew that the
talebearers and the toadies hated her for the same reason,
and were doing their best to make her life miserable.

But there was no place a girl could go in Packingtown, if
she was particular about things of this sort; there was no
place in it where a prostitute could not get along better than
a decent girl. Here was a population, low-class and mostly
foreign, hanging always on the verge of starvation, and de-
pendent for its opportunities of life upon the whim of men
every bit as brutal and unscrupulous as the old-time slave
drivers; under such circumstances immorality was exactly as
inevitable, and as prevalent, as it was under the system of
chattel slavery. Things that were quite unspeakable went on
there in the packing houses all the time, and were taken for
granted by everybody; only they did not show, as in the old
slavery times, because there was no difference in color be-
tween master and slave.

One morning Ona stayed home, and Jurgis had the man
doctor, according to his whim, and she was safely delivered of
a fine baby. It was an enormous big boy, and Ona was such a
tiny creature herself, that it seemed quite incredible. Jurgis
would stand and gaze at the stranger by the hour, unable to
believe that it had really happened.

The coming of this boy was a decisive event with Jurgis.
It made him irrevocably a family man; it killed the last lin-
gering impulse that he might have had to go out in the eve-
nings and sit and talk with the men in the saloons. There was

109

nothing he cared for now so much as to sit and look at the
baby. This was very curious, for Jurgis had never been inter-
ested in babies before. But then, this was a very unusual sort
of a baby. He had the brightest little black eyes, and little
black ringlets all over his head; he was the living image of
his father, everybody said—and Jurgis found this a fascinat-
ing circumstance. It was sufficiently perplexing that this tiny
mite of life should have come into the world at all in the
manner that it had; that it should have come with a comical
imitation of its father’s nose was simply uncanny.

Perhaps, Jurgis thought, this was intended to signify that
it was his baby; that it was his and Ona’s, to care for all its
life. Jurgis had never possessed anything nearly so interest-
ing—-a baby was, when you came to think about it, assuredly
a marvelous possession. It would grow up to be a man, a
human soul, with a personality all its own, a will of its own!
Such thoughts would keep haunting Jurgis, filling him with
all sorts of strange and almost painful excitements. He was
wonderfully proud of little Antanas; he was curious about
all the details of him—the washing and the dressing and the
eating and the sleeping of him, and asked all sorts of absurd
questions. It took him quite a while to get over his alarm at
the incredible shortness of the little creature’s legs.

Jurgis had, alas, very little time to see his baby; he never
felt the chains about him more than just then. When he came
home at night, the baby would be asleep, and it would be
the merest chance if he awoke before Jurgis had to go to
sleep himself. Then in the morning there was no time to look
at him, so really the only chance the father had was on Sun-
days. This was more cruel yet for Ona, who ought to have
stayed home and nursed him, the doctor said, for her own
health as well as the baby’s, but Ona had to go to work, and
leave him for Teta Elzbieta to feed upon the pale-blue poi-
son that was called milk at the corner grocery. Ona’s con-
finement lost her only a week’s wages—she would go to the
factory the second Monday, and the best that Jurgis could
persuade her was to ride in the car, and let him run along be-
hind and help her to Brown’s when she alighted. After that
it would be all right, said Ona, it was no strain sitting still
sewing hams all day, and if she waited longer she might find
that her dreadful forelady had put someone else in her place.
That would be a greater calamity than ever now, Ona con-
tinued, on account of the baby. They would all have to work
harder now on his account. It was such a responsibility—they

110 —

must not have the baby grow up to suffer as they had. And
this indeed had been the first thing that Jurgis had thought
of himself—he had clenched his hands and braced himself
anew for the struggle, for the sake of that tiny mite of human
possibility.

And so Ona went back to Brown’s and saved her place
and a week’s wages, and so she gave herself some one of the
thousand ailments that women group under the title of
“womb trouble,” and was never again a well person as long
as she lived. It is difficult to convey in words all that this
meant to Ona; it seemed such a slight offence, and the pun-
ishment was so out of all proportion, that neither she nor
any one else ever connected the two. “Womb trouble” to Ona
did not mean a specialist’s diagnosis, and a course of treat-
ment, and perhaps an operation or two; it meant simply head-
aches and pains in the back, and depression and heartsick-
ness, and neuralgia when she had to go to work in the rain.
The great majority of the women who worked in Packingtown
suffered in the same way, and from the same cause, so it was
not deemed a thing to see the doctor about; instead Ona
would try patent medicines, one after another, as her friends
told her about them. As these all contained alcohol, or some
other stimulant, she found that they all did her good while
she took them; and so she was always chasing the phantom of
good health, and losing it because she was too poor to con-
tinue.

«ecece FF »»»»»»

Disa the summer the packing houses were in full activ-
ity again, and Jurgis made more money. He did not make so
much, however, as he had the previous summer, for the pack-
ers took on more hands. There were new men every week, it
seemed—it was a regular system; and this number they would
keep over to the next slack season, so that everyone would
have less than ever. Sooner or later, by this plan, they would
have all the floating labor of Chicago trained to do their
work. And how very cunning a trick was that! The men were
to teach new hands, who would some day come and break
their strike; and meantime they were kept so poor that they
could not prepare for the trial!

But let no one suppose that this superfluity of employees

111

meant easier work for any one! On the contrary, the speed-
ing up seemed to be growing more savage all the time; they
were continually inventing new devices to crowd the work
on—it was for all the world like the thumbscrew of the me-
dieval torture chamber. They would get new pacemakers and
pay them more; they would drive the men on with new ma-
chinery—it was said that in the hog-killing rooms the speed
at which the hogs moved was determined by clockwork, and
that it was increased a little every day. In piecework they
would reduce the time, requiring the same work in a shorter
time, and paying the same wages, and then, after the workers
had accustomed themselves to this new speed, they would re-
duce the rate of payment to correspond with the reduction in
time! They had done this so often in the canning establish-
ments that the girls were fairly desperate; their wages had
gone down by a full third in the past two years, and a
storm of discontent was brewing that was likely to break
any day. Only a month after Marija had become a beef trim-
mer the canning factory that she had left posted a cut that
would divide the girls’ earnings almost squarely in half, and
so great was the indignation at this that they marched out
without even a parley, and organized in the street outside.
One of the girls had read somewhere that a red flag was the
proper symbol for oppressed workers, and so they mounted
one, and paraded all about the yards, yelling with rage. A
new union was the result of this outburst, but the impromptu
strike went to pieces in three days, owing to the rush of new
labor. At the end of it the girl who had carried the red flag
went downtown and got a position in a great department
store, at a salary of two dollars and a half a week.

Jurgis and Ona heard these stories with dismay, for there
was no telling when their own time might come. Once or
twice there had been rumors that one of the big houses was
going to cut its unskilled men to fifteen cents an hour, and
Jurgis knew that if this was done, his turn would come soon.
He had learned by this time that Packingtown was really
not a number of firms at all, but one great firm, the Beef
Trust. And every week the managers of it got together and
compared notes, and there was one scale for all the workers
in the yards and one standard of efficiency. Jurgis was told
that they also fixed the price they would pay for beef on the
hoof and the price of all dressed meat in the country; but
that was something he did not understand or care about.

The only one who was not afraid of a cut was Marija, who

112

congratulated herself, somewhat naively, that there had been
one in her place only a short time before she came. Marija
was getting to be a skilled beef trimmer, and was mounting
to the heights again. During the summer and fall Jurgis and
Ona managed to pay her back the last penny they owed her,
and so she began to have a bank account. Tamoszius had a
bank account also, and they ran a race, and began to figure
upon household expenses once more.

The possession of vast wealth entails cares and responsi-
bilities, however, as poor Marija found out. She had taken the
advice of a friend and invested her savings in a bank on Ash-
land Avenue. Of course she knew nothing about it, except
that it was big and imposing—what possible chance has a
poor foreign working girl to understand the banking busi-
ness, as it is conducted in this land of frenzied finance? So
Marija lived in continual dread lest something should happen
to her bank, and would go out of her way mornings to make
sure that it was still there. Her principal thought was of fire,
for she had deposited her money in bills, and was afraid that
if they were burned up the bank would not give her any oth-
ers. Jurgis made fun of her for this, for he was a2 man and
was proud of his superior knowledge, telling her that the bank
had fire-proof vaults, and all its millions of dollars hidden
safely away in them.

However, one morning Marija took her usual detour, and,
to her horror and dismay, saw a crowd of people in front
of the bank, filling the avenue solid for half a block. All the
blood went out of her face for terror. She broke into a run,
shouting to the people to ask what was the matter,
but not stopping to hear what they answered, till she had
come to where the throng was so dense that she could no
longer advance. There was a “run on the bank,” they told
her then, but she did not know what that was, and turned
from one person: to another, trying in an agony of fear to
make out what they meant. Had something gone wrong with
the bank? Nobody was sure, but they thought so. Couldn’t
she get her money? There was no telling; the people were
afraid not, and they were all trying to get it. It was too early
yet to tell anything—the bank would not open for nearly
three hours. So in a frenzy of desp&ir Marija began to claw
her way toward the doors of this building, through a throng
of men, women, and children, all as excited as herself. It
was a scene of wild confusion, women shrieking and wring-
ing their hands and fainting, and men fighting and trampling

f3

down everything in their way. In the midst of the melee
Marija recollected that she did not have her bankbook, and
could not get her money anyway, so she fought her way out
and started on a run for home. This was fortunate for her,
for a few minutes later the police reserves arrived.

In half an hour Marija was back, Teta Elzbieta with her,
both of them breathless with running and sick with fear.
The crowd was now formed in a line, extending for several
blocks, with half a hundred policemen keeping guard, and so
there was nothing for them to do but to take their places at
the end of it. At nine o’clock the bank opened and began to
pay the waiting throng; but then, what good did that do Mar-
ija, who saw three thousand people before her—enough to
take out the last penny of a dozen banks?

To make matters worse a drizzling rain came up, and
soaked them to the skin; yet all the morning they stood
there, creeping slowly toward the goal—all the afternoon
they stood there, heartsick, seeing that the hour of closing
was coming, and that they were going to be left out. Marija
made up her mind that, come what might, she would stay
there and keep her place; but as nearly all did the same, all
through the long, cold night, she got very little closer to the
bank for that. Toward evening Jurgis came; he had heard the
story from the children, and he brought some food and dry
wraps, which made it a little easier.

The next morning, before daybreak, came a bigger crowd
than ever, and more policemen from downtown. Marija held
on like grim death, and toward afternoon she got into the
bank and got her money—all in big silver dollars, a hand-
kerchief full. When she had once got her hands on them her
fear vanished, and she wanted to put them back again; but
the man at the window was savage, and said that the bank
would receive no more deposits from those who had taken
part in the run. So Marija was forced to take her dollars
home with her, watching to right and left, expecting every in-
stant that some one would try to rob her; and when she got
home she was not much better off. Until she could find an-
other bank there was nothing to do but sew them up in her
clothes, and so Marija went about for a week or more, loaded
down with bullion, and afraid to cross the street in front of
the house, because Jurgis told her she would sink out of sight
in the mud. Weighted this way she made her way to the
yards, again in fear, this time to see if she had lost her place;
but fortunately about ten per cent of the working people of

114

Packingtown had been depositors in that bank, and it was not
convenient to discharge that many at once. The cause of the
panic had been the attempt of a policeman to arrest a drunken
man in a saloon next door, which had drawn a crowd at the
hour the people were on their way to work, and so started
the “run.”

About this time Jurgis and Ona also began a bank account.
Besides having paid Jonas and Marija, they had almost paid
for their furniture, and could have that little sum to count
on. So long as each of them could bring home nine or ten
dollars a week, they were able to get along finely. Also elec-
tion day came round again, and Jurgis made half a week’s
wages out of that, all net profit. It was a very close election
that year, and the echoes of the battle reached even to Pack-
ingtown. The two rival sets of grafters hired halls and set off
fireworks and made speeches, to try to get the people inter-
ested in the matter. Although Jurgis did not understand it all,
he knew enough by this time to realize that it was not sup-
posed to be right to sell your vote. However, as every one
did it, and his refusal to join would not have made the slight-
est difference in the results, the idea of refusing would have
seemed absurd, had it ever come into his head.

Now chill winds and shortening days began to warn them
that the winter was coming again. It seemed as if the respite
had been too short—they had not had time enough to get
ready for it; but still it came, inexorably, and the hunted
look began to come back into the eyes of little Stanislovas.
The prospect struck fear to the heart of Jurgis also, for he
knew that Ona was not fit to face the cold and the snow drifts
this year. And suppose that some day when a blizzard struck
them and the cars were not running, Ona should have to give
it up, and should come the next day to find that her place
had been given to someone who lived nearer and could be
depended on?

It was the week before Christmas that the first great storm
came, and then the soul of Jurgis rose up within him like a
sleeping lion. There were four days that the Ashland Avenue
cars were stalled, and in those days, for the first time in his
life, Jurgis knew what it was to be really opposed. He had
faced difficulties before, but they had been child’s play; now
there was a death struggle, and all the furies were unchained
within him. The first morning they set out two hours before
dawn, Ona wrapped all in blankets and tossed upon his shoul-

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= Mee —Y

a

der like a sack of meal, and the little boy, bundled nearly out
of sight, hanging by his coattails. There was a raging blast
beating in his face, and the thermometer stood below zero;
the snow was never short of his knees, and in some of the
drifts it was nearly up to his armpits. It would catch his feet
and try to trip him; it would build itself into a wall before
him to beat him back; and he would fling himself into it,
plunging like a wounded buffalo, puffing and snorting in rage.
So foot by foot he drove his way, and when at last he came
to Durham’s he was staggering and almost blind, and leaned
against a pillar, gasping, and thanking God that the cattle
came late to the killing beds that day. In the evening the
same thing had to be done again, and because Jurgis could
not tell what hour of the night he would get off, he got a
saloon keeper to let Ona sit and wait for him in a corner. Once
it was eleven o’clock at night, and black as the pit, but still
they got home.

That blizzard knocked many a man out, for the crowd out-
side begging for work was never greater, and the packers
would not wait long for anyone. When it was over, the soul
of Jurgis was a song, for he had met the enemy and con-
quered, and felt himself the master of his fate. So it might
be with some monarch of the forest that has vanquished his
foes in fair fight, and then falls into some cowardly trap in
the nighttime.

A time of peril on the killing beds was when a steer broke
loose. Sometimes, in the haste of speeding up, they would
dump one of the animals out on the floor before it was fully
stunned, and it would get upon its feet and run amuck. Then
there would be a yell of warning—the men would drop every-
thing and dash for the nearest pillar, slipping here and there
on the floor, and tumbling over each other. This was bad
enough in the summer, when a man could see; in wintertime
it was enough to make your hair stand up, for the room
would be so full of steam that you could not make anything
out five feet in front of you. To be sure, the steer was gen-
erally blind and frantic, and not especially bent on hurting
anyone; but think of the chances of running upon a knife,
while nearly every man had one in his hand! And then, to
cap the climax, the floor boss would come rushing up with a
rifle and begin blazing away!

It was in one of these melees that Jurgis fell into his trap.
That is the only word to describe it; it was so cruel, and so
utterly not to be foreseen. At first he hardly noticed it, it

116

was such a slight accident—simply that in leaping out of
the way he turned his ankle. There was a twinge of pain, but
Jurgis was used to pain, and did not coddle himself. When
he came to walk home, however, he realized that it was hurt-
ing him a great deal, and in the morning his ankle was swol-
len out nearly double its size, and he could not get his foot
into his shoe. Still, even then, he did nothing more than swear
a little, and wrapped his foot in old rags, and hobbled out
to take the car. It chanced to be a rush day at Durham’s,
and all the long morning he limped about with his aching
foot; by noontime the pain was so great that it made him
faint, and after a couple of hours in the afternoon he was
fairly beaten, and had to tell the boss. They sent for the
company doctor, and he examined the foot and told Jirgis to
go home to bed, adding that he had probably laid himself
up for months by his folly. The injury was not one that Dur-
ham and Company could be held responsible for, and so
that was all there was to it, so far as the doctor was con-
cerned.

Jurgis got home somehow, scarcely able to see for the
pain, and with an awful terror in his soul. Elzbieta helped
him into bed and bandaged his injured foot with cold water,
and tried hard not to let him see her dismay; when the rest
came home at night she met them outside and told them,
and they, too, put on a cheerful face, saying it would only
be for a week or two, and that they would pull him through.

When they had gotten him to sleep, however, they sat by
the kitchen fire and talked it over in frightened whispers.
They were in for a siege, that was plainly to be seen. Jurgis
had only about sixty dollars in the bank, and the slack season
was upon them. Both Jonas and Marija might soon be earn-
ing no more than enough to pay their board, and besides
that there were only the wages of Ona and the pittance of
the little boy. There was the rent to pay, and still some on
the furniture; there was the insurance just due, and every
month there was sack after sack of coal. It was January,
midwinter, an awful time to have to face privation. Deep
snows would come again, and who would carry Ona to her
work now? She might lose her place—she was almost certain
to lose it. And then little Stanislovas began to whimper—
who would take care of him?

It was dreadful that an accident of this sort, that no man
can help, should have meant such suffering. The bitter-
ness of it was the daily food and drink of Jurgis. It was of

117

no use for them to try to deceive him; he knew as much
about the situation as they did, and he knew that the family
might literally starve to death. The worry of it fairly ate
him up—he began to look haggard the first two or three
days of it. In truth, it was almost maddening for a strong
man like him, a fighter, to have to lie there helpless on
his back. It was for all the world the old story of Prome-
theus bound. As Jurgis lay on his bed, hour after hour,
there came to him emotions that he had never known
before. Before this he had met life with a welcome—it had
its trials, but none that a man could not face. But now, in
the nighttime, when he lay tossing about, there would come
stalking into his chamber a grisly phantom, the sight of
which made his flesh to curl and his hair to bristle up. It
was like seeing the world fall away from underneath his feet;
like plunging down into a bottomless abyss, and to yawning
caverns of despair. It might be true, then, after all, what
others had told him about life, that the best powers of a
man might not be equal to it! It might be true that, strive as
he would, toil as he would, he might fail, and go down and
be destroyed! The thought of this was like an icy hand at his
heart; the thought that here, in this ghastly home of all hor-
ror, he and all those who were dear to him might lie and
perish of starvation and cold, and there would be no ear
to hear their cry, no hand to help them! It was true, it was
true—that here in this huge city, with its stores of heaped-
up wealth, human creatures might be hunted down and
destroyed by the wild-beast powers of nature, just as truly
as ever they were in the days of the cave men!

~ Ona was now making about thirty dollars a month, and
Stanislovas about thirteen. To add to this there was the
board of Jonas and Marija, about forty-five dollars. Deduct-
ing from this the rent, interest, and instalments on the furni-
ture, they had left sixty dollars, and deducting the coal,
they had fifty. They did without everything that human
beings could do without; they went in old and ragged cloth-
ing, that left them at the mercy of the cold, and when the
children’s shoes wore out, they tied them up with string.
Half invalid as she was, Ona would do herself harm by
walking in the rain and cold when she ought to have ridden;
they bought literally nothing but food—and still they could
not keep alive on fifty dollars a month. They might have
done it, if only they could have gotten pure food, and at
fair prices; or if only they had known what to get—if they

118

had not been so pitifully ignorant! But they had come to a
new country, where everything was different, including the
food. They had always been accustomed to eat a great deal
of smoked sausage, and how could they know that what
they bought in America was not the same—that its color
was made by chemicals, and its smoky flavor by more chemi-
cals, and that it was full of “potato flour” besides? Potato
flour is the waste of potato after the starch and alcohol have
been extracted; it has no more food value than so much
wood, and as its use as a food adulterant is a penal offence
in Europe, thousands of tons of it are shipped to America
every year. It was amazing what quantities of food such as
this were needed every day, by eleven hungry persons. A
dollar sixty-five a day was simply not enough to feed them,
and there was no use trying; and so each week they made
an inroad upon the pitiful little bank-account that Ona had
begun. Because the account was in her name, it was pos-
sible for her to keep this a secret from her husband, and to
keep the heartsickness of it for her own.

It would have been better if Jurgis had been really ill;
if he had not been able to think. For he had no resources
such as most invalids have; all he could do was to lie there
and toss about from side to side. Now and then he would
break into cursing, regardless of everything; and now and
then his impatience would get the better of him, and he
would try to get up and poor Teta Elzbieta would have to
plead with him in frenzy. Elzbieta was all alone with him
the greater part of the time. She would sit and smooth his
forehead by the hour, and talk to him and try to make him
forget. Sometimes it would be too cold for the children to
go to school, and they would have to play in the kitchen,
where Jurgis was, because it was the only room that was
half warm. These were dreadful times, for Jurgis would get
as cross as any bear; he was scarcely to be blamed, for he
had enough to worry him, and it was hard when he was
trying to take a nap to be kept awake by noisy and peevish
children. |

Elzbieta’s only resource in those times was little Antanas;
indeed, it would be hard to say how they could have gotten
along at all if it had not been for little Antanas. It was the
one consolation of Jurgis’ long imprisonment that now he
had time to look at his baby. Teta Elzbieta would put the
clothes basket in which the baby slept alongside of his mat-
tress, and Jurgis would lie upon one elbow and watch him

119

by the hour, imagining things. Then little Antanas would
open his eyes—he was beginning to take notice of things
now; and he would smile—how he would smile! So Jurgis
would begin to forget and be happy, because he was in a
world where there was a thing so beautiful as the smile of
little Antanas, and because such a world could not but be
good at the heart of it. He looked more like his father every
hour, Elzbieta would say, and said it many times a day,
because she saw that it pleased Jurgis; the poor little terror-
stricken woman was planning all day and all night to soothe
the prisoned giant who was intrusted to her care. Jurgis,
who knew nothing about the age-long and _ everlasting
hypocrisy of woman, would take the bait and grin with
delight; and then he would hold his finger in front of little
Antanas’ eyes, and move it this way and that, and laugh
with glee to see the baby follow it. There is no pet quite
so fascinating as a baby; he would look into Jurgis’ face
with such uncanny seriousness, and Jurgis would start and
cry: “Palauk! Look, Muma, he knows his papa! He does,
he does! Tu mano szirdele, the little rascal!”

KKKKKE FD »»nnnm

For three weeks after his injury Jurgis never got up from
bed. It was a very obstinate sprain; the swelling would not
go down, and the pain still continued. At the end of that
time, however, he could contain himself no longer, and be-
gan trying to walk a little every day, laboring to persuade
himself that he was better. No arguments could stop him,
and three or four days later he declared that he was going
back to work. He limped to the cars and got to Brown’s,
where he found that the boss had kept his place—that is,
was willing to turn out into the snow the poor devil he
had hired in the meantime. Every now and then the pain
would force Jurgis to stop work, but he stuck it out till
nearly an hour before closing. Then he was forced to ac-
knowledge that he could not go on without fainting; it
almost broke his heart to do it, and he stood leaning
against a pillar and weeping like a child. Two of the men
had to help him to the car, and when he got out he had to
sit down and wait in the snow till some one came along.
So they put him to bed again, and sent for the doctor, as
120

they ought to have done in the beginning. It transpired that
he had twisted a tendon out of place, and could never have
gotten well without attention. Then he gripped the sides of
the bed, and shut his teeth together, and turned white with
agony, while the doctor pulled and wrenched away at his
swollen ankle. When finaly the doctor left, he told him
that he would have to lie quiet for two months, and that if
he went to work before that time he might lame himself
for life.

Three days later there came another heavy snow storm
and Jonas and Marija and Ona and little Stanislovas all set
out together, an hour before daybreak, to“try to get to the
yards. About noon the last two came back, the boy scream-
ing with pain. His fingers were all frosted, it seemed. They
had had to give up trying to get to the yards, and had
nearly perished in a drift. All that they knew how to do was
hold the frozen fingers near the fire, and so little Stanis-
lovas spent most of the day dancing about in horrible agony,
till Jurgis flew into a passion of nervous rage and swore like
a madman, declaring that he would kill him if he did not
stop. All that day and night the family was half-crazed with
fear that Ona and the boy had lost their places; and in the
morning they set out earlier than ever, after the little fellow
had been beaten with a stick by Jurgis. There could be no
trifling in a case like this, it was a matter of life and death;
little Stanislovas could not be expected to realize that he
might a great deal better freeze in the snow drift than lose
his job at the lard machine. Ona was quite certain that
she would find her place gone, and was all unnerved when
she finally got to Brown’s, and found that the forelady
herself had failed to come, and was therefore compelled to
be lenient.

One of the consequences of this episode was that the
first joints of three of the little boy’s fingers were perma-
nently disabled, and another that thereafter he always had
to be beaten before he set out to work, whenever there was
fresh snow on the ground. Jurgis was called upon to do the
beating, and as it hurt his foot he did it with a vengeance;
but it did not add to the sweetness of his temper. They say
that the best dog will turn cross if he be kept chained all
the time, and it was the same with the man; he had not a
thing to do all day but lie and curse his fate, and the time
came when he wanted to curse everything.

This was never for very long, however, for when Ona

121

began to cry, Jurgis could not stay angry. The poor fellow
looked like a homeless ghost, with his cheeks sunken in and
his black hair straggling into his eyes; he was too dis-
couraged to cut it, or to think about his appearance. His
muscles were wasting away, and what were left were soft
and flabby. He had no appetite, and they could not afford to
tempt him with delicacies. It was better, he said, that he
should not eat, it was a saving. About the end of March he

had got hold of Ona’s bankbook, and ‘learned that there

“was only three dollars left to them in the world.

But perhaps the worst of the consequences of this long
siege was that they lost another member of their family;
Brother Jonas disappeared. One Saturday night he did not
come home, and thereafter all their efforts to get trace of
him were futile. It was said by the boss at Durham’s that he
had gotten his week’s money and left there. That might not
be true, of course, for sometimes they would say that when
a man had been killed; it was the easiest way out of it for all
concerned. When, for instance, a man had fallen into one of
the rendering tanks and had been made into pure leaf
lard and peerless fertilizer, there was no use letting the
fact out and making his family unhappy. More probable,
however, was the theory that Jonas had deserted them, and
gone on the road, seeking happiness. He had been discon-
tented for a long time, and not without some cause. He
paid good board, and was yet obliged to live in a fam-
ily where nobody had enough to eat. And Marija would keep
giving them all her money, and of course he could not but
feel that he was called upon to do the same. Then there were
crying brats, and all sorts of misery; a man would have had
to be a good deal of a hero to stand it all without grumbling,
and Jonas was not in the least a hero—he was simply a
weather-beaten old fellow who liked to have a good sup-
per and sit in the corner by the fire and smoke his pipe in
peace before he went to bed. Here there was not room
by the fire, and through the winter the kitchen had seldom
been warm enough for comfort. So, with the springtime,
what was more likely than that the wild idea of escaping
had come to him? Two years he had been yoked like a horse
to a half-ton truck in Durham’s dark cellars, with never
a rest, save on Sundays and four holidays in the year, and
with never a word of thanks—only kicks and blows and
curses, such as no decent dog would have stood. And now the
winter was over, and the spring winds were aE on

122

ee es ee

|
\

with a day’s walk a man might put the smoke of Packing-
town behind him forever, and be where the grass was
green and the flowers all the colors of the rainbow!

But now the income of the family was cut down more
than one-third, and the food demand was cut only one-
eleventh, so that they were worse off than ever. Also they
were borrowing money from Marija, and eating up her
bank account, and spoiling once again her hopes of marriage
and happiness. And they were even going into debt to
Tamoszius Kuszleika and letting him impoverish himself.
Poor Tamoszius was a man without any relatives, and with
a wonderful talent besides, and he ought to have made
money and prospered; but he had fallen in love, and so
given hostages to fortune, and was doomed to be dragged
down too.

So it was finally decided that two more of the children

_,.would have to leave school. Next to Stanislovas, who was

now fifteen, there was a girl, little Kotrina, who was two
years younger, and then two boys, Vilimas, who was eleven,
and Nikalojus, who was ten. Both of these last were bright
boys, and there was no reason why their family should
starve when tens of thousands of children no older were
earning their own livings. So one morning they were given
a quarter apiece and a roll with a sausage in it, and, with
their minds top-heavy with good advice, were sent out to
make their way to the city and learn to sell mewspapers.
They came back late at night in tears, having walked the
five or six miles to report that a man had offered to take
them to a place where they sold newspapers, and had taken
their money and gone into a store to get them, and never-
more been seen. So they both received a whipping, and the
next morning set out again. This time they found the news-
paper place, and procured their stock; and after wandering
about till nearly noontime, saying “Paper?” to every one
they saw, they had all their stock taken away and received a
thrashing besides from a big newsman upon whose territory
they had trespassed. Fortunately, however, they had already
sold some papers, and came back with nearly as much as
they started with.

After a week of mishaps such as these, the two little fel-
lows began to learn the ways of the trade—the names of the
different papers, and how many of each to get, and what sort
of people to offer them to, and where to go and where to stay
away from. After this, leaving home at four o’clock in the

123

morning, and running about the streets, first with morning
papers and then with evening, they might come home late at
night with twenty or thirty cents apiece—possibly as much
as forty cents. From this they had to deduct their carfare,
since the distance was so great; but after a while they made
friends, and learned still more, and then they would save
their carfare. They would get on a car when the conductor
was not looking, and hide in the crowd; and three times out
of four he would not ask for their fares, either not seeing
them, or thinking they had already paid; or if he did ask,
they would hunt through their pockets, and then begin
to cry, and either have their fares paid by some kind old
lady, or else try the trick again on a new car. All this was fair
play, they felt. Whose fault was it that at the hours when
workingmen were going to their work and back, the cars
were so crowded that the conductors could not collect all the
fares? And besides, the companies were thieves, people said
—had stolen all their franchises with the help of scoundrelly
politicians!

Now that the winter was by, and there was no more
danger of snow, and no more coal to buy, and another
room warm enough to put the children into when they cried,
and enough money to get along from week to week with,
Jurgis was less terrible than he had been. A man can get used
to anything in the course of time, and Jurgis had gotten used
to lying about the house. Ona saw this, and was very careful
not to destroy his peace of mind, by letting him know how
much pain she was suffering. It was now the time of the spring
rains, and Ona had often to ride to her work, in spite of the
expense; she was getting paler every day, and sometimes, in
spite of her good resolutions, it pained her that Jurgis did
not notice it. She wondered if he cared for her as much as
ever, if all this misery was not wearing out his love. She had
to be away from him all the time, and bear her own troubles
while he was bearing his; and then, when she came home,
she was so worn out; and whenever they talked they had only
their worries to talk of—truly it was hard, in such a life, to
keep any sentiment alive. The woe of this would flame up in
Ona sometimes—at night she would suddenly clasp her big
husband in her arms and break into passionate weeping, de-
manding to know if he really loved her. Poor Jurgis, who had
in truth grown more matter-of-fact, under the endless pres-
sure of penury, would not know what to make of these things,

124

and could only try to recollect when he had last been cross;
and so Ona would have to forgive him and sob herself to
sleep.

The latter part of April Jurgis went to see the doctor, and
was given a bandage to lace about his ankle, and told that he
might go back to work. It needed more than the permission
of the doctor, however, for when he showed up on the killing
floor of Brown’s, he was told by the foreman that it had not
been possible to keep his job for him. Jurgis knew that this
meant simply that the foreman had found someone else to do
the work as well and did not want to bother to make a
change. He stood in the doorway, looking mournfully on,
seeing his friends and companions at work, and feeling like
an outcast. Then_he went out-and-teok—hisplace with .the
mob of the unemployed.

This time, however, Jurgis did not have the same fine con-
fidence, nor the same reason for it. He was no longer the
finest looking man in the throng, and the bosses no longer
made for him; he was thin and haggard, and his clothes were
seedy, and he looked miserable. And there were hundreds
who looked and felt just like him, and who had been
wandering about Packingtown for months begging for work.
This was a critical time in Jurgis’ life, and if he had been a
weaker man he would have gone the way the rest did. Those
out-of-work wretches would stand about the packing houses
every morning till the police drove them away, and then they
would scatter among the saloons. Very few of them had the
nerve to face the rebyffs that they would encounter by trying
to get into the buildings to interview the bosses; if they did not
get a chance in the morning, there would be nothing to do
but hang about the saloons the rest of the day and night.
Jurgis was saved from all this—partly, to be sure, because it
was pleasant weather, and there was no need to be indoors;
but mainly because he carried with him always the pitiful
little face of his wife. He must get work, he told himself,
fighting the battle with despair every hour of the day. He
must get work! He must have a place again and some money
saved up, before the next winter came.

But there was no work for him. He sought out all the
/| /members of his union—Jurgis had stuck to the union

‘through all this—and begged them to speak a word for him.

He went to everyone he knew, asking for a chance, there or

anywhere. He wandered all day through the buildings; and in

a week or two, when he had been all over the yards, and into
f25

every room to which he had access, and learned that there
was not a job anywhere, he persuaded himself that there
might have been a change in the places he had first visited,
and began the round all over; till finally the watchmen and
the “spotters” of the companies came to know him by sight
and to order him out with threats. Then there was nothing
more for him to do but go with the crowd in the morning,
and keep in the front row and look eager, and when he failed,
go back home, and play with little Kotrina and the baby.

The peculiar bitterness of all this was that Jurgis saw so
plainly the meaning of it. In the beginning he had been fresh
and strong, and he had gotten a job the first day; but now he
was second-hand, a damaged article, so to speak, and they did
not want him. They had got the best out of him—they had
worn him out, with their speeding up and their carelessness,
and now they had thrown him away! And Jurgis would make
the acquaintance of others of these unemployed men and find
that they had all had the same experience. There were some,
of course, who had wandered in from other places, who had
been ground up in other mills; there were others who were out
from their own fault—some, for instance, who had not been
able to stand the awful grind without drink. The vast major-
ity, however, were simply the worn-out parts of the great
merciless packing machine; they had toiled there, and kept up
with the pace, some of them for ten or twenty years, until
finally the time had come when they could not keep up with
it any more. Some had been frankly told that they were too
old, that a sprier man was needed; others had given occasion,
by some act of carelessness or incompetence; with most, how-
ever, the occasion had been the same as with Jurgis. They
had been overworked and underfed so long, and finally some
disease had laid them on their backs; or they had cut them-
selves, and had blood-poisoning, or met with some other acci-
dent. When a man came back after that, he would get his
place back only by the courtesy of the boss. To this there
was no exception, save when the accident was one for which
the firm was liable; in that case they would send a slippery
lawyer to see him, first to try to get him to sign away his
claims, but if he was too smart for that, to promise him that
he and his should always be provided with work. This prom-
ise they would keep, strictly and to the letter—for two years.
Two years was the “statute of limitations,” and after that
the victim could not sue.

What happened to a man after any of these things, all

126

depended upon the circumstances. If he were of the highly
skilled workers, he would probably have enough saved up to
tide him over. The best-paid men, the “splitters,” made fifty
cents an hour, which would be five or six dollars a day in
the rush seasons, and one or two in the dullest. A man could
live and save on that; but then there were only half a dozen
splitters in each place, and one of them that Jurgis knew had
a family of twenty-two children, all hoping to grow up to
be splitters like their father. For an unskilled man who made
ten dollars a week in the rush seasons and five in the dull, it
all depended upon his age and the number he had dependent
upon him. An unmarried man could save, if he did not drink,
and if he was absolutely selfish—that is, if he paid no heed
to the demands of his old parents, or of his little brothers and
sisters, or of any other relatives he might have as well as of
the members of his union, and his chums, and the people who
might be starving to death next door.

KREKEEK FZ wd»

Doxnc this time that Jurgis was looking for work occurred
the death of little Kristoforas, one of the children of Teta
Elzbieta. Both Kristoforas and his brother, Juozapas, were
cripples, the latter having lost one leg by having it run over,
and Kristoforas having congenital dislocation of the hip,
which made it impossible for him ever to walk. He was the
last of Teta Elzbieta’s children, and perhaps he had been in-
tended by nature to let her know that she had had enough.
At any rate he was wretchedly sick and undersized; he had
the rickets, and though he was over three years old, he was
no bigger than an ordinary child of one. All day long he
would crawl around the floor in a filthy little dress, whining
and fretting; because the floor was full of draughts he was
always catching cold, and snuffling because his nose ran.
This made him ‘a nuisance, and a source of endless trouble in
the family. For his mother, with unnatural perversity, loved
him best of all her children, and made a perpetual fuss over
him—would let him do anything undisturbed, and would
burst into tears when his fretting drove Jurgis wild.

And now he died. Perhaps it was the smoked sausage he
had eaten that morning—which may have been made out of
some of the tubercular pork that was condemned as unfit

127

for export. At any rate, an hour after eating it, the child had
begun to cry with pain, and in another hour he was rolling
about on the floor in convulsions. Little Kotrina, who was
all alone with him, ran out screaming for help, and after a
while a doctor came, but not until Kristoforas had howled his
last howl. No one was really sorry about this except poor
Elzbieta, who was inconsolable. Jurgis announced that so far
as he was concerned the child would have to be buried by
the city, since they had no money for a funeral; and at this
the poor woman almost went out of her senses, wringing
her hands and screaming with grief and despair. Her child
to be buried in a pauper’s grave! And her stepdaughter to
stand by and hear it said without protesting! It was enough to
make Ona’s father rise up out of his grave to rebuke her! If it
had come to this, they might as well give up at once, and be
buried all of them together! ... In the end Marija said that she
would help with ten dollars; and Jurgis being still obdurate,
Elzbieta went in tears and begged the money from the neigh-
bors, and so little Kristoforas had a mass and a hearse with
white plumes on it, and a tiny plot in a graveyard with a
wooden cross to mark the place. The poor mother was not
the same for months after that; the mere sight of the fioor
where little Kristoforas had crawled about would make her
weep. He had never had a fair chance, poor little fellow, she
would say. He had been handicapped from his birth. If only
she had heard about it in time, so that she might have had that
great doctor to cure him of his lameness! . . . Some time ago,
Elzbieta was told, a Chicago billionaire had paid a fortune
to bring a great European surgeon over to cure his little
daughter of the same disease from which Kristoforas had
suffered. And because this surgeon had to have bodies to
demonstrate upon, he announced that he would treat the chil-
dren of the poor, a piece of magnanimity over which the
papers became quite eloquent. Elzbieta, alas, did not read the
papers, and no one had told her; but perhaps it was as well,
for just then they would not have had the carfare to spare
to go every day to wait upon the surgeon, nor for that matter
anybody with the time to take the child.

All this while that he was seeking for work, there was a
dark shadow hanging over Jurgis; as if a savage beast were
lurking somewhere in the pathway of his life, and he knew it,
and yet could not help approaching the place. There are all
stages of being out of work in Packingtown, and he faced in

128

dread the prospect of reaching the lowest. There is a place
that waits for the lowest man—the fertilizer plant!

The men would talk about it in awe-stricken whispers. Not
more than one in ten had ever really tried it; the other nine
had contented themselves with hearsay evidence and a peep
through the door. There were some things worse than even
starving to death. They would ask Jurgis if he had worked
there yet, and if he meant to; and Jurgis would debate the
matter with himself. As poor as they were, and making all the
sacrifices that they were, would he dare to refuse any sort of
work that was offered to him, be it as horrible as ever it
could? Would he dare to go home and eat bread that had been
earned by Ona, weak and complaining as she was, knowing
that he had been given a chance, and had not had the nerve
to take it?—-And yet he might argue that way with himself
all day, and one glimpse into the fertilizer works would send
him away again shuddering. He was a man, and he would do
his duty; he went and made application—but surely he was
not also required to hope for success!

The fertilizer works of Durham’s lay away from the rest
of the plant. Few visitors ever saw them, and the few who
did would come out looking like Dante, of whom the peasants
declared that he had been into hell. To this part of the yards
came all the “tankage,” and the waste products of all sorts;
here they dried out the bones—and in suffocating cellars
where the daylight never came you might see men and
women and children bending over whirling machines and
sawing bits of bone into all sorts of shapes, breathing their
lungs full of the fine dust, and doomed to die, every one of
them, within a certain definite time. Here they made the blood
into albumen, and made other foul-smelling things into
things still more foul-smelling. In the corridors and caverns
where it was done you might lose yourself as in the great
caves of Kentucky. In the dust and the steam the electric
lights would shine like far-off twinkling stars—red and blue,
green and purple stars,. according to the color of the mist
and the brew from which it came. For the odors in these
ghastly charnel houses there may be words in Lithuanian,
but there are none in English. The person entering would have
to summon his courage as for a cold-water plunge. He would
go on like a man swimming under water; he would put his
handkerchief over his face, and begin to cough and choke;
and then, if he were still obstinate, he would find his head
beginning to ring, and the veins in his forehead to throb, until

129

finally he would be assailed by an overpowering blast of
ammonia fumes, and would turn and run for his life, and
come out half-dazed.

On top of this were the rooms where they dried the “tank-
- age,” the mass of brown stringy stuff that was left after the
waste portions of the carcasses had had the lard and tallow
tried out of them. This dried material they would then grind
to a fine powder, and after they had mixed it up well with
a mysterious but inoffensive brown rock which they brought
in and ground up by the hundreds of carloads for that pur-
pose, the substance was ready to be put into bags and sent
out to the world as any one of a hundred different brands of
standard bone phosphate. And then the farmer in Maine or
California or Texas would buy this, at say twenty-five dollars
a ton, and plant it with his corn; and for several days after
the operation the fields would have a strong odor, and the
farmer and his wagon and the very horses that had hauled
it would all have it too. In Packingtown the fertilizer is pure,
instead of being a flavoring, and instead of a ton or so spread
out on several acres under the open sky, there are hundreds
and thousands of tons of it in one building, heaped here and
there in haystack piles, covering the floor several inches
deep, and filling the air with a choking dust that becomes a
blinding sand storm when the wind stirs.

It was to this building that Jurgis came daily, as if dragged
by an unseen hand. The month of May was an exceptionally
cool one, and his secret prayers were granted; but early in
June there came a record-breaking hot spell, and after that
there were men wanted in the fertilizer mill.

The boss of the grinding room had come to know Jurgis
by this time, and had marked him for a likely man: and
so when he came to the door about two o’clock this breathless
hot day. he felt a sudden spasm of pain shoot through him—
the boss beckoned to him! In ten minutes more Jurgis had
pulled off his coat and overshirt, and set his teeth together
and gone to work. Here was one more difficulty for him to
meet and conquer!

His labor took him about one minute to learn. Before
him was one of the vents of the mill in which the fertilizer
was being ground—rushing forth in a great brown river, with
a spray of the finest dust flung forth in clouds. Jurgis was
given a shovel, and along with half a dozen others it was his
task to shovel this fertilizer into carts. That others were at
work he knew by the sound, and by the fact that he some-

130

2 ,
Se ee

times collided with them; otherwise they might as well not
have been there, for in the blinding dust storm a man could
not see six feet in front of his face. When he had filled one
cart he had to grope around him until another came, and if
‘there was none on hand he continued to grope till one ar-
rived. In five minutes he was, of course, a mass of fertilizer
from head to feet; they gave him a sponge to tie over his
mouth, so that he could breathe, but the sponge did not pre-
vent his lips and eyelids from caking up with it and his ears
from filling solid. He looked like a brown ghost at twilight—
from hair to shoes he became the color of the building and
of everything in it, and for that matter a hundred yards out-
side it. The building had to be left open, and when the wind
blew Durham and Company lost a great deal of fertilizer.

Working in his shirtsleeves, and with the thermometer
at over a hundred, the phosphates soaked in through every
pore of Jurgis’s skin, and in five minutes he had a headache,
and in fifteen was almost dazed. The blood was pounding in
his brain like an engine’s throbbing; there was a frightful
pain in the top of his skull, and he could hardly control his
hands. Still, with the memory of his four months’ siege be-
hind him, he fought on, in a frenzy of determination; and
half an hour later he began to vomit—he vomited until it
seemed as if his inwards must be torn into shreds. A man
could get used to the fertilizer mill, the boss had said, if he
would only make up his mind to it; but Jurgis now began to
see that it was a question of making up his stomach.

At the end of that day of horror, he could scarcely stand.
He had to catch himself now and then, and lean against a
building and get his bearings. Most of the men, when they
came out, made straight for a saloon—they seemed to place
fertilizer and rattlesnake poison in one class. But Jurgis was
too ill to think of drinking—he could oniy make his way
to the street and stagger on to a car. He had a sense of
humor, and later on, when he became an old hand, he used
to think it fun.to board a street car and see what happened.
Now, however, he was too ill to notice it—how the people
in the car began to gasp and sputter, to put their handker-
chiefs to their noses, and transfix him with furious glances.
Jurgis only knew that a man in front of him immediately
got up and gave him a seat; and that half a minute later
the two people on each side of him got up; and that in a
full minute the crowded car was nearly empty—those

131

ere ia tri

passengers who could not get room on the platform having
gotten out to walk.

Of course Jurgis had made his home a miniature ferti-
lizer mill a minute after entering. The stuff was half an
inch deep in his skin—his whole system was full of it, and
it would have taken a week not merely of scrubbing, but of
vigorous exercise, to get it out of him. As it was, he could
be compared with nothing known to men, save that newest
discovery of the savants, a substance which emits energy
for an unlimited time, without being itself in the least dimin-
ished in power. He smelt so that he made all the food at the
table taste, and set the whole family to vomiting; for him-
self it was three days before he could keep anything upon
his stomach—he might wash his hands, and use a knife
and fork, but were not his mouth and throat filled with the
poison?

And still Jurgis stuck it out! In spite of splitting head-
aches he would stagger down to the plant and take up his
stand once more, and begin to shovel in the blinding clouds
of dust. And so at the end of the week he was a fertilizer
man for life—he was able to eat again, and though his head
never stopped aching, it ceased to be so bad that he could
not work.

So there passed another summer. It was a summer of
prosperity, all over the country, and the country ate gener-
ously of packing-house products, and there was plenty of
work for all the family, in spite of the packers’ efforts to
keep a superfluity of labor. They were again able to pay their
debts and to begin to save a little sum; but there were one
or two sacrifices they considered too heavy to be made for
long—it was too bad that the boys should have to sell papers
at their age. It was utterly useless to caution them and plead
with them; quite without knowing it, they were taking on
the tone of their new environment. They were learning to
swear in voluble English; they were learning to pick up cigar-
stumps and smoke them, to pass hours of their time gambling
with pennies and dice and cigarette cards; they were learn-
ing the location of all the houses of prostitution on the
“Lévée,” and the names of the “madames’’ who kept them,
and the days when they gave their state banquets, which the
police captains and the big politicians all attended. If a
visiting “country customer” were to ask them, they could
show him which was ‘“Hinkydink’s” famous saloon, and

132

could even point out to him by name the different gamblers
and thugs and “hold-up men” who made the place their
headquarters. And worse yet, the boys were getting out of
the habit of coming home at night. What was the use,
they would ask, of wasting time and energy and a possible
‘carfare riding out to the stockyards every night when the
weather was pleasant and they could crawl under a truck or
into an empty doorway and sleep exactly as well? So long
as they brought home a half dollar for each day, what mat-
tered it when they brought it? But Jurgis declared that from
this to ceasing to come at all would not be a very long step,
and so it was decided that Vilimas and Nikalojus should re-
turn to school in the fall, and that instead Elzbieta should
go out and get some work, her place at home being taken
by her younger daughter.

Little Kotrina was like most childen of the poor, pre-
maturely made old; she had to take care of her little brother,
who was a cripple, and also of the baby; she had to cook
the meals and wash the dishes and clean house, and have
supper ready when the workers came home in the eve-
ning. She was only thirteen, and small for her age, but she
did all this without a murmur; and her mother went out,
and after trudging a couple of days about the yards, settled
down as a servant of a “sausage machine.”

Elzbieta was used to working, but she found this change a
hard one, for the reason that she had to stand motionless
upon her feet from seven o’clock in the morning till half-
past twelve, and again from one till half-past five. For the
first few days it seemed to her that she could not stand
it—she suffered almost as much as Jurgis had from the
fertilizer, and would come out at sundown with her head
fairly reeling. Besides this, she was working in one of the
dark holes, by electric light, and the dampness, too, was
deadly—there were always puddles of water on the floor,
and a sickening odor of moist flesh in the room. The people
who worked here followed the ancient custom of nature,
whereby the ptarmigan is the color of dead leaves in the
fall and of snow in the winter, and the chameleon, who is
black when he lies upon a stump and turns green when he
moves to a leaf. The men and women who worked in this
department were precisely the color of the “fresh coun-
try sausage” they made. "

The sausage room was an interesting place to visit, for
two or three minutes, and provided that you did not look

133

at the people; the machines were perhaps the most won-
derful things in the entire plant. Presumably sausages
were once chopped and stuffed by hand, and if so it would
be interesting to know how many workers had been dis-
placed by these inventions. On one side of the room were
the hoppers, into which men shovelled loads of meat and
wheelbarrows full of spices; in these great bowls were whirl-
ing knives that made two thousand revolutions a minute,
and when the meat was ground fine and adulterated with
potato flour, and well mixed with water, it was forced to
the stuffing machines on the other side of the room. The
latter were tended by women; there was a sort of spout,
like the nozzle of a hose, and one of the women would
take a long string of “casing” and put the end over the
nozzle and then work the whole thing on, as one works on
the finger of a tight glove. This string would be twenty or
thirty feet long, but the woman would have it all on in a
jiffy; and when she had several on, she would press a lever,
and a stream of sausage meat would be shot out, taking the
casing with it as it came. Thus one might stand and see ap-
pear, miraculously born from the machine, a wriggling snake
of sausage of incredible length. In front was a big pan
which caught these creatures, and two more women who
seized them as fast as they appeared and twisted them
into links. This was for the uninitiated the most perplexing
work of all, for all that the woman had to give was a single
turn of the wrist; and in some way she contrived to give it
so that instead of an endless chain of sausages, one after
another, there grew under her hands a bunch of strings, all
dangling from a single centre. It was quite like the feat of
a prestidigitator—for the woman worked so fast that the
eye could literally not follow her, and there was only a
mist of motion, and tangle after tangle of sausages appear-
ing. In the midst of the mist, however, the visitor would
suddenly notice the tense set face, with the two wrinkles
graven in the forehead, and the ghastly pallor of the
cheeks; and then he would suddenly recollect that it was
time he was going on. The woman did not go on; she
stayed right there—hour after hour, day after day, year
after year, twisting sausage links and racing with death. It
was piece work, and she was apt to have a family to keep
alive; and stern and ruthless economic laws had arranged it
that she could only do this by working just as she did, with
all her soul upon her work, and with never an instant for a
134

glance at the well-dressed iadies and gentlemen who came
to stare at her, as at some wild beast in a menagerie.

««x«ccce FAQ »»»»»»

Wa one member trimming beef in a cannery, and an-
other working in a sausage factory, the family had a first-
hand knowledge of the great majority of Packingtown
swindles. For it was the custom, as they found, whenever
meat was so spoiled that it could not be used for anything
else, either to can it or else to chop it up into sausage.
With what had been told them by Jonas, who had worked in
the pickle rooms, they could now study the whole of the
spoiled-meat industry on the inside, and read a new and grim
meaning into that old Packingtown jest—that they use every-
thing of the pig except the squeal.

Jonas had told them how the meat that was taken out of
pickle would often be found sour, and how they would rub
it up with soda to take away the smell, and sell it to be
eaten on free-lunch counters; also of all the miracles of
chemistry which they performed, giving to any sort of
meat, fresh or salted, whole or chopped, any color and any
flavor and any odor they chose. In the pickling of hams they
had an ingenious apparatus, by which they saved time and
increased the capacity of the plant—a machine consisting
of a hollow needle attached to a pump; by plunging this
needle into the meat and working with his foot a man could
fill a ham with pickle in a few seconds. And yet, in spite
of this, there would be hams found spoiled, some of them
with an odor so bad that a man could hardly bear to be in
the room with them. To pump into these the packers had a
second and much stronger pickle which destroyed the odor
—a process known to the workers as “giving them thirty per
cent.” Also, after the hams had been smoked, there would be
- found some that had gone to the bad. Formerly these
had been sold as “Number Three Grade,” but later on some
ingenious person had hit upon a new device, and now they
would extract: the bone, about which the bad part generally
lay, and insert in the hole a white-hot iron. After this in-
vention there was no longer Number One, Two, and Three
Grade—there was only Number One Grade. The packers
were always originating such schemes—they had what they

135

called “boneless hams,” which were all the odds and ends of
pork stuffed into casings; and “California hams,” which
were the shoulders, with big knuckle joints, and nearly all
the meat cut out; and fancy “skinned hams,” which were
made of the oldest hogs, whose skins were so heavy and
coarse that no one would buy them—that is, until they
had been cooked and chopped fine and labelled “head
cheese”!

It was only when the whole ham was spoiled that it came
into the department of Elzbieta. Cut up by the two-thousand-
revolutions-a-minute fiyers, and mixed with half a ton of
other meat, no odor that ever was in a ham could make any
difference. There was never the least attention paid to
what was cut up for sausage; there would come all the way
back from Europe old sausage that had been rejected, and
that was mouldy and white—it would be dosed with borax
and glycerine, and dumped into the hoppers, and made over
again for home consumption. There would be meat that had
tumbled out on the floor, in the dirt and sawdust, where the
workers had tramped and spit uncounted billions of con-
sumption germs. There would be meat stored in great piles
in rooms; and the water from leaky roofs would drip over
it, and thousands of rats would race about on it. It was too
dark in these storage places to see well, but a man could
run his hand over these piles of meat and sweep off hand-
fuls of the dried dung of rats. These rats were nuisances,
and the packers would put poisoned bread out for them,
they would die, and then rats, bread, and meat would go
into the hoppers together. This is no fairy story and no joke;
the meat would be shovelled into carts, and the man who
did the shoveling would not trouble to lift out a rat even
when he saw one—there were things that went into the
sausage in comparison with which a poisoned rat was a
tidbit. There was no place for the men to wash their hands
before they ate their dinner. and so they made a practice
of washing them in the water that was to be ladled into the
sausage. There were the butt-ends of smoked meat, and the
scraps of corned beef, and all the odds and ends of the
waste of the plants, that would be dumped into old barrels
in the cellar and left there. Under the system of rigid econ-
omy which the packers enforced, there were some jobs
that it only paid to do once in a long time, and among these
was the cleaning out of the waste barrels. Every spring they
did it; and in the barrels would be dirt and rust and old

136

nails and stale water—and cart load after cart load of it
would be taken up and dumped into the hoppers with fresh
meat, and sent out to the public’s breakfast. Some of it they
would make into “smoked” sausage—but as the smoking
took time, and was therefore expensive, they would call upon
their chemistry department, and preserve it with borax and
color it with gelatine to make it brown. All of their sausage
came out of the same bowl, but when they came to wrap it
they would stamp some of it “special,” and for this they
would charge two cents more a pound.

Such were the new surroundings in which Elzbieta was
placed, and such was the work she was compelled to do.
It was stupefying, brutalizing work, it left her no time
to think, no strength for anything. She was part of the
machine she tended, and every faculty that was not needed
for the machine was doomed to be crushed out of existence.
There was only one mercy about the cruel grind—that it
gave her the gift of insensibility. Little by little she sank
into a torpor—she fell silent. She would meet Jurgis and Ona
in the evening, and the three would walk home together,
often without saying a word. Ona, too, was falling into a
habit of silence—Ona, who had once gone about singing
like a bird. She was sick and miserable, and often she would
barely have strength enough to drag herself home. And there
they would eat what they had to eat, and afterwards, be-
cause there was only their misery to talk of, they would
crawl into bed and fall into a stupor and never stir until
it was time to get up again, and dress by candlelight, and go
back to the machines. They were so numbed that they did
not even suffer much from hunger, now, only the children
continued to fret when the food ran short.

Yet the soul of Ona was not dead—the souls of none of
them were dead, but only sleeping; and now and then
they would waken, and these were cruel times. The gates
of memory would roll open—old joys would stretch out their
arms to them, old hopes and dreams would call to them,
and they would stir beneath the burden that lay upon them,
and feel its forever immeasurable weight. They could not
even cry out beneath it; but anguish would seize them, more
dreadful than the agony of death. It was a thing scarcely to
be spoken—a thing never spoken by all the world, that will
not know its own defeat.

They were beaten; they had lost the game, they were

137

swept aside. It was not less tragic because it was so sordid,
because that it had to do with wages and grocery bills
and rents. They had dreamed of freedom; of a chance to
look about them and learn something; to be decent and clean,
to see their child grow up to be strong. And now it was all
gone—it would never be! They had played the game and
they had lost. Six years more of toil they had to face before
they could expect the least respite, the cessation of the
payments upon the house; and how cruelly certain it was
that they could never stand six years of such a life as
they were living! They were lost, they were going down—
and there was no deliverance for them, no hope; for all
the help it gave them the vast city in which they lived
might have been an ocean waste, a wilderness, a desert,
a tomb. So often this mood would come to Ona, in the night-
time, when something wakened her; she would lie, afraid
of the beating of her own heart, fronting the blood-red eyes
of the old primeval terror of life. Once she cried aloud,
and woke Jurgis, who was tired and cross. After that she
learned to weep silently—their moods so seldom came to-
gether now! It was as if their hopes were buried in separate
graves.

Jurgis, being a man, had troubles of his own. There was
another specter following him. He had never spoken of
it, nor would he allow any one else to speak of it—he
had never acknowledged its existence to himself. Yet the
battle with it took all the manhood that he had—and
once or twice, alas, a little more. Jurgis had discovered
drink.

He was working in the steaming pit of hell; day after
day, week after week—until now there was not an organ of
his body that did its work without pain, until the sound of
ocean breakers echoed in his head day and night, and the
buildings swayed and danced before him as he went down
the street. And from all the unending horror of this there
was a respite, a deliverance—he could drink! He could for-
get the pain, he could slip off the burden; he would see
clearly again, he would be master of his brain, of his
thoughts, of his will. His dead self would stir in him, and
he would find himself laughing and cracking jokes with
his companions—he would be a man again, and master of
his life.

It was not an easy thing for Jurgis to take more than
two or three drinks. With the first drink he could eat a

138

-

meal, and he could persuade himself that that was econ-
omy; with the second he could eat another meal—but
there would come a time when he could eat no more, and
then to pay for a drink was an unthinkable extravagance, a
defiance of the age-long instincts of his hunger-haunted class.
One day, however, he took the plunge, and drank up all that
he had in his pockets, and went home half “piped,” as the
men phrase it. He was happier than he had been in a year;
and yet, because he knew that the happiness would not last,
he was savage, too—with those who would wreck it, and
with the world, and with his life; and then again, beneath
this, he was sick with the shame of himself. Afterward,
when he saw the despair of his family, and reckoned up
the money he had spent, the tears came into his eyes, and
he began the long battle with the specter.

It was a battle that had no end, that never could have one.
But Jurgis did not realize that very clearly; he was not given
much time for reflection. He simply knew that he was al-
ways fighting. Steeped in misery and despair as he was, mere-
ly to walk down the street was to be put upon the rack. There
was surely a saloon on the corner—perhaps on all four cor-
ners, and some in the middle of the block as well; and each
one stretched out a hand to him—each one had a personality
of its own, allurements unlike any other. Going and coming
—before sunrise and after dark—there was warmth and a
glow of light, and the steam of hot food, and perhaps music,
or a friendly face, and a word of good cheer. Jurgis developed
a fondness for having Ona on his arm whenever he went out
on the street, and he would hold her tightly, and walk fast.
It was pitiful to have Ona know of this—it drove him wild to
think of it; the thing was not fair, for Ona had never tasted
drink, and so could not understand. Sometimes, in desperate
hours, he would find himself wishing that she might learn
what it was. so that he need not be ashamed in her presence.
They might drink together, and escape from the horror—
escape for a while, come what would.

So there came a time when nearly all the conscious life of
Jurgis consisted of a struggle with the craving for liquor. He
would have ugly moods, when he hated Ona and the whole
family, because they stood in his way. He was a fool to have
married: he had tied himself down, had made himself a slave.
It was all because he was a married man that he was com-
pelled to stay in the yards; if it had not been for that he
might have gone off like Jonas, and to hell with the packers.

139

There were few single men in the fertilizer mill—and those
few were working only for a chance to escape. Meantime, too,
they had something to think about while they worked—they
had the memory of the last time they had been drunk, and
the hope of the time when they would be drunk again. As for
Jurgis, he was expected to bring home every penny; he could
not even go with the men at noontime—he was supposed to
sit down and eat his dinner on a pile of fertilizer dust.

This was not always his mood, of course; he still loved his
family. But just now was a time of trial. Poor little Antanas,
for instance—who had never failed to win him with a smile
—little Antanas was not smiling just now, being a mass of
fiery red pimples. He had had all the diseases that babies are
heir to, in quick succession, scarlet fever, mumps, and whoop-
ing cough in the first year, and now he was down with the
measles. There was no one to attend him but Kotrina; there
was no doctor to help him, because they were too poor, and
children did not die of the measles—at least not often. Now
and then Kotrina would find time to sob over his woes, but
for the greater part of the time he had to be left alone, bar-
ricaded upon the bed. The floor was full of draughts, and if
he caught cold he would die. At night he was tied down, lest
he should kick the covers off him, while the family lay in
their stupor of exhaustion. He would lie and scream for
hours, almost in convulsions, and then, when he was wom
out, he would lie whimpering and wailing in his torment. He
was burning up with fever, and his eyes were running sores;
in the daytime he was a thing uncanny and impish to be-
hold, a plaster of pimples and sweat, a great purple lump of
misery.

Yet all this was not really as cruel as it sounds, for, sick
as he was, little Antanas was the least unfortunate member
of the family. He was quite able to bear his sufferings—it
was as if he had all these complaints to show what a prodigy
of health he was. He was the child of his parents’ youth and
joy; he grew up like the conjurer’s rose bush, and all the
world was his oyster. In general, he toddled around the kitch-
en all day with a lean and hungry look—the portion of the
family’s allowance that fell to him was not enough, and he
was unrestrainable in his demand for more. Antanas was but
little over a year old, and already no one but his father could
manage him.

It seemed as if he had taken all of his mother’s strength
—had left nothing for those that might come after him. Ona

140

was with child again now, and it was a dreadful thing to
contemplate; even Jurgis, dumb and despairing as he was,
could not but understand that yet other agonies were on the
way, and shudder at the thought of them.

For Ona was visibly going to pieces. In the first place she
was developing a cough, like the one that had killed old Dede
Antanas. She had had a trace of it ever since that fatal morn-
ing when the greedy streetcar corporation had turned her out
into the rain; but now it was beginning to grow serious, and
to wake her up at night. Even worse than that was the fearful
nervousness from which she suffered; she would have fright-
ful headaches and fits of aimless weeping, and sometimes she
would come home at night shuddering and moaning, and
would fling herself down upon the bed and burst into tears.
Several times she was quite beside herself and hysterical;
and then Jurgis would go half mad with fright. Elzbieta
would explain to him that it could not be helped, that a wom-
an was subject to such things when she was pregnant, but
he was hardly to be persuaded, and would beg and plead to
know what had happened. She had never been like this be-
fore, he would argue—it was monstrous and unthinkable.
It was the life she had to live, the accursed work she had
to do, that was killing her by inches. She was not fitted for
it—no woman was fitted for it, no woman ought to be al-
lowed to do such work; if the world could not keep them
alive any other way it ought to kill them at once and to be
done with it. They ought not to marry, to have children; no
workingman ought to marry—if he, Jurgis, had known what
a woman was like, he would have had his eyes torn out first.
So he would carry on, becoming half hysterical himself,
which was an unbearable thing to see in a big man; Ona
would pull herself together and fling herself into his arms,
begging him to stop, to be still, that she would be better, it
would be all right. So she would lie and sob out her grief
upon his shoulder, while he gazed at her, as helpless as a
wounded animal, the target of unseen enemies.

«x«caace JQ »nvn»»»»

2 beginning of these perplexing things was in the sum-

mer; and each time Ona would promise him with terror in

her voice that it would not happen again—but in vain. Each
141

crisis would leave Jurgis more and more frightened, more
disposed to distrust Elzbieta’s consolations, and to believe
that there was some terrible thing about all this that he was
not allowed to know. Once or twice in these outbreaks he
caught Ona’s eye, and it seemed to him like the eye of a
hunted animal; there were broken phrases of anguish and de-
spair now and then, amid her frantic weeping. It was only be-
cause he was so numb and beaten himself that Jurgis did
not worry more about this. But he never thought of it, except
when he was dragged to it—he lived like a dumb beast of
burden, knowing only the moment in which he was.

The winter was coming on again, more menacing and
cruel than ever. It was October, and the holiday rush had
begun. It was necessary for the packing machines to grind
till late at night to provide food that would be eaten at Christ-
mas breakfasts; and Marija and Elzbieta and Ona, as part of
the machine, began working fifteen or sixteen hours a day.
There was no choice about this—whatever work there was to
be done they had to do, if they wished to keep their places;
besides that, it added another pittance to their incomes, so
they staggered on with the awful load. They would start work
every morning at seven, and eat their dinners at noon, and
then work until ten or eleven at night without another mouth-
ful of food. Jurgis wanted to wait for them, to help them
home at night, but they would not think of this; the ferti-
lizer mill was not running overtime, and there was no place
for him to wait save in a saloon. Each would stagger out
into the darkness, and make her way to the corner, where
they met; or if the others had already gone, would get into a
car, and begin a painful struggle to keep awake. When they
got home they were always too tired either to eat or to un-
dress; they would crawl into bed with their shoes on, and lie
like logs. If they should fail, they would certainly be lost;
if they held out, they might have enough coal for the winter.

A day or two before Thanksgiving Day there came a snow-
storm. It began in the afternoon, and by evening two inches
had fallen. Jurgis tried to wait for the women, but went into a
saloon to get warm, and took two drinks, and came out and
ran home to escape from the demon; there he lay down to
wait for them, and instantly fell asleep. When he opened his
eyes again he was in the midst of a nightmare, and found
Elzbieta shaking him and crying out. At first he could not
realize what she was saying—Ona had not come home. What
time was it, he asked. It was morning—time to be up. Ona

142 |

had not been home that night! And it was bitter cold, and a
foot of snow on the ground.

Jurgis sat up with a start. Marija was crying with fright
and the children were wailing in sympathy—little Stanislovas
in addition, because the terror of the snow was upon him.
Jurgis had nothing to put on but his shoes and his coat, and
in half a minute he was out of the door. Then, however, he
realized that there was no need of haste, that he had no idea
where to go. It was still dark as midnight, and the thick snow-
flakes were sifting down—everything was so silent that he
could hear the rustle of them as they fell. In the few seconds
that he stood there hesitating he was covered white.

He set off at a run for the yards, stopping by the way to in-
quire in the saloons that were open. Ona might have been
overcome on the way; or else she might have met with an
accident in the machines. When he got to the place where
she worked he inquired of one of the watchmen—there had
not been any accident, so far as the man had heard. At the
time office, which he found already open, the clerk told him
that Ona’s check had been turned in the night before, showing
that she had left her work.

After that there was nothing for him to do but wait, pac-
ing back and forth in the snow, meantime, to keep from freez-
ing. Already the yards were full of activity; cattle were being
unloaded from the cars in the distance, and across the way
the “beef luggers” were toiling in the darkness, carrying two-
hundred-pound quarters of bullocks into the refrigerator cars.
Before the first streaks of daylight there came the crowding
throngs of workingmen, shivering, and swinging their din-
ner pails as they hurried by. Jurgis took up his stand by the
time-office window, where alone there was light enough for
him to see; the snow fell so thick that it was only by peering
closely that he could make sure that Ona did not pass him.

Seven o’clock came, the hour when the great packing ma-
chine began to move. Jurgis ought to have been at his place
in the fertilizer mill, but instead he was waiting, in an agony
of fear, for Ona. It was fifteen minutes after the hour when
he saw a form emerge from the snow-mist, and sprang to-
ward it with a cry. It was she, running swiftly; as she saw
him, she staggered forward, and half fell into his out-
stretched arms.

“What has been the matter?” he cried, anxiously. “Where
have you been?”

It was several seconds before she could get breath to an-

143

swer him. “I couldn’t get home,” she exclaimed. “The snow
—the cars had stopped.”

“But where were you then?” he demanded.

“I had to go home with a friend,” she panted—“with
Jadvyga.”

Jurgis drew a deep breath; but then he noticed that she
was sobbing and trembling—as if in one of those nervous
crises that he dreaded so. “But what’s the matter?” he cried.
“What has happened?”

“Oh, Jurgis, I was so frightened!” she said, clinging to him
wildly. ‘I have been so worried!”

They were near the time-station window, and people were
staring at them. Jurgis led her away. “How do you mean?”
he asked, in perplexity.

“TI was afraid—I was just afraid!” sobbed Ona. “I knew
you wouldn’t know where I was, and I didn’t know what you
might do. I tried to get home, but I was so tired. Oh, Jurgis,
Jurgis!”

He was so glad to get her back that he could not think
clearly about anything else. It did not seem strange to him
that she should be so very much upset; all her fright and in-
coherent protestations did not matter since he had her back.
He let her cry away her fears; and then, because it was near-
ly eight o’clock, and they would lose another hour if they
delayed, he left her at the packing-house door, with her
ghastly white face and her haunted eyes of terror.

There was another brief interval. Christmas was almost
come; and because the snow still held, and the searching
cold, morning after morning Jurgis half carried his wife to
her post, staggering with her through the darkness; until at
last, one night, came the end.

It lacked but three days of the holidays. About midnight
Marija and Elzbieta came home, exclaiming in alarm when
they found that Ona had not come. The two had agreed to
meet her; and, after waiting, had gone to the room where
she worked, only to find that the ham-wrapping girls had
quit work an hour before, and left. There was no snow that
night, nor was it especially cold; and still Ona had not come!
Something more serious must be wrong this time.

They aroused Jurgis, and he sat up and listened crossly to
the story. She must have gone home again with Jadvyga, he
said; Jadvyga lived only two blocks from the yards, and per-
haps she had been tired. Nothing could have happened to

144

her—and even if there had, there was nothing could be done
about it until morning. Jurgis turned over in his bed, and was
snoring again before the two had closed the door.

In the morning, however, he was up and out nearly an
hour before the usual time. Jadvyga Marcinkus lived on the
Other side of the yards, beyond Halsted Street, with her
mother and sisters, in a single basement room—for Mikolas
had recently lost one hand from blood-poisoning, and their
marriage had been put off forever. The door of the room
was in the rear, reached by a narrow court, and Jurgis saw
a light in the window and heard something frying as he
passed; he knocked, half expecting that Ona would answer.

Instead there was one of Jadvyga’s little sisters, who gazed
at him through a crack in the door. “Where’s Ona?” he
demanded; and the child looked at him in perplexity. “Ona?”
she said.

“Yes,” said Jurgis, “isn’t she here?”

“No,” said the child, and Jurgis gave a start. A moment
later came Jadvyga, peering over the child’s head. When she
saw who it was, she slid around out of sight, for she was not
quite dressed. Jurgis must excuse her, she began, her mother
was very ill

“Ona isn’t here?” Jurgis demanded, too alarmed to wait
for her to finish.

“Why, no,” said Jadvyga. “What made you think she would
be here? Had she said she was coming?”

“No,” he answered. “But she hasn’t come home—and I
thought she would be here the same as before.”

“As before?” echoed Jadvyga, in perplexity.

“The time she spent the night here,” said Jurgis.

“There must be some mistake,” she answered, quickly.
“Ona has never spent the night here.”

He was only half able to realize her words. “Why—why—”
he exclaimed. “Two weeks ago, Jadvyga! She told me so—the
night it snowed, and she could not get home.”

“There must be some mistake,” declared the girl, again;
“she didn’t come here.”

He steadied himself by the door-sill; and Jadvyga in her
anxiety—for she was fond of Ona—opened the door wide,
holding her jacket across her throat. ““Are you sure you didn’t
misunderstand her?” she cried. “She must have meant some-
where else. She a4

“She said here,” insisted Jurgis. “She told me all about

145

you, and how you were, and what you said. Are you sure?
You haven’t forgotten? You weren’t away?”

“No, no!” she exclaimed—and then came a peevish voice
—‘‘Jadvyga you are giving the baby a cold. Shut the
door!” Jurgis stood for half a minute more, stammering
his perplexity through an eighth of an inch of crack; and
then, as there was really nothing more to be said, he ex-
cused himself and went away.

He walked on half dazed, without knowing where he
went. Ona had deceived him! She had lied to him! And
what could it mean—where had she been? Where was she
now? He could hardly grasp the thing—-much less try to
solve it; but a hundred wild surmises came to him, a sense
of impending calamity overwhelmed him.

Because there was nothing else to do, he went back to
the time office to watch again. He waited until nearly an
hour after seven, and then went to the room where Ona
worked to make inquiries of Ona’s “forelady.” The “fore-
lady,” he found, had not yet come: all the lines of cars that
came from downtown were stalled- there had been an
accident in the powerhouse, and no cars had been running
since last night. Meantime, however, the ham wrappers were
working away, with someone else in charge of them. The
girl who answered Jurgis was busy, and as she talked she
looked to see if she were being watched. Then a man came
up, wheeling a truck; he knew Jurgis for Ona’s husband, and
was curious about the mystery.

“Maybe the cars had something to do with it,” he sug-
gested—“maybe she had gone downtown.”

“No,” said Jurgis, “she never went downtown.”

“Perhaps not,” said the man.

Jurgis thought he saw him exchange a swift glance with
the girl as he spoke, and he demanded quickly, “What do
you know about it?”

But the man had seen that the boss was watching him;
he started on again, pushing his truck. “I don’t know any-
thing about it,” he said, over his shoulder. “How should I
know where your wife goes?”

Then Jurgis went out again, and paced up and down be-
fore the building. All morning he stayed there, with no
thought of his work. About noon he went to the police sta-
tion to make inquiries, and then came back again for another
anxious vigil. Finally, toward the middle of the afternoon, he
set out for home once more.

146

He was walking out Ashland Avenue. The streetcars had
begun running again, and several passed him, packed to the
steps with people. The sight of them set Jurgis to thinking
again of the man’s sarcastic remark; and half involuntarily
he found himself watching the cars—with the result that
he gave a sudden startled exclamation, and stopped short in
his tracks.

Then he broke into a run. For a whole block he tore
after the car, only a little ways behind. That rusty black
hat with the drooping red flower, it might not be Ona’s,
but there was very little likelihood of it. He would know
for certain very soon, for she would get out two blocks
ahead. He slowed down, and let the car go on.

She got out; and as soon as she was out of sight on the
side street Jurgis broke into a run. Suspicion was rife in
him now, and he was not ashamed to shadow her; he
saw her turn the corner near their home, and then he ran
again, and saw her as she went up the porch steps of the
house. After that he turned back, and for five minutes
paced up and down, his hands clenched tightly and his lips
set, his mind in a turmoil. Then he went home and entered.

As he opened the door, he saw Elzbieta, who had also
been looking for Ona, and had come home again. She was
now on tiptoe, and had a finger on her lips. Jurgis waited
until she was close to him.

“Don’t make any noise,” she whispered, hurriedly.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Ona is asleep,” she panted. “She’s been very ily Tm
afraid her mind’s been wandering, Jurgis. She was lost on
the street all night, and I’ve only just succeeded in getting
her quiet.”

“When did she come in?” he asked.

“Soon after you left this morning,” said Elzbieta.

“And has she been out since?”

“No, of course not. She’s so weak, Jurgis, she

And he set his teeth hard together. “You are lying to
me,” he said.

Elzbieta started, and turned pale. “Why!” she gasped.
“What do you mean?”

But Jurgis did not answer. He pushed her aside, and
strode to the bedroom door and opened it.

Ona was sitting on the bed. She turned a startled look
upon him as he entered. He closed the door in Elzbieta’s

147

99

face, and went toward his wife. “Where have you been?”
he demanded.

She had her hands clasped tightly in her lap, and he
saw that her face was as white as paper, and drawn with
pain. She gasped once or twice as she tried to answer him,
and then began, speaking low, and swiftly, “Jurgis, I—I think
I have been out of my mind. I started to come last night, and
I could not find the way. I walked—I walked all night, I
think, and—and I only got home—this morning.”

“You needed a rest,” he said, in a hard tone. “Why did
you go out again?”

He was looking her fairly in the face, and he could read
the sudden fear and wild uncertainty that leaped into her
eyes. “I—I had to go to—to the store,” she gasped, al-
most in a whisper, “I had to go——”

“You are lying to me,” said Jurgis.

Then he clenched his hands and took a step toward her.
“Why do you lie to me?” he cried, fiercely. “What are you
doing that you have to lie to me?”

“Jurgis!” she exclaimed, starting up in fright. “Oh, Jurgis,
how can you?”

“You have lied to me, I say!” he cried. “You told me you
had been to Jadvyga’s house that other night, and you
hadn’t. You had been where you were last night—some-
wheres downtown, for I saw you get off the car. Where
were you?”

It was as if he had struck a knife into her. She seemed
to go all to pieces. For half a second she stood, reeling
and swaying, staring at him with horror in her eyes; then,
with a cry of anguish, she tottered forward, stretching out
her arms to him.

But he stepped aside, deliberately, and let her fall. She
caught herself at the side of the bed, and then sank down,
burying her face in her hands and bursting into frantic
weeping.

There came one of those hysterical crises that had so
often dismayed him. Ona sobbed and wept, her fear and
anguish building themselves up into long climaxes. Furious
gusts of emotion would come sweeping over her, shaking
her as the tempest shakes the trees upon the hills; all her
frame would quiver and throb with them—it was as if some
dreadful thing rose up within her and took possession of
her, torturing her, tearing her. This thing had been wont
to set Jurgis quite beside himself; but now he stood with

148

his lips set tightly and his hands clenched—she might weep
til she killed herself, but she should not move him this
time—not an inch, not an inch. Because the sounds she made
set his blood to running cold’‘and his lips to quivering in
spite of himself, he was glad of the diversion when Teta
Elzbieta, pale with fright, opened the door and rushed in;
yet he turned upon her with an oath. “Go out!” he cried,
“go out!” And then, as she stood hesitating, about to speak,
he seized her by the arm, and half flung her from the room,
slamming the door and barring it with a table. Then he
turned again and faced Ona, crying—‘“Now, answer me!”

Yet she did not hear him—she was still in the grip of the
fiend. Jurgis could see her outstretched hands, shaking and
twitching, roaming here and there over the bed at will,
like living things; he could see convulsive shudderings start
in her body and run through her limbs. She was sobbing
and choking—it was as if there were too many sounds for
one throat, they came chasing each other, like waves upon
the sea. Then her voice would begin to rise into screams,
louder and louder until it broke in wild, horrible peals of
laughter. Jurgis bore it until he could bear it no longer,
and then he sprang at her, seizing her by the shoulders and
shaking her, shouting into her ear: “Stop it, I say! Stop
it!”

She looked up at him, out of her agony; then she fell
forward at his feet. She caught them in her hands, in spite
of his efforts to step aside, and with her face upon the
floor lay writhing. It made a choking in Jurgis’s throat to
hear her, and he cried again, more savagely than before:
“Stop it, I say!”

This time she heeded him, and caught her breath and lay
silent, save for the gasping sobs that wrenched all her frame.
For a long minute she lay there, perfectly motionless,
until a cold fear seized her husband, thinking that she was
dying. Suddenly, however, he heard her voice, faintly:
“Jurgis! Jurgis!”

“What is it?” he said.

He had to bend down to her, she was so weak. She was
pleading with him, in broken phrases, painfully uttered:
“Have faith in me! Believe me!”

“Believe what?” he cried.

“Believe that I—that I know best—that I love you! And
do not ask me—what you did. Oh, Jurgis, please, please!
It is for the best—it is it

149

He started to speak again, but she rushed on frantically,
heading him off. “If you will only do it! If you wili only
—only believe me! It wasn’t my fauit—I couldn’t help it
—it will be all right—it is nothing—it is no harm. Oh,
Jurgis—please. please!”

She had hold of him, and was trying to raise herself to
look at him; he could feel the palsied shaking of her hands
and the heaving of the bosom she pressed against him. She
managed to catch one of his hands and gripped it convul-
sively, drawing it to her face, and bathing it in her tears.
“Oh, believe me, believe me!” she wailed again; and he
shouted in fury, “I will not!”

But still she clung to him, wailing aloud in her despair:
“Oh, Jurgis, think what you are doing! It will ruin us—it
will ruin us! Oh, no, you must not do it! No, don’t, don’t
do it. You must not do it! It will drive me mad—it will
kill me—no, no, Jurgis, I am crazy—it is nothing. You do
not really need to know. We can be happv—we can love
each other just the same. Oh, please, please. believe me!”

Her words fairly drove him wild. He tore his hands loose,
and flung her off. “Answer me,” he cried. “God damn it, I
say—answer me!”

She sank down upon the floor, beginning to cry again. It
was like listening to the moan of a damned soul, and Jur-
gis could not stand it. He smote his fist upon the table by
his side, and shouted again at her, “Answer me!”

She began to scream aloud, her voice like the voice of
some wild beast: “Ah! Ah! I can’t! I can’t do it!”

“Why can’t you do it?” he shouted.

“T don’t know how!”

He sprang and caught her by the arm, lifting her up, and
glaring into her face. “Tell me where you were last night!”
he panted. “Quick, out with it!”

Then she began to whisper, one word at a time: “J—was
in—a house—downtown a

“What house? What do you mean?”

She tried to hide her eyes away, but he held her. “Miss
Henderson’s house,” she gasped.

He did not understand at first. ““Miss Henderson’s house,”
he echoed. And then suddenly, as in an explosion, the
horrible truth burst over him, and he reeled and staggered
back with a scream. He caught himself against the wall,
and put his hand to his forehead, staring about him, and
whispering, “Jesus! Jesus!”

150

An instant later he leaped at her, as she lay groveling at
his feet. He seized her by the throat. “Tell me!” he gasped,
hoarsely. “Quick! Who took you to that place?”

She tried to get away, making him furious; he thought it
was fear, or the pain of his clutch—he did not understand
that it was the agony of her shame. Still she answered him,
“Connor.”

“Connor,” he gasped. “Who is Connor?”

“The boss,” she answered. “The man

He tightened his grip, in his frenzy, and only when he
saw her eyes closing did he realize that he was choking her.
Then he relaxed his fingers, and crouched, waiting, until she
opened her lids again. His breath beat hot into her face.

“Tell me,” he whispered, at last, “tell me about it.”

She lay perfectly motionless, and he had to hold his
breath to catch her words. “I did not want—to do it,” she
said; “I tried—lI tried not to do it. I only did it—to save us.
It was our only chance.”

Again, for a space, there was no sound but his panting.
Ona’s eyes closed and when she spoke again she did not
open them. “He told me—he would have me turned off.
He told me he would—we would all of us lose our places.
We could never get anything to do—here—again. He—he
meant it—he would have ruined us.”

Jurgis’s arms were shaking so that he could scarcely hold
himself up, and lurched forward now and then as he lis-
tened. “When—when did this begin?” he gasped.

“At the very first,” she said. She spoke as if in a trance.
“It was all—it was their plot—Miss Henderson’s plot. She
hated me. And he—he wanted me. He used to speak to
me—out on the platform. Then he began to—to make love
to me. He offered me money. He begged me—he said he
loved me. Then he threatened me. He knew all about us,
he knew we would starve. He knew your boss—he knew
Marija’s. He would hound us to death, he said—then he
said if I would—if I—we would all of us be sure of work—
always. Then one day he caught hold of me—he would
not let go—he—he <1

‘Where was this?”

“In the hallway—at night—after every one had gone. I
could not help it. I thought of you—of the baby—of mother
and the children. I was afraid of him—afraid to cry out.”

A moment ago her face had been ashen gray, now it was

151

99

scarlet. She was beginning to breathe hard again. Jurgis
made not a sound.

“That was two months ago. Then he wanted me to come—
to that house. He wanted me to stay there. He said all of
us—that we would not have to work. He made me come
there—in the evenings. I told you—you thought I was at the
factory. Then—one night it snowed, and I couldn't get
back. And last night—the cars were stopped. It was such a
little thing—to ruin us all. I tried to walk, but I couldn’t. I
didn’t want you to know. It would have—it would have been
all right. We could have gone on—just the same—you need
never have known about it. He was getting tired of me
—he would have let me alone soon. I am going to have a
baby—I am getting ugly. He told me that—twice, he told
me, last night. He kicked me—last night—too. And now you
will kill him—you—you will kill him—and we shall die.”

All this she had said without a quiver; she lay still as
death, not an eyelid moving. And Jurgis, too, said not a
word. He lifted himself by the bed, and stood up. He did
not stop for another glance at her, but went to the door
and opened it. He did not see Elzbieta, crouching terrified
in the corner. He went out, hatless, leaving the street door
open behind him. The instant his feet were on the sidewalk
he broke into a run.

He ran like one possessed, blindly, furiously, looking
neither to the right nor left. He was on Ashland Avenue
before exhaustion compelled him to slow down, and then,
noticing a car, he made a dart for it and drew himself
aboard. His eyes were wild and his hair flying, and he was
breathing hoarsely, like a wounded bull; but the people on
the car did not notice this particularly—perhaps it seemed
natural to them that a man who smelt as Jurgis smelt should
exhibit an aspect to correspond. They began to give way
before him as usual. The conductor took his nickel gingerly,
with the tips of his fingers, and then left him with the plat-
form to himself. Jurgis did not even notice it—his thoughts
were far away. Within his soul it was like a roaring furnace;
he stood waiting, waiting, crouching as if for a spring.

He had some of his breath back when the car came to
the entrance of the yards, and so he leaped off and started
again, racing at full speed. People turned and stared at him,
but he saw no one—there was the factory, and he bounded
through the doorway and down the corridor. He knew the

152

i ee |

— [ A “ft
room where Ona worked, and he knew Connor, the boss of
the loading gang outside. He looked for the man as he
sprang into the room.

The truckmen were hard at work, loading the freshly
packed boxes and barrels upon the cars. Jurgis shot one
swift glance up and down the platform—the man was not
on it. But then suddenly he heard a voice in the corridor,
and started for it with a bound. In an instant more he
fronted the boss.

He was a big, red-faced Irishman, coarse-featured, and
smelling of liquor. He saw Jurgis as he crossed the threshold,
and turned white. He hesitated one second, as if meaning
to run; and in the next his assailant was upon him. He put
up his hands to protect his face, but Jurgis, lunging with
all the power of his arm and body, struck him fairly be-
tween the eyes and knocked him backward. The next mo-
ment he was on top of him, burying his fingers in his throat.

To Jurgis this man’s whole presence reeked of the crime
he had committed; the touch of his body was madness to
him—it set every nerve of him atremble, it aroused all the
demon in his soul. It had worked its will upon Ona, this
great beast—and now he had it, he had it! It was his
turn now! Things swam blood before him, and he screamed
aloud in his fury, lifting his victim and smashing his head
upon the floor.

The place, of course, was in an uproar; women fainting
and shrieking, and men rushing in. Jurgis was so bent
upon his task that he knew nothing of this, and scarcely
realized that people were trying to interfere with him; it
was only when half a dozen men had seized him by the
legs and shoulders and were pulling at him, that he under-
stood that he was losing his prey. In a flash he had bent
down and sunk his teeth into the man’s cheek; and when
they tore him away he was dripping with blood, and little
ribbons of skin were hanging in his mouth.

They got him down upon the floor, clinging to him by
his arms and legs, and still they could hardly hold him.
He fought like a tiger, writhing and twisting, half flinging
them off, and starting toward his unconscious enemy.
But yet others rushed in, until there was a little mountain
of twisted limbs and bodies, heaving and tossing, and work-
ing its way about the room. In the end, by their sheer
weight, they choked the breath out of him, and then they
carried him to the company police station, where he lay

153

still until they had summoned a patrol wagon to take him
away.

«K«cacKce FE »w»w»wnnn»

Wien Jurgis got up again he went quietly enough. He
was exhausted and half dazed, and besides he saw the blue
uniforms of the policemen. He drove in a patrol wagon with
half a dozen of them watching him; keeping as far away as
possible, however, on account of the fertilizer. Then he stood
before the sergeant’s desk and gave his name and address,
saw a charge of assault and battery entered against him. On
his way to his cell a burly policeman cursed him because
he started down the wrong corridor, and then added a kick
when he was not quick enough; nevertheless, Jurgis did not
even lift his eyes—he had lived two years and a half in Pack-
ingtown, and he knew what the police were. It was as much as
a man’s very life was worth to anger them, here in their in-
most lair; like as not a dozen would pile on to him at once,
and pound his face into a pulp. It would be nothing un-
usual if he got his skull cracked in the melee—in which case
they would report that he had been drunk and had fallen
down, and there would be no one to know the difference or
to care.

So a barred door clanged upon Jurgis and he sat down
upon a bench and buried his face in his hands. He was alone;
he had the afternoon and all of the night to himself.

At first he was like a wild beast that has glutted itself; he
was in a dull stupor of satisfaction. He had done up the
scoundrel pretty well—not as well as he would have if they
had given him a minute more, but pretty well, all the same;
the ends of his fingers were still tingling from their contact
with the fellow’s throat. But then, little by little, as his
strength came back and his senses cleared, he began to see
beyond his momentary gratification; that he had nearly
killed the boss would not help Ona—not the horrors that she
had borne, nor the memory that would haunt her all her days.
It would not help to feed her and her child; she would cer-
tainly lose her place, while he—what was to happen to him
God only knew.

Half the night he paced the floor, wrestling with this night-
mare; and when he was exhausted he lay down, trying to

154

sleep, but finding instead, for the first time in his life, that
his brain was too much for him. In the cell next to hima was
a drunken wife-beater and in the one beyond a yelling ma-
niac. At midnight they opened the station-house to the home=
less wanderers who were crowded about the door, shivering
in the winter blast, and they thronged into the corridor out-
side of the cells. Some of them stretched themselves out on
the bare stone floor and fell to snoring; others sat up, laugh-
ing and talking, cursing and quarrelling. The air was fetid
with their breath, yet in spite of this some of them smelt
Jurgis and called down the torments of hell upon him, while
he lay in a far corner of his cell, counting the throbbings
of the blood in his forehead.

They had brought him his supper, which was “duffers and
dope”—being hunks of dry bread on a tin plate, and coffee,
called “dope” because it was drugged to keep the prisoners
quiet. Jurgis had not known this, or he would have swallowed
the stuff in desperation; as it was, every nerve of him was
aquiver with shame and rage. Toward morning the place fell
silent, and he got up and began to pace his cell; and then
within the soul of him there rose up a fiend, red-eyed and
cruel, and tore out the strings of his heart.

It was not for himself that he suffered—what did a man
who worked in Durham’s fertilizer mill care about anything
that the world might do to him! What was any tyranny of
prison compared with the tyranny of the past, of the thing
that had happened and could not be recalled, of the memory
that could never be effaced! The horror of it drove him mad;
he stretched out his arms to heaven, crying out for deliver-
ance from it—and there was no deliverance, there was no
power even in heaven that could undo the past. It was a ghost
that would not down; it followed him, it seized upon him
and beat him to the ground. Ah, if only he could have fore-
seen it—but then, he would have foreseen it, if he had not
been a fool! He smote his hands upon his forehead, cursing
himself because he had ever allowed Ona to work where she
had, because he had not stood between her and a fate which
every one knew to be so common. He should have taken her
away, even if it were to lie down and die of starvation in the
gutters of Chicago’s streets! And now—oh, it could not be
true; it was too monstrous, too horrible.

It was a thing that could not be faced; a new shuddering
seized him every time he tried to think of it. No, there was
no bearing the load of it, there was no living under it. There

155

—

———

would be none for her—he knew that he might pardon her,
might plead with her on his knees, but she would never look
him in the face again, she would never be his wife again.
The shame of it would kill her—there could be no other de-
liverance, and it was best that she should die.

This was simple and clear, and yet, with cruel inconsist-
ency, whenever he escaped from this nightmare it was to suf-
fer and cry out at the vision of Ona starving. They had put
him in jail, and they would keep him here a long time, years
maybe. And Ona would surely not go to work again, broken
and crushed as she was. And Elzbieta and Marija, too, might
lose their places—if that hell-fiend Connor chose to set to
work to ruin them, they would all be turned out. And even
if he did not, they could not live—even if the boys left school
again, they could surely not pay all the bills without him and
Ona. They had only a few dollars now—they had just paid
the rent of the house a week ago, and that after it was two
weeks overdue. So it would be due again in a week! They
would have no money to pay it then—and they would lose
the house, after all their long, heart-breaking struggle. Three
times now the agent had warned him that he would not tol-
erate another delay. Perhaps it was very base of Jurgis to be
thinking about the house when he had the other unspeakable
thing to fill his mind; yet, how much he had suffered for this
house, how much they had all of them suffered! It was their
one hope of respite, as long as they lived; they had put all
their money into it—and they were working people, poor
people, whose money was their strength, the very substance
of them, body and soul, the thing by which they lived and
for lack of which they died.

And they would lose it all; they would be turned out into
the streets, and have to hide in some icy garret, and live or die
as best they could! Jurgis had all the night—and all of many
more nights—to think about this, and he saw the thing in
its details; he lived it all, as if he were there. They would sell
their furniture, and then run into debt at the stores, and then
be refused credit; they would borrow a little from the Szed-
vilases, whose delicatessen store was tottering on the brink
of ruin; the neighbors would come and help them a little—
poor, sick Jadvyga would bring a few spare pennies, as she al-
ways did when people were starving, and Tamoszius Kuszlei-
ka would bring them the proceeds of a night’s fiddling. So
they would struggle to hang on until he got out of jail—or
would they know that he was in jail, would they be able to

156

find out anything about him? Would they be allowed to see
him—or was it to be part of his punishment to be aa in ig-
norance about their fate?

His mind would hang upon the worst possibilities; he saw

Ona ill and tortured, Marija out of her place, little Stanislovas

unable to get to work for the snow, the whole family turned
out on the street. God Almighty! would they actually let them

| lie down in the street and die? Would there be no help even

then—would they wander about in the snow till they froze?
Jurgis had never seen any dead bodies in the streets, but he
had seen people evicted and disappear, no one knew where;
and though the city had a relief bureau, though there was a
charity organization society in the stockyards district, in all
his life there he had never heard of either of them. They did
not advertise their activities, having more calls than they
could attend to without that.

—So on until morning. Then he had another ride in the
patrol wagon, along with the drunken wife-beater and the
maniac, several “plain drunks” and “saloon fighters,” a bur-
glar, and two men who had been arrested for stealing meat
from the packing houses. Along with them he was driven
into a large, white-walled room, stale-smelling and crowd-
ed. In front, upon a raised platform behind a rail, sat a stout,
florid-faced personage, with a nose broken out in purple
blotches.

Our friend realized vaguely that he was about to be tried.
He wondered what for—whether or not his victim might be
dead, and if so, what they would do with him. Hang him,
perhaps, or beat him to death—nothing would have surprised
Jurgis, who knew little of the laws. Yet he had picked up gos-
sip enough to have it occur to him that the loud-voiced man
upon the bench might be the notorious Justice Callahan,
about whom the people of Packingtown spoke with bated
breath.

“Pat” Callahan—“Growler”’ Pat, as he had been known
before he ascended the bench—had begun life as a butcher
boy and a bruiser of local reputation; he had gone into poli-
tics almost as soon as he had learned to talk, and had held
two offices at once before he was old enough to vote. If Scul-
ly was the thumb, Pat Callahan was the first finger of the
unseen hand whereby the packers held down the people of
the district. No politician in Chicago ranked higher in their
confidence; he had been at it a long time—had been the busi-
ness agent in the city council of old Durham, the self-made

157

merchant, way back in the early days, when the whole city of
Chicago had been up at auction. “Growler” Pat had given up
holding city offices very early in his career—caring only for
party power, and giving the rest of his time to superintending
his dives and brothels. Of late years, however, since his chil-
dren were growing up, he had begun to value respectability,
and had had himself made a magistrate; a position for which
he was admirably fitted, because of his strong conservatism
and his contempt for “foreigners.”

Jurgis sat gazing about the room for an hour or two; he
was in hopes that someone of the family would come, but in
this he was disappointed. Finally, he was led before the bar,
and a lawyer for the company appeared against him. Connor
was under the doctor’s care, the lawyer explained briefly, and
if his Honor would hold the prisoner for a week— “Three
hundred dollars,” said his Honor, promptly.

Jurgis was staring from the judge to the lawyer in perplex-
ity. “Have you anyone to go on your bond?” demanded the
judge, and then a clerk who stood at Jurgis’s elbow explained
to him what this meant. The latter shook his head, and be-
fore he realized what had happened the policemen were lead-
ing him away again. They took him to a room where other
prisoners were waiting, and here he stayed until court ad-
journed, when he had another long and bitterly cold ride in a
_ patrol wagon to the county jail, which is on the north side
_ of the city, and nine or ten miles from the stockyards.
Here they searched Jurgis, leaving him only his money,
| which consisted of fifteen cents. Then they led him to a room

_and told him to strip for a bath; after which he had to walk
down a long gallery, past the grated cell doors of the inmates
of the jail. This was a great event to the latter—the daily
review of the new arrivals, all stark naked, and many and
diverting were the comments. Jurgis was required to stay in
the bath longer than any one, in the vain hope of getting out
of him a few of his phosphates and acids. The prisoners
roomed two in a cell, but that day there was one left over,
and he was the one.

The cells were in tiers, opening upon galleries. His cell
was about five feet by seven in size, with a stone floor and a
heavy wooden bench built into it. There was no window—
the only light came from windows near the roof at one end
of the court outside. There were two bunks, one above the
other, each with a straw mattress and a pair of gray blankets
—the latter stiff as boards with filth, and alive with fleas, bed-

158

_ bugs, and lice. When Jurgis lifted up the mattress he discov-
ered beneath it a layer of scurrying roaches, almost as badly
frightened as himself.

Here they brought him more “duffers and dope,” with
the addition of a bowl of soup. Many of the prisoners had
their meals brought in from a restaurant, but Jurgis had no

_ money for that. Some had books to read and cards to play,

_ with candles to burn by night, but Jurgis was all alone in

_ darkness and silence. He could not sleep again; there was the

_ same maddening procession of thoughts that lashed him like

whips upon his naked back. When night fell he was pacing

up and down his cell like a wild beast that breaks its teeth
upon the bars of its cage. Now and then in his frenzy he
would fling himself against the walls of the place, beating his
hands upon them. They cut him and bruised him—they were

_ cold and merciless as the men who had built them.

In the distance there was a church-tower bell that tolled

- the hours one by one. When it came to midnight Jurgis was

lying upon the floor with his head in his arms, listening. In-

stead of falling silent at the end, the bell broke into a sudden
clangor. Jurgis raised his head; what could that mean—a
fire? God! suppose there were to be a fire in this jail! But

_ then he made out a melody in the ringing; there were chimes.
And they seemed to waken the city—all around, far and

| near, there were bells, ringing wild music; for fully a minute

_ Jurgis lay lost in wonder, before, all at once, the meaning

of it broke over him—that this was Christmas Eve!

_ Christmas Eve—he had forgotten it entirely! There was a

_ breaking of flood-gates, a whirl of new memories and new

griefs rushing into his mind. In far Lithuania they had cele-

brated Christmas; and it came to him as if it had been yes-
terday—himself a little child, with his lost brother and his
dead father in the cabin in the deep black forest, where the
snow fell all day and all night and buried them from the
world. It was too far off for Santa Claus in Lithuania, but it
was not too far for peace and good will to men, for the won-
der-bearing vision of the Christ-child. And even in Packing-
town they had not forgotten it—some gleam of it had never
failed to break their darkness. Last Christmas Eve and all

Christmas Day Jurgis had toiled on the killing beds, and

Ona at wrapping hams, and still they had found strength

enough to take the children for a walk upon the avenue, to

see the store windows all decorated with Christmas trees and
ablaze with electric lights. In one window there would be
159

live geese, in another marvels in sugar—pink and white canes
big enough for ogres, and cakes with cherubs upon them; in
a third there would be rows of fat yellow turkeys, decorated
with rosettes, and rabbits and squirrels hanging; in a fourth
would be a fairyland of toys—lovely dolls with pink dresses,
and woolly sheep and drums and soldier hats. Nor did they
have to go without their share of all this, either. The last
time they had had a big basket with them and all their
Christmas marketing to do—a roast of pork and a cabbage
and some rye bread, and a pair of mittens for Ona, and a
rubber doll that squeaked, and a little green cornucopia full
of candy to be hung from the gas jet and gazed at by half a
dozen pairs of longing eyes.

Even half a year of the sausage machines and the fertilizer
mill had not been able to kill the thought of Christmas in
them; there was a choking in Jurgis’s throat as he recalled
that the very night Ona had not come home Teta Elzbieta
had taken him aside and shown him an old valentine that
she had picked up in a paper store for three cents—dingy
and shop-worn, but with bright colors, and figures of angels
and doves. She had wiped all the specks off this, and was go-
ing to set it on the mantel, where the children could see it.
Great sobs shook Jurgis at this memory—they would spend
their Christmas in misery and despair, with him in prison
and Ona ill and their home in desolation. Ah, it was too cruel!
Why at least had they not left him alone—why, after they
had shut him in jail, must they be ringing Christmas chimes
in his ears!

But no, their bells were not ringing for him—their Christ-
mas was not meant for him, they were simply not counting
him at all. He was of no consequence—he was flung aside,
like a bit of trash, the carcass of some animal. It was hor-
rible, horrible! His wife might be dying, his baby might be
starving, his whole family might be perishing in the cold—
and all the while they were ringing their Christmas chimes!
And the bitter mockery of it—all this was punishment for
him! They put him in a place where the snow could not beat
in, where the cold could not eat through his bones; they
brought him food and drink—why, in the name of heaven,
if they must punish him, did they not put his family in jail
and leave him outside—why could they find no better way
to punish him than to leave three weak women and six help-
less children to starve and freeze?

That was their law, that was their justice! Jurgis stood up-

160

&

‘right, trembling with passion, his hands clenched and his
arms upraised, his whole soul ablaze with hatred and de-
fiance. Ten thousand curses upon them and their law! Their
justice—it was a lie, it was a lie, a hideous, brutal lie, a
thing too black and hateful for any world but a world of
nightmares. It was a sham and a loathsome mockery. There

was no justice, there was no right, anywhere in it—it was
only force, it was tyranny, the will and the power, reckless

and unrestrained! They had ground him beneath their heel,
they had devoured all his substance; they had murdered his
old father, they had broken and wrecked his wife, they had
crushed and cowed his whole family; and now they were
through with him, they had no further use for him—and be-
cause he had interfered with them, had gotten in their way,
‘this was what they had done to him! They had put him be-
hind bars, as if he had been a wild beast, a thing without
sense or reason, without rights, without affections, without
feelings. Nay, they would not even have treated a beast as
they had treated him! Would any man in his senses have

trapped a wild thing in its lair, and left its young behind to

die?
These midnight hours were fateful ones to Jurgis; in them
was the beginning of his rebellion, of his outlawry and his

unbelief. He had no wit to trace back the social crime to its
- far sources—he could not say that it was the thing men have
called “the system” that was crushing him to the earth; that

it was the packers, his masters, who had bought up the law

of the land, and had dealt out their brutal will to him from
the seat of justice. He only knew that he was wronged, and
that the world had wronged him; that the law, that society,
with all its powers, had declared itself his foe. And every
hour his soul grew blacker, every hour he dreamed new
dreams of vengeance, of defiance, of raging, frenzied hate.

“The vilest deeds, like poison weeds,
Bloom well in prison air;

It is only what is good in Man
That wastes and withers there;

Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
And the Warder is Despair.”

So wrote a poet, to whom the world had dealt its justice—

“I know not whether Laws be right,
Or whether Laws be wrong;
161

All that we know who lie in gaol
Is that the wall is strong.

And they do well to hide their hell,
For in it things are done

That Son of God nor son of Man
Ever should look upon!”

eK«aecae FF »»»»n»

Ay SEVEN O'clock the next morning Jurgis was let out to get
water to wash his cell—a duty which he performed faith-
fully, but which most of the prisoners were accustomed to
shirk, until their cells became so filthy that the guards inter-
posed. Then he had more “duffers and dope,” and after-
ward was allowed three hours for exercise, in a long, cement-
walled court roofed with glass. Here were all the inmates
of the jail crowded together. At one side of the court was a
place for visitors, cut off by two heavy wire screens, a foot
apart, so that nothing could be passed in to the prisoners; here
Jurgis watched anxiously, but there came no one to see him.

Soon after he went back to his cell, a keeper opened the
door to let in another prisoner. He was a dapper young fellow,
with a light brown mustache and blue eyes, and a graceful
figure. He nodded to Jurgis, and then, as the keeper closed
the door upon him, began gazing critically about him.

“Well, pal,” he said, as his glance encountered Jurgis
again, “good morning.”

“Good morning,” said Jurgis.

“A rum go for Christmas, eh?” added the other.

Jurgis nodded.

The newcomer went to the bunks and inspected the blan-
kets; he lifted up the mattress, and then dropped it with
an exclamation. “My God!” he said, “that’s the worst yet.”

He gianced at Jurgis again. “Looks as if it hadn’t been slept
in last night. Couldn’t stand it, eh?”

“TI didn’t want to sleep last night,” said Jurgis.

“When did you come in?”

“Yesterday.”

The other had another look round, and then wrinkled up
his nose. “There’s the devil of a stink in here,’ he said,
suddenly. “What is it?”

“It’s me,” said Jurgis.

162

———

“You?”

=v essmes:

“Didn't they make you wash?”

“Yes, but this don’t wash.”

“What is it?”

“Fertilizer.”

“Fertilizer! The deuce! What are you?”

“I work in the stockyards—at least I did until the other
day. It’s in my clothes.”

“That’s a new one on me,” said the newcomer. “I thought
I'd been up against ’em all. What are you in for?”

“T hit my boss.”

“Oh—that’s it. What did he do?”

““He—he treated me mean.”

“I see. You're what’s called an honest workingman!”
“What are you?” Jurgis asked.

“1?” The other laughed. “They say I’m a cracksman,” he
said.

“What’s that?” asked Jurgis.

“Safes, and such things,” answered the other.

“Oh,” said Jurgis, wonderingly, and stared at the speaker
in awe. “You mean you break into them—you—you—”

“Yes,” laughed the other, “that’s what they say.”

He did not look to be over twenty-two or three, though,
as Jurgis found afterward, he was thirty. He spoke like a man
of education, like what the world calls a “gentleman.”

“Is that what you’re here for?” Jurgis inquired.

“No,” was the answer. “I’m here for disorderly conduct.
They were mad because they couldn’t get any evidence.

“What’s your name?’ the young fellow continued after
a pause. “My name’s Duane—Jack Duane. I’ve more than a
dozen, but that’s my company one.” He seated himself on the
floor with his back to the wall and his legs crossed, and went
on talking easily; he soon put Jurgis on a friendly footing—
he was evidently a man of the world, used to getting on, and
not too proud to hold conversation with a mere laboring man.
He drew Jurgis out, and heard all about his life—all but the
One unmentionable thing; and then he told stories about his
own life. He was a great one for stories, not always of the
choicest. Being sent to jail had apparently not disturbed his
cheerfulness; he had “done time” twice before, it seemed,
and he took it all with a frolic welcome. What with women
and wine and the excitement of his vocation, a man could
afford to rest now and then.

;

163

Naturally, the aspect of prison life was changed for Jurgis
by the arrival of a cellmate. He could not turn his face to the
wall and sulk, he had to speak when he was spoken to; nor
could he help being interested in the conversation of Duane
—the first educated man with whom he had ever talked. How
could he help listening with wonder while the other told of
midnight ventures and perilous escapes, of feastings and
orgies, of fortunes squandered in a night? The young fellow
had an amused contempt for Jurgis, as a sort of working
mule; he, too, had felt the world’s injustice, but instead of
bearing it patiently, he had struck back, and struck hard.
He was striking all the time—there was war between him
and society. He was a genial freebooter, living off the enemy,
without fear or shame. He was not always victorious, but
then defeat did not mean annihilation, and need not break
his spirit.

Withal he was a good-hearted fellow—too much so, it
appeared. His story came out, not in the first day, nor the
second, but in the long hours that dragged by, in which they
had nothing to do but talk, and nothing to talk of but them-
selves. Jack Duane was from the East; he was a college-bred
tnan—had been studying electrical engineering. Then his
father had met with misfortune in business and killed him-
self; and there had been his mother and a younger brother
and sister. Also, there was an invention of Duane’s; Jurgis
could not understand it clearly, but it had to do with tele-
graphing, and it was a very important thing—there were
fortunes in it, millions upon millions of doilars. And Duane
had been robbed of it by a great company, and got tangled
up in lawsuits and lost all his money. Then somebody had
given him a tip on a horse-race, and he had tried to retrieve
his fortune with another person’s money, and had to run
away, and all the rest had come from that. The other asked
him what had led him to safe-breaking—to Jurgis a wild
and appalling occupation to think about. A man he had met,
his cellmate had replied—one thing leads to another. Didn’t
he ever wonder about his family, Jurgis asked. Sometimes, the
other answered, but not often—he didn’t allow it. Thinking
about it would make it no better. This wasn’t a world in which
a man had any business with a family; sooner or later Jurgis
would find that out also, and give up the fight and shift for
himself.

Jurgis was so transparently what he pretended to be that
his cellmate was as open with him as a child; it was pleasant

164

a |

xe
“

ma

to tell him adventures, he was full of wonder and ads

miration, he was so new to the ways of the country. Duane
did not even bother to keep back names and places—he told
all his triumphs and his failures, his loves and his griefs. Also
he introduced Jurgis to many of the other prisoners, nearly
half of whom he knew by name. The crowd had already
given Jurgis a name—they called him “the stinker.” This
was cruel, but they meant no harm by it, and he took it with

od-natured grin.

"box friend had caught now and then a whiff from the
sewers over which he lived, but this was the first time that
he had ever been splashed by their filth. This jail was a Noah’s
ark of the city’s crime—there were murderers, “hold-up
men” and burglars, embezzlers, counterfeiters and forgers,
bigamists, “shoplifters,” “confidence men,” petty thieves and
pickpockets, gamblers and procurers, brawlers, beggars,
tramps and drunkards; they were black and white, old and
young, Americans and natives of every nation under the
sun. There were hardened criminals and innocent men too
poor to give bail; old men, and boys literally not yet in their
teens. They were the drainage of the great festering ulcer of
society; they were hideous to look upon, sickening to talk to.
All life had turned to rottenness and stench in them—love
was a beastliness, joy was a snare, and God was an impreca-
tion. They strolled here and there about the courtyard, and
Jurgis listened to them. He was ignorant and they were wise;
they had been everywhere and tried everything. They could
tell the whole hateful story of it, set forth the inner soul of
a city in which justice and honor, women’s bodies and men’s
souls, were for sale in the marketplace, and human beings
writhed and fought and fell upon each other like wolves
in a pit, in which lusts were raging fires, and men were
fuel, and humanity was festering and stewing and wallowing
in its own corruption. Into this wild-beast tangle these men
had been born without their consent, they had taken part
in it because they could not help it; that they were in jail
was no disgrace to them, for the game had never been fair,
the dice were loaded. They were swindlers and thieves of,

nd dimes,and they had been trapped and put aut

pennies_an
the way by the swindlers and thieves of millions of dollars.

To most of this Jurgis tried not to listen. They frightened
him with their savage mockery; and all the while his heart
was far away, where his loved ones were calling. Now and

165

then in the midst of it his thoughts would take flight; and then
the tears would come into his eyes—and he would be
called back by the jeering laughter of his companions.

He spent a week in this company, and during all that
time he had no word from his home. He paid one of his
fifteen cents for a postal card, and his companion wrote a
note to the family, telling them where he was and when he
would be tried. There came no answer to it, however, and
at last, the day before New Year’s, Jurgis bade good-by to
Jack Duane. The latter gave him his address, or rather the
address of his mistress, and made Jurgis promise to look him
up. “Maybe I could help you out of a hole some day,” he
said, and added that he was sorry to have him go. Jurgis rode
in the patrol wagon back to Justice Callahan’s court for
trial.

One of the first things he made out as he entered the
room was Teta Elzbieta and little Kotrina, looking pale and
frightened, seated far in the rear. His heart began to pound,
but he did not dare to try to signal to them, and neither
did Elzbieta. He took his seat in the prisoners’ pen and sat
gazing at them in helpless agony. He saw that Ona was not
with them, and was full of foreboding as to what that might
mean. He spent half an hour brooding over this—and then
suddenly he straightened up and the blood rushed into his
face. A man had come in—Jurgis could not see his features
for the bandages that swathed him, but he knew the burly
figure. It was Connor! A trembling seized him, and his limbs
bent as if for a spring. Then suddenly he felt a hand on his
collar, and heard a voice behind him: “Sit down, you son of
a

He subsided, but he never took his eyes off his enemy.
The fellow was still alive, which was a disappointment, in
One way; and yet it was pleasant to see him, all in penitential
plasters. He and the company lawyer, who was with him,
came and took seats within the judge’s railing; and a minute
later the clerk called Jurgis’ name, and the policeman jerked
him to his feet and led him before the bar, gripping him
tightly by the arm, lest he should spring upon the boss.

Jurgis listened while the man entered the witness chair,
took the oath, and told his story. The wife of the prisoner
had been employed in a department near him, and had been
discharged for impudence to him. Half an hour later he had
been violently attacked, knocked down, and almost choked to
death. He had brought witnesses—

166

“They will probably not be necessary,” observed the judge,
and he turned to Jurgis. “You admit attacking the plaintiff?’
he asked.

“Him?” inquired Jurgis, pointing at the boss.

“Yes,” said the judge.

“T hit him, sir,” said Jurgis.

“Say ‘your Honor,’” said the officer, pinching his arm
hard.

“Your Honor,” said Jurgis, obediently.

*“You tried to choke him?”

“Yes, sir, your Honor.”

“Ever been arrested before?”

“No, sir, your Honor.”

“What have you to say for yourself?”

Jurgis hesitated. What had he to say? In two years and a
half he had learned to speak English for practical purposes,
but these had never included the statement that some one had
intimidated and seduced his wife. He tried once or twice,
stammering and balking, to the annoyance of the judge, who
was gasping from the odor of fertilizer. Finally, the prisoner
made it understood that his vocabulary was inadequate, and
there stepped up a dapper young man with waxed mustaches,
bidding him speak in any language he knew.

Jurgis began; supposing that he would be given time, he
explained how the boss had taken advantage of his wife’s
position to make advances to her and had threatened her
with the loss of her place. When the interpreter had trans-
lated this, the judge, whose calendar was crowded, and whose
automobile was ordered for a certain hour, interrupted with
the remark: “Oh, I see. Well, if he made love to your wife,
why didn’t she complain to the superintendent or leave the
place?” |

Jurgis hesitated, somewhat taken aback; he began to ex-
plain that they were very poor—that work was hard to get—

“I see,” said Justice Callahan; “so instead you thought you
would knock him down.” He turned to the plaintiff, inquir-
ing, “Is there any truth in this story, Mr. Connor?”

“Not a particle, your Honor,” said the boss. “It is very
unpleasant—they tell some such tale every time you have
to discharge a woman—”

“Yes, I know,” said the judge. “I hear it often enough.
The fellow seems to have handled you pretty roughly. Thirty
days and costs. Next case.”

Jurgis had been listening in perplexity. It was only when

167

the policeman who had him by the arm turned and started
to lead him away that he realized that sentence had been
passed. He gazed round him wildly. “Thirty days!” he
panted—and then he whirled upon the judge. “What will my
family do?” he cried, frantically. “I have a wife and baby, sir,
and they have no money—my God, they will starve to
death!”

“You would have done well to think about them before
you committed the assault,” said the judge, dryly, as he
turned to look at the next prisoner.

Jurgis would have spoken again, but the policeman had
seized him by the collar and was twisting it, and a second
policeman was making for him with evidently hostile inten-
tions. So he let them lead him away. Far down the room he
saw Elzbieta and Kotrina, risen from their seats, staring in
fright; he made one effort to go to them, and then, brought
back by another twist at his throat, he bowed his head and
gave up the struggle. They thrust him into a cellroom, where
other prisoners were waiting; and as soon as court had ad-
journed they led him down with them into the “Black Maria,”
and drove him away.

This time Jurgis was bound for the “Bridewell,” a petty
jail where Cook County prisoners serve their time. It was
even filthier and more crowded than the county jail; all the
smaller fry out of the latter had been sifted into it—the petty
thieves and swindlers, the brawlers and vagrants. For his
cellmate Jurgis had an Italian fruit-seller who had refused to
pay his graft to the policeman, and been arrested for carry-
ing a large pocketknife; as he did not understand a word of
English our friend was glad when he left. He gave place to
a Norwegian sailor, who had lost half an ear in a drunken
brawl, and who proved to be quarrelsome, cursing Jurgis
because he moved in his bunk and caused the roaches to drop
upon the lower one. It would have been quite intolerable,
staying in a cell with this wild beast, but for the fact that
all day long the prisoners were put at work breaking stone.

Ten days of his thirty Jurgis spent thus, without hearing a
word from his family; then one day a keeper came and in-
formed him that there was a visitor to see him. Jurgis turned
white, and so weak at the knees that he could hardly
leave his cell.

The man led him down the corridor and a flight of eae
to the visitors’ room, which was barred like a cell. Through

168 “ O

the grating Jurgis could see some one sitting in a chair; and
as he came into the room the person started up, and he saw
that it was little Stanislovas. At the sight of someone from
home the big fellow nearly went to pieces—he had to steady
himself by a chair, and he put his other hand to his forehead,
as if to clear away a mist. “Well?” he said, weakly.

Little Stanislovas was also trembling, and all but too
frightened to speak. “They—they sent me to tell you—” he
said, with a gulp.

“Well?” Jurgis repeated.

He followed the boy’s glance to where the keeper was
standing watching them. “Never mind that,” Jurgis cried,
wildly. “How are they?”

“Ona is very sick,” Stanislovas said; “and we are almost
starving. We can’t get along; we thought you might be able
to help us.”

Jurgis gripped the chair tighter; there were beads of per-
spiration on his forehead, and his hand shook. “I—can’t—
help you,” he said.

“Ona lies in her room all day,” the boy went on, breath-
lessly. “She won’t eat anything, and she cries all the time.
She won’t tell what is the matter and she won’t go to work
at all. Then a long time ago the man came for the rent. He
Was very cross. He came again last week. He said he would
turn us out of the house. And then Marija—”

A sob choked Stanislovas, and he stopped. “What’s the
matter with Marija?” cried Jurgis.

“She’s cut her hand!” said the boy. “She’s cut it bad, this
time, worse than before. She can’t work and it’s all turning
green, and the company doctor says she may—she may have
to have it cut off. And Marija cries all the time—her money
is nearly all gone, too, and we can’t pay the rent and the
interest on the house; and we have no coal and nothing more
to eat, and the man at the store, he says—”

The little fellow stopped again, beginning to whimper.
“Go on!” the other panted in frenzy—“Go on!”

“JI will,” sobbed Stanislovas. “It’s so—so cold all the
time. And last Sunday it snowed again—a deep, deep snow
—and I couldn’t—couldn’t get to work.”

“God!” Jurgis half shouted, and he took a step toward
the child. There was an old hatred between them because of
the snow—ever since that dreadful morning when the boy had
had his fingers frozen and Jurgis had had to beat him to
send him to work. Now he clenched his hands, looking as if

169

he would try to break through the grating. “You little villain,”
he cried, “you didn’t try!”

“J did—I did!” wailed Stanislovas, shrinking from him in
terror. “I tried all day—two days. Elzbieta was with me, and
she couldn’t either. We couldn’t walk at all, it was so deep.
And we had nothing to eat, and oh, it was so cold! I tried,
and then the third day Ona went with me—”

“Ona!”

“Yes. She tried to go to work, too. She had to. We were
all starving. But she had lost her place—”

Jurgis reeled, and gave a gasp. “She went back to
that place?” he screamed.

“She tried to,” said Stanislovas, gazing at him in perplexity.
“Why not, Jurgis?”

The man breathed hard, three or four times. “Go—on,”
he panted, finally.

“T went with her,” said Stanislovas, “but Miss Henderson
wouldn’t take her back. And Connor saw her and cursed her.
He was still bandaged up—why did you hit him, Jurgis?”
(There was some fascinating mystery about this, the little
fellow knew; but he could get no satisfaction.)

Jurgis could not speak; he could only stare, his eyes start-
ing out. “She has been trying to get other work,” the boy
went on; “but she’s so weak she can’t keep up. And my
boss would not take me back, either—Ona says he knows
Connor, and that’s the reason; they’ve all got a grudge
against us now. So I’ve got to go downtown and sell papers
with the rest of the boys and Kotrina—”

“Kotrina!”’

“Yes, she’s been selling papers, too. She does best, be-
cause she’s a girl. Only the cold is so bad—it’s terrible com-
ing home at night, Jurgis. Sometimes they can’t come home
at all—I’m going to try to find them tonight and sleep
where they do, it’s so late and it’s such a long ways home.
I’ve had to walk, and I didn’t know where it was—I don’t
know how to get back, either. Only mother said I must
come, because you would want to know, and maybe
somebody would help your family when they had put
you in jail so you couldn’t work. And I walked all day to
get here—and I only had a piece of bread for breakfast,
Jurgis. Mother hasn’t any work either, because the sausage
department is shut down; and she goes and begs at houses
with a basket, and people give her food. Only she didn’t get

170

{| much yesterday; It was too cold for her fingers, and today
she was crying—”

So little Stanislovas went on, sobbing as he talked; and
Jurgis stood, gripping the table tightly, saying not a word,
but feeling that his head would burst; it was like having
weights piled upon him, one after another, crushing the
life out of him. He struggled and fought within himself—
as if in some terrible nightmare, in which a man suffers an
agony, and cannot lift his hand, nor cry out, but feels
that he is going mad, that his brain is on fire—

Just when it seemed to him that another turn of the
screw would kill him, little Stanislovas stopped. “You cannot
help us?” he said weakly.

Jurgis shook his head.

“They won’t give you anything here?”

He shook it again.

“When are you coming out?”

“Three weeks yet,” Jurgis answered.

And the boy gazed around him uncertainly. “Then I
might as well go,” he said.

Jurgis: nodded. Then, suddenly recollecting, he put his
hand into his pocket and drew it out, shaking. “Here,” he
said, holding out the fourteen cents. “Take this to them.”

And Stanislovas took it, and after a little more hesitation,
started for the door. “Good-by, Jurgis,’ he said, and the
other noticed that he walked unsteadily as he passed out of
sight.

For a minute or so Jurgis stood clinging to the chair, reel-
ing and swaying; then the keeper touched him on the arm,
and he turned and went back to breaking stone.

KEKK EK 13 99 99.99 99.99.99

J uRGIS did not get out of the Bridewell quite as soon as he
had expected. To his sentence there were added “court costs”
of a dollar and a half—he was supposed to pay for the trou-
ble of putting him in jail, and not having the money, was
obliged to work it off by three days more of toil. Nobody
had taken the trouble to tell him this—only after counting
the days and looking forward to the end in an agony of im-
patience, when the hour came that he expected to be free he
found himself still set at the stone-heap, and laughed at
171

when he ventured to protest. Then he concluded he must
have counted wrong; but as another day passed, he gave up
all hope—and was sunk in the depths of despair, when one
morning after breakfast a keeper came to him with the word
that his time was up at last. So he doffed his prison garb,
and put on his old fertilizer clothing, and heard the door of
the prison clang behind him.

He stood upon the steps, bewildered; he could hardly be-
lieve that it was true—that the sky was above him again
and the open street before him; that he was a free man. But
then the cold began to strike through his clothes, and he
started quickly away.

There had been a heavy snow, and now a thaw had set in;
a fine sleety rain was falling, driven by a wind that pierced
Jurgis to the bone. He had not stopped for his overcoat when
he set out to “do up” Connor, and so his rides in the patrol
wagons had been cruel experiences; his clothing was old and
worn thin, and it never had been very warm. Now as he
trudged on the rain soon wet it through; there were six inches
of watery slush on the sidewalks, so that his feet would soon
have been soaked, even had there been no holes in his shoes.

Jurgis had had enough to eat in the jail, and the work had
been the least trying of any that he had done since he came
to Chicago; but even so, he had not grown strong—the fear
and grief that had preyed upon his mind had worn him thin.
Now he shivered and shrunk from the rain, hiding his hands
in his pockets and hunching his shoulders together. The
Bridewell grounds were on the outskirts of the city and the
country around them was unsettled and wild—on one side
was the big drainage canal, and on the other a maze of rail-
road tracks, and so the wind had full sweep.

After walking a ways, Jurgis met a little ragamuffin whom
he hailed: “Hey, sonny!”

The boy cocked one eye at him—he knew that Jurgis was
a “jail bird” by his shaven head. “Wot yer want?” he
queried.

“How do you go to the stockyards?” Jurgis demanded.

“T don’t go,” replied the boy.

Jurgis hesitated a moment, nonplussed. Then he said, “I
mean which is the way?”

“Why don’t yer say so then?” was the response, and the
boy pointed to the northwest, across the tracks. “That way.”

“How far is it?” Jurgis asked.

“T dunno,” said the other. “Mebby twenty miles or so.”

172

a ve

Twenty miles!” Jurgis echoed, and his face fell. He had
_to walk every foot of it, for they had turned him out of jail
| without a penny in his pockets.
Yet, when he once got started, and his blood had warmed
_ with walking, he forgot everything in the fever of his thoughts.
_ All the dreadful imaginations that had haunted him in his
cell now rushed into his mind at once. The agony was al-
most over—he was going to find out; and he clenched his
hands in his pockets as he strode, following his flying de-
sire, almost at a run. Ona—the baby—the family—the house

—he would know the truth about them all! And he was com-

ing to the rescue—he was free again! His hands were his

own, and he could help them, he could do battle for them
against the world.

For an hour or so he walked thus, and then he began to
look about him. He seemed to be leaving the city altogether.
The street was turning into a country road, leading out to
the westward; there were snow-covered fields on either side
of him. Soon he met a farmer driving a two-horse wago8
loaded with straw, and he stopped him.

“Is this the way to the stockyards?” he asked.

The farmer scratched his head. “I dunno jest where they
be,” he said. “But they’re in the city somewhere, and you're
going dead away from it now.”

Jurgis. looked dazed. “I was told this was the way,” he
said.

“Who told you?”

St A boy.”

“Well, mebbe he was playing a joke on ye. The best thing
ye kin do is to go back, and when ye git into town ask a po-
liceman. I'd take ye in, only ’ve come a long ways an’ I’m
loaded heavy. Git up!”

So Jurgis turned and followed, and toward the end of the
morning he began to see Chicago again. Past endless blocks
of two-story shanties he walked, along wooden sidewalks
and unpaved pathways treacherous with deep slush holes.
Every few blocks there would be a railroad crossing on the
level with the sidewalk, a death trap for the unwary; long
freight trains would be passing, the cars clanking and
crashing together, and Jurgis would pace about waiting,
burning up with a fever of impatience. Occasionally the cars
would stop for some minutes, and wagons and streetcars
would crowd together waiting, the drivers swearing at each
other, or hiding beneath umbrellas out of the rain; at such

173

times Jurgis would dodge under the gates and run across the

tracks and between the cars, taking his life into his hands.

He crossed a long bridge over a river frozen solid and
covered with slush. Not even on the river bank was the
snow white—the rain which fell was a diluted solution of
smoke, and Jurgis’s hands and face were streaked with black.
Then he came into the business part of the city, where the
streets were sewers of inky blackness, with horses slipping
and plunging, and women and children flying across in panic-
stricken droves. These streets were huge canyons formed
by towering black buildings, echoing with the clang of car
gongs and the shouts of drivers; the people who swarmed in
them were as busy as ants—all hurrying breathlessly, never
stopping to look at anything nor at each other. The solitary
trampish-looking foreigner, with water-soaked clothing and
haggard face and anxious eyes, was as much alone as he
hurried past them, as much unheeded and as lost, as if he
had been a thousand miles deep in a wilderness.

A policeman gave him his direction and told him that he
had five miles to go. He came again to the slum districts, to
avenues of saloons and cheap stores, with long dingy red
factory buildings, and coal yards and railroad tracks; and
then Jurgis lifted up his head and began to sniff the air like
a startled animal—scenting the far-off odor of home. It was
late afternoon then, and he was hungry, but the dinner in-
vitations hung out of the saloons were not for him.

So he came at last to the stockyards, to the black vol-
canoes of smoke and the lowing cattle and the stench.
Then, seeing a crowded car, his impatience got the better of
him and he jumped aboard, hiding behind another man, un-
noticed by the conductor. In ten minutes more he had
reached his street, and home.

He was half running as he came round the corner. There
was the house, at any rate—and then suddenly he stopped and
Stared. What was the matter with the house?

Jurgis looked twice, bewildered; then he glanced at the
house next door and at the one beyond—then at the saloon
on the corner. Yes, it was the right place, quite certainly—
he had not made any mistake. But the house—the house was
a different color!

He came a couple of steps nearer. Yes; it had been gray
and now it was yellow! The trimmings around the windows
had been red, and now they were green! It was all newly
painted! How strange it made it seem!

174

|

&

— *.
..

Jurgis went closer yet, but keeping on the other side of the
street. A sudden and horrible spasm of fear had come over
him. His knees were shaking beneath him, and his mind
was in a whirl. New paint on the house, and new weather-
boards, where the old had begun to rot off, and the agent had
got after them! New shingles over the hole in the roof, too,
the hole that had for six months been the bane of his soul—
he having no money to have it fixed and no time to fix it
himself, and the rain leaking in, and overflowing the pots
and pans he put to catch it, and flooding the attic and loosen-
ing the plaster. And now it was fixed! And the broken win-
dow pane replaced! And curtains in the windows! New,
white curtains, stiff and shiny!

Then suddenly the front door opened. Jurgis stood, his
chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. A boy had
come out, a stranger to him; a big, fat, rosy-cheeked young-
ster, such as had never been seen in his home before.

Jurgis stared at the boy, fascinated. He came down the
steps whistling, kicking off the snow. He stopped at the
foot, and picked up some, and then leaned against the rail-

_ ing, making a snowball. A moment later he looked around
and saw Jurgis, and their eyes met; it was a hostile glance,
the boy evidently thinking that the other had suspicions of
the snowball. When Jurgis started slowly across the street to-
ward him, he gave a quick glance about, meditating retreat,
but then he concluded to stand his ground.

Jurgis took hold of the railing of the steps, for he was a
little unsteady. “What—what are you doing here?” he
managed to gasp.

“Go on!” said the boy.

“You—” Jurgis tried again. “What do you want here?”

“Me?” answered the boy, angrily. “I live here.”

“You live here!” Jurgis panted. He turned white, and
clung more tightly to the railing. “You live here! Then
where’s my family?”

The boy looked surprised. “Your family!” he echoed.

And Jurgis started toward him. “I—this is my house!” he
cried.

“Come off!” said the boy; then suddenly the door upstairs
opened, and he called: “Hey, ma! Here’s a fellow says he
owns this house.”

A stout Irish woman came to the top of the steps. “What’s
that?” she demanded.

Jurgis turned toward her. “Where is my family!” he cried,

175

wildly. “I left them here! This is my home! What are you |
doing in my home?”

The woman stared at him in frightened wonder, she must
have thought she was dealing with a maniac—Jurgis looked
like one. “Your home!” she echoed.

“My home!” he half shrieked. “I lived here, I tell you.”

“You must be mistaken,” she answered him. “No one ever
lived here. This is a new house. They told us so. They—”

“What have they done with my family?” shouted Jurgis,
frantically.

A light had begun to break upon the woman; perhaps she
had had doubts of what “they” had told her. “I don’t know
where your family is,” she said. “I bought the house only
three days ago, and there was nobody here, and they told
me it was all new. Do you really mean you had ever rented
it?”

“Rented it!” panted Jurgis. “I bought it! I paid for it! I
own it! And they—my God, can’t you tell me where my
people went?”

She made him understand at last that she knew nothing.
Jurgis’s brain was so confused that he could not grasp the
situation. It was as if his family had been wiped out of exist-
ence; as if they were proving to be dream people, who never
had existed at all. He was quite lost—but then suddenly he
thought of Grandmother Majauszkiene, who lived in the next
block. She would know! He turned and started at a run.

Grandmother Majauszkiene came to the door herself. She
cried out when she saw Jurgis, wild-eyed and shaking. Yes,
yes, she could tell him. The family had moved; they had not
been able to pay the rent and they had been turned out into
the snow, and the house had been repainted and sold again
the next week. No, she had not heard how they were, but
She could tell him that they had gone back to Aniele Juk-
niene, with whom they had stayed when they first came to
the yards. Wouldn’t Jurgis come in and rest? It was certainly
too bad—if only he had not got into jail—

And so Jurgis turned and staggered away. He did not go
very far—round the corner he gave out completely, and sat
down on the steps of a saloon, and hid his face in his hands,
and shook all over with dry, racking sobs.

Their home! Their home! They had lost it! Grief, despair,
rage, overwhelmed him—what was any imagination of the
thing to this heart-breaking, crushing reality of it—to the
sight of strange people living in his house, hanging their cur-

176

tains in his windows, staring at him with hostile eyes! It was
monstrous, it was unthinkable—they could not do it—it could
not be true! Only think what he had suffered for that house
—what miseries they had all suffered for it—the price they |
had paid for it!

The whole long agony came back to him. Their sacrifices
in the beginning, their three hundred dollars that they had
scraped together, all they owned in the world, all that stood
between them and starvation! And then their toil, month by
month, to get together the twelve dollars, and the interest as
well, and now and then the taxes, and the other charges, and
the repairs, and what not! Why, they had put their very
souls into their payments on that house, they had paid for it
with their sweat and tears—yes, more, with their very life
blood. Dede Antanas had died of the struggle to earn that
money—he would have been alive and strong today if he had
not had to work in Durham’s dark cellars to earn his share.
And Ona, too, had given her health and strength to pay for it
—she was wrecked and ruined because of it; and so was he,
who had been a big, strong man three years ago, and now
sat here shivering, broken, cowed, weeping like a hysterical
child. Ah! they had cast their all into the fight; and they
had lost, they had lost! All that they had paid was gone—
every cent of it. And their house was gone—they were back
where they had started from, flung out into the cold to starve
and freeze!

Jurgis could see all the truth now—could see himself,
through the whole long course of events, the victim of rav-
enous vultures that had torn into his vitals and devoured
him; of fiends that had racked and tortured him, mocking
him, meantime, jeering in his face. Ah, God, the horror of it,
the monstrous, hideous, demoniacal wickedness of it! He
and his family, helpless women and children, struggling to
live, ignorant and defenceless and forlorn as they were—and
the enemies that had been lurking for them, crouching upon
their trail and thirsting for their blood! That first lying cir-
cular, that smooth-tongued slippery agent! That trap of the
extra payments, the interest, and all the other charges that
they had not the means to pay, and would never have at-
tempted to pay! And then all the tricks of the packers, their
masters, the tyrants who ruled them—the shutdowns and
the scarcity of work, the irregular hours and the cruel speed-
ing up, the lowering of wages, the raising of prices! The
mercilessness of nature about them, of heat and cold, rain

177 ,

and snow; the mercilessness of the city, of the country in
which they lived, of its laws and customs that they did not
understand! All of these things had worked together for
the company that had marked them for its prey and was
waiting for its chance. And now, with this last hideous in-
justice, its time had come, and it had turned them out bag
and baggage, and taken their house and sold it again! And
they could do nothing, they were tied hand and foot—the
law was against them, the whole machinery of society was
at their oppressors’ command! If Jurgis so much as raised a
hand against them, back he would go into that wild-beast
pen from which he had just escaped!

To get up and go away was to give up, to acknowledge
defeat, to leave the strange family in possession; and Jurgis
might have sat shivering in the rain for hours before he could
do that, had it not been for the thought of his family. It
might be that he had worse things yet to learn—and so he
got to his feet and started away, walking on, wearily, half-
dazed.

To Aniele’s house, in back of the yards, was a good two
miles; the distance had never seemed longer to Jurgis, and
when he saw the familiar dingy-gray shanty his heart was
beating fast. He ran up the steps and began to hammer upon
the door.

The old woman herself came to open it. She had shrunk all
up with her rheumatism since Jurgis had seen her last, and
her yellow parchment face stared up at him from a little
above the level of the doorknob. She gave a start when she
saw him. “Is Ona here?” he cried, breathlessly.

“Yes,” was the answer, “she’s here.”

“How—” Jurgis began, and then stopped short, clutching
convulsively at the side of the door. From somewhere within
the house had come a sudden cry, a wild, horrible scream of
anguish. And the voice was Ona’s.

For a moment Jurgis stood half-paralyzed with fright; then
he bounded past the old woman and into the room.

It was Aniele’s kitchen, and huddled round the stove were
half a dozen women, pale and frightened. One of them start-
ed to her feet as Jurgis entered; she was haggard and fright-
fully thin, with one arm tied up in bandages—he hardly re-
alized that it was Marija. He looked first for Ona; then, not
seeing her, he stared at the women, expecting them to speak.
But they sat dumb, gazing back at him, panic-stricken; and a
second later came another piercing scream.

178

It was from the rear of the house, and upstairs. Jurgis
bounded to a door of the room and flung it open; there was
a ladder leading through a trap-door to the garret, and he
was at the foot of it, when suddenly he heard a voice behind
him, and saw Marija at his heels. She seized him by the sleeve
with her good hand, panting wildly, “No, no, Jurgis! Stop!”

“What do you mean?” he gasped.

‘You mustn’t go up,” she cried.

Jurgis was half-crazed with bewilderment and fright.
“What’s the matter?” he shouted. “What is it?”

Marija clung to him tightly; he could hear Ona sobbing
and moaning above, and he fought to get away and climb up,
without waiting for her reply. “No, no,” she rushed on. “Jur-
gis! You mustn’t go up! It’s—it’s the child!”

“The child?” he echoed in perplexity. “Antanas?”

Marija answered him, in a whisper: “The new one!”

And then Jurgis went limp, and caught himself on the lad-
der. He stared at her as if she were a ghost. “The new one!”
he gasped. “But it isn’t time,” he added, wildly.

Marija nodded. “I know,” she said; “but it’s come.”

And then again came Ona’s scream, smiting him like a
blow in the face, making him wince and turn white. Her
voice died away into a wail—then he heard her sobbing
again, “My God—let me die, let me die!” And Marija flung
her arms about him, crying: “Come out! Come away!”

She dragged him back into the kitchen, half carrying him,
for he had gone all to pieces. It was as if the pillars of his
soul had fallen in—he was blasted with horror. In the room
he sank into a chair, trembling like a leaf, Marija still holding
him, and the women staring at him in dumb, helpless fright.

And then again Ona cried out; he could hear it nearly as
plainly here, and he staggered to his feet. “How long has
this been going on?” he panted.

“Not very long,” Marija answered, and then, at a signal
from Aniele, she rushed on: “You go away, Jurgis—you can’t
help—go away and come back later. It’s all right—it’s—”

“Who’s with her?” Jurgis demanded; and then, seeing Mari-
ja hesitating, he cried again, ““Who’s with her?”

“She’s—she’s all right,” she answered. “Elzbieta’s with her.”

“But the doctor!” he panted. “Someone who knows!”

He seized Marija by the arm; she trembled, and her voice
sank beneath a whisper as she replied, “We—we have no
money.” Then, frightened at the look on his face, she ex-

| 179
Beh

‘claimed: “It’s all right, Jurgis! You don’t understand—go
away—go away! Ah, if you only had waited!”

Above her protests Jurgis heard Ona again; he was almost
out of his mind. It was all new to him, raw and horrible—it
had fallen upon him like a lightning stroke. When little An-
tanas was born he had been at work, and had known nothing
about it until it was over; and now he was not to be con-
trolled. The frightened women were at their wits’ end; one
after another they tried to reason with him, to make him
understand that this was the lot of woman. In the end they
half drove him out into the rain, where he began to pace up
and down, bareheaded and frantic. Because he could hear
Ona from the street, he would first go away to escape the
sounds, and then come back because he could not help it. At
the end of a quarter of an hour he rushed up the steps again,
and for fear that he would break in the door they had to
open it and let him in.

There was no arguing with him. They could not tell him
that all was going well—how could they know, he cried—
why, she was dying, she was being torn to pieces! Listen to
her—listen! Why, it was monstrous—it could not be allowed
—there must be some help for it! Had they tried to get a doc-
tor? They might pay him afterwards—they could promise—

“We couldn’t promise, Jurgis,” protested Marija. “We had
no money—we have scarcely been able to keep alive.”

“But I can work,” Jurgis exclaimed. “I can earn money!”

“Yes,” she answered—“but we thought you were in jail.
How could we know when you would return? They will not
work for nothing.”

Marija went on to tell how she had tried to find a midwife,
and how they had demanded ten, fifteen, even twenty-five
dollars, and that in cash. “And I had only a quarter,” she
said. “I have spent every cent of my money—all that I had
in the bank; and I owe the doctor who has been coming to
see me, and he has stopped because he thinks I don’t mean
to pay him. And we owe Aniele for two weeks’ rent, and she
is nearly starving, and is afraid of being turned out. We have
been borrowing and begging to keep alive, and there is noth-
ing more we can do—”

“And the children?” cried Jurgis.

“The children have not been home for three days, the
weather has been so bad. They could not know what is hap-
pening—it came suddenly, two months before we expected
it.”

180

Jurgis was standing by the table, and he caught himself
with his hands; his head sank and his arms shook— it looked
as if he were going to collapse. Then suddenly Aniele got up
and came hobbling toward him, fumbling in her skirt pocket.
She drew out a dirty rag, in one corner of which she had
something tied.

“Here, Jurgis!” she said, “I have some money. Palauk!
See!”

She unwrapped it and counted it out—thirty-four cents.
“You go, now,” she said, “and try and get somebody your-
self. And maybe the rest can help—give him some money,
you; he will pay you back someday, and it will do him good
to have something to think about, even if he doesn’t succeed.
When he comes back, maybe it will be over.”

And so the other women turned out the contents of their
pocket-books; most of them had only pennies and nickels,
but they gave him all. Mrs. Olszewski, who lived next door,
and had a husband who has a skilled cattle butcher, but a
drinking man, gave nearly half a dollar, enough to raise the
whole sum to a dollar and a quarter. Then Jurgis thrust it
into his pocket, still holding it tightly in his fist, and started
away at a run.

«KKKKKe FQ w»w»»»nw

Mi aac HAUPT, Hebamme,” ran a sign, swinging from a
second-story window over a saloon on the avenue; at a side
door was another sign, with a hand pointing up a dingy flight
of steps. Jurgis went up them, three at a time.

Madame Haupt was frying pork and onions, and had her
door half open to let out the smoke. When he tried to knock
upon it, it swung open the rest of the way, and he had a
glimpse of her, with a black bottle turned up to her lips. Then
he knocked louder, and she started and put it away. She was
a Dutch woman, enormously fat—when she walked she rolled
like a small boat on the ocean, and the dishes in the cup-
board jostled each other. She wore a filthy blue wrapper, and
her teeth were black.

“Vot is it?” she said, when she saw Jurgis.

He had run like mad all the way and was so out of breath
he could hardly speak. His hair was disordered and his eyes

181

wild—he looked like a man that had risen from the tomb.
“My wife!’ he panted. “Come quickly!”

Madame Haupt set the frying pan to one side and wiped
her hands on her wrapper. “You vant me to come for a case?”
she inquired.

“Yes,” gasped Jurgis.

“T haf yust come back from a case,” she said. “I haf had
no time to eat my dinner. Still—if it is so bad—”

“Yes—it is!” cried he.

“Vell, den, perhaps—vot you pay?”

*J—I—how much do you want?” Jurgis stammered.

“Tventy-five dollars.”

His face fall. “I can’t pay that,” he said.

The woman was watching him narrowly. “How much do
you pay?” she demanded.

“Must I pay now—right away?”

“Yes; all my customers do.”

“J—I haven’t much money,” Jurgis began in an agony of
dread. “I’ve been in—in trouble—and my money is gone.
But I'll pay you—every cent—just as soon as I can; I can
work—”

“Vot is your work?”

“J have no place now. I must get one. But I—”

“How much haf you got now?”

He could hardly bring himself to reply. When he said “A
dollar and a quarter,” the woman laughed in his face.

“ft vould not put on my hat for a dollar und a quarter,”
she said.

“It’s all I’ve got,” he pleaded, his voice breaking. “I must
get some one—my wife will die. I can’t help it—I—”

Madame Haupt had put back her pork and onions on the
stove. She turned to him and answered, out of the steam
and noise: “Git me ten dollars cash, und so you can pay me
the rest next mont’.”

“I can’t do it—I haven’t got it!” Jurgis protested. “I tell
you I have only a dollar and a quarter.”

The woman turned to her work. “I don’t believe you,” she
said. “Dot is all to try to sheat me. Vot is de reason a big
man like you has got only a dollar und a quarter?”

“I’ve just been in jail,” Jurgis cried—he was ready to get
down upon his knees to the woman—“and I had no money
before, and my family has almost starved.”

“Vere is your friends, dot ought to help you?”

182

“They are all poor,” he answered. “They gave me this. I
have done everything I can—”

“Haven’t you got notting you can sell?”

“I have nothing, I tell you—I have nothing,” he cried,
frantically.

“Can’t you borrow it, den? Don’t your store people trust
you?” Then, as he shook his head, she went on: “Listen to
me—if you git me you vill be glad of it. I vill save your
wife und baby for you, und it vill not seem like mooch to
you in de end. If you loose dem now how you tink you feel
den? Und here is a lady dot knows her business—I could
send you to people in dis block, and dey vouid tell you—”

Madame Haupt was pointing her cooking fork at Jurgis
persuasively; but her words were more than he could bear.
He flung up his hands with a gesture of despair and turned
and started away. “It’s no use,” he exclaimed—but sudden-
ly he heard the woman’s voice behind him again:—

“T vill make it five dollars for you.”

She followed behind him, arguing with him. “You vill be
foolish not to take such an offer,” she said. “You von’t find
nobody to go out on a rainy day like dis for less. Vy, I haf
never took a case in my life so sheap as dot. I couldn’t pay
mine room rent—”

Jurgis interrupted her with an oath of rage. “If I haven’t
got it,’ he shouted, “how can I pay it? Damn it, I would
pay you if I could, but I tell you I haven’t got it. I haven’t
got it! Do you hear me—/ haven't got it!”

He turned and started away again. He was halfway down
the stairs before Madame Haupt could shout to him: “Vait!l
I vill go mit you! Come back!”

He went back into the room again.

“It is not goot to tink of anybody suffering,” she said, in
a melancholy voice. “I might as vell go mit you for notting
as vot you offer me, but I vill try to help you. How far is
at?”

“Three or four blocks from here.”

“Tree or four! Und so I shall get soaked! Gott in Him-
mel, it ought to be vorth more! Vun dollar und a quarter,
und a day like dis! But you understand now—you vill pay
me de rest of twenty-five dollars soon?”

“As soon as I can.”

“Some time dis mont?”

“Yes, within a month,” said poor Jurgis. “Anything! Hurry

up!”
macy OS toe

“Vere is de dollar und a quarter?” persisted Madame Haupt,
relentlessly.

Jurgis put the money on the table and the woman counted
it and stowed it away. Then she wiped her greasy hands
again and proceeded to get ready, complaining all the time;
she was so fat that it was painful for her to move, and she
grunted and gasped at every step. She took off her wrapper
without even taking the trouble to turn her back to Jurgis,
and put on her corsets and dress. Then there was a black
bonnet which had to be adjusted carefully, and an umbrella
which was mislaid, and a bag full of necessaries which had
to be collected from here and there—the man being nearly
crazy with anxiety in the meantime. When they were on the
street he kept about four paces ahead of her, turning now
and then, as if he could hurry her on by the force of his de-
sire. But Madame Haupt could only go so far at a step, and
it took all her attention to get the needed breath for that.

They came at last to the house, and to the group of fright-
ened women in the kitchen. It was not over yet, Jurgis
learned—he heard Ona crying still; and meantime Madame
Haupt removed her bonnet and laid it on the mantelpiece,
and got out of her bag, first an old dress and then a saucer
of goose-grease, which she proceeded to rub upon her
hands. The more cases this goose-grease is used in, the better
luck it brings to the midwife, and so she keeps it upon her
kitchen mantelpiece or stowed away in a cupboard with her
dirty clothes, for months, and sometimes even for years.

Then they escorted her to the ladder, and Jurgis heard her
give an exclamation of dismay. “Gott in Himmel, vot for haf
you brought me to a place like dis? I could not climb up dot
ladder. I could not git troo a trap-door! I vill not try it—vy,
I might kill myself already. Vot sort of a place is dot for a
woman to bear a child in—up in a garret, mit only a ladder
to it? You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!’ Jurgis stood
in the doorway and listened to her scolding, half drowning
out the horrible moans and screams of Ona.

At last Aniele succeeded in pacifying her, and she es-
sayed the ascent; then, however, she had to be stopped while
the old woman cautioned her about the floor of the garret.
They had no real floor—they had laid old boards in one
part to make a place for the family to live; it was all right
and safe there, but the other part of the garret had only the
joists of the floor, and the lath and plaster of the ceiling be-
low, and if one stepped on this there would be a catastrophe.

184

Se

As it was half dark up above, perhaps one of the others had
best go up first with a candle. Then there were more outcries
and threatening, until at last Jurgis had a vision of a pair of
elephantine legs disappearing through the trap-door, and felt
the house shake as Madame Haupt started to walk. Then sud-
denly Aniele came to him and took him by the arm.

“Now” she said, “you go.away. Do as I tell you—you
have done all you can, and you are only in the way. Go
away and stay away.”

“But where shall I go?” Jurgis asked, helplessly.

“I don’t know where,” she answered. “Go on the street, if
there is no other place—only go! And stay all night!”

In the end she and Marija pushed him out of the door
and shut it behind him. It was just about sundown, and it
was turning cold—the rain had changed to snow, and the
slush was freezing. Jurgis shivered in his thin clothing, and
put his hands into his pockets and started away. He had not
eaten since morning, and he felt weak and ill; with a sudden
throb of hope he recollected he was only a few blocks from
the saloon where he had been wont to eat his dinner. They
might have mercy on him there, or he might meet a friend.
He set out for the place as fast as he could walk.

“Hello, Jack,” said the saloon-keeper, when he entered—
they call all foreigners and unskilled men “Jack” in Packing-
town. “Where’ve you been?”

Jurgis went straight to the bar. “I’ve been in jail,” he said,
“and I’ve just got out. I walked home all the way, and I’ve
not a cent, and had nothing to eat since this morning. And
I’ve lost my home, and my wife’s ill, and I’m done up.”

The saloon-keeper gazed at him, with his haggard white
face and his blue trembling lips. Then he pushed a big bottle
toward him. “Fill her up!” he said.

Jurgis could hardly hold the bottle, his hands shook so.
“Don’t be afraid,” said the saloon-keeper; “fill her up!”

So Jurgis drank a huge glass of whiskey, and then turned
to the lunch-counter, in obedience to the other’s suggestion.
He ate all he dared, stuffing it in as fast as he could; and
then, after trying to speak his gratitude, he went and sat
down by the big red stove in the middle of the room.

It was too good to last, however—like all things in this
hard world. His soaked clothing began to steam, and the
horrible stench of fertilizer to fill the room. In an hour or
so the packing houses would be closing and the men coming
in from their work; and they would not come into a place

185

that smelt of Jurgis. Also it was Saturday night, and in a
couple of hours would come a violin and a cornet, and in
the rear part of the saloon the families of the neighborhood
would dance and feast upon wienerwurst and lager, until
two or three o’clock in the morning. The saloon-keeper
coughed once or twice, and then remarked, “Say, Jack, ’!m
afraid you'll have to quit.”

He was used to the sight of human wrecks, this saloon-
keeper; he “fired” dozens of them every night, just as hag-
gard and cold and forlorn as this one. But they were all
men who had given up and been counted out, while Jurgis
was still in the fight, and had reminders of decency about
him. As he got up meekly, the other reflected that he had
always been a steady man, and might soon be a good cus-
tomer again. “You’ve been up against it, I see,” he said.
“Come this way.”

In the rear of the saloon were the cellar stairs. There was
a door above and another below, both safely padlocked,
making the stairs an admirable place to stow away a cus-
tomer who might still chance to have money, or a political
light whom it was not advisable to kick out of doors.

So Jurgis spent the night. The whiskey had only half
warmed him, and he could not sleep, exhausted as he was;
he would nod forward, and then start up, shivering with
the cold, and begin to remember again. Hour after hour
passed, unil he could only persuade himself that it was not
morning by the sounds of music and laughter and singing
that were to be heard from the room. When at last these
ceased, he expected that he would be turned out into the
street; as this did not happen, he fell to wondering whether
the man had forgotten him.

In the end, when the silence and suspense were no longer
to be borne, he got up and hammered on the door; and the
proprietor came, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He was keep-
ing open all night, and dozing between customers.

“I want to go home,” Jurgis said. “I’m worried about my
wife—I can’t wait any longer.”

“Why the hell didn’t you say so before?” said the man. “I

thought you didn’t have any home to go to.”

Jurgis went outside. It was four o’clock in the morning,
and as black as night. There were three or four inches of
fresh snow on the ground, and the flakes were falling thick
and fast. He turned toward Aniele’s and started at a run.

There was a light burning in the kitchen window and the

186 c

blinds were drawn. The door was unlocked and Jurgis
rushed in. ;

Aniele, Marija, and the rest of the women were huddled
about the stove, exactly as before; with them were several
newcomers, Jurgis noticed—also he noticed that the house
was silent.

“Well?” he said.

No one answered him; they sat staring at him with their
pale faces. He cried again: “Well?”

And then, by the light of the smoky lamp, he saw Marija,
who sat nearest him, shaking her head slowly. “Not yet,”
she said.

And Jurgis gave a cry of dismay. “Not yet?”

Again Marija’s head shook. The poor fellow stood dumb-
founded. “I don’t hear her,” he gasped.

“She’s been quiet a long time,” replied the other.

There was another pause—broken suddenly by a voice
from the attic: “Hello, there!”

Several of the women ran into the next room, while Marija
sprang toward Jurgis. “Wait here!” she cried, and the two
stood, pale and trembling, listening. In a few moments it be-
came clear that Madame Haupt was engaged in descending the
ladder, scolding and exhorting again, while the ladder
creaked in protest. In a moment or two she reached the
ground, angry and breathless, and they heard her coming
into the room. Jurgis gave one glance at her, and then turned
white and reeled. She had her jacket off, like one of the
workers on the killing beds. Her hands and arms were
smeared with blood, and blood was splashed upon her cloth-
ing and her face.

She stood breathing hard, and gazing about her; no one
made a sound.

“I haf done my best,” she began suddenly. “I can do
notting more—dere is no use to try.”

Again there was silence.

“It ain’t my fault,” she said. “You had ought to haf had
a doctor, und not vaited so long—it was too late already
ven I come.” Once more there was deathlike stillness. Marija
was clutching Jurgis with all the power of her one well arm.

Then suddenly Madame Haupt turned to Aniele. “You
haf not got someting to drink, hey?” she queried. “Some
brandy?”

Aniele shook her head.

“Herr Gott!” exclaimed Madame Haupt. “Such peoplel

187

Perhaps you vill give me someting to eat den—I haf had
notting since yesterday morning, und I haf vorked myself
near to death here. If I could haf known it vas like dis, I
vould never haf come for such money as you gif me.”

At this moment she chanced to look round, and saw
Jurgis. She shook her finger at him. “You understand me,”
she said, “you pays me dot money yust de same! It is not
my fault dat you send for me so late I can’t help you vife.
It is not my fault if der baby comes mit one arm first, so dot
I can’t save it. I haf tried all night, und in dot place vere it is
not fit for dogs to be born, und mit notting to eat only vot I
brings in mine own pockets.”

Here Madame Haupt paused for a moment to get her
breath; and Marija, seeing the beads of sweat on Jurgis’s fore-
head, and feeling the quivering of his frame, broke out in a
low voice: “How is Ona?”

“How is she?” echoed Madame Haupt. “How do you tink
she can be ven you leave her to kill herself so? I told dem
dot ven they send for de priest. She is young, und she might
haf got over it, und been vell and strong, if she been treated
right. She fight hard, dot girl—she is not yet quite dead.”

And Jurgis gave a frantic scream. “Dead!”

“She vill die, of course,” said the other, angrily. “Der baby
is dead now.”

The garret was lighted by a candle stuck upon a board; it
had almost burned itself out, and was sputtering and smok-
ing as Jurgis rushed up the ladder. He could make out dimly
in one corner a pallet of rags and old blankets, spread upon
the floor; at the foot of it was a crucifix, and near it a priest
muttering a prayer. In a far corner crouched Elzbieta, moan-
ing and wailing. Upon the pallet lay Ona.

She was covered with a blanket, but he could see her
shoulders and one arm lying bare; she was so shrunken he
would scarcely have known her—she was all but a skeleton,
and as white as a piece of chalk. Her eyelids were closed,
and she lay still as death. He staggered toward her and fell
upon his knees with a cry of anguish: “Ona! Ona!”

She did not stir. He caught her hand in his, and began to
clasp it frantically, calling: “Look at me! Answer me! It is
Jurgis come back—don’t you hear me?”

There was the faintest quivering of the eyelids, and he
called again in frenzy: “Ona! Ona!”

Then suddenly her eyes opened—one instant. One instant
she looked at him—there was a flash of recognition between

188

them, he saw her afar off, as through a dim vista, standing
forlorn. He stretched out his arms to her, he called her in
wild despair; a fearful yearning surged up in him, hunger
for her that was agony, desire that was a new being born
within him, tearing his heartstrings, torturing him. But it
was all in vain—she faded from him, she slipped back and
was gone. And a wail of anguish burst from him, great sobs
shook all his frame, and hot tears ran down his cheeks and
fell upon her. He clutched her hands, he shook her, he caught
her in his arms and pressed her to him; but she lay cold and
still—she was gone—she was gone!

The word rang through him like the sound of a bell, echo-
ing in the far depths of him, making forgotten chords to vi-
brate, old shadowy fears to stir—fears of the dark, fears of
the void, fears of annihilation. She was dead! She was dead!
He would never see her again, never hear her again! An icy
horror of loneliness seized him; he saw himself standing
apart and watching all the world fade away from him—a
world of shadows, of fickle dreams. He was like a little
child, in his fright and grief; he called and called, and got no
answer, and his cries of despair echoed through the house,
making the women downstairs draw nearer to each other in
fear. He was inconsolable, beside himself—the priest came
and laid his hand upon his shoulder and whispered to him, but
he heard not a sound. He was gone away himself, stumbling
through the shadows, and groping after the soul that had fled.

So he lay. The gray dawn came up and crept into the attic.
The priest left, the women left, and he was alone with the still,
white figure—quieter now, but moaning and shuddering,
wrestling with the grisly fiend. Now and then he would raise
himself and stare at the white mask before him, then hide
his eyes, because he could not bear it. Dead! dead! And she
was only a girl, she was barely eighteen! Her life had hardly
begun—and here she lay murdered—mangled, tortured to
death!

It was morning when he rose up and came down into the
kitchen—haggard and ashen gray, reeling and dazed. More
of the neighbors had come in, and they stared at him in si-
lence as he sank down upon a chair by the table and buried
his face in his arms.

A few minutes later the front door opened; a blast of
cold and snow rushed in, and behind it little Kotrina, breath-

189

less from running, and blue with the cold. “I’m home again!”
she exclaimed. “I could hardly—”

And then, seeing Jurgis, she stopped as an exclamation.
Looking from one to another she saw that something had
happened, and she asked, in a lower voice, “What's the
matter?”

Before any one could reply, Jurgis started up; he went
toward her, walking unsteadily. “Where have you been?” he
demanded.

“Selling papers with the boys,” she said. “The snow—”

“Have you any money?” he demanded.

Sr

“How much?”

“Nearly three dollars, Jurgis.”

“Give it to me.”

Kotrina, frightened by his manner, glanced at the others.
“Give it to me!” he commanded again, and she put her hand
into her pocket and pulled out a lump of coins tied in a bit
of rag. Jurgis took it without a word, and went out of the
door and down the street.

Three doors away was a saloon. “Whiskey,” he said, as he
entered, and as the man pushed him some, he tore at the rag
with his teeth and pulled out half a dollar. “How much is the
bottle?” he said. “I want to get drunk.”

cxcccc DQ »w»»»»»

B.. a big man cannot stay drunk very long on three dol-
lars. That was Sunday morning, and Monday night Jurgis
came home, sober and sick, realizing he had spent every cent
the family owned, and had not bought a single instant’s for-
getfulness with it.

Ona was not yet buried; but the police had been notified,
and on the morrow they would put the body in a pine coffin
and take it to the potter’s field. Elzbieta was out begging
now, a few pennies from each of the neighbors, to get enough
to pay for a mass for her; and the children were upstairs
starving to death, while he, good-for-nothing rascal, had been
spending their money on drink. So spoke Aniele, scornfully,
and when he started toward the fire she added the informa-
tion that her kitchen was no longer for him to fill with his
phosphate stinks. She had crowded all her boarders into one

190

room on Ona’s account, but now he could go up in the gar-
ret where he belonged—and not there much longer, either,
if he did not pay her some rent.

Jurgis went without a word, and, stepping over half a
dozen sleeping boarders in the next room, ascended the lad-
der. It was dark up above; they could not afford any light;
also it was nearly as cold as outdoors. In a corner, as far
away from the corpse as possible, sat Marija, holding little An-
tanas in her one good arm and trying to soothe him to sleep.
In another corner crouched poor little Juozapas, wailing be-
cause he had had nothing to eat all day. Marija said not a
word to Jurgis; he crept in like a whipped cur, and went
and sat down by the body.

Perhaps he ought to have meditated upon the hunger of
the children, and upon his own baseness; but he thought
only of Ona, he gave himself up again to the luxury of grief.
He shed no tears, being ashamed to make a sound; he sat
motionless and shuddering with his anguish. He had never
dreamed how much he loved Ona, until now that she was
gone; until now that he sat here, knowing that on the mor-
row they would take her away, and that he would never lay
eyes upon her again—never all the days of his life. His old
love, which had been starved to death, beaten to death,
awoke in him again; the floodgates of memory were lifted—
he saw all their life together, saw her as he had seen her in
Lithuania, the first day at the fair, beautiful as the flowers,
singing like a bird. He saw her as he had married her, with
all her tenderness, with her heart of wonder; the very words
she had spoken seemed to ring now in his ears, the tears she
had shed to be wet upon his cheek. The long, cruel battle
with misery and hunger had hardened and embittered him,
but it had not changed her—she had been the same hungry
soul to the end, stretching out her arms to him, pleading with
him, begging him for love and tenderness. And she had suf-
fered—so cruelly she had suffered, such agonies, such
infamies—ah, God, the memory of them was not to be
borne. What a monster of wickedness, of heartlessness, he
had been! Every angry word that he had ever spoken came
back to him and cut him like a knife; every selfish act that
he had done—with what torments he paid for them now!
And such devotion and awe as welled up in his soul—now
that it could never be spoken, now that it was too late, too
late! His bosom was choking with it, bursting with it; he
crouched here in the darkness beside her, stretching out his

191

arms to her—and she was gone forever, she was dead! He
could have screamed aloud with the horror and despair of it;
a sweat of agony beaded his forehead, yet he dared not
make a sound—he scarcely dared to breathe, because of his
shame and loathing of himself.

Late at night came Elzbieta, having gotten the money for
a mass, and paid for it in advance, lest she should be tempted
too sorely at home. She brought also a bit of stale rye
bread that some one had given her, and with that they quiet-
ed the children and got them to sleep. Then she came over
to Jurgis and sat down beside him.

She said not a word of reproach—she and Marija had
chosen that course before; she would only plead with him,
here by the corpse of his dead wife. Already Elzbieta had
choked down her tears, grief being crowded out of her soul
by fear. She had to bury one of her children—but then she
had done it three times before, and each time risen up and
gone back to take up the battle for the rest. Elzbieta was one
of the primitive creatures: like the angleworm, which goes
on living though cut in half; like a hen, which, deprived of
her chickens one by one, will mother the last that is left her.
She did this because it was her nature—she asked no ques-
tions about the justice of it, nor the worthwhileness of life
in which destruction and death ran riot.

And this old common-sense view she labored to impress
upon Jurgis, pleading with him with tears in her eyes. Ona
was dead, but the others were left and they must be saved.
She did not ask for her own children. She and Marija could
care for them somehow, but there was Antanas, his own son.
Ona had given Antanas to him—the little fellow was the
only remembrance of her that he had; he must treasure it
and protect it, he must show himself a man. He knew what
Ona would have had him do, what she would ask of him at
this moment, if she could speak to him. It was a terrible
thing that she should have died as she had; but the life had
been too hard for her, and she had to go. It was terrible
that they were not able to bury her, that he could not even
have a day to mourn her—but so it was. Their fate was
pressing; they had not a cent, and the children would perish
—some money must be had. Could he not be a man for Ona’s
sake, and pull himself together? In a little while they would
be out of danger—now that they had given up the house
they could live more cheaply, and with all the children work-
ing they could get along, if only he would not go to pieces.

192

So Elzbieta went on, with feverish intensity. It was a strug-
gle for life with her; she was not afraid that Jurgis would
go on drinking, for he had no money for that, but she was
wild with dread at the thought that he might desert them,
might take to the road, as Jonas had done.

But with Ona’s dead body beneath his eyes, Jurgis could
not well think of treason to his child. Yes, he said, he would
try, for the sake of Antanas. He would give the little fellow
his chance—would get to work at once, yes, tomorrow, with-
out even waiting for Ona to be buried. They might trust
him, he would keep his word, come what might.

And so he was out before daylight the next morning,
headache, heartache, and all. He went straight to Durham’s
fertilizer mill, to see if he could get back his job. But the
boss shook his head when he saw him—no, his place had
been filled long ago, and there was no room for him.

“Do you think there will be?” Jurgis asked. “I may have
to wait.”

“No,” said the other, “it will not be worth your while to
wait—there will be nothing for you here.”

Jurgis stood gazing at him in perplexity. “What is the
matter?” he asked. “Didn’t I do my work?”

The other met his look with one of cold indifference,
and answered, “There will be nothing for you here, I said.”

Jurgis had his suspicions as to the dreadful meaning of
that incident, and he went away with a sinking at the heart.
He went and took his stand with the mob of hungry wretches
who were standing about in the snow before the time sta-
tion. Here he stayed, breakfastless, for two hours, until the
throng was driven away by the clubs of the police. There
was no work for him that day.

Jurgis had made a good many acquaintances in his long
services at the yards—there were saloon-keepers who would
trust him for a drink and a sandwich, and members of his old
union who would lend him a dime at a pinch. It was not a
question of life and death for him, therefore; he might hunt
all day, and come again on the morrow, and try hanging on
thus for weeks, like hundreds and thousands of others.
Meantime, Teta Elzbieta would go and beg, over in the
Hyde Park district, and the children would bring home
enough to pacify Aniele, and keep them all alive.

It was at the end of a week of this sort of waiting, roam-
ing about in the bitter winds or loafing in saloons, that Jurgis
stumbled on a chance in one of the cellars of Jones’s big

193

packing plant. He saw a foreman passing the open doorway,
and hailed him for a job. :

“Push a truck?” inquired the man, and Jurgis answered,
“Yes, sir!’’ before the words were well out of his mouth.

“What’s your name?” demanded the other.

“Jurgis Rudkus.”

“Worked in the yards before?”

res:

““Whereabouts?”

“Two places—Brown’s killing beds and Durham’s fertilizer
mill.”

“Why did you leave there?”

“The first time I had an accident, and the last time I was
sent up for a month.”

“T see. Well, I'll give you a trial. Come early tomorrow
and ask for Mr. Thomas.”

So Jurgis rushed home with the wild tidings that he
had a job—that the terrible siege was over. The remnants of
the family had quite a celebration that night; and in the
morning Jurgis was at the place half an hour before the time
of opening. The foreman came in shortly afterward, and
when he saw Jurgis he frowned.

“Oh,” he said, “I promised you a job, didn’t I?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jurgis.

“Well, ’'m sorry, but I made a mistake. I can’t use you.”

Jurgis stared, dumbfounded. “What’s the matter?” he
gasped.

“Nothing,” said the man, “only I can’t use you.”

There was the same cold, hostile stare that he had had
from the boss of the fertilizer mill. He knew that there
was no use in saying a word, and he turned and went away.

Out in the saloons the men could tell him all about the
meaning of it; they gazed at him with pitying eyes—poor
devil, he was blacklisted! What had he done? they asked—
knocked down his boss? Good heavens, then he might
have known! Why, he stood as much chance of getting a job
in Packingtown as of being chosen mayor of Chicago. Why
had he wasted his time hunting? They had him on a secret
list in every office, big and little, in the place. They had his
name by this time in St. Louis and New York, in Omaha and
Boston, in Kansas City and St. Joseph. He was condemned
and sentenced, without trial and without appeal; he could
never work for the packers again—he could not even clean
cattle pens or drive a truck in any place where they con-

194

trolled. He might try it, if he chose, as hundreds had triea
it, and found out for themselves. He would never be told
anything about it; he would never get any more satisfaction
than he had gotten just now; but he would always find
when the time came that he was not needed. It would not
do for him to give any other name, either—they had com-
pany “spotters” for just that purpose, and he wouldn’t keep
a job in Packingtown three days. It was worth a fortune to
the packers to keep their blacklist effective, as a warning to
the men and a means of keeping down union agitation and
political discontent.

Jurgis went home, carrying these new tidings to the family
council. It was a most cruel thing; here in this district was
his home, such as it was, the place he was used to and the
friends he knew—and now every possibility of employment
in it was closed to him. There was nothing in Packingtown
but packing houses; and so it was the same thing as
evicting him from his home.

He and the two women spent all day and half the night
discussing it. It would be convenient, downtown, to the
children’s place of work; but then Marija was on the road to
recovery, and had hopes of getting a job in the yards; and
though she did not see her old-time lover once a month,
because of the misery of their state, yet she could not make
up her mind to go away and give him up forever. Then, too,
Elzbieta had heard something about a chance to scrub floors
in Durham’s offices, and was waiting every day for word.
In the end it was decided that Jurgis should go downtown
to strike out for himself, and they would decide after he
got a job. As there was no one from whom he could borrow
there, and he dared not beg for fear of being arrested, it
was arranged that every day he should meet one of the
children and be given fifteen cents of their earnings, upon
which he could keep going. Then all day he was to pace the
streets with hundreds and thousands of other homeless
wretches, inquiring at stores, warehouses, and factories for
a chance; and at night he was to crawl into some doorway or
underneath a truck, and hide there until midnight, when he
might get into one of the station houses, and spread a news-
paper upon the floor, and lie down in the midst of a throng
of “bums” and beggars, reeking with alcohol and tobacco,
and filthy with vermin and disease.

So for two weeks more Jurgis fought with the demon of
195

despair. Once he got a chance to load a truck for half a day,
and again he carried an old woman’s valise and was given
a quarter. This let him into a lodging house on several
nights when he might otherwise have frozen to death; and
it also gave him a chance now and then to buy a newspaper
in the morning and hunt up jobs while his rivals were watch-
ing and waiting for a paper to be thrown away. This, how-
ever, was really not the advantage it seemed, for the news-
paper advertisements were a cause of much loss of precious
time and of many weary journeys. A full half of these
were “fakes,” put in by the endless variety of establish-
ments which preyed upon the helpless ignorance of the un-
employed. If Jurgis lost only his time, it was because he
- had nothing else to lose; whenever a smooth-tongued agent
would tell him of the wonderful positions he had on hand,
he could only shake his head sorrowfully and say that he
had not the necessary dollar to deposit; when it was explained
to him what “big money” he and all his family could make by
coloring photographs, he could only promise to come in
again when he had two dollars to invest in the outfit.

In the end Jurgis got a chance through an accidental
meeting with an old-time acquaintance of his union days.
He met this man on his way to work in the giant factories
of the Harvester Trust; and his friend told him to come
along and he would speak a good word for him to his
boss, whom he knew well. So Jurgis trudged four or five
miles, and passed through a waiting throng of unemployed
at the gate under the escort of his friend. His knees
nearly gave way beneath him when the foreman, after look-
ing him over and questioning him, told him that he could
find an opening for him.

How much this accident meant to Jurgis he realized
only by stages; for he found that the harvester works were
the sort of place to which philanthropists and reformers
pointed with pride. It had some thought for its employees;
its workshops were big and roomy, it provided a restaurant
where the workmen could buy good food at cost, it had even
a reading room, and decent places where its girl hands could
rest; also the work was free from many of the elements of
filth and repulsiveness that prevailed at the stockyards. Day
after day Jurgis discovered these things—things never ex-
pected nor dreamed of by him—until this new place came
to seem a kind of a heaven to him.

It was an enormous establishment, covering a hundred

196

and sixty acres of ground, employing five thousand people,
and turning out over three hundred thousand machines every
year—a good part of all the harvesting and mowing ma-
chines used in the country. Jurgis saw very little of it, of
course—it was all specialized work, the same as at the
stockyards; each one of the hundreds of parts of a mowing
machine was made separately, and sometimes handled by
hundreds of men. Where Jurgis worked there was a machine
which cut and stamped a certain piece of steel about two
square inches in size; the pieces came tumbling out upon a
tray, and all that human hands had to do was to pile them in
regular rows, and change the trays at intervals. This was
done by a single boy, who stood with eyes and thought
centered upon it, and fingers flying so fast that the
sounds of the bits of steel striking upon each other was like
the music of an express train as one hears it in a sleeping
car at night. This was “piece work,” of course; and besides
it was made certain that the boy did not idle, by setting the
machine to match the highest possible speed of human hands.
Thirty thousand of these pieces he handled every day, nine
or ten millions every year—how many in a lifetime it
rested with the gods to say. Near by him men sat bending
over whirling grindstones, putting the finishing touches to
the steel knives of the reaper; picking them out of a basket
with the right hand, pressing first one side and then the other
against the stone and finally dropping them with the left
hand into another basket. One of these men told Jurgis that
he had sharpened three thousand pieces of steel a day for
thirteen years. In the next room were wonderful machines
that ate up long steel rods by slow stages, cutting them off,
seizing the pieces, stamping heads upon them, grinding them
and polishing them, threading them, and finally dropping
them into a basket, all ready to bolt the harvesters together.
From yet another machine came tens of thousands of steel
burs to fit upon these bolts. In other places all these various
parts were dipped into troughs of paint and hung up to dry,
and then slid along on trolleys to a room where men streaked
then with red and yellow, so that they might look cheerful
in the harvest fields.

Jurgis’s friend worked upstairs in the casting rooms,
and his task was to make the moulds of a certain part. He
shoveled black sand into an iron receptacle and pounded it
tight and set it aside to harden; then it would be taken out,
and molten iron poured into it. This man, too, was paid by

197

the mould—or rather for perfect castings, nearly half his
work going for naught. You might see him, along with
dozens of others, toiling like one possessed by a whole
community of demons; his arms working like the driving
rods of an engine, his long, black hair flying wild, his eyes
starting out, the sweat rolling in rivers down his face. When
he had shoveled the mould full of sand, and reached for
the pounder to pound it with, it was after the manner of a
canoeist running rapids and seizing a pole at sight of a
submerged rock. All day long this man would toil thus, his
whole being centered upon the purpose of making twenty-
three instead of twenty-two and a half cents an hour; and
then his product would be reckoned up by the census taker,
and jubilant captains of industry would boast of it in their
banquet halls, telling how our workers are nearly twice as
efficient as those of any other country. If we are the greatest
mation the sun ever shone upon, it would seem to be mainly
because we have been able to goad our wage-earners to this
pitch of frenzy; though there are a few other things that
are great among us, including our drink bill, which is a
billion and a quarter of dollars a year, and doubling itself
every decade.

There was a machine which anes out the iron plates,
and then another which, with a mighty thud, mashed them to
the shape of the sitting-down portion of the American farmer.
Then they were piled upon a truck, and it was Jurgis’s task
to wheel them to the room where the machines were “as-
sembled.” This was child’s play for him, and he got a dollar
and seventy-five cents a day for it; on Saturday he paid
Aniele the seventy-five cents a week he owed her for the
use of her garret, and also redeemed his overcoat, which
Elzbieta had put in pawn when he was in jail.

This last was a great blessing. A man cannot go about in
midwinter in Chicago with no overcoat and not pay for it,
and Jurgis had to walk or ride five or six miles back and
forth to his work. It so happened that half of this was in one
direction and half in another, necessitating a change of cars;
the law required that transfers be given at all intersecting
points, but the railway corporation had gotten round this
by arranging a pretence at separate ownership. So whenever
he wished to ride, he had to pay ten cents each way, or over
ten per cent of his income to this power, which had gotten
its franchises long ago by buying up the city council, in the
face of popular clamor amounting almost to a rebellion. Tired

198

as he felt at night, and dark and bitter cold as it was in the
morning, Jurgis generally chose to walk; at the hours other
workmen were travelling, the street-car monopoly saw fit to
put on so few cars that there would be men hanging to every
foot of the backs of them and often crouching upon the
snow-covered roof. Of course the doors could never be closed,
and so the cars were as cold as outdoors; Jurgis, like many
others, found it better to spend his fare for a drink and a
free lunch, to give him strength to walk.

These, however, were all slight matters to a man who had
escaped from Durham’s fertilizer mill. Jurgis began to pick
up heart again and to make plans. He had lost his house,
but then the awful load of the rent and interest was off his
shoulders, and when Marija was well again they could start
over and save. In the shop where he worked was a man, a
Lithuanian like himself, whom the others spoke of in admir-
ing whispers, because of the mighty feats he was perform-
ing. All day he sat at a machine turning bolts; and then in
the evening he went to the public school to study English
and learn to read. In addition, because he had a family of
eight children to support and his earnings were not enough,
on Saturdays and Sundays he served as a watchman; he was
required to press two buttons at opposite ends of a build-
ing every five minutes, and as the walk only took him two
minutes, he had three minutes to study between each trip.
Jurgis felt jealous of this fellow; for that was the sort of
thing he himself had dreamed of, two or three years ago. He
might do it even yet, if he had a fair chance—he might
attract attention and become a skilled man or a boss, as some
had done in this place. Suppose that Marija could get a job
in the big mill where they made binder twine—then they
would move into this neighborhood, and he would really
have a chance. With a hope like that, there was some use in
living; to find a place where you were treated like a human
being—by God! he would show them how he could appreci-
ate it. He laughed to himself as he thought how he would
hang on to this job!

And then one afternoon, the ninth of his work in the place,
when he went to get his overcoat he saw a group of men
crowded before a placard on the door, and when he went
over and asked what it was, they told him that beginning
with the morrow his department of the harvester works would
be closed until further notice!

199

KKccae QT wnnn»»

Ze was the way they did it! There was not half an hour’s
warning—the works were closed! It had happened that way
before, said the men, and it would happen that way forever.
They had made all the harvesting machines that the world
needed, and now they had to wait till some wore out! It
was nobody’s fault—that was the way of it; and thousands of
men and women were turned out in the dead of winter, to
live upon their savings if they had any, and otherwise to die.
So many tens of thousands already in the city, homeless and
begging for work, and now several thousand more added to
them!

Jurgis walked home with his pittance of pay in his pocket,
heartbroken, overwhelmed. One more bandage had been torn
from his eyes, one more pitfall was revealed to him! Of
what help was kindness and decency on the part of employers
—when they could not keep a job for him, when there were
more harvesting machines made than the world was able to
buy! What a hellish mockery it was, anyway, that a man
should slave to make harvesting machines for the country,
only to be turned out to starve for doing his duty too well!

It took him two days to get over this heart-sickening disap-
pointment. He did not drink anything, because Elzbieta got
his money for safekeeping, and knew him too well to be in
the least frightened by his angry demands. He stayed up in
the garret, however, and sulked—what was the use of a man’s
hunting a job when it was taken from him before he had time
to learn the work? But then their money was going again, and
little Antanas was hungry, and crying with the bitter cold of
the garret. Also Madame Haupt, the midwife, was after him
for some money. So he went out once more.

For another ten days he roamed the streets and alleys of
the huge city, sick and hungry, begging for any work. He
tried in stores and offices, in restaurants and hotels, along
the docks and in the railroad yards, in warehouses and mills
and factories where they made products that went to every
corner of the world. There were often one or two chances
—but there were always a hundred men for every chance,
and his turn would not come. At night he crept into sheds

200

and cellars and doorways—until there came a spell of be-
lated winter weather, with a raging gale, and the thermom-
eter five degrees below zero at sundown and falling all
night. Then Jurgis fought like a wild beast to get into the
big Harrison Street police station, and slept down in a corri-
dor, crowded with two other men upon a single step.

He had to fight often in these days—to fight for a place
near the factory gates, and now and again with gangs on
the street. He found, for instance, that the business of carry-
ing satchels for railroad passengers was a preémpted one
—-whenever he essayed it, eight or ten men and boys would
fall upon him and force him to run for his life. They always
had the policeman “squared,” and so there was no use in
expecting protection.

That Jurgis did not starve to death was due solely to the
pittance the children brought him. And even this was never
certain. For one thing the cold was almost more than
the children could bear; and then they, too, were in per-
petual peril from rivals who plundered and beat them.
The law was against them, too—little Vilimas, who was
really eleven, but did not look to be eight, was stopped on
the streets by a severe old lady in spectacles, who told him
that he was too young to be working and that if he did
not stop selling papers she would send a truant officer after
him. Also one night a strange man caught little Kotrina by
the arm and tried to persuade her into a dark cellarway, an
experience which filled her with such terror that she was
hardly to be kept at work.

At last, on a Sunday, as there was no use looking for
work, Jurgis went home by stealing rides on the cars. He
found that they had been waiting for him for three days—
there was a chance of a job for him.

It was quite a story. Little Juozapas, who was near crazy
with hunger these days, had gone out on the sireet to beg
for himself. Juozapas had only one leg, having been run
over by a wagon when a little child, but he had got himself
a broomstick, which he put under his arm for a crutch.
He had fallen in with some other children and found the
way to Mike Scully’s dump, which lay three or four blocks
away. To this place there came every day many hundreds of
wagon-loads of garbage and trash from the lake-front,
where the rich people lived; and in the heaps the children
raked for food—there were hunks of bread and potato
peelings and apple cores and meat bones, all of it half

201

frozen and quite unspoiled. Little Juozapas gorged himself,
and came home with a newspaper full, which he was
feeding to Antanas when his mother came in. Elzbieta was
horrified, for she did not believe that the food out of the
dumps was fit to eat. The next day, however, when no harm
came of it and Juozapas began to cry with hunger, she
gave in and said that he might go again. And that afternoon
he came home with a story of how while he had been dig-
ging away with a stick, a lady upon the street had called
him. A real fine lady, the little boy explained, a beautiful
lady; and she wanted to know all about him, and whether he
got the garbage for chickens, and why he walked with a
broomstick, and why Ona had died, and how Jurgis had
come to go to jail, and what was the matter with Marija,
and everything. In the end she had asked where he lived, and
said that she was coming to see him, and bring him a
new crutch to walk with. She had on a hat with a bird upon
it, Juozapas added, and a long fur snake around her neck.

She really came, the very next morning, and climbed the
ladder to the garret, and stood and stared about her, turning
pale at the sight of the blood stains on the floor where
Ona had died. She was a “setthement worker,” she ex-
plained to Elzbieta—she lived around on Ashland Avenue.
Elzbieta knew the place, over a feed store; somebody had
wanted her to go there, but she had not cared to, for she
thought that it must have something to do with religion, and
the priest did not like her to have anything to do with
strange religions. They were rich people who came to live
there to find out about the poor people; but what good
they expected it would do them to know, one could not
imagine. So spoke Elzbieta, naively, and the young lady
laughed and was rather at a loss for an answer—she stood
and gazed about her, and thought of a cynical remark that
had been made to her, that she was standing upon the
brink of the pit of hell and throwing in snowballs to lower
the temperature.

Elzbieta was glad to have somebody to listen, and she
told all their woes—what had happened to Ona, and the
jail, and the loss of their home, and Marija’s accident, and
how Ona had died, and how Jurgis could get no work. As
she listened the pretty young lady’s eyes filled with tears,
and in the midst of it she burst into weeping and hid her
face on Elzbieta’s shoulder, quite regardless of the fact that
the woman had on a dirty old wrapper and that the garret

202

was full of fleas. Poor Elzbieta was ashamed of herself
for having told so woeful a tale, and the other had to beg
and plead with her to get her to go on. The end of it was
that the young lady sent them a basket of things to eat, and
left a letter that Jurgis was to take to a gentleman who was
superintendent in one of the mills of the great steel-works
in South Chicago. “He will get Jurgis something to do,” the
young lady had said, and added, smiling through her tears
—“If he doesn’t, he will never marry me.”

The steelworks were fifteen miles away, and as usual it
was so contrived that one had to pay two fares to get there.
Far and wide the sky was flaring with the red glare that
leaped from rows of towering chimneys—for it was pitch
dark when Jurgis arrived. The vast works, a city in themselves,
were surrounded by a stockade; and already a full hundred
men were waiting at the gate where new hands were taken
on. Soon after daybreak whistles began to blow, and then
suddenly thousands of men appeared, streaming from saloons
and boarding-houses across the way, leaping from trolley cars
that passed—it seemed as if they rose out of the ground, in
the dim gray light. A river of them poured in through the
gate—and then gradually ebbed away again, until there
were only a few late ones running, and the watchman
pacing up and down, and the hungry strangers stamping
and shivering.

Jurgis presented his precious letter. The gatekeeper was
surly, and put him through a catechism, but he insisted that
he knew nothing, and as he had taken the precaution to
seal his letter, there was nothing for the gatekeeper to do
but send it to the person to whom it was addressed. A mes-
senger came back to say that Jurgis should wait, and so he
came inside of the gate, perhaps not sorry enough that there
were others less fortunate watching him with greedy eyes.

The great mills were getting under way—one could hear
a vast stirring, a rolling and rumbling and hammering. Little
by little the scene grew plain: towering, black buildings here
and there, long rows of shops and sheds, little railways
branching everywhere, bare gray cinders under foot and
oceans of billowing black smoke above. On one side of the
grounds ran a railroad with a dozen tracks, and on the
other side lay the lake, where steamers came to load.

Jurgis had time enough to stare and speculate, for it was
two hours before he was summoned. He went into the office

203

building, where a company time-keeper interviewed him.
The superintendent was busy, he said, but he (the time-
keeper) would try to find Jurgis a job. He had never worked
in a steel mill before? But he was ready for anything? Well,
then, they would go and see.

So they began a tour, among sights that made Jurgis
stare amazed. He wondered if ever he could get used to
working in a place like this, where the air shook with
deafening thunder, and whistles shrieked warnings on all
sides of him at once; where miniature steam engines came
rushing upon him, and sizzling, quivering, white-hot masses
of metal sped past him, and explosions of fire and flaming
sparks dazzled him and scorched his face. The men in these
mills were all black with soot, and hollow-eyed and gaunt;
they worked with fierce intensity, rushing here and there,
and never lifting their eyes from their tasks. Jurgis clung
to his guide like a scared child to its nurse, and while
the latter hailed one foreman after another to ask if they
could use another unskilled man, he stared about him and
marvelled.

He was taken to the Bessemer furnace, where they made
billets of steel—a dome-like building the size of a big
theater. Jurgis stood where the balcony of the theater would
have been, and opposite, by the stage, he saw three giant
caldrons, big enough for all the devils of hell to brew their
broth in, full of something white and blinding, bubbling and
splashing, roaring as if volcanoes were blowing through it—
one had to shout to be heard in the place. Liquid fire
would leap from these caldrons and scatter like bombs be-
low—and men were working there, seeming careless, so that
Jurgis caught his breath with fright. Then a whistle would
toot, and across the curtain of the theater would come a little
engine with a car-load of something to be dumped into one
of the receptacles; and then another whistle would toot, down
by the stage, and another train would back up—and sud-
denly, without an instant’s warning, one of the giant kettles
began to tilt and topple, flinging out a jet of hissing, roaring
flame. Jurgis shrank back appalled, for he thought it was an
accident; there fell a pillar of white flame, dazzling as the
sun, swishing like a huge tree falling in the forest. A torrent
of sparks swept all the way across the building, overwhelm-
ing everything, hiding it from sight; and then Jurgis looked
through the fingers of his hands, and saw pouring out of the
caldron a cascade of living, leaping fire, white with a white-

204

ness not of earth, scorching the eyeballs. Incandescent rain-
bows shone above it, blue, red, and golden lights played
about it; but the stream itself was white, ineffable. Out of
regions of wonder it streamed, the very river of life; and the
soul leaped up at the sight of it, fled back upon it, swift
and resistless, back into far-off lands, where beauty and
terror dwell—Then the great caldron tilted back again,
empty, and Jurgis saw to his relief that no one was hurt,
and turned and followed his guide out into the sun-
light.

They went through the blast furnaces, through rolling mills
where bars of steel were tossed about and chopped like bits
of cheese. All around and above giant machine-arms were
flying, giant wheels were turning, giant hammers crashing;
travelling cranes creaked and groaned overhead, reaching
down iron hands and seizing iron prey—it was like stand-
ing in the center of the earth, where the machinery of time
was revolving.

By and by they came to the place where steel rails were
made; and Jurgis heard a toot behind him, and jumped out
of the way of a car with a white-hot ingot upon it, the size
of a man’s body. There was a sudden crash and the car came
to a halt, and the ingot toppled out upon a moving platform,
where steel fingers and arms seized hold of it, punching it
and prodding it into place, and hurrying it into the grip of
huge rollers. Then it came out upon the other side, and there
were more crashings and clatterings, and over it was flopped,
like a pancake on a gridiron, and seized again and rushed
back at you through another squeezer. So amid deafening
uproar it clattered to and fro, growing thinner and flatter
and longer. The ingot seemed almost a living thing; it did not
want to run this mad course, but it was in the grip of fate,
it was tumbled on, screeching and clanking and shivering in
protest. By and by it was long and thin, a great red snake
escaped from purgatory; and then, as it slid through the
rollers, you would have sworn that it was alive—it writhed
and squirmed, and wriggles and shudders passed out through
its tail, all but flinging it off by their violence. There was no
rest for it until it was cold and black—and then it needed
only to be cut and straightened to be ready for a railroad.

It was at the end of this rail’s progress that Jurgis got his
chance. They had to be moved by men with crowbars, and
the boss here could use another man. So he took off his coat
and set to work on the spot.

205

a

ee ee

It took him two hours to get to this place every day and
cost him a dollar and twenty cents a week. As this was out
of the question, he wrapped his bedding in a bundle and
took it with him, and one of his fellow workingmen intro-
duced him to a Polish lodging house, where he might have
the privilege of sleeping upon the floor for ten cents a night.
He got his meals at free-lunch counters, and every Saturday
night he went home—bedding and all—and took the greater
part of his money to the family. Elzbieta was sorry for this
arrangement, for she feared that it would get him into the
habit of living without them, and once a week was not very
often for him to see his baby; but there was no other way of
arranging it. There was no chance for a woman at the steel-
works, and Marija was now ready for work again, and lured
on from day to day by the hope of finding it at the yards.

In a week Jurgis got over his sense of helplessness and be-
wilderment in the rail mill. He learned to find his way about
and to take all the miracles and terrors for granted, to work
without hearing the rumbling and crashing. From blind fear
he went to the other extreme; he became reckless and indiffer-
ent, like all the rest of the men, who took but little thought
of themselves in the ardor of their work. It was wonderful,
when one came to think of it, that these men should have
taken an interest in the work they did; they had no share in
it—they were paid by the hour, and paid no more for being
interested. Also they knew that if they were hurt they would
be flung aside and forgotten—and still they would hurry to
their task by dangerous short-cuts, would use methods that
were quicker and more effective in spite of the fact that they
were also risky. His fourth day at his work Jurgis saw a man
stumble while running in front of a car, and have his foot
mashed off; and before he had been there three weeks he was
witness of a yet more dreadful accident. There was a row of
brick furnaces, shining white through every crack with the
molten steel inside. Some of these were bulging dangerously,
yet men worked before them, wearing blue glasses when
they opened and shut the doors. One morning as Jurgis was
passing, a furnace blew out, spraying two men with a
shower of liquid fire. As they lay screaming and rolling
upon the ground in agony, Jurgis rushed to help them, and
as a result he lost a good part of the skin from the inside of
one of his hands. The company doctor bandaged it up, but
he got no other thanks from anyone, and was laid up for
eight working days without any pay.

206

Most fortunately, at this juncture, Elzbieta got the longs
awaited chance to go at five o’clock in the morning and help
scrub the office floors of one of the packers. Jurgis came
home and covered himself with blankets to keep warm, and
divided his time between sleeping and playing with little An-
tanas. Juozapas was away raking in the dump a good part of
the time, and Elzbieta and Marija were hunting for more
work.

Antanas was now over a year and a half old, and was a
perfect talking machine. He learned so fast that every week
when Jurgis came home it seemed to him as if he had a
new child. He would sit down and listen and stare at him,
and give vent to delighted exclamations—“Palauk! Muma!
Tu mano szirdele!” The little fellow was now really the one
delight that Jurgis had in the world—his one hope, his one
victory. Thank God, Antanas was a boy! And he was as
tough as a pine-knot, and with the appetite of a wolf. Noth-
ing had hurt him, and nothing could hurt him, he had come
through all the suffering and deprivation unscathed—only
shriller-voiced and more determined in his grip upon life. He
was a terrible child to manage, was Antanas, but his father
did not mind that—he would watch him and smile to himself
with satisfaction. The more of a fighter he was the better—
he would need to fight before he got through.

Jurgis had got the habit of buying the Sunday paper
whenever he had the money; a most wonderful paper could
be had for only five cents, a whole armful, with all the news
of the world set forth in big headlines, that Jurgis could spell
out slowly, with the children to help him at the long words.
There was battle and murder and sudden death—it was
marvelous how they ever heard about so many entertaining
and thrilling happenings; the stories must be all true, for
surely no man could have made such things up, and besides,
there were pictures of them all, as real as life. One of these
papers was as good as a circus, and nearly as good as a
spree—certainly a most wonderful treat for a workingman,
who was tired out and stupefied, and had never had any ed-
ucation, and whose work was one dull, sordid grind, day
after day, and year after year, with never a sight of a green
field nor an hour’s entertainment, nor anything but liquor to
stimulate his imagination. Among other things, these papers
had pages full of comical pictures, and these were the main
joy in life to little Antanas. He treasured them up, and would
drag them out and make his father tell him about them;

207

there were all sorts of animals among them, and Antanas ~

could tell the names of all of them, lying upon the floor for |

hours and pointing them out with his chubby little fingers.
Whenever the story was plain enough for Jurgis to make out,
Antanas would have it repeated to him, and then he would
remember it, prattling funny little sentences and mixing it
up with other stories in an irresistible fashion. Also his quaint
pronunciation of words was such a delight—and the phrases
he would pick up and remember, the most outlandish and
impossible things! The first time that the little rascal burst
out with “Goddamn,” his father nearly rolled off the chair
with glee; but in the end he was sorry for this, for Antanas
was soon “Goddamning” everything and everybody.

And then, when he was able to use his hands, Jurgis took

his bedding again and went back to his task of shifting rails.
It was now April, and the snow had given place to cold rains,
and the unpaved street in front of Aniele’s house was turned
into a canal. Jurgis would have to wade through it to get
home, and if it was late he might easily get stuck to his waist
in the mire. But he did not mind this much—it was a promise
that summer was coming. Marija had now gotten a place as
beef trimmer in one of the smaller packing plants; and he
told himself that he had learned his lesson now, and would
meet with no more accidents—so that at last there was pros-
pect of an end to their long agony. They could save money
again, and when another winter came they would have a
comiortable place; and the children would be off the streets
and in school again, and they might set to work to nurse
back into life their habits of decency and kindness. So once
more Jurgis began to make plans and dream dreams.

And then one Saturday night he jumped off the car and
Started home, with the sun shining low under the edge of a
bank of clouds that had been pouring floods of water into
the mud-soaked street. There was a rainbow in the sky, and
another in his breast—for he had thirty-six hours’ rest be-
fore him, and a chance to see his family. Then suddenly: he
came in sight of the house, and noticed that there was a
crowd before the door. He ran up the steps and pushed his
way in, and saw Aniele’s kitchen crowded with excited
women. It reminded him so vividly of the time when he had
come home from jail and found Ona dying, that his heart al-
most stood still. “What’s the matter?” he cried.

A dead silence had fallen in the room, and he saw that

208

|
|

every one was staring at him. “What’s the matter?” he ex-
claimed again.

And then, up in the garret, he heard sounds of wailing, in
Marija’s voice. He started for the ladder—and Aniele seized
him by the arm. “No, no!” she exclaimed. “Don’t go up
there!”

“What is it?” he shouted.

And old woman answered him weakly: “It’s Antanas. He’s
dead. He was drowned out in the street!”

KKKKEK DBP wynnnn»

y URGIS took the news in a peculiar way. He turned deadly
pale, but he caught himself, and for half a minute stood in
the middle of the room, clenching his hands tightly and set-
ting his teeth. Then he pushed Aniele aside and strode into
the next room and climbed the ladder.

In the corner was a blanket, with a form half showing be-
neath it; and beside it lay Elzbieta, whether crying or in a
faint, Jurgis could not tell. Marija was pacing the room,
screaming and wringing her hands. He clenched his hands
tighter yet, and his voice was hard as he spoke.

“How did it happen?” he asked.

Marija scarcely heard him in her agony. He repeated the
question, louder and yet more harshly. “He fell off the side-
walk!” she wailed. The sidewalk in front of the house was a
platform made of half-rotten boards, about five feet above
the level of the sunken street.

“How did he come to be there?” he demanded.

“He went—he went out to play,” Marija sobbed, her voice
choking her. “We couldn’t make him stay in. He must have
got caught in the mud!”

“Are you sure that he is dead?” he demanded.

“Ai! ai!” she wailed. “Yes; we had the doctor.”

Then Jurgis stood a few seconds, wavering. He did not

shed a tear. He took one glance more at the blanket with the

little form beneath it, and then turned suddenly to the lad-
der and climbed down again. A silence fell once more in the
room as he entered. He went straight to the door, passed
out, and started down the street.

When his wife had died, Jurgis made for the nearest saloon,
209

but he did not do that now, though he had his week’s wages
in his pocket. He walked and walked, seeing nothing, splash-
ing through mud and water. Later on he sat down upon a
step and hid his face in his hands and for half an hour or so
he did not move. Now and then he would whisper to him-
self: “Dead! Dead!”

Finally, he got up and walked on again. It was about sun-
set, and he went on and on until it was dark, when he was
stopped by a railroad crossing. The gates were down, and a
long train of freight cars was thundering by. He stood and
watched it; and all at once a wild impulse seized him, a
thought that had been lurking within him, unspoken, unrec-
ognized, leaped into sudden life. He started down the track,
and when he was past the gate-keeper’s shanty he sprang
forward and swung himself on to one of the cars.

By and by the train stopped again, and Jurgis sprang down
and ran under the car, and hid himself upon the truck. Here
he sat, and when the train started again, he fought a battle
with his soul. He gripped his hands and set his teeth together
—he had not wept, and he would not—not a tear! It was
past and over, and he was done with it—he would fling it
off his shoulders, be free of it, the whole business, that night.
It should go like a black, hateful nightmare, and in the morn-
ing he would be a new man. And every time that a thought of
it assailed him—a tender memory, a trace of a tear—he rose
up, cursing with rage, and pounded it down.

He was fighting for his life; he gnashed his teeth together
in his desperation. He had been a fool, a fool! He had wasted
his life, he had wrecked himself, with his accursed weak-
ness; and now he was done with it—he would tear it out of
him, root and branch! There should be no more tears and no
more tenderness; he had had enough of them—they had sold
him into slavery! Now he was going to be free, to tear off
his shackles, to rise up and fight. He was glad that the end
had come—it had to come sometime, and it was just as
well now. This was no world for women and children, and
the sooner they got out of it the better for them. Whatever
Antanas might suffer where he was, he could suffer no more
than he would have had he stayed upon earth. And mean-
time 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

210

of his soul, and setting his heel upon them. The train thun-
dered 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 honey-
suckle 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 farmhouse, and after getting himself a
stick for protection, he approached it. The farmer was greas-
ing a wagon in front of the barn, and J urgis 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.

“J meant to pay for it,” said Jurgis.

“Qh,” 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 shoul-
der. 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

211

climbed a fence and walked down the bank, along a wood-
land 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 pooi, 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 me-
thodically, 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 down-stream 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 under-
side, 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 farm-
er was washing his hands at the kitchen-door. “Please, sir,”
said Jurgis, “can I have something to eat? I can pay.” To

212

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 Pll do it out of doors.”
When the man had assented, he inquired, “How much will
it cost me? I haven’t very much money.”

“TI reckon about twenty cents for supper,” replied the farm-
er. “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 ques-
tioned 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?”

“Tm not looking for work just now,” Jurgis answered.

“Tl 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 No-
vember—lI ain’t got a big enough place for that.”

“I see,” said the other, “that’s what I thought. When you
213

get through working your horses this fall, will you turn them
out in the snow?” (Jurgis was beginning to think for him-
self 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 black-
berries, 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,

214

and when the farmer had seen him working he would some-
times 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 with-
out 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 youth-
ful vigor, his joy and power that he had mourned and forgot-
ten! 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 dan-
ger of his coming to the end of it. And of course he could
always have company for the asking—everywhere he went
there were men living just as he lived, and whom he was
welcome to join. He was a stranger at the business, but they
were not clannish, and they taught him all their tricks—what
towns and villages it was best to keep away from, and how to
read the secret signs upon the fences, and when to beg
and when to steal, and just how to do both. They laughed at
his ideas of paying for anything with money or with work—
for they got all they wanted without either. Now and then

215

Jurgis camped out with a gang of them in some woodland
haunt, and foraged with them in the neighborhood at night.
And then among them some one would “take a shine” to
him, and they would go off together and travel for a week,
exchanging reminiscences.

Of these professional tramps a great many had, of course,
been shiftless and vicious all their lives. But the vast majority
of them had been workingmen, had fought the long fight as
Jurgis had, and found that it was a losing fight, and given
up. Later on he encountered yet another sort of men, those
from whose ranks the tramps were recruited, men who
were homeless and wandering, but still seeking work—seek-
ing it in the harvest fields. Of these there was an army, the
huge surplus labor army of society; called into being under
the stern system of nature, to do the casual work of the
world, the tasks which were transient and irregular, and yet
which had to be done. They did not know that they were
such, of course; they only knew: that they sought the job,
and that the job was fleeting. In the early summer they would
be in Texas, and as the crops were ready they would follow
north with the season, ending with the fall in Manitoba.
Then they would seek out the big lumber camps, where there
was winter work; or failing in this, would drift to the cities,
and live upon what they had managed to save, with the help
of such transient work as was there—the loading and un-
loading of steamships and drays, the digging of ditches and
the shoveling of snow. If there were more of them on hand
than chanced to be needed, the weaker ones died off of cold
and hunger, again according to the stern system of nature.

It was in the latter part of July, when Jurgis was in Mis-
souri, that he came upon the harvest work. Here were crops
that men had worked for three or four months to prepare,
and of which they would lose nearly all unless they could
find others to help them for a week or two. So all over the land
there was a cry for labor—agencies were set up and all the
cities were drained of men, even college boys were brought
by the car-load, and hordes of frantic farmers would hold up
trains and carry off wagon-loads of men by main force. Not
that they did not pay them well—any man could get two
dollars a day and his board, and the best men could get two
dollars and a half or three.

The harvest-fever was in the very air, and no man with
any spirit in him could be in that region and not catch it.
Jurgis joined a gang and worked from dawn till dark, eighteen

216

hours a day, for two weeks without a break. Then he had a
sum of money that would have been a fortune to him in the
old days of misery—but what could he do with it now? To
be sure he might have put it in a bank, and, if he were
fortunate, get it back again when he wanted it. But Jurgis
was now a homeless man, wandering over a continent; and
what did he know about banking and drafts and letters of
credit? If he carried the money about with him, he would
surely be robbed in the end; and so what was there for him
to do but enjoy it while he could? On a Saturday night he
drifted into a town with his fellows; and because it was
raining, and there was no other place provided for him, he
went to a saloon. And there were some who treated him and
whom he had to treat, and there was laughter and singing
and good cheer; and then out of the rear part of the saloon
a girl’s face, red-cheeked and merry, smiled at Jurgis, and
his heart thumped suddenly in his throat. He nodded to her,
and she came and sat by him, and they had more drink, and
then he went upstairs into a room with her, and the wild beast
rose up within him and screamed, as it has screamed in the
jungle from the dawn of time. And then because of his
memories and his shame, he was glad when others joined
them, men and women; and they had more drink and spent
the night in wild rioting and debauchery. In the van of
the surplus-labor army, there followed another, an army
of women, they also struggling for life under the stern system
of nature. Because there were rich men who sought pleasure,
there had been ease and plenty for them so long as they
were young and beautiful; and later on, when they were
crowded out by others younger and more beautiful, they went
out to follow upon the trail of the workingmen. Sometimes
they came of themselves, and the saloon-keepers shared
with them; or sometimes they were handled by agencies, the
same as the labor army. They were in the towns in harvest-
time, near the lumber camps in the winter, in the cities
when the men came there; if a regiment were encamped, or
a railroad or canal being made, or a great exposition getting
ready, the crowd of women were on hand, living in shanties
or saloons or tenement rooms, sometimes eight or ten of them
together.

In the morning Jurgis had not a cent, and he went out
upon the road again. He was sick and disgusted, but after
the new plan of his life, he crushed his feelings down. He
had made a fool of himself, but he could not help it now—

217

all he could do was to see that it did not happen again. So he
tramped on until exercise and fresh air banished his head-
ache, and his strength and joy returned. This happened to him
every time, for Jurgis was still a creature of impulse, and
his pleasures had not yet become business. It would be a long
time before he could be like the majority of these men of
the road, who roamed until the hunger for drink and for
women mastered them, and then went to work with a purpose
in mind, and stopped when they had the price of a spree.
On the contrary, try as he would, Jurgis could not help
being made miserable by his conscience. It was the ghost
that would not down. It would come upon him in the most
unexpected places—sometimes it fairly drove him to drink.
One night he was caught by a thunder storm, and he
sought shelter in a little house just outside of a town. It
was a workingman’s home, and the owner was a Slav like
himself, a new emigrant from White Russia; he bade Jurgis
welcome in his home language, and told him to come to the
kitchen-fire and dry himself. He had no bed for him, but
there was straw in the garret, and he could make out. The
man’s wife was cooking the supper, and their children were
playing about on the floor. Jurgis sat and exchanged thoughts
with him about the old country, and the places where they
had been and the work they had done. Then they ate, and af-
terward sat and smoked and talked more about America, and
how they found it. In the middle of a sentence, however, Jurgis
stopped, seeing that the woman had brought a big basin of
water and was proceeding to undress her youngest baby. The
rest had crawled into the closet where they slept, but the
baby was to have a bath, the workingman explained. The
nights had begun to be chilly, and his mother, ignorant as to
the climate in America, had sewed him up for the winter;
then it had turned warm again, and some kind of a rash had
broken out on the child. The doctor had said she must bathe
him every night, and she, foolish woman, believed him.
Jurgis scarcely heard the explanation; he was watching the
baby. He was about a year old, and a sturdy little fellow,
with soft fat legs, and a round ball of a stomach, and eyes
as black as coals. His pimples did not seem to bother him
much, and he was wild with glee over the bath, kicking and
squirming and chuckling with delight, pulling at his mother’s
face and then at his own little toes. When she put him into
the basin he sat in the midst of it and grinned, splashing the
water over himself and squealing like a little pig. He spoke
218

in Russian, of which Jurgis knew some; he spoke it with
the quaintest of baby accents—and every word of it brought
_ back to Jurgis some word of his own dead little one, and
_ stabbed him like a knife. He sat perfectly motionless,
silent, but gripping his hands tightly, while a storm gathered
in his bosom and a flood heaped itself up behind his eyes.
And in the end he could bear it no more, but buried his
face in his hands and burst into tears, to the alarm and amaze-
ment of his hosts. Between the shame of this and his woe,
Jurgis could not stand it, and got up and rushed out into
the rain.

He went on and on down the road, finally coming to a
black woods, where he hid and wept as if his heart would
break. Ah, what agony was that, what despair, when the
tomb of memory was rent open and the ghosts of his old
life came forth to scourge him! What terror to see what he
had been and now could never be—to see Ona and his child
and his own dead self stretching out their arms to him,
calling to him across a bottomless abyss—and to know that
they were gone from him forever, and he writhing and suffo-
cating in the mire of his own vileness!

KKEKKKK QZ wn»nw»w»

| ee in the fall Jurgis set out for Chicago again. All the
joy went out of tramping as soon as a man could not keep
warm in the hay; and, like many thousands of others, he
deluded himself with the hope that by coming early he could
avoid the rush. He brought fifteen dollars with him, hidden
away in one of his shoes, a sum which had been saved from
the saloon-keepers, not so much by his conscience, as by the
fear which filled him at the thought of being out of work in
the city in the wintertime.

He traveled upon the railroad with several other men,
hiding in freight cars at night, and liable to be thrown off
at any time, regardless of the speed of the train. When
he reached the city he left the rest, for he had money and
they did not, and he meant to save himself in this fight. He
would bring to it all the skill that practice had brought him,
and he would stand, whoever fell. On fair nights he would
sleep in the park or on a truck or an empty barrel or box, and
when it was rainy or cold he would stow himself upon a

219

shelf in a ten-cent lodging-house, or pay three cents for the
privileges of a “squatter” in a tenement hallway. He would
eat at free lunches, five cents a meal, and never a cent more—
so he might keep alive for two months and more, and in that
time he would surely find a job. He would have to bid farewell
to his summer cleanliness, of course, for he would come out of
the first night’s lodging with his clothes alive with vermin.
There was no place in the city where he could wash even
his face, unless he went down to the lake front—and there
it would soon be all ice.

First he went to the steel mill and the harvester works,
and found that his places there had been filled long ago. He
was careful to keep away from the stockyards—he was a sin-
gle man now, he told himself, and he meant to stay one, to
have his wages for his own when he got a job. He began the
long, weary round of factories and warehouses, tramping all
day, from one end of the city to the other, finding every-
where from ten to a hundred men ahead of him. He watched
the newspapers, too—but no longer was he to be taken in by
smooth-spoken agents. He had been told of all those tricks
while “on the road.”

In the end it was through a newspaper that he got a job,
after nearly a month of seeking. It was a call for a hundred
laborers, and though he thought it was a “fake,” he went
because the place was near by. He found a line of men a
block long, but as a wagon chanced to come out of an alley
and break the line, he saw his chance and sprang to seize a
place. Men threatened him and tried to throw him out, but
he cursed and made a disturbance to attract a policeman,
upon which they subsided, knowing that if the latter interfered
it would be to “fire” them all.

An hour or two later he entered a room and confronted a
big Irishman behind a desk.

“Ever worked in Chicago before?” the man inquired;
and whether it was a good angel that put it into Jurgis’s
mind, or an intuition of his sharpened wits, he was moved
to answer, “No, sir.”

“Where do you come from?”

“Kansas City, sir.”

“Any references?”

“No, sir. I’m just an unskilled man, I’ve got good arms.”

“I want men for hard work—it’s all underground, digging
tunnels for telephones. Maybe it won’t suit you.”

“Ym willing, sir—anything for me. What’s the pay?”

220

“Fifteen cents an hour.”

“Tm willing, sir.”

“All right; go back there and give your name.”

So within half an hour he was at work, far underneath
the streets of the city. The tunnel was a peculiar one for
telephone wires; it was about eight feet high, and with a
level floor nearly as wide. It had innumerable branches—
a perfect spider-web beneath the city; Jurgis walked over
half a mile with his gang to the place where they were to
work. Stranger yet, the tunnel was lighted by electricity,
and upon it was laid a double-tracked, narrow-gauge rail-
road!

But Jurgis was not there to ask questions, and he did not
give the matter a thought. It was nearly a year afterward that
he finally learned the meaning of this whole affair. The City
Council had passed a quiet and innocent little bill allowing
a company to construct telephone conduits under the city
streets; and upon the strength of this, a great corporation
had proceeded to tunnel all Chicago with a system of rail-
way freight subways. In the city there was a combination of
employers, representing hundreds of millions of capital, and
formed for the purpose of crushing the labor unions. The
chief union which troubled it was the teamsters’; and when
these freight tunnels were completed, connecting all the
big factories and stores with the railroad depots, they would
have the teamsters’ union by the throat. Now and then there
were rumors and murmurs in the Board of Aldermen, and
once there was a committee to investigate—but each time
another small fortune was paid over, and the rumors died
away; until at last the city woke up with a start to find the
work completed. There was a tremendous scandal, of course;
it was found that the city records had been falsified and other
crimes committed, and some of Chicago’s big capitalists got
into jail—figuratively speaking. The aldermen declared that
they had had no idea of it all, in spite of the fact that the
main entrance to the work had been in the rear of the saloon
of one of them.

It was in a newly opened cut that Jurgis worked, and so
he knew that he had an all-winter job. He was so rejoiced
that he treated himself to a spree that night, and with the
balance of his money he hired himself a place in a tene-
ment room, where he slept upon a big home-made straw
mattress along with four other workingmen. This was one
dollar a week, and for four more he got his food in a

221

—

:

boarding-house near his work. This would leave him four
dollars extra each week, an unthinkable sum for him. At
the outset he had to pay for his digging tools, and also to
buy a pair of heavy boots, since his shoes were falling to
pieces, and a flannel shirt, since the one he had worn all sum-
mer was in shreds. He spent a week meditating whether or
not he should also buy an overcoat. There was one be-
longing to a Hebrew collar-button peddler, who had died in
the room next to him, and which the landlady was holding
for her rent; in the end, however, Jurgis decided to do with-
out it, as he was to be underground by day and in bed at
night.

This was an unfortunate decision, however, for it drove
him more quickly than ever into the saloons. From now on
Jurgis worked from seven o’clock until half-past five, with
half an hour for dinner; which meant that he never saw
the sunlight on weekdays. In the evenings there was no
place for him to go except a bar room; no place where
there was light and warmth, where he could hear a little
music or sit with a companion and talk. He had now no
home to go to; he had no affection left in his life—only
the pitiful mockery of it in the camaraderie of vice. On
Sundays the churches were open—but where was there a
church in which an ill-smelling workingman, with vermin
crawling upon his neck, could sit without seeing people
edge away and look annoyed? He had, of course, his corner
in a close though unheated room, with a window opening
upon a blank wall two feet away; and also he had the bare
streets, with the winter gales sweeping through them; be-
sides this he had only the saloons—and, of course, he had
to drink to stay in them. If he drank now and then he was
free to make himself at home, to gamble with dice or a pack
of greasy cards, to play at a dingy pool table for money,
or to look at a beer-stained pink “sporting paper,” with
pictures of murderers and half-naked women. It was for
such pleasures as these that he spent his money; and such
was his life during the six weeks and a half that he toiled
for the merchants of Chicago, to enable them to break the
grip of their teamsters’ union.

In a work thus carried out, not much thought was given
to the welfare of the laborers. On an average, the tunnelling
cost a life a day and several manglings; it was seldom, how-
ever, that more than a dozen or two men heard of any one
accident. The work was all done by the new boring-ma-

222

chinery, with as little blasting as possible; but there would
be falling rocks and crushed supports and premature eX-
plosions—and in addition all the dangers of railroading. So
it was that one night, as Jurgis was on his way out with his
gang, an engine and a loaded car dashed round one of the
innumerable right-angle branches and struck him upon the
shoulder, hurling him against the concrete wall and knock-
ing him senseless.

When he opened his eyes again it was to the clanging
of the bell of an ambulance. He was lying in it, covered
by a blanket, and it was heading its way slowly through
the holiday-shopping crowds. They took him to the county
hospital, where a young surgeon set his arm; then he was
washed and laid upon a bed in a ward with a score or two
more of maimed and mangled men.

Jurgis spent his Christmas in this hospital, and it was
the pleasantest Christmas he had had in America. Every
year there were scandals and investigations in this institu-
tion, the newspapers charging that doctors were allowed to
try fantastic experiments upon the patients; but Jurgis knew
nothing of this—his only complaint was that they used to
feed him upon tinned meat, which no man who had ever
worked in Packingtown would feed to his dog. Jurgis had
often wondered just who ate the canned corned beef and
“roast beef” of the stockyards; now he began to understand
—that it was what you might call “graft meat,” put up to be
sold to public officials and contractors, and eaten by soldiers
and sailors, prisoners and inmates of institutions, “shanty-
men” and gangs of railroad laborers.

Jurgis was ready to leave the hospital at the end of two
weeks. This did not mean that his arm was strong and that
he was able to go back to work, but simply that he could get
along without further attention, and that his place was need-
ed for someone worse off than he. That he was utterly
helpless, and had no means of keeping himself alive in the
meantime, was something which did not concern the hospital
authorities, nor any one else in the city.

As it chanced, he had been hurt on a Monday, and had
just paid for his last week’s board and his room rent, and
spent nearly all the balance of his Saturday’s pay. He had less
than seventy-five cents in his pockets, and a dollar and a half
due him for the day’s work he had done before he was
hurt. He might possibly have sued the company, and got
some damages for his injuries, but he did not know this,

223

and it was not the company’s business to tell him. He
went and got his pay and his tools, which he left in a pawns
shop for fifty cents. Then he went to his landlady, who had
rented his place and had no other for him; and then to his
boarding-house keeper, who looked him over and questioned
him. As he must certainly be helpless for a couple of months,
and had boarded there only six weeks, she decided very
quickly that it would not be worth the risk to keep him on
trust.

So Jurgis went out into the streets, in a most dreadful
plight. It was bitterly cold, and a heavy snow was falling,
beating into his face. He had no overcoat, and no place
to go, and two dollars and sixty-five cents in his pocket,
with the certainty that he could not earn another cent for
months. The snow meant no chance to him now; he must
walk along and see others shoveling, vigorous and active—
and he with his left arm bound to his side! He could not
hope to tide himself over by odd jobs of loading trucks; he
could not even sell newspapers or carry satchels, because
he was now at the mercy of any rival. Words could not
paint the terror that came over him as he realized all this.
He was like a wounded animal in the forest; he was forced
to compete with his enemies upon unequal terms. There
would be no consideration for him because of his weakness
—it was no one’s business to help him in such distress, to
make the fight the least bit easier for him. Even if he took
to begging, he would be at a disadvantage, for reasons
which he was to discover in good time.

In the beginning he could not think of anything except
getting out of the awful cold. He went into one of the
saloons he had been wont to frequent and bought a drink,
and then stood by the fire shivering and waiting to be ordered
out. According to an unwritten law, the buying a drink in-
cluded the privilege of loafing for just so long; then one
had to buy another drink or move on. That Jurgis was an old
customer entitled him to a somewhat longer stop; but then
he had been away two weeks, and was evidently “on the
bum.” He might plead and tell his “hard-luck story,” but
that would not help him much; a saloon-keeper who was to
be moved by such means would soon have his place jammed
to the doors with hobos on a day like this.

So Jurgis went out into another place, and paid another
nickel. He was so hungry this time that he could not resist
the hot beef-stew, an indulgence which cut short his stay

224

by a considerable time. When he was again told to move on,
he made his way to a “tough” place in the “Lévée”’ district,
where now and then he had gone with a certain rat-eyed
Bohemian workingman of his acquaintance, seeking a wom-
an. It was Jurgis’s vain hope that here the proprietor would
let him remain as a “sitter.” In low-class places, in the dead
of winter, saloon-keepers would often allow one or two
forlorn-looking bums who came in covered with snow or
soaked with rain to sit by the fire and look miserable to
attract custom. A workingman would come in, feeling cheer-
ful after his day’s work was over, and it would trouble him
to have to take his glass with such a sight under his
nose; and so he would call out: “Hello, Bub, what’s the
matter? You look as if you’d been up against it!” And then
the other would begin to pour out some tale of misery,
and the man would say, “Come have a glass, and maybe
that'll brace you up.” And so they would drink together,
and if the tramp was sufficiently wretched-looking, or good
enough at the “gab,” they might have two; and if they were
to discover that they were from the same country, or had
lived in the same city or worked at the same trade, they
might sit down at a table and spend an hour or two in talk
—and before they got through the saloon-keeper would have
taken in a dollar. All of this might seem diabolical, but the
saloon-keeper was in no wise to blame for it. He was in the
same plight as the manufacturer who has to adulterate and
misrepresent his product. If he does not, some one else will;
and the saloon-keeper, unless he is also an alderman, is apt to
be in debt to the big brewers, and on the verge of being sold
out.

The market for “sitters” was glutted that afternoon, how-
ever, and there was no place for Jurgis. In all he had to
spend six nickels in keeping a shelter over him that fright-
ful day, and then it was just dark, and the station houses
would not open until midnight! At the last place, however,
there was a bartender who knew him and liked him, and
let him doze at one of the tables until the boss came back;
and also, as he was going out, the man gave him a tip—
on the next block there was a religious revival of some
sort, with preaching and singing, and hundreds of hobos
would go there for the shelter and warmth.

Jurgis went straightway, and saw a sign hung out, saying
that the door would open at seven-thirty; then he walked, or
half ran, a block, and hid awhile in a doorway and then

Z2s

ran again, and so on until the hour. At the end he was all
but frozen, and fought his way in with the rest of the
throng (at the risk of having his arm broken again), and
got close to the big stove.

By eight o’clock the place was so crowded that the
speakers ought to have been flattered; the aisles were
filled halfway up, and at the door men were packed tight
enough to walk upon. There were three elderly gentlemen
in black upon the platform, and a young lady who played
the piano in front. First they sang a hymn, and then one of
the three, a tall, smooth-shaven man, very thin, and wearing
black spectacles, began an address. Jurgis heard smatterings of
it, for the reason that terror kept him awake—he knew that
he snored abominably, and to have been put out just then
would have been like a sentence of death to him.

The evangelist was preaching “sin and redemption,” the
infinite grace of God and His pardon for human frailty. He
was very much in earnest, and he meant well, but Jurgis, as
he listened, found his soul filled with hatred. What did he
know about sin and suffering—with his smooth, black coat
and his neatly starched collar, his body warm, and his belly
full, and money in his pocket—and lecturing men who were
struggling for their lives, men at the death-grapple with the
demon powers of hunger and cold!—This, of course, was
unfair; but Jurgis felt that these men were out of touch
with the life they discussed, that they were unfitted to
solve its problems; nay, they themselves were part of the
problem—they were part of the order established that was
crushing men down and beating them! They were of the
triumphant and insolent possessors; they had a hall, and a
fire, and food and clothing and money, and so they might
preach to hungry men, and the hungry men must be humble
and listen! They were trying to save their souls—and who
but a fool could fail to see that all that was the matter with
their souls was that they had not been able to get a decent
existence for their bodies?

At eleven the meeting closed, and the desolate audience
filed out into the snow, muttering curses upon the few
traitors who had got repentance and gone upon the plat-
form. It was yet an hour before the station house would
open, and Jurgis had no overcoat—and was weak from a
long illness. During that hour he nearly perished. He was
obliged to run hard to keep his blood moving at all—and

226

then he came back to the station house and found a crowd
blocking the street before the door! This was in the month
of January, 1904, when the country was on the verge of
“hard times,” and the newspapers were reporting the shutting
down of factories every day—it was estimated that a million
and a half of men were thrown out of work before the
spring. So all the hiding places of the city were crowded,
and before that station house door men fought and tore
each other like savage beasts. When at last the place was
jammed and they shut the doors, half the crowd was still
outside; and Jurgis, with his helpless arm, was among them.
There was no choice then but to go to a lodging house and
spend another dime. It really broke his heart to do this, at
half-past twelve o’clock, after he had wasted the night at the
meeting and on the street. He would be turned out of the
lodging house promptly at seven—they had the shelves
which served as bunks so contrived that they could be
dropped, and any man who was slow about obeying orders
could be tumbled to the floor.

This was one day, and the cold spell lasted for fourteen
of them. At the end of six days every cent of Jurgis’s money
was gone; and then he went out on the streets to beg for his
life.

He would begin as soon as the business of the city was
moving. He would sally forth from a saloon, and, after mak-
ing sure there was no policeman in sight, would approach
every likely-looking person who passed him, telling his
woful story and pleading for a nickel or a dime. Then when
he got one, he would dart round the corner and return to his
base to get warm; and his victim, seeing him do this, would
go away, vowing that he would never give a cent to a
beggar again. The victim never paused to ask where else
Jurgis could have gone under the circumstances—where he,
the victim, would have gone. At the saloon Jurgis could not
only get more food and better food than he could buy in
any restaurant for the same money, but a drink in the
bargain to warm him up. Also he could find a comfortable
seat by a fire, and could chat with a companion until he was
as warm as toast. At the saloon, too, he felt at home. Part
of the saloon-keeper’s business was to offer a home and
refreshments to beggars in exchange for the proceeds of their
foragings; and was there any one else in the whole city who
would do this—would the victim have done it himself?

Poor Jurgis might have been expected to make a successful

221

beggar. He was just out of the hospital, and desperately
sick-looking, and with a helpless arm; also he had no over-
coat, and shivered pitifully. But, alas, it was again the case
of the honest merchant, who finds that the genuine and
unadulterated article is driven to the wall by the artistic
counterfeit. Jurgis, as a beggar, was simply a blundering
amateur in competition with organized and scientific pro-
fessionalism. He was just out of the hospital—but the story
was worn threadbare, and how could he prove it? He had his
arm in a sling—and it was a device a regular beggar’s little
boy would have scorned. He was pale and shivering—but
they were made up with cosmetics, and had studied the art
of chattering their teeth. As to his being without an over-
coat, among them you would meet men you could swear
had on nothing but a ragged linen duster and a pair of cotton
trousers—so cleverly had they concealed the several suits
of all-wool underwear beneath. Many of these professional
mendicants had comfortable homes, and families, and thou-
sands of dollars in the bank; some of them had retired upon
their earnings, and gone into the business of fitting out and
doctoring others, or working children at the trade. There
were some who had both their arms bound tightly to their
sides, and padded stumps in their sleeves, and a sick child
hired to carry a cup for them. There were some who had no
legs, and pushed themselves upon a wheeled platform—some
who had been favored with blindness, and were led by pretty
little dogs. Some less fortunate had mutilated themselves
or burned themselves, or had brought horrible sores upon
themselves with chemicals; you might suddenly encounter
upon the street a man holding out to you a finger rotting
and discolored with gangrene—or one with livid scarlet
wounds half escaped from their filthy bandages. These desper-
ate ones were the dregs of the city’s cesspools, wretches
who hid at night in the rain-soaked cellars of old ramshackle
tenements, in “stale-beer dives” and opium joints, with aban-
doned women in the last stages of the harlot’s progress—
women who had been kept by Chinamen and turned away at
last to die. Every day the police net would drag hundreds
of them off the streets, and in the Detention Hospital you
might see them, herded together in a miniature inferno, with
hideous, beastly faces, bloated and leprous with disease,
laughing, shouting, screaming in all stages of drunkenness,
barking like dogs, gibbering like apes, raving and tearing
themselves in delirium.
228

KKKKxeKe BE »»wn»»»

Le the face of all his handicaps, Jurgis was obliged to
make the price of a lodging, and of a drink every hour or two,
under penalty of freezing to death. Day after day he roamed
about in the arctic cold, his soul filled full of bitterness
and despair. He saw the world of civilization then more
plainly than ever he had seen it before; a world in which noth-
ing counted but brutal might, an order devised by those who
possessed it for the subjugation of those who did not. He was
one of the latter; and all outdoors, all life, was to him one
colossal prison, which he paced like a pent-up tiger, trying one
bar after another, and finding them all beyond his power. He
had lost in the fierce battle of greed, and so was doomed to be
exterminated; and all society was busied to see that he did not
escape the sentence. Everywhere that he turned were
prison bars, and hostile eyes following him; the well-fed,
sleek policemen, from whose glances he shrank, and who
seemed to grip their clubs more tightly when they saw him;
the saloon-keepers, who never ceased to watch him while
he was in their places, who were jealous of every moment
he lingered after he had paid his money; the hurrying throngs
upon the streets, who were deaf to his entreaties, oblivious
of his very existence—and savage and contemptuous when
he forced himself upon them, They had their own affairs,
and there was no place for him among them. There was no
place for him anywhere—every direction he turned his gaze,
this fact was forced upon him. Everything was built to ex-
press it to him: the residences, with their heavy walls and
bolted doors, and basement windows barred with iron; the
great warehouses filled with the products of the whole world,
and guarded by iron shutters and heavy gates; the banks with
their unthinkable billions of wealth, all buried in safes and
vaults of steel.

And then one day there befell Jurgis the one adventure of
his life. It was late at night, and he had failed to get the price
of a lodging. Snow was falling, and he had been out so long
that he was covered with it, and was chilled to the bone. He
was working among the theater crowds, flitting here and

229

there, taking large chances with the police, in his desperation
half hoping to be arrested. When he saw a blue-coat start
toward him, however, his heart failed him, and he dashed
down a side street and fled a couple of blocks. When he
stopped again he saw a man coming toward him, and placed
himself in his path.

“Please, sir,” he began, in the usual formula, “will you
give me the price of a lodging? I’ve had a broken arm, and
I can’t work, and I’ve not a cent in my pocket. I’m an
honest workingman, sir, and I never begged before. It’s not
my fault, sir—”

Jurgis usually went on until he was interrupted, but this
man did not interrupt, and so at last he came to a breathless
stop. The other had halted, and Jurgis suddenly noticed that
he stood a little unsteadily. “Whuzzat you say?” he queried
suddenly, in a thick voice.

Jurgis began again, speaking more slowly and distinctly;
before he was half through the other put out his hand and
Tested it upon his shoulder. “Poor ole chappie!” he said.
“Been up—hic—up—against it, hey?”

Then he lurched toward Jurgis, and the hand upon his
shoulder became an arm about his neck. “Up against it
myself, ole sport,” he said. “She’s a hard ole world.”

They were close to a lamp post, and Jurgis got a glimpse
of the other. He was a young fellow—not much over eight-
een, with a handsome boyish face. He wore a silk hat and
a rich soft overcoat with a fur collar; and he smiled at
Jurgis with benignant sympathy, “I’m hard up, too, my goo’
fren’,” he said. “I’ve got cruel parents, or I’d set you up.
Whuzzamatter whizyer?”

“T’ve been in the hospital.”

“Hospital!” exclaimed the young fellow, still smiling sweet-
ly, “thass too bad! Same’s my Aunt Polly—hic—my Aunt
Polly’s in the hospital, too—ole auntie’s been havin’ twins!
Whuzzamatter whiz you?”

“I’ve got a broken arm—” Jurgis began.

“So,” said the other, sympathetically. “That ain’t so bad
—you get over that. I wish somebody’s break my arm, ole
chappie—damfidon’t! Then they’s treat me better—hic—hole
me up, ole sport! Whuzzit you wamme do?”

“I’m hungry, sir,” said Jurgis.

“Hungry! Why don’t you hassome supper?”

“T’ve got no money, sir.”

“No money! Ho, ho—less be chums, ole boy—jess like

230

me! No money, either,—a’most busted! Why don’t you go
home, then, same’s me?”

“T haven’t any home,” said Jurgis.

“No home! Stranger in the city, hey? Goo’ God, thass
bad! Better come home wiz me—yes, by Harry, thass the
trick, you'll come home an’ hassome supper—hic—wiz mel!
Awful lonesome—nobody home! Guv’ner gone abroad—Bub-
by on’s honeymoon—Polly havin’ twins—every damn soul
gone away! Nuff—hic—nuff to drive a feller to drink, I say!
Only ole Ham standin’ by, passin’ plates—damfican eat like
that, no sir! The club for me every time, my boy, I say. But
then they won’t lemme sleep there—guv’ner’s orders, by
Harry—home every night, sir! Ever hear anythin’ like that?
‘Every mornin’ do? I asked him. ‘No, sir, every night,
or no allowance at all, sir.’ Thass my guv’ner—hic—hard as
nails, by Harry! Tole old Ham to watch me, too—servants
spyin’ on me—whuzyer think that, my fren’? A nice, quiet
—hic—good-hearted young feller like me, an’ his daddy
can’t go to Europe—hup!—an’ leave him in peace! Ain’t that
a shame, sir? An’ I gotter go home every evenin’ an’ miss
all the fun, by Harry! Thass whuzzamatter now—thass why
I’m here! Hadda come away an’ leave Kitty—hic—left her
cryin’, too—whujja think of that, ole sport? ‘Lemme go,
Kittens,’ says I—‘come early an’ often—I go where duty
—hic—calls me. Farewell, farewell, my own true love—
farewell, farewe-hell, my own true love!’ ”

This last was a song, and the young gentleman’s voice rose
mournful and wailing, while he swung upon Jurgis’s neck.
The latter was glancing about nervously, lest someone
should approach. They were still alone, however.

“But I came all right, all right,” continued the youngster,
aggressively. “I can—hic—I can have my own way when I
want it, by Harry—Freddie Jones is a hard man to handle
when he gets goin’! ‘No, sir,’ says I, ‘by thunder, and I don’t
need anybody goin’ home with me, either—whujja take
me for, hey? Think I’m drunk, dontcha, hey?—I know youl
But ’'m no more drunk than you are, Kittens,’ says I to her.
And then says she, “Thass true, Freddie dear’ (she’s a smart
one, is Kitty), ‘but ’m stayin’ in the flat, an’ you’re goin’ out
into the cold, cold night!’ ‘Put it in a pome, lovely Kitty,’
says I. ‘No jokin’, Freddie, my boy,’ says she. ‘Lemme call
a cab now, like a good dear’—but I can call my own cabs,
dontcha fool yourself—I know what I’m a-doin’, you bet! Say,
my fren’, whatcha say—willye come home an’ see me, an’

231

hassome supper? Come ‘long like a good feller—don’t be
haughty! You’re up against it, same as me, an’ you can unner-
stan’ a feller; your heart’s in the right place, by Harry—
come ‘long, ole chappie, an’ we'll light up the house, an’ have
some fizz, an’ we'll raise hell, we will—whoop-la! S’long’s
I’m inside the house I can do as I please—the guv’ner’s own
very orders, b’God! Hip! hip!”

They had started down the street, arm in arm, the young
man pushing Jurgis along, half dazed. Jurgis was trying to
think what to do—he knew he could not pass any crowded
place with his new acquaintance without attracting attention
and being stopped. It was only because of the falling snow
that people who passed here did not notice anything wrong.

Suddenly, therefore, Jurgis stopped. “Is it very far?” he
inquired.

“Not very,” said the other. “Tired, are you, though?
Well, we'll ride—whatcha say? Good! Call a cab!”

And then, gripping Jurgis tight with one hand, the young
fellow began searching his pockets with the other. “You
call, ole sport, an’ I'll pay,” he suggested. ““How’s that, hey?”

And he pulled out from somewhere a big roll of bills. It
was more money than Jurgis had ever seen in his life before,
and he stared at it with startled eyes.

“Looks like a lot, hey?” said Master Freddie, fumbling with
it. “Fool you, though, ole chappie—they’re all little ones!
I'll be busted in one week more, sure thing—word of honor.
An’ not a cent more till the first—hic—guv’ner’s orders—hic
—not a cent, by Harry! Nuff to set a feller crazy, it is. I sent
him a cable this af’noon—thass one reason more why I’m
goin’ home. ‘Hangin’ on the verge of starvation,’ I says—‘for
the honor of the family—hic—sen’ me some _ bread.
Hunger will compel me to join you.—Freddie.’ Thass what
I wired him, by Harry, an’ I mean it—TU run away from
school, b’God, if he don’t sen’ me some.”

After this fashion the young gentleman continued to prat-
tle on—and meantime Jurgis was trembling with excitement.
He might grab that wad of bills and be out of sight in the
darkness before the other could collect his wits. Should he
do it? What better had he to hope for, if he waited longer?
But Jurgis had never committed a crime in his life, and now
he hesitated half a second too long. “Freddie” got one bill
loose, and then stuffed the rest back into his trousers’ pocket.

“Here, ole man,” he said, “you take it.” He held it out
fluttering. They were in front of a saloon; and by the light

232

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of the window Jurgis saw that it was a hundred-dollar bill.

“You take it,” the other repeated. “Pay the cabbie an’
keep the change—I’ve got—hic—no head for business! Guv’-
ner says so hisself, an’ the guvner knows—the guv’ner’s
got a head for business, you bet! ‘All right, guv’ner,’ I told
him, ‘you run the show, and I'll take the tickets!’ An’ so he
set Aunt Polly to watch me—hic—an’ now Polly’s off in
the hospital havin’ twins, an’ me out raisin’ Cain! Hello,
there! Hey! Call him!”

A cab was driving by; and Jurgis sprang and called and it
swung round to the curb. Master Freddie clambered in with
some difficulty, and Jurgis had started to follow, when the
driver shouted: “Hi, there! Get out—you!”

Jurgis hesitated, and was half obeying; but his companion
broke out: “Whuzzat? Whuzzamatter wiz you, hey?”

And the cabbie subsided, and Jurgis climbed in. Then Fred-
die gave a number on the Lake Shore Drive, and the carriage
started away. The youngster leaned back and snuggled up to
Jurgis, murmuring contentedly; in half a minute he was
sound asleep. Jurgis sat shivering, speculating as to whether
he might not still be able to get hold of the roll of bills.
He was afraid to try to go through his companion’s pockets,
however; and besides, the cabbie might be on the watch. He
had the hundred safe, and he would have to be content
with that.

At the end of half an hour or so the cab stopped. They
were out on the water-front, and from the east a freezing
gale was blowing off the ice-bound lake. “Here we are,” called
the cabbie, and Jurgis awakened his companion.

Master Freddie sat up with a start.

“Hello!” he said. “Where are we? Whuzzis? Who are you,
hey? Oh, yes, sure nuff! Mos’ forgot you—hic—ole chappie!
Home, are we? Lessee! Br-r-r—it’s cold! Yes—come ‘long
—we’re home—be it ever so—hic—humble!”

Before them there loomed an enormous granite pile, set
far back from the street, and occupying a whole block. By
the light of the driveway lamps Jurgis could see that it had
towers and huge gables, like a medieval castle. He thought
that the young fellow must have made a mistake—it was
inconceivable to him that any person could have a home like
a hotel or the city hall. But he followed in silence, and
they ‘went up the long flight of steps, arm in arm.

“There’s.a button here, ole sport,” said Master Freddie.

233

“Hole my arm while I find her! Steady, now—oh, yes, here
she is! Saved!”

A bell rang, and in a few seconds the door was opened.
A man in blue livery stood holding it, and gazing before
him, silent as a statue.

They stood for a moment blinking in the light. Then Jurgis
felt his companion pulling, and he stepped in, and the blue
automaton closed the door. Jurgis’s heart was beating wildly;
it was a bold thing for him to do—into what strange un-
earthly place he was venturing he had no idea. Aladdin en-
tering his cave could not have been more excited.

The place where he stood was dimly lighted; but he could
see a vast hall, with pillars fading into the darkness above,
and a great staircase opening at the far end of it. The floor
was of tesselated marble, smooth as glass, and from the walls
strange shapes loomed out, woven into huge portieres in
rich, harmonious colors, or gleaming from paintings, won-
derful and mysterious-looking in the half light, purple and
red and golden, like sunset glimmers in a shadowy forest.

The man in livery had moved silently toward them; Master
Freddie took off his hat and handed it to him, and then, let-
ting go of Jurgis’s arm, tried to get out of his overcoat.
After two or three attempts he accomplished this, with the
lackey’s help; and meantime a second man had approached,
a tall and portly personage, solemn as an executioner. He
bore straight down upon Jurgis, who shrank away nervously;
he seized him by the arm without a word, and started toward
the door with him. Then suddenly came Master Freddie’s
voice, “Hamilton! My fren’ will remain wiz me.”

The man paused and half released Jurgis. “Come ‘long,
ole chappie,” said the other, and Jurgis started toward him.

“Master Frederick!” exclaimed the man.

“See that the cabbie—hic—is paid,” was the other’s re-
sponse; and he linked his arm in Jurgis’s. Jurgis was about
to say, “I have the money for him,” but he restrained him-
self. The stout man in uniform signaled to the other, who
went out to the cab, while he followed Jurgis and his young
master.

They went down the great hall, and then turned. Before
them were two huge doors.

“Hamilton,” said Master Freddie.

“Well, sir?” said the other.

“Whuzzamatter wizze dinin’ room doors?” Ay,

“Nothing is the matter, sir.” K'

234 tt ge |

“Then why dontcha openum?”

The man rolled them back; another vista lost itself in the
darkness. “Lights,” commanded Master Freddie; and the
butler pressed a button, and a flood of brilliant incandescence
streamed from above, half blinding Jurgis. He stared; and little
by little he made out the great apartment, with a domed ceiling
from which the light poured, and walls that were one enor-
mous painting—nymphs and dryads dancing in a flower-
strewn glade—Diana with her hounds and horses, dashing
headlong through a mountain streamlet—a group of maidens
bathing in a forest-pool—all life-size, and so real that Jurgis
thought that it was some work of enchantment, that he
was in a dream palace. Then his eye passed to the long
table in the center of the hall, a table black as ebony, and
gleaming with wrought silver and gold. In the centre of it
was a huge carven bowl, with the glistening gleam of ferns
and the red and purple of rare orchids, glowing from a light
hidden somewhere in their midst.

“This’s the dinin’ room,” observed Master Freddie. “How
you like it, hey, ole sport?”

He always insisted on having an answer to his remarks,
leaning over Jurgis and smiling into his face. Jurgis liked it.

“Rummy ole place to feed in all ‘lone, though,” was
Freddie’s comment—‘“rummy’s hell! Whuzya think, hey?”
Then another idea occurred to him and he went on, without
waiting: “Maybe you never saw anything—hic—like this
fore? Hey, ole chappie?”

“No,” said Jurgis.

“Come from country, maybe—hey?”

“Yes,” said Jurgis.

“Aha! I thosso! Lossa folks from country never saw such
a place. Guv’ner brings *°em—free show—hic—reg’lar cir-
cus! Go home tell folks about it. Ole man Jones’ place—
Jones the packer—beef-trust man. Made it all out of hogs,
too, damn ole scoundrel. Now we see where our pennies go—
rebates, an’ private-car lines—hic—by Harry! Bully place,
though—worth seein’! Ever hear of Jones the packer, hey,
ole chappie?”

Jurgis had started involuntarily; the other, whose sharp
eyes missed nothing, demanded: ‘“Whuzzamatter, hey?
Heard of him?”

And Jurgis managed to stammer out: “I have worked for
him in the yards.”

“What!” cried Master Freddie, with a yell. “You! In the

235

yards? Ho, ho! Why, say, thass good! Shake hands on it, ole
man—by Harry! Guv’ner ought to be here—glad to see you.
Great fren’s with the men, guv’ner—labor an’ capital, com-
mun’ty ’f int’rests, an’ all that—hic! Funny things happen in
this world, don’t they, ole man? Hamilton, lemme interduce
you—fren’ the family—ole fren’ the guv’ner’s—works in the
yards. Come to spend the night wiz me, Hamilton—have a hot
time. My fren’, Mr. whuzya name, ole chappie? Tell us
your name.”

“Rudkus—Jurgis Rudkus.”

“My fren’, Mr. Rudnose, Hamilton—shake han’s.”

The stately butler bowed his head, but made not a sound;
and suddenly Master Freddie pointed an eager finger at him.
“I know whuzzamatter wiz you, Hamilton—lay you a dol-
lar I know! You think—hic—you think I’m drunk! Hey,
now?”

And the butler again bowed his head. “Yes, sir,” he said,
at which Master Freddie hung tightly upon Jurgis’s neck and
went into a fit of laughter. “Hamilton, you damn ole scoun-
drel,” he roared, “Ill ’scharge you for impudence, you see ’f
I don’t! Ho, ho, ho! ’'m drunk! Ho, ho!”

The two waited until his fit had spent itself, to see what
new whim would seize him. “Whatcha wanta do?” he queried
suddenly. “Wanta see the place, ole chappie? Wamme play
the guy’ner—show you roun’? State parlors—Looee Cans—
Looee Sez—chairs cost three thousand apiece. Tea room—
Maryanninet—picture of shepherds dancing—Ruysdael—
twenty-three thousan’! Ballroom—bale’ny pillars—hic—im-
ported—special ship—sixty-eight thousan’! Ceilin’ painted in
Rome—whuzzat feller’s name, Hamilton—Mattatoni? Mac-
aroni? Then this place—silver bowl—Benvenuto Cellini—
rummy ole Dago! An’ the organ—thirty thousan’ dollars,
sir—starter up, Hamilton, let Mr. Rednose hear it. No—
never mind—clean forgot—says he’s hungry, Hamilton—
less have some supper. Only—hic—don’t less have it here—
come up to my place, ole sport—nice an’ cosy. This way—
steady now, don’t slip on the floor. Hamilton, we’ll have a
cole spread, an’ some fizz—don’t leave out the fizz, by Harry.
We'll have some of the eighteen-thirty Madeira. Hear me,
sir?”

“Yes, sir,” said the butler, “but, Master Frederick, your
father left orders—”

And Master Frederick drew himself up to a stately height.
“My father’s orders were left to me—hic—an’ not to you,”

236

he said. Then, clasping Jurgis tightly by the neck, he stag-
gered out of the room; on the way another idea occurred
to him, and he asked: “Any—hic—cable message for me,
Hamilton?”

“No, sir,” said the butler.

“Guv’ner must be travellin’. An’ how’s the twins, Ham-
ilton?”

“They are doing well, sir;

“Good!” said Master Freddie; and added fervently: “God
bless ’em, the little lambs!”

They went up the great staircase, one step at a time; at
the top of it there gleamed at them out of the shadows the
figure of a nymph crouching by a fountain, a figure ravish-
ingly beautiful, the flesh warm and glowing with the hues of
life. Above was a huge court, with domed roof, the various
apartments opening into it. The butler had paused below
but a few minutes to give orders, and then followed them;
now he pressed a button, and the hall blazed with light. He
opened a door before them, and then pressed another but-
ton, as they staggered into the apartment.

It was fitted up as a study. In the center was a mahogany
table, covered with books, and smokers’ implements; the
walls were decorated with college trophies and colors—
flags, posters, photographs and knickknacks—tennis rackets,
canoe paddles, golf clubs, and polo sticks. An enormous
moose head, with horns six feet across, faced a buffalo head
on the opposite wall, while bear and tiger skins covered the
polished floor. There were lounging-chairs and sofas, window
seats covered with soft cushions of fantastic designs; there
was one corner fitted in Persian fashion, with a huge canopy
and a jeweled lamp beneath. Beyond, a door opened upon a
bedroom, and beyond that was a swimming pool of the pur-
est marble, that had cost about forty thousand dollars.

Master Freddie stood for a moment or two, gazing about
him; then out of the next room a dog emerged, a monstrous
bulldog, the most hideous object that Jurgis had ever laid
eyes upon. He yawned, opening a mouth like a dragon’s; and
he came toward the young man, wagging his tail. ‘Hello,
Dewey!” cried his master. “Been havin’ a snooze, ole boy?
Well, well—hello there, whuzzamatter?” (The dog was_
snarling at Jurgis.) “Why, Dewey—this’ my fren’, Mr. Red-
nose——ole fren’ the guv’ner’s! Mr. Rednose, Admiral Dewey;
shake han’s—hic. Ain’t he a daisy, though—blue ribbon at

237

the New York show—eighty-five hundred at a clip! How’s
that, hey?”

The speaker sank into one of the big arm chairs, and Ad-
miral Dewey crouched beneath it; he did not snarl again,
but he never took his eyes off Jurgis. He was perfectly sober,
was the Admiral.

The butler had closed the door, and he stood by it, watch-
ing Jurgis every second. Now there came footsteps outside,
and, as he opened the door a man in livery entered, carrying
a folding table, and behind him two men with covered trays.
They stood like statues while the first spread the table and
set out the contents of the trays upon it. There were cold
patés, and thin slices of meat, tiny bread and butter sand-
wiches with the crust cut off, a bowl of sliced peaches and
cream (in January), little fancy cakes, pink and green and yel-
low and white, and half a dozen ice-cold bottles of wine.

“Thass the stuff for you!” cried Master Freddie, exultantly,
as he spied them. “Come “long, ole chappie, move up.”

And he seated himself at the table; the waiter pulled a
cork, and he took the bottle and poured three glasses of its
contents in succession down his throat. Then he gave a long-
drawn sigh, and cried again to Jurgis to seat himself.

The butler held the chair at the opposite side of the table,
and Jurgis thought it was to keep him out of it; but finally he
understood that it was the other’s intention to put it under
him, and so he sat down, cautiously and mistrustingly. Mas-
ter Freddie perceived that the attendants embarrassed him,
and he remarked, with a nod to them, “You may go.”

They went, all save the butler.

“You may go too, Hamilton,” he said.

“Master Frederick—” the man began.

“Go!” cried the youngster, angrily. “Damn you, don’t you
hear me?”

The man went out and closed the door; Jurgis, who was
as sharp as he, observed that he took the key out of the lock,
in order that he might peer through the keyhole.

Master Frederick turned to the table again. “Now,” he
said, “go for it.”

Jurgis gazed at him doubtingly. “Eat!” cried the other.
“Pile in, ole chappie!”

“Don’t you want anything?” Jurgis asked.

“Ain’t hungry,” was the reply—‘only thirsty. Kitty and
me had some candy—you go on.”

So Jurgis began, without further parley. He ate as with

238

two shovels, his fork in one hand and his knife in the other;
when he once got started his wolf-hunger got the better of
him, and he did not stop for breath until he had cleared
every plate. “Gee whiz!” said the other, who had been watch-
ing him in wonder.

Then he held Jurgis the bottle. “Lessee you drink now,”
he said; and Jurgis took the bottle and turned it up to his
mouth, and a wonderful unearthly liquid ecstasy poured
down his throat, tickling every nerve of him, thrilling him
with joy. He drank the very last drop of it, and then he gave
vent to a long-drawn “Ah!”

“Good stuff, hey?” said Freddie, sympathetically; he had
leaned back in the big chair, putting his arm behind his
head and gazing at Jurgis.

And Jurgis gazed back at him. He was clad in spotless eve-
ning dress, was Freddie, and looked very handsome—he was
a beautiful boy, with light golden hair and the head of an
Antinous. He smiled at Jurgis confidingly, and then started
talking again, with his blissful insouciance. This time he
talked for ten minutes at a stretch, and in the course of the
speech he told Jurgis all of his family history. His big brother
Charlie was in love with the guileless maiden who played the
part of “Little Bright-Eyes” in “The Kaliph of Kamskatka.”
He had been on the verge of marrying her once, only “the
guv’ner” had sworn to disinherit him, and had presented him
with a sum that would stagger the imagination, and that had
Staggered the virtue of “Little Bright-Eyes.” Now Charlie
had got leave from college, and had gone away in his auto-
mobile on the next best thing to a honeymoon. “The guv’ner”
had made threats to disinherit another of his children also,
sister Gwendolen, who had married an Italian marquis with
a string of titles and a dueling record. They lived in his
chateau, or rather had, until he had taken to firing the
breakfast dishes at her; then she had cabled for help, and
the old gentleman had gone over to find out what were His
Grace’s terms. So they had left Freddie all alone, and he with
less than two thousand dollars in his pocket. Freddie was up
in arms and meant serious business, as they would find in the
end—if there was no other way of bringing them to terms he
would have his “Kittens” wire that she was about to marry
him, and see what happened then.

So the cheerful youngster rattled on, until he was tired
out. He smiled his sweetest smile at Jurgis, and then he
closed his eyes, sleepily. Then he opened them again, and

239

smiled once more, and finally closed them and forgot to
open them.

For several minutes Jurgis sat perfectly motionless, watch-
ing him, and reveling in the strange sensations of the cham-
pagne. Once he stirred, and the dog growled; after that he
sat almost holding his breath—until after a while the door
of the room opened softly, and the butler came in.

He walked toward Jurgis upon tiptoe, scowling at him;
and Jurgis rose up, and retreated, scowling back. So until he
was against the wall, and then the butler came close, and
pointed toward the door. “Get out of here!” he whispered.

Jurgis hesitated, giving a glance at Freddie, who was snor-
ing softly. “If you do, you son of a ” hissed the butler,
“Yl mash in your face for you before you get out of here!”

And Jurgis wavered but an instant more. He saw “Ad-
miral Dewey” coming up behind the man and growling soft-
ly; to back up his threats. Then he surrendered and started
toward the door.

They went out without a sound, and down the great echo-
ing staircase, and through the dark hall. At the front door
he paused, and the butler strode close to him.

“Hold up your hands,” he snarled. Jurgis took a step back,
clinching his one well fist.

“What for?” he cried; and then understanding that the
fellow proposed to search him, he answered, “I'll see you
in hell first.”

“Do you want to go to jail?” demanded the butler, men-
acingly. “Ill have the police—”

“Have ’em!” roared Jurgis, with fierce passion. “But you
won't put your hands on me till you do! I haven’t touched
anything in your damned house, and [ll not have you
touch me!”

So the butler, who was terrified lest his young master
should awaken, stepped suddenly to the door, and opened
it. “Get out of here!” he said; and then as Jurgis passed
through the opening, he gave him a ferocious kick that sent
him down the great stone steps at a run, and landed him
sprawling in the snow at the bottom.

240

«cccce BE »»»n»»

J URGIS got up, wild with rage; but the door was shut and
the great castle was dark and impregnable. Then the icy
teeth of the blast bit into him, and he turned and went away
at a run.

When he stopped again it was because he was coming to
frequented streets and did not wish to attract attention. In
spite of that last humiliation, his heart was thumping fast
with triumph. He had come out ahead on that deal! He put
his hand into his trousers’ pocket every now and then, to
make sure that the precious hundred-dollar bill was still there.

Yet he was in a plight—a curious and even dreadful
plight, when he came to realize it. He had not a single cent
but that one bill! And he had to find some shelter that night
—he had to change it!

Jurgis spent half an hour walking and debating the prob-
lem. There was no one he could go to for help—he had to
manage it all alone. To get it changed in a lodging house
would be to take his life in his hands—he would almost
certainly be robbed, and perhaps murdered, before morning.
He might go to some hotel or railroad depot and ask to have
it changed; but what would they think, seeing a “bum” like
him with a hundred dollars? He would probably be arrested
if he tried it; and what story could he tell? On the morrow
Freddie Jones would discover his loss, and there would be a
hunt for him, and he would lose his money. The only other
plan he could think of was to try in a saloon. He might pay
them to change it, if it could not be done otherwise.

He began peering into places as he walked; he passed sev-
eral as being too crowded—then finally, chancing upon one
where the bartender was all alone, he gripped his hands in
sudden resolution and went in.

“Can you change me a hundred-dollar bill?” he demanded.

The bartender was a big, husky fellow, with the jaw of a
prize fighter, and a three weeks’ stubble of hair upon it. He
stared at Jurgis. “What’s that youse say?” he demanded.

“I said, could you change me a hundred-dollar bill?”

“Where’d youse get it?” he inquired incredulously.

“Never mind,” said Jurgis; “I’ve got it, and I want it
changed. Ill pay you if you'll do it.”

241

The other stared at him hard. “Lemme see it,” he said.

“Will you change it?” Jurgis demanded, gripping it tightly
in his pocket.

“How the hell can I know if it’s good or not?’ retorted
the bartender. ‘““Whatcher take me for, hey?”

Then Jurgis slowly and warily approached him; he took
out the bill, and fumbled it for a moment, while the man
stared at him with hostile eyes across the counter. Then fi-
nally he handed it over.

The other took it, and began to examine it; he smoothed
it between his fingers, and he held it up to the light; he
turned it over, and upside down, and edgeways. It was new
and rather stiff, and that made him dubious. Jurgis was
watching him like a cat all the time.

‘“Humph,” he said, finally, and gazed at the stranger, siz-
ing him up—a ragged, ill-smelling tramp, with no overcoat
and one arm in a sling—and a hundred-dollar bill! “Want
to buy anything?” he demanded.

“Yes,” said Jurgis, “I'll take a glass of beer.”

“All right,” said the other, “I'll change it.” And he put
the bill in his pocket, and poured Jurgis out a glass of beer,
and set it on the counter. Then he turned to the cash-register,
and punched up five cents, and began to pull money out of
the drawer. Finally, he faced Jurgis, counting it out—two
dimes, a quarter, and fifty cents. “There,” he said.

For a second Jurgis waited expecting to see him turn again.
“My ninety-nine dollars,” he said.

“What ninety-nine dollars?” demanded the bartender.

“My change!” he cried—“the rest of my hundred!”

“Go on,” said the bartender, “you’re nutty!”

And Jurgis stared at him with wild eyes. For an instant
horror reigned in him—black, paralyzing, awful horror,
clutching him at the heart; and then came rage, in surging,
blinding floods—he screamed aloud, and seized the glass
and hurled it at the other’s head. The man ducked, and it
missed him by half an inch; he rose again and faced Jurgis,
who was vaulting over the bar with his one well arm, and
dealt him a smashing blow in the face, hurling him back-
ward upon the floor. Then, as Jurgis scrambled to his feet
again and started round the counter after him, he shouted
at the top of his voice, “Help! help!”

Jurgis seized a bottle off the counter as he ran; and as the
bartender made a leap he hurled the missile at him with all
his force. It just grazed his head, and shivered into a thou-

242

sand pieces against the post of the door. Then Jurgis started
back, rushing at the man again in the middle of the room.
This time, in his blind frenzy, he came without a bottle, and
that was all the bartender wanted—he met him halfway and
floored him with a sledge-hammer drive between the eyes.
An instant later the screen-doors flew open, and two men
rushed in—just as Jurgis was getting to his feet again, foam-
ing at the mouth with rage, and trying to tear his broken
arm out of its bandages.

“Look out!” shouted the bartender. “He’s got a knife!”
Then, seeing that the two were disposed to join in the fray,
he made another rush at Jurgis, and knocked aside his fee-
ble defence and sent him tumbling again; and the three flung
themselves upon him, rolling and kicking about the place.

A second later a policeman dashed in, and the bartender
yelled once more—“Look out for his knife!’ Jurgis had
fought himself half to his knees, when the policeman made
a leap at him, and cracked him across the face with his club.
Though the blow staggered him, the wild beast frenzy still
blazed in him, and he got to his feet, lunging into the air.
Then again the club descended, full upon his head, and he
dropped like a log to the floor.

The policeman crouched over him, clutching his stick,
waiting for him to try to rise again; and meantime the
barkeeper got up, and put his hand to his head. “Christ!” he
said, “I thought I was done for that time. Did he cut me?”

“Don’t see anything, Jake,” said the policeman. ‘“What’s
the matter with him?”

“Just crazy drunk,” said the other. “A lame duck, too—
but he ’most got me under the bar. Youse had better call the
wagon, Billy.”

“No,” said the officer. “He’s got no more fight in him, I
guess—and he’s only got a block to go.” He twisted his
hand in Jurgis’s collar and jerked at him. “Git up here,
you!” he commanded.

But Jurgis did not move, and the bartender went behind
the bar, and, after stowing the hundred-dollar bill away in
a safe hiding place, came and poured a glass of water over
Jurgis. Then, as the latter began to moan feebly, the police-
man got him to his feet and dragged him out of the place.
The station house was just around the corner, and so in a
few minutes Jurgis was in a cell.

He spent half the night lying unconscious, and the balance

243

moaning in torment, with a blinding headache and a racking
thirst. Now and then he cried aloud for a drink of water,
but there was no one to hear him. There were others in
that same station house with split heads and a fever; there
were hundreds of them in the great city, and tens of thou-
sands of them in the great land, and there was no one to
hear any of them.

In the morning Jurgis was given a cup of water and a
piece of bread, and then hustled into a patrol wagon and
driven to the nearest police court. He sat in the pen with a
score of others until his turn came.

The bartender—who proved to be a well-known bruiser
—was called to the stand. He took the oath and told his
story. The prisoner had come into his saloon after mid-
night, fighting drunk, and had ordered a glass of beer and
tendered a dollar bill in payment. He had been given ninety-
five cents’ change, and had demanded ninety-nine dollars
more, and before the plaintiff could even answer had hurled
the glass at him and then attacked him with a bottle of
bitters, and nearly wrecked the place.

Then the prisoner was sworn—a forlorn object, hag-
gard and unshorn, with an arm done up in a filthy bandage,
a cheek and head cut and bloody, and one eye purplish |
black and entirely closed. “What have you to say for your-- |
self?” queried the magistrate. |

“Your Honor,” said Jurgis, “I went into his place and
asked the man if he could change me a hundred-dollar bill.
And he said he would if I bought a drink. I gave him the
bill and then he wouldn’t give me the change.”

The magistrate was staring at him in perplexity. “You
gave him a hundred-dollar bill!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, your Honor,” said Jurgis.

“Where did you get it?”

“A man gave it to me, your Honor.”

“A man? What man, and what for?”

“A young man I met upon the street, your Honor. I had
been begging.”

There was a titter in the courtroom; the officer who was
holding Jurgis put up his hand to hide a smile, and the
magistrate smiled without trying to hide it. “It’s true, your
Honor!” cried Jurgis, passionately.

“You had been drinking as well as begging last night, had
you not?” inquired the magistrate.

“No, your Honor—” protested Jurgis. “I—”

244

“You had not had anything to drink?”

“Why, yes, your Honor, I had—”

“What did you have?”

“TI had a bottle of something—I don’t know what it was—
something that burned—”

There was again a laugh round the courtroom, stopping
suddenly as the magistrate looked up and frowned. “Have
you ever been arrested before?” he asked abruptly.

The question took Jurgis aback. “I—I—” he stammered.

“Tell me the truth, now!” commanded the other, sternly.

“Yes, your Honor,” said Jurgis.

“How often?”

“Only once, your Honor.”

“What for?”

“For knocking down my boss, your Honor. I was working
in the stockyards, and he—”

“I see,” said his Honor; “I guess that will do. You ought
to stop drinking if you can’t control yourself. Ten days and
costs. Next case.”

Jurgis gave vent to a cry of dismay, cut off suddenly by
the policeman, who seized him by the collar. He was jerked
out of the way, into a room with the convicted prisoners,
where he sat and wept like a child in his impotent rage. It
seemed monstrous to him that policemen and judges should
esteem his word as nothing in comparison with the bariend-
er’s; poor Jurgis could not know that the owner of the
saloon paid five dollars each week to the policeman alone
for Sunday privileges and general favors—nor that the
pugilist bartender was one of the most trusted henchmen of
the Democratic leader of the district, and had helped only a
few months before to hustle out a record-breaking vote
as a testimonial to the magistrate, who had been made the
target of odious kid-gloved reformers.

Jurgis was driven out to the Bridewell for the second
time. In his tumbling around he had hurt his arm again,
and so could not work, but had to be attended by the
physician. Also his head and his eye had to be tied up—and
so he was a pretty-looking object when, the second day after
his arrival, he went out into the exercise court and encoun-
tered—Jack Duane!

The young fellow was so glad to see Jurgis that he almost
hugged him. “By God, if it isn’t ‘the Stinker’!” he cried. “And
what is it—have you been through a sausage machine?”

245

“No,” said Jurgis, “but I’ve been in a railroad wreck and ©
a fight.” And then, while some of the other prisoners gath-
ered round, he told his wild story; most of them were
incredulous, but Duane knew that Jurgis could never have
made up such a yarn as that.

“Hard luck, old man,” he said, when they were alone,
“but maybe it’s taught you a lesson.”

“lve learned some things since I saw you last,” said
Jurgis, mournfully. Then he explained how he had spent
the last summer, “‘hoboing it,” as the phrase was. “And you?’
he asked, finally. “Have you been here ever since?”

“Lord, no!” said the other. “I only came in the day be-
fore yesterday. It’s the second time they’ve sent me up on a
trumped-up charge—I’ve had hard luck and can’t pay
them what they want. Why don’t you quit Chicago with me,
Jurgis?”’

“I’ve no place to go,” said Jurgis, sadly.

“Neither have I,” replied the other, laughing lightly.—
“But we'll wait till we get out and see.”

In the Bridewell Jurgis met few who had been there the
last time, but he met scores of others, old and young, of
exactly the same sort. It was like breakers upon a beach;
there was new water, but the wave looked just the same. He
strolled about and talked with them, and the biggest of them
told tales of their prowess, while those who were weaker,
or younger and inexperienced, gathered round and listened
in admiring silence. The last time he was there, Jurgis had
thought of little but his family; but now he was free to
listen to these men, and to realize that he was one of them
—that their point of view was his point of view, and that
the way they kept themselves alive in the world was the
way he meant to do it in future.

And so, when he was turned out of prison again, without
a penny in his pocket, he went straight to Jack Duane.
He went full of humility and gratitude; for Duane was a
gentleman, and a man with a profession—and it was re-
markable that he should be willing to throw in his lot with
a humble workingman, one who had even been a beggar
and a tramp. Jurgis could not see what help he could be
to him; he did not understand that a man like himself—
who could be trusted to stand by anyone who was kind to
him—was as rare among criminals as among any other
class of men.

The address Jurgis had was a garret room in the Ghetto

246

district, the home of a pretty little French girl, Duane’s
mistress, who sewed all day, and eked out her living by
prostitution. He had gone elsewhere, she told Jurgis—he
was afraid to stay there now, on account of the police. The
new address was a cellar dive, whose proprietor said that
he had never heard of Duane; but after he had put Jurgis
through a catechism he showed him a back stairs which led
to a “fence” in the rear of a pawnbroker’s shop, and thence
to a number of assignation rooms, in one of which Duane
was hiding. |

Duane was glad to see him; he was without a cent of
money, he said, and had been waiting for Jurgis to help
him get some. He explained his plan—in fact he spent the
day in laying bare to his friend the criminal world of the
city, and in showing him how he might earn himself a living
in it. That winter he would have a hard time, on account of
his arm, and because of an unwonted fit of activity of the
police; but so long as he was unknown to them he would be
safe if he were careful. Here at “Papa” Hanson’s (so they
called the old man who kept the dive) he might rest at
ease, for “Papa” Hanson was “square”’—would stand by
him so long as he paid, and give him an hour’s notice if
there were to be a police raid. Also Rosensteg, the pawn-
broker, would buy anything he had for a third of its value,
and guarantee to keep it hidden for a year.

There was an oil stove in the little cupboard of a room,
and they had some supper; and then about eleven o’clock
at night they sallied forth together, by a rear entrance to the
place, Duane armed with a sling-shot. They came to a resi-
dence district, and he sprang up a lamp post and blew out
the light. and then the two dodged into the shelter of an
area-step and hid in silence.

Pretty soon a man came by, a workingman—and they
let him go. Then after a long interval came the heavy tread
of a policeman, and they held their breath till he was gone.
Though half frozen, they waited a full quarter of an hour
after that- and then again came footsteps, walking briskly.
Duane nudged Jurgis, and the instant the man had passed
they rose up. Duane stole out as silently as a shadow, and
a second later Jurgis heard a thud and a stifled cry. He
was only a couple of feet behind, and he leaped to stop
the man’s mouth, while Duane held him fast by the arms,
as they had agreed. But the man was limp and showed a
tendency to fall, and so Jurgis had only to hold him by the

247

collar, while the other, with swift fingers, went through his
pockets—ripping open, first his overcoat, and then his coat,
and then his vest, searching inside and outside, and trans-
ferring the contents into his own pockets. At last, after
feeling of the man’s fingers and in his neck-tie, Duane
whispered, “That’s all!” and they dragged him to the area
and dropped him in. Then Jurgis went one way and his
friend the other, walking briskly.

The latter arrived first, and Jurgis found him examining
the “swag.” There was a gold watch, for one thing, with a
chain and locket; there was a silver pencil, and a match-
box, and a handful of small change, and finally a card
case. This last Duane opened feverishly—there were letters
and checks, and two theater-tickets, and at last, in the back
part, a wad of bills. He counted them—there was a twenty,
five tens, four fives, and three ones. Duane drew a long
breath. ‘“That lets us out!” he said.

After further examination, they burned the card case and
its contents, all but the bills, and likewise the picture
of a little girl in the locket. Then Duane took the watch
and trinkets downstairs, and came back with sixteen dollars.
“The old scoundrel said the case was filled,” he said. “It’s a
lie, but he knows I want the money.”

They divided up the spoils, and Jurgis got as his share
fifty-five dollars and some change. He protested that it was
too much, but the other had agreed to divide even. That
was a good haul, he said, better than the average.

When they got up in the morning, Jurgis was sent out to
buy a paper; one of the pleasures of committing a crime was
the reading about it afterward. “I had a pal that always did
it,’ Duane remarked, laughing—‘until one day he read that
he had left three thousand dollars in a lower inside pocket
of his party’s vest!”

There was a half-column account of the robbery—it was
evident that a gang was operating in the neighborhood,
said the paper, for it was the third within a week, and the
police were apparently powerless. The victim was an insur-
ance agent, and he had lost a hundred and ten dollars that
did not belong to him. He had chanced to have his name
marked on his shirt, otherwise he would not have been
identified yet. His assailant had hit him too hard, and he was
suffering from concussion of the brain; and also he had
been half-frozen when found, and would lose three fingers
of his right hand. The enterprising newspaper reporter had

248

~ Hubba

taken all this information to his family, and told how they
had received it.

Since it was Jurgis’s first experience, these details natu-
rally caused him some worriment; but the other laughed
coolly—it was the way of the game, and there was no help-
ing it. Before long Jurgis would think no more of it than they
did in the yards of knocking out a bullock. “It’s a case of
us or the other fellow, and I say the other fellow every
time,” he observed.

“Still,” said Jurgis, reflectively, “he never did us any
harm.”

“He was doing it to somebody as hard as he could, you
can be sure of that,” said his friend.

Duane had already explained to Jurgis that if a man of
their trade were known he would have to work all the time
to satisfy the demands of the police. Therefore it would be
better for Jurgis to stay in hiding and never be seen in
public with his pal. But Jurgis soon got very tired of stay-
ing in hiding. In a couple of weeks he was feeling strong and
beginning to use his arm, and then he could not stand it
any longer. Duane, who had done a job of some sort by
himself, and made a truce with the powers, brought over
Marie. his littlke French girl, to share with him; but even
that did not avail for long, and in the end he had to give
up arguing, and take Jurgis out and introduce him to the
saloons and “sporting houses” where the big crooks and
“hold-up men” hung out.

And so Jurgis got a glimpse of the high-class criminal
world of Chicago. The city, which was owned by an oligarchy
of business men, being nominally ruled by the people, a
huge army of graft was necessary for the purpose of effect-
ing the transfer of power. Twice a year, in the spring and
fall elections, millions of dollars were furnished by the
business men and expended by this army; meetings were
held and clever speakers were hired, bands played and
rockets sizzled, tons of documents and reservoirs of drinks
were distributed, and tens of thousands of votes were bought
for cash. And this army of graft had, of course, to be main-
tained the year round. The leaders and organizers were
maintained by the business men directly—aldermen and
legislators by means of bribes, party officials out of the
campaign funds, lobbyists and corporation lawyers in the
form of salaries, contractors by means of jobs, labor union

249

leaders by subsidies, and newspaper proprietors and editors
by advertisements. The rank and file, however, were either
foisted upon the city, or else lived off the populace directly.
There was the police department, and the fire and water
departments, and the whole balance of the civil list, from
the meanest office boy to the head of a city department; and
for the horde who could find no room in these, there was
the world of vice and crime, there was license to seduce,
to swindle and plunder and prey. The law forbade Sunday
drinking; and this had delivered the saloon-keepers into the
hands of the police, and made an alliance between them
necessary. The law forbade prostitution; and this had
brought the “madames” into the combination. It was the
same with the gambling-house keeper and the pool-room man,
and the same with any other man or woman who had a
means of getting “graft,” and was willing to pay over a
share of it: the green-gcods man and the highwayman, the
pickpocket and the sneak thief, and the receiver of stolen
goods, the seller of adulterated milk, of stale fruit and
diseased meat, the proprietor of unsanitary tenements, the
fake doctor and the usurer, the beggar and the “push-cart
man,” the prize-fighter and the professional slugger, the
race-track “tout,” the procurer, the white-slave agent, and the
expert seducer of young girls. All of these agencies of cor-
ruption were banded together, and leagued in blood brother-
hood with the politician and the police; more often than not
they were one and the same person—the police captain
would own the brothel he pretended to raid, and the politician
would open his headquarters in his saloon. “Hinkydink” or
“Bath-house John,” or others of that ilk, were proprietors of
the most notorious dives in Chicago, and also the “gray
wolves” of the city council, who gave away the streets of
the city to the business men; and those who patronized their
places were the gamblers and prize-fighters who set the law
at defiance, and the burglars and hold-up men who kept the
whole city in terror. On election day all these powers of
vice and crime were one power; they could tell within one
per cent what the vote of their district would be, and they
could change it at an hour’s notice.

A month ago Jurgis had all but perished of starvation upon
the streets; and now suddenly, as by the gift of a magic key,
he had entered into a world where money and all the good
things of life came freely. He was introduced by his friend to
an Irishman named “Buck” Halloran, who was a political

250

* > am a ba

“worker” and on the inside of things. This man talked with
Jurgis for a while, and then told him that he had a little plan
by which a man who looked like a workingman might make
some easy money; but it was a private affair, and had to be
kept quiet. Jurgis expressed himself as agreeable, and the
other took him that afternoon (it was Saturday) to a place
where city laborers were being paid off. The paymaster sat in
a little booth, with a pile of envelopes before him, and two
policemen standing by. Jurgis went, according to directions,
and gave the name of “Michael O’Flaherty,” and received an
envelope, which he took around the corner and delivered to
Halloran, who was waiting for him in a saloon. Then he went
again, and gave the name of “Johann Schmidt,” and a third
time, and gave the name of “Serge Reminitsky.” Halloran
had quite a list of imaginary workingmen, and Jurgis got an
envelope for each one. For this work he received five dol-
lars, and was told that he might have it every week, so long
as he kept quiet. As Jurgis was excellent at keeping quiet,
he soon won the trust of “Buck” Halloran, and was introduced
to others as a man who could be depended upon.

This acquaintance was useful to him in another way, also;
before long Jurgis made his discovery of the meaning of
“pull,” and just why his boss, Connor, and also the pugilist
bartender, had been able to send him to jail. One night there
was given a ball, the “benefit” of “One-eyed Larry,” a lame
man who played the violin in one of the big “high-class”
houses of prostitution on Clark Street, and was a wag and
a popular character on the “Levée.” This ball was held in
a big dance-hall, and was one of the occasions when the city’s
powers of debauchery gave themselves up to madness. Jurgis
attended and got half insane with drink, and began quarrelling
over a girl; his arm was pretty strong by then, and he set
to work to clean out the place, and ended in a cell in the
police station. The police station being crowded to the doors, ©
and stinking with “bums,” Jurgis did not relish staying there
to sleep off his liquor, and sent for Halloran, who called up
the district leader and had Jurgis bailed out by telephone
at four o’clock in the morning. When he was arraigned that
same morning, the district leader had already seen the clerk of
the court and explained that Jurgis Rudkus was a decent
fellow, who had been indiscreet; and so Jurgis was fined
ten dollars and the fine was “suspended”—which meant that
he did not have to pay it, and never would have to pay it,

251 3265.5

unless somebody chose to bring it up against him in the
future.

Among the people Jurgis lived with now money was
valued according to an entirely different standard from
that of the people of Packingtown; yet, strange as it may seem,
he did a great deal less drinking than he had as a workingman.
He had not the same provocations of exhaustion and hopeless-
ness; he had now something to work for, to struggle for.
He soon found that if he kept his wits about him, he would
come upon new opportunities; and being naturally an active
man, he not only kept sober himself, but helped to steady
his friend, who was a good deal fonder of both wine and
women than he.

One thing led to another. In the saloon where Jurgis
met “Buck” Halloran he was sitting late one night with
Duane, when a “country customer” (a buyer for an out-of-
town merchant) came in, a little more than half “piped.”
There was no one else in the place but the bartender, and as
the man went out again Jurgis and Duane followed him; he
went round the corner, and in a dark place made by a combi-
nation of the elevated railroad and an unrented building,
Jurgis leaped forward and shoved a revolver under his nose,
while Duane, with his hat pulled over his eyes, went through
the man’s pockets with lightning fingers. They got his
watch and his “wad,” and were round the corner again and
into the saloon before he could shout more than once. The
bartender, to whom they had tipped the wink, had the cellar-
door open for them, and they vanished, making their way
by a secret entrance to a brothel next door. From the roof of
this there was access to three similar places beyond. By means
of these passages the customers of any one place could be
gotten out of the way, in case a falling out with the police
chanced to lead to a raid; and also it was necessary to have
a way of getting a girl out of reach in case of an emergency.
Thousands of them came to Chicago answering advertisements
for “servants” and “factory hands,” and found themselves
trapped by fake employment agencies, and locked up in a
bawdy house. It was generally enough to take all their clothes
away from them; but sometimes they would have to be
“doped” and kept prisoners for weeks; and meantime their
parents might be telegraphing the police, and even coming on
to see why nothing was done. Occasionally there was no
way of satisfying them but to let them search the place to
which the girl had been traced.

252

For his help in this little job, the bartender received
twenty out of the hundred and thirty odd dollars that the
pair secured; and naturally this put them on friendly terms
with him, and a few days later he introduced them to a little
“sheeny” named Goldberger, one of the “runners” of the
“sporting house’? where they had been hidden. After a few
drinks Goldberger began, with some hesitation, to narrate how
he had had a quarrel over his best girl with a professional
“card sharp,” who had hit him in the jaw. The fellow was a
stranger in Chicago, and if he was found some night with
his head cracked there would be no one to care very much.
Jurgis, who by this time would cheerfully have cracked the
heads of all the gamblers in Chicago, inquired what would be
coming to him; at which the Jew became still more confi-
dential, and said that he had some tips on the New Orleans
races, which he got direct from the police captain of the dis-
trict, whom he had got out of a bad scrape, and who “stood
in” with a big syndicate of horse owners. Duane took all this
in at once, but Jurgis had to have the whole race-track situa-
tion explained to him before he realized the importance of
such an opportunity.

There was the gigantic Racing Trust. It owned the legisla-
tures in every state in which it did business; it even owned
some of the big newspapers, and made public opinion—there
was no power in the land that could oppose it unless, perhaps,
it were the Poolroom Trust. It built magnificent racing parks
all over the country, and by means of enormous purses it
lured the people to come, and then it organized a gigantic
shell game, whereby it plundered them of hundreds of
millions of dollars every year. Horse racing had once been a
sport, but nowadays it was a business; a horse could be
“doped” and doctored, undertrained or overtrained; it could
be made to fall at any moment—or its gait could be broken
by lashing it with the whip, which all the spectators would
take to be a desperate effort to keep it in the lead. There were
scores of such tricks; and sometimes it was the owners who
played them and made fortunes, sometimes it was the
jockeys and trainers, sometimes it was outsiders, who bribed
them—but most of the time it was the chiefs of the trust. Now,
for instance, they were having winter racing in New Orleans,
and a syndicate was laying out each day’s program in advance,
and its agents in all the Northern cities were “milking” the
poolrooms. The word came by long-distance telephone in a
cipher code, just a little while before each race; and any man

253

~ who could get the secret had as good as a fortune. If Jurgis
did not believe it, he could try it, said the little Jew—let
them meet at a certain house on the morrow and make a
test. Jurgis was willing, and so was Duane, and so they
went to one of the high-class poolrooms where brokers and
merchants gambled (with society women in a private room),
and they put up ten dollars each upon a horse called “Black
Beldame,” a six to one shot, and won. For a secret like
that they would have done a good many sluggings—but
the next day Goldberger informed tham that the offending
gambler had got wind of what was coming to him, and had
skipped the town.

There were ups and downs at the business; but there was
always a living, inside of a jail, if not out of it. Early in
April the city elections were due, and that meant prosperity for
all the powers of graft. Jurgis, hanging round in dives and
gambling houses and brothels, met with the heelers of both
parties, and from their conversation he came to understand
all the ins and outs of the game, and to hear of a number of
ways in which he could make himself useful about election
time. “Buck” Halloran was a “Democrat,” and so Jurgis
became a Democrat also; but he was not a bitter one—the
Republicans were good fellows, too, and were to have a
pile of money in this next campaign. At the last election the
Republicans had paid four dollars a vote to the Democrats’
three; and “Buck” Halloran sat one night playing cards with
Jurgis and another man, who told how Halloran had been
charged with the job of voting a “bunch” of thirty-seven
newly landed Italians, and how he, the narrator, had met the
Republican worker who was after the very same gang, and
how the three had effected a bargain, whereby the Italians
were to vote half and half, for a glass of beer apiece, while
the balance of the fund went to the conspirators!

Not long after this, Jurgis, wearying of the risks and
vicissitudes of miscellaneous crime, was moved to give up
the career for that of a politician. Just at this time there was
a tremendous uproar being raised concerning the alliance be-
tween the criminals and the police. For the criminal graft
was one in which the business men had no direct part—it
was what is called a “side-line,” carried by the police. ““Wide-
open” gambling and debauchery made the city pleasing to
“trade,” but burglaries and hold-ups did not. One night it
chanced that while Jack Duane was drilling a safe in a cloth-

254

|

ing store he was caught red-handed by the night watchman,
and turned over to a policeman, who chanced to know him
well, and who took the responsibility of letting him make his
escape. Such a howl from the newspapers followed this that
Duane was slated for a sacrifice, and barely got out of town
in time.

And just at that juncture it happened that Jurgis was in-
troduced to a man named Harper whom he recognized as the
night watchman at Brown’s, who had been instrumental in
making him an American citizen, the first year of his arrival
at the yards. The other was interested in the coincidence, but
did not remember Jurgis—he had handled too many “green
ones” in his time, he said. He sat in a dance hall with Jurgis
and Halloran until one or two in the morning, exchanging
experiences. He had a long story to tell of his quarrel with
the superintendent of his department, and how he was
now a plain workingman, and a good union man as well. It
was not until some months afterward that Jurgis understood
that the quarrel with the superintendent had been prear-
ranged, and that Harper was in reality drawing a salary of
twenty dollars a week from the packers for an inside report
of his union’s secret proceedings. The yards were seething with
agitation just then, said the man, speaking as a unionist. The
people of Packingtown had borne about all that they would
bear, and it looked as if a strike might begin any week.

After this talk the man made inquiries concerning Jurgis,
and a couple of days later he came to him with an interesting
proposition. He was not absolutely certain, he said, but
he thought that he could get him a regular salary if he would
come to Packingtown and do as he was told, and keep his
mouth shut. Harper—‘“Bush” Harper, he was called—was a
right-hand man of Mike Scully, the Democratic boss of the
stockyards; and in the coming election there was a peculiar
situation. There had come to Scully a proposition to nominate
a certain rich brewer who lived upon a swell boulevard that
skirted the district, and who coveted the big badge and the
“honorable” of an alderman. The brewer was a Jew, and had
no brains, but he was harmless, and would put up a rare
campaign fund. Scully had accepted the offer, and then gone
to the Republicans with a proposition. He was not sure
that he could manage the “sheeny,” and he did not mean to
take any chances with his district; let the Republicans nomi-
nate a certain obscure but amiable friend of Scully’s, who
was now setting ten-pins in the cellar of an Ashland Avenue

ys

saloon, and he, Scully, would elect him with the “sheeny’s”
money, and the Republicans might have the glory, which
was more than they would get otherwise. In return for this
the Republicans would agree to put up no candidate the fol-
lowing year, when Scully himself came up for re-election
as the other alderman from the ward. To this the Republicans
had assented at once; but the hell of it was—so Harper ex-
plained—that the Republicans were all of them fools—a man
had to be a fool to be a Republican in the stockyards, where
Scully was king. And they didn’t know how to work, and
of course it would not do for the Democratic workers, the
noble redskins of the War-Whoop League, to support the
Republican openly. The difficulty would not have been so
great except for another fact—there had been a curious devel-
opment in stockyards politics in the last year or two, a new
party having leaped into being. They were the Socialists;
and it was a devil of a mess, said “Bush” Harper. The one
image which the word “Socialist” brought to Jurgis was of
poor little Tamoszius Kuszleika, who had called himself one,
and would go out with a couple of other men and a soap-
box, and shout himself hoarse on a street corner Saturday
nights. Tamoszius had tried to explain to Jurgis what it was
all about, but Jurgis, who was not of an imaginative turn,
had never quite got it straight; at present he was content
with his companion’s explanation that the Socialists were
the enemies of American institutions—could not be bought,
and would not combine or make any sort of a “dicker.” Mike
Scully was very much worried over the opportunity which his
last deal gave to them—the stockyards Democrats were furi-
ous at the idea of a rich capitalist for their candidate, and
while they were changing they might possibly conclude that
a Socialist firebrand was preferable to a Republican bum.
And so right here was a chance for Jurgis to make himself
a place in the world, explained “Bush” Harper; he had been
a union man, and he was known in the yards as a working-
man; he must have hundreds of acquaintances, and as he
had never talked politics with them he might come out as
a Republican now without exciting the least suspicion. There
were barrels of money for the use of those who could deliver
the goods; and Jurgis might count upon Mike Scully, who
had never yet gone back on a friend. Just what could he do?
Jurgis asked, in some perplexity, and the other explained
in detail. To begin with, he would have to go to the yards
and work, and he mightn’t relish that; but he would have
256

what he earned, as well as the rest that came to him. He
would get active in the union again, and perhaps try to get an
office, as he, Harper, had; he would tell all his friends the
good points of Doyle, the Republican nominee, and the bad
ones of the “sheeny”;. and then Scully would furnish a
meeting place, and he would start the “Young Men’s Republi-
can Association,” or something of that sort, and have the
rich brewer’s best beer by the hogshead, and fireworks and
speeches, just like the War-Whoop League. Surely Jurgis
must know hundreds of men who would like that sort
of fun; and there would be the regular Republican leaders
and workers to help him out, and they would deliver a big
enough majority on election day.

When he had heard all this explanation to the end, Jurgis
demanded: “But how can I get a job in Packingtown? I’m
blacklisted.”

At which “Bush” Harper laughed. “Ill attend to that all
right,” he said.

And the other replied, “It’s a go, then; ’'m your man.”

So Jurgis went out to the stockyards again, and was intro-
duced to the political lord of the district, the boss of Chicago’s
mayor. It was Scully who owned the brickyards and the
dump and the ice pond—though Jurgis did not know it.
It was Scully who was to blame for the unpaved street in
which Jurgis’s child had been drowned; it was Scully who
had put into office the magistrate who had first sent Jurgis
to jail; it was Scully who was principal stockholder in the
company which had sold him the ramshackle tenement, and
then robbed him of it. But Jurgis knew none of these things
—any more than he knew that Scully was but a tool and
puppet of the packers. To him Scully was a mighty power,
the “biggest” man he had ever met.

He was a little, dried-up Irishman, whose hands shook.
He had a brief talk with his visitor, watching him with
his rat-like eyes, and making up his mind about him; and
then he gave him a note to Mr. Harmon, one of the head
managers of Durham’s:—

“The bearer, Jurgis Rudkus, is a particular friend of mine,
and I would like you to find him a good place, for important
reasons. He was once indiscreet, but you will perhaps be so
good as to overlook that.”

Mr. Harmon looked up inquiringly when he read this.
“What does he mean by ‘indiscreet’?” he asked.

“I was blacklisted, sir,” said Jurgis.

257

At which the other frowned. “Blacklisted?” he said. “How
do you mean?”

And Jurgis turned red with embarrassment. He had
forgotten that a blacklist did not exist. “I—that is—I had
difficulty in getting a place,” he stammered.

“What was the matter?”

“J got into a quarrel with a foreman—not my own boss,
sir—and struck him.”

“T see,” said the other, and meditated for a few moments.
“What do you wish to do?” he asked.

“Anything. sir,” said Jurgis—“only I had a broken arm
this winter, and so J have to be careful.”

“How would it suit you to be a night watchman?”

“That wouldn’t do, sir. I have to be among the men at
night.”

“I see—politics. Well, would it suit you to trim hogs?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jurgis.

And Mr. Harmon called a time keeper and said, “Take
this man to Pat Murphy and tell him to find room for him
somehow.”

And so Jurgis marched into the hog-killing room, a place
where, in the days gone by, he had come begging for a
job. Now he walked jauntily, and smiled to himself, seeing
the frown that came to the boss’s face as the time keeper
said, ‘Mr. Harmon says to put this man on.” It would over-
crowd his department and spoil the record he was trying to
make—but he said not a word except “All right.”

And so Jurgis became a workingman once more; and
straightway he sought out his old friends, and joined the union,
and began to “root” for “Scotty” Doyle. Doyle had done him a
good turn once, he explained, and was really a bully chap;
Doyle was a workingman himself, and would represent the
workingmen—why did they want to vote for a millionaire
“sheenv.” and what the hell had Mike Scully ever done for
them that they should back his candidates all the time? And
meantime Scully had given Jurgis a note to the Republican
leader of the ward, and he had gone there and met the
crowd he was to work with. Already they had hired a big hall,
with some of the brewer’s money, and every night Jurgis
brought in a dozen new members of the “Doyle Republican
Association.” Pretty soon they had a grand opening night; and
there was a brass band, which marched through the streets, and
fireworks and bombs and red lights in front of the hall; and

258

there was an enormous crowd, with two overflow meetings—
so that the pale and trembling candidate had to recite three
times over the little speech which one of Scully’s henchmen
had written, and which he had been a month learning by heart.
Best of all, the famous and eloquent Senator Spareshanks, pres-
idential candidate, rode out in an automobile to discuss the
sacred privileges of American citizenship, and protection and
prosperity for the American workingman. His inspiriting ad-
dress was quoted to the extent of half a column in all the morn-
ing newspapers, which also said that it could be stated upon
excellent authority that the unexpected popularity developed by
Doyle, the Republican candidate for alderman, was giving
great anxiety to Mr. Scully, the chairman of the Democratic
City Committee.

The chairman was still more worried when the monster
torchlight procession came off, with the members of the
Doyle Republican Association all in red caps and hats, and
free beer for every voter in the ward—the best beer ever
given away in a political campaign, as the whole electorate
testified. During this parade, and at innumerable cart-
tail meetings as well, Jurgis labored tirelessly. He did not
make any speeches—there were lawyers and other experts
for that—but he helped to manage things: distributing notices
and posting placards and bringing out the crowds; and when
the show was on he attended to the fireworks and the beer.
Thus in the course of the campaign he handled many
hundreds of dollars of the Hebrew brewer’s money, adminis-
tering it with naive and touching fidelity. Toward the end,
however, he learned that he was regarded with hatred by
the rest of the “boys,” because he compelled them either to
make a poorer showing than he or to do without their share
of the pie. After that Jurgis did his best to please them,
and to make up for the time he had lost before he discovered
the extra bung-holes of the campaign barrel.

He pleased Mike Scully, also. On election morning he
was out at four o’clock, “getting out the vote’; he had a
two-horse carriage to ride in, and he went from house to
house for his friends, and escorted them in triumph to the
polls. He voted half a dozen times himself, and voted some
of his friends as often; he brought bunch after bunch of the
newest foreigners—Lithuanians, Poles, Bohemians, Slovaks—
and when he had put them through the mill he turned
them over to another man to take to the next polling place.
When Jurgis first set out, the captain of the precinct gave

259

him a hundred dollars, and three times in the course of the
day he came for another hundred, and not more than
twenty-five out of each lot got stuck in his own pocket. The
balance all went for actual votes, and on a day of Democratic
landslides they elected “Scotty” Doyle, the ex-tenpin setter,
by nearly a thousand plurality—and beginning at five
o'clock in the afternoon, and ending at three the next morn-
ing, Jurgis treated himself to a most unholy and horrible
“jag.” Nearly every one else in Packingtown did the same,
however, for there was universal exultation over this tri-
umph of popular government, this crushing defeat of an
arrogant plutocrat by the power of the common people.

KKKKKK BE »»»»»»

Airree the elections Jurgis stayed on in Packingtown and
kept his job. The agitation to break up the police protection
of criminals was continuing, and it seemed to him best to
“lay low” for the present. He had nearly three hundred
dollars in the bank, and might have considered himself
entitled to a vacation; but he had an easy job, and force
of habit kept him at it. Besides, Mike Scully, whom he con-
sulted, advised him that something might “turn up” before
long.

Jurgis got himself a place in a boarding house with some
congenial friends. He had already inquired of Aniele, and
learned that Elzbieta and her family had gone downtown,
and so he gave no further thought to them. He went with
a new set, now, young unmarried fellows who were “sporty.”
Jurgis had long ago cast off his fertilizer clothing, and since
going into politics he had donned a linen collar and a
greasy red necktie. He had some reason for thinking of
his dress, for he was making about eleven dollars a week,
and two-thirds of it he might spend upon his pleasures
without ever touching his savings.

Sometimes he would ride downtown with a party of
friends to the cheap theaters and the music halls and other
haunts with which they were familiar. Many of the saloons in
Packingtown had pool tables, and some of them bowling
alleys, by means of which he could spend his evenings in
petty gambling. Also, there were cards and dice. One time
Jurgis got into a game on a Saturday night and won prodi-

260

—

giously, and because he was a man of spirit he stayed in
with the rest and the game continued until late Sunday
afternoon, and by that time he was “out” over twenty dollars.
On Saturday nights, also, a number of balls were generally
given in Packingtown; each man would bring his “girl” with
him, paying half a dollar for a ticket, and several dollars
additional for drinks in the course of the festivities, which
continued until three or four o’clock in the morning, un-
less broken up by fighting. During all this time the same
man and woman would dance together, half-stupefied with
sensuality and drink.

Before long Jurgis discovered what Scully had meant by
something “turning up.” In May the agreement between the
packers and the unions expired, and a new agreement had
to be signed. Negotiations were going on, and the yards
were full of talk of a strike. The old scale had dealt with
the wages of the skilled men only; and of the members of
the Meat Workers’ Union about two-thirds were unskilled
men. In Chicago these latter were receiving, for the most
part, eighteen and a half cents an hour, and the unions
wished to make this the general wage for the next year.
It was not nearly so large a wage as it seemed—in the
course of the negotiations the union officers examined time-
checks to the amount of ten thousand dollars, and they found
that the highest wages paid had been fourteen dollars a week,
the lowest two dollars and five cents, and the average of the
whole, six dollars and sixty-five cents. And six dollars and
sixty-five cents was hardly too much for a man to keep a
family on. Considering the fact that the price of dressed
meat had increased nearly fifty per cent in the last five
years, while the price of “beef on the hoof” had decreased
as much, it would have seemed that the packers ought to
be able to pay it; but the packers were unwilling to pay it—
they rejected the union demand, and to show what their
purpose was, a week or two after the agreement expired they
put down the wages of about a thousand men to sixteen
and a half cents, and it was said that old man Jones had
vowed he would put them to fifteen before he got through.
There were a million and a half of men in the country look-
ing for work, a hundred thousand of them right in Chicago;
and were the packers to let the union stewards march into
their places and bind them to a contract that would lose
them several thousand dollars a day for a year? Not much!

261

All this was in June; and before long the question was
submitted to a referendum in the unions, and the decision
was for a strike. It was the same in all the packing-house
cities; and suddenly the newspapers and public woke up
to face the grewsome spectacle of a meat famine. All sorts
of pleas for a reconsideration were made, but the packers
were obdurate; and all the while they were reducing wages,
and heading off shipments of cattle, and rushing in wagon-
loads of mattresses and cots. So the men boiled over, and
one night telegrams went out from the union headquarters
to all the big packing centers—to St. Paul, South Omaha,
Sioux City, St. Joseph, Kansas City, East St. Louis, and
New York—and the next day at noon between fifty and
sixty thousand men drew off their working clothes and

marched out of the factories, and the great “Beef Strike”
was on.

Jurgis went to his dinner, and afterward he walked over
to see Mike Scully, who lived in a fine house, upon a street
which had been decently paved and lighted for his especial
benefit. Scully had gone into semi-retirement, and looked
nervous and worried. “What do you want?’ he demanded,
when he saw Jurgis.

“I came to see if maybe you could get me a place during
the strike,” the other replied.

And Scully knit his brows and eyed him narrowly. In
that morning’s papers Jurgis had read a fierce denunciation
of the packers by Scully, who had declared that if they
did not treat their people better the city authorities would
end the matter by tearing down their plants. Now, therefore,
Jurgis was not a little taken aback when the other demand-
ed suddenly, “See here, Rudkus, why don’t you stick by
your job?”

Jurgis started. “Work as a scab?” he cried.

“Why not?” demanded Scully. “What’s that to you?’

“But—but—” stammered Jurgis. He had somehow taken
it for granted that he should go out with his union.

“The packers need good men, and need them bad,” con-
tinued the other, “and they’ll treat a man right that stands
by them. Why don’t you take your chance and fix yourself?”

“But,” said Jurgis, “how could I ever be of any use to
you—in politics?”

“You couldn’t be it anyhow,” said Scully, abruptly.

“Why not?” asked Jurgis.

262

“Hell, man!” cried the other. “Don’t you know you’re
a Republican? And do you think I’m always going to elect
Republicans? My brewer has found out already how we
served him, and there is the deuce to pay.”

Jurgis looked dumbfounded. He had never thought of
that aspect of it before. “I could be a Democrat,” he said.

“Yes,” responded the other, “but not right away; a
man can’t change his politics every day. And besides, I
don’t need you—there’d be nothing for you to do. And it’s
a long time to election day, anyhow; and what are you
going to do meantime?”

“I thought I could count on you,” began Jurgis.

“Yes,” responded Scully, “so you could—I never yet
went back on a friend. But is it fair to leave the job I got
you and come to me for another? I have had a hundred
fellows after me today, and what can I do? I’ve put seven-
teen men on the city payroll to clean streets this one week,
and do you think I can keep that up forever? It wouldn’t
do for me to tell other men what I tell you, but you’ve
been on the inside, and you ought to have sense enough to
see for yourself. What have you to gain by a strike?”

“T hadn’t thought,” said Jurgis.

“Exactly,” said Scully, “but you’d better. Take my word
for it, the strike will be over in a few days, and the men will
be beaten; and meantime what yeu get out of it will belong
to you. Do you see?”

And Jurgis saw. He went back to the yards, and into the
work room. The men had left a long line of hogs in various
stages of preparation, and the foreman was directing the
feeble efforts of a score or two of clerks and stenographers
and office boys to finish up the job and get them into the
chilling rooms. Jurgis went straight up to him and an-
nounced, “I have come back to work, Mr. Murphy.”

The boss’s face lighted up. “Good man!” he cried.
“Come ahead!”

“Just a moment,” said Jurgis, checking his enthusiasm. “I
think I ought to get a little more wages.”

“Yes,” replied the other, “of course. What do you want?”

Jurgis had debated on the way. His nerve almost failed
him now, but he clenched his hands. “I think I ought to
have three dollars a day,” he said.

“All right,” said the other, promptly; and before the day
was out our friend discovered that the clerks and stenog-

263

raphers and office boys were getting five dollars a day, and
then he could have kicked himself!

So Jurgis became one of the new “American heroes,” a
man whose virtues merited comparison with those of the
martyrs of Lexington and Valley Forge. The resemblance
was not complete, of course, for Jurgis was generously
paid and comfortably clad, and was provided with a spring
cot and a mattress and three substantial meals a day; also
he was perfectly at ease, and safe from all peril of life and
limb, save only in the case that a desire for beer should
lead him to venture outside of the stockyards gates. And
even in the exercise of this privilege he was not left un-
protected; a good part of the inadequate police force of
Chicago was suddenly diverted from its work of hunting
criminals, and rushed out to serve him.

The police, and the strikers also, were determined that
there should be no violence; but there was another party
interested which was minded to the contrary—and that
was the press. On the first day of his life as a strike-breaker
Jurgis quit work early, and in a spirit of bravado he chal-
lenged three men of his acquaintance to go outside and get
a drink. They accepted, and went through the big Halsted
Street gate, where several policemen were watching, and
also some union pickets, scanning sharply those who passed
in and out. Jurgis and his companions went south on Halsted
Street, past the hotel, and then suddenly half a dozen men
started across the street toward them and proceeded to
argue with them concerning the error of their ways. As the
arguments were not taken in the proper spirit, they went on
to threats; and suddenly one of them jerked off the hat
of one of the four and flung it over the fence. The men
started after it, and then, as a cry of “Scab!” was raised and
a dozen people came running out of saloons and doorways,
a second man’s heart failed him and he followed. Jurgis
and the fourth stayed long enough to give themselves the
satisfaction of a quick exchange of blows, and then they, too,
took to their heels and fied back of the hotel and into the
yards again. Meantime, of course, policemen were coming
on a run, and as a crowd gathered other police got excited
and sent in a riot call. Jurgis knew nothing of this, but
went back to Packers’ Avenue, and in front of the Central
Time Station he saw one of his companions, breathless and
wild with excitement, narrating to an ever growing throng

264

how the four had been attacked and surrounded by a howl-
ing mob, and had been nearly torn to pieces. While he stood
listening, smiling cynically, several dapper young men stood
by with note-books in their hands, and it was not more
than two hours later that Jurgis saw newsboys running
about with armfuls of newspapers, printed in red and black
_ letters six inches high:

VIOLENCE IN THE YARDS! STRIKE-BREAKERS
SURROUNDED BY FRENZIED MOB!

If he had been able to buy all of the newspapers of the
United States the next morning, he might have discovered
that his beer-hunting exploit was being perused by some
two score millions of people, and had served as a text for
editorials in half the staid and solemn businessmen’s news-
papers in the land.

Jurgis was to see more of this as time passed. For the
present, his work being over, he was free to ride into the
city, by a railroad direct from the yards, or else to spend
_ the night in a room where cots had been laid in rows. He
chose the latter, but to his regret, for all night long gangs
of strike-breakers kept arriving. As very few of the better
class of workingmen could be got for such work, these
specimens of the new American hero contained an assort-
ment of the criminals and thugs of the city, besides Negroes
and the lowest foreigners—Greeks, Roumanians, Sicilians,
and Slovaks. They had been attracted more by the prospect
of disorder than by the big wages; and they made the night
hideous with singing and carousing, and only went to
sleep when the time came for them to get up to work.

In the morning before Jurgis had finished his breakfast,
“Pat” Murphy ordered him to one of the superintendents, who
questioned him as to his experience in the work of the killing
room. His heart began to thump with excitement, for he
divined instantly that his hour had come—that he was to be
a boss!

Some of the foremen were union members, and many
who were not had gone out with the men. It was in the
killing department that the packers had been left most in the
lurch, and precisely here that they could least afford it; the
smoking and canning and salting of meat might wait, and
all the by-products might be wasted—but fresh meats must
be had, or the restaurants and hotels and brown-stone houses
265

would feel the pinch, and then “public opinion” would take
a Startling turn.

An opportunity such as this would not come twice to a
man; and Jurgis seized it. Yes, he knew the work, the
whole of it, and he could teach it to others. But if he took
the job and gave satisfaction he would expect to keep it
—they would not turn him off at the end of the strike? To
which the superintendent replied that he might safely trust
Durham’s for that—they proposed to teach these unions a
lesson, and most of all those foremen who had gone back
on them. Jurgis would receive five dollars a day during the
strike, and twenty-five a week after it was settled.

So our friend got a pair of “slaughter-pen” boots and
“jeans,” and flung himself at his task. It was a weird sight,
there on the killing beds—a throng of stupid black Negroes
and foreigners who could not understand a word that was
said to them, mixed with pale-faced, hollow-chested book-
keepers and clerks, half-fainting for the tropical heat and the
sickening stench of fresh blood—and all struggling to dress
a dozen or two of cattle in the same place where, twenty-
four hours ago, the old killing gang had been speeding,
with their marvellous precision, turning out four hundred
carcasses every hour!

The Negroes and the “toughs” from the Levée did not
want to work, and every few minutes some of them would
feel obliged to retire to recuperate. In a couple of days
Durham and Company had electric fans up to cool off the
rooms for them, and even couches for them to rest on; and
meantime they could go out and find a shady corner and take
a “snooze,” and as there was no place for anyone in par-
ticular, and no system, it might be hours before their boss
discovered them. As for the poor office employees, they
did their best, moved to it by terror; thirty of them had
been “fired’’ in a bunch that first morning for refusing to
serve, besides a number of women clerks and typewriters
who had declined to act as waitresses.

It was such a force as this that Jurgis had to organize. He
did his best, flying here and there, placing them in rows and
showing them the tricks; he had never given an order in his
life before, but he had taken enough of them to know, and
he soon fell into the spirit of it, and roared and stormed
like any old stager. He had not the most tractable pupils,
however. “See hyar, boss,” a big black “buck” would begin,
“ef you doan’ like de way Ah does dis job, you kin get

266

- somebody else to do it.” Then a crowd would gather and
_ listen, muttering threats. After the first meal nearly all the
steel knives had been missing, and now every Negro had
one, ground to a fine point, hidden in his boots.

There was no bringing order out of such a chaos, Jurgis
soon discovered; and he fell in with the spirit of the thing—
there was no reason why he should wear himself out with
shouting. If hides and guts were slashed and rendered use-
less there was no way of tracing it to anyone; and if a man
lay off and forgot to come back there was nothing to be
gained by seeking him, for all the rest would quit in the
meantime. Everything went, during the strike, and the
packers paid. Before long Jurgis found that the custom of
resting had suggested to some alert minds the possibility of
registering at more than one place and earning more than
one five dollars a day. When he caught a man at this he
“fired” him, but it chanced to be in a quiet corner, and the
man tendered him a ten-dollar bill and a wink, and he took
them. Of course, before long this custom spread, and Jurgis
was soon making quite a good income from it.

In the face of handicaps such as these the packers counted
themselves lucky if they could kill off the cattle that had
been crippled in transit and the hogs that had developed
disease. Frequently, in the course of a two or three days’
trip, in hot weather and without water, some hog would
develop cholera, and die; and the rest would attack him
before he had ceased kicking, and when the car was opened
there would be nothing of him left but the bones. If all the
hogs in this carload were not killed at once, they would soon
be down with the dread disease. And there would be
nothing to do but make them into lard. It was the same with
cattle that were gored and dying, or were limping with
broken bones stuck through their flesh—they must be killed,
even if brokers and buyers and superintendents had to
take off their coats and help drive and cut and skin them.
And meantime, agents of the packers were gathering gangs
of Negroes in the country districts of the far South, promising
them five dollars a day and board, and being careful not
to mention there was a strike; already carloads of them
were on the way, with special rates from the railroads, and
all traffic ordered out of the way. Many towns and cities
were taking advantage of the chance to clear out their
jails and work houses—in Detroit the magistrates would
release every man who agreed to leave town within twenty-

267

-

four hours, and agents of the packers were in the courtrooms

to ship them right. And meantime train-loads of supplies —

were coming in for their accommodation, including beer and
whiskey, so that they might not be tempted to go outside.
They hired thirty young girls in Cincinnati to “pack fruit,”
and when they arrived put them at work canning corned beef,
and put cots for them to sleep in a public hallway, through
which the men passed. As the gangs came in day and
night, under the escort of squads of police, they stowed
them away in unused workrooms and storerooms, and in
the car sheds, crowded so closely together that the cots
touched. In some places they would use the same room for
eating and sleeping, and at night the men would put their
cots upon the tables, to keep away from the swarms of rats.

But with all their best efforts, the packers were demor-
alized. Ninety per cent of the men had walked out; and
they faced the task of completely remaking their labor force
—and with the price of meat up thirty per cent, and the
public clamoring for a settlement. They made an offer to
submit the whole question at issue to arbitration; and at the
end of ten days the unions accepted it, and the strike was
called off. It was agreed that all the men were to be re-
employed within forty-five days, and that there was to be
“no discrimination against union men.”

This was an anxious time for Jurgis. If the men were
taken back “without discrimination,” he would lose his
present place. He sought out the superintendent, who smiled
grimly and bade him “wait and see.” Durham’s strike-
breakers were few of them leaving.

Whether or not the “settlement” was simply a trick of
the packers to gain time, or whether they really expected
to break the strike and cripple the unions by the plan, cannot
be said; but that night there went out from the office of
Durham and Company a telegram to all the big packing
centers, “Employ no union leaders.” And in the morning,
when the twenty thousand men thronged into the yards, with
their dinner pails and working clothes, Jurgis stood near the
door of the hog-trimming room, where he had worked
before the strike, and saw a throng of eager men, with a
score or two of policemen watching them; and he saw a
superintendent come out and walk down the line, and pick
out man after man that pleased him; and one after another
came, and there were some men up near the head of the
line who were never picked—they being the union stewards

268

and delegates, and the men Jurgis had heard making speech-
es at the meetings. Each time, of course, there were louder
murmurings and angrier looks. Over where the cattle butchers

/ were waiting, Jurgis heard shouts and saw a crowd, and he
hurried there. One big butcher, who was president of the

Packing Trades Council, had been passed over five times, and
the men were wild with rage; they had appointed a committee
of three to go in and see the superintendent, and the com-
mittee had made three attempts, and each time the police had
clubbed them back from the door. Then there were yells and
hoots, continuing until at last the superintendent came to the
door. “We all go back or none of us do!” cried a hundred
voices. And the other shook his fist at them, and shouted,
“You went out of here like cattle, and like cattle you'll
come back!”

Then suddenly the big butcher president leaped upon a
pile of stones and yelled: “It’s off, boys. Well all of us
quit again!” And so the cattle butchers declared a new
strike on the spot; and gathering their members from the
other plants, where the same trick had been played, they
marched down Packers’ Avenue, which was thronged with a
dense mass of workers, cheering wildly. Men who had
already got to work on the killing beds dropped their tools
and joined them; some galloped here and there on horseback,
shouting the tidings, and within half an hour the whole of
Packingtown was on strike again, and beside itself with fury.

There was quite a different tone in Packingtown after this
—the place was a seething caldron of passion, and the “scab”
who ventured into it fared badly. There were one or two of
these incidents each day, the newspapers detailing them, and
always blaming them upon the unions. Yet ten years before,
when there were no unions in Packingtown, there was a
strike, and national troops had to be called, and there were
pitched battles fought at night, by the light of blazing
freight trains. Packingtown was always a center of violence;
in Whiskey Point, where there were a hundred saloons and
one glue-factory, there was always fighting, and always
more of it in hot weather. Anyone who had taken the
trouble to consult the station-house blotter would have found
that there was less violence that summer than ever before—
and this while twenty thousand men were out of work, and
with nothing to do all day but brood upon bitter wrongs.
There was no one to picture the battle the union leaders

269

OE ere ee

were fighting—to hold this huge army in rank, to keep it |

from straggling and pillaging, to cheer and encourage and
guide a hundred thousand people, of a dozen different
tongues, through six long weeks of hunger and disappoint-
ment and despair.

Meantime the packers had set themselves definitely to the
task of making a new labor force. A thousand or two of
strike-breakers were brought in every night, and distributed
among the various plants. Some of them were experienced
workers—butchers, salesmen, and managers from _ the
packers’ branch stores, and a few union men who had desert-
ed from other cities; but the vast majority were “green”
Negroes from the cotton districts of the far south, and
they were herded into the packing plants like sheep. There
was a law forbidding the use of buildings as lodging houses
unless they were licensed for the purpose, and provided
with proper windows, stairways, and fire escapes; but here,
in a “paint room,” reached only by an enclosed “chute,” a
room without a single window and only one door, a hun-
dred men were crowded upon mattresses on the floor. Up
on the third story of the “hog house” of Jones’s was a
storeroom, without a window, into which they crowded
seven hundred men, sleeping upon the bare springs of cots
and with a second shift to use them by day. And when the
clamor of the public led to an investigation into these
conditions, and the mayor of the city was forced to order
the enforcement of the law, the packers got a judge to issue
an injunction forbidding him to do it!

Just at this time the mayor was boasting that he had put
an end to gambling and prize-fighting in the city; but here a
swarm of professional gamblers had leagued themselves
with the police to fleece the strike-breakers; and any night,
in the big open space in front of Brown’s, one might see
brawny Negroes stripped to the waist and pounding each
other for money, while a howling throng of three or four
thousand surged about, men and women, young white girls
from the country rubbing elbows with big buck Negroes
with daggers in their boots, while rows of woolly heads peered
down from every window of the surrounding factories. The
ancestors of these black people had been savages in Africa;
and since then they had been chattel slaves, or had been
held down by a community ruled by the traditions of slavery.
Now for the first time they were free—free to gratify every
passion, free to wreck themselves. They were wanted to

270

break a strike, and when it was broken they would be
shipped away, and their present masters would never see
them again; and so whiskey and women were brought in by
the carload and sold to them, and hell was let loose in the
yards. Every night there were stabbings and shootings; it
was said that the packers had blank permits, which enabled
them to ship dead bodies from the city without troubling
the authorities. They lodged men and women on the same
floor; and with the night there began a saturnalia of de-
bauchery—scenes such as never before had been witnessed
in America. And as the women were the dregs from the
brothels of Chicago, and the men were for the most part
ignorant country Negroes, the nameless diseases of vice
were soon rife; and this where food was being handled
which was sent out to every corner of the civilized world.

The “Union Stockyards” were never a pleasant place; but
now they were not only a collection of slaughter houses,
but also the camping place of an army of fifteen or twenty
thousand human beasts. All day long the blazing midsum-
mer sun beat down upon that square mile of abominations:
upon tens of thousands of cattle crowded into pens whose
wooden floors stank and steamed contagion; upon bare,
blistering, cinder-strewn railroad tracks, and huge blocks of
dingy meat factories, whose labyrinthine passages defied a
breath of fresh air to penetrate them; and there were not
merely rivers of hot blood and carloads of moist flesh,
and rendering vats and soap caldrons, glue factories and
fertilizer tanks, that smelt like the craters of hell—there were
also tons of garbage festering in the sun, and the
greasy laundry of the workers hung out to dry, and dining
rooms littered with food and black with flies, and toilet
rooms that were open sewers.

And then at night, when this throng poured out into
the streets to play—fighting, gambling, drinking and carous-
ing, cursing and screaming, laughing and singing, playing
banjoes and dancing! They were worked in the yards all the
seven days of the week, and they had their prize-fights and
crap games on Sunday nights as well; but then around the
corner one might see a bonfire blazing, and an old, gray-
headed Negress, lean and witchlike, her hair flying wild
and her eyes blazing, yelling and chanting of the fires of
perdition and the blood of the “Lamb,” while men and
women lay down upon the ground and moaned and screamed
in convulsions of terror and remorse.

271

Such were the stockyards during the strike; while the
unions watched in sullen despair, and the country clamored

like a greedy child for its food, and the packers went grimly ©

|

|

on their way. Each day they added new workers, and —
could be more stern with the old ones—could put them on >

piece-work, and dismiss them if they did not keep up the
pace. Jurgis was now one of their agents in this process;
and he could feel the change day by day, like the slow
starting up of a huge machine. He had gotten used to being
a master of men; and because of the stifling heat and the
stench, and the fact that he was a “scab” and knew it and
despised himself, he was drinking, and developing a villain-
ous temper, and he stormed and cursed and raged at his
men, and drove them until they were ready to drop with
exhaustion.

Then one day late in August, a superintendent ran into
the place and shouted to Jurgis and his gang to drop their
work and come. They followed him outside, to where, in the
midst of a dense throng, they saw several two-horse trucks
waiting, and three patrol-wagon loads of police. Jurgis and his
men sprang upon one of the trucks, and the driver yelled

to the crowd, and they went thundering away at a gallop. ©

Some steers had just escaped from the yards, and the strikers
had got hold of them, and there would be the chance of a
scrap!

They went out at the Ashland Avenue gate, and over in
the direction of the “dump.” There was a yell as soon as they
were sighted, men and women rushing out of houses and sa-
loons as they galloped by. There were eight or ten policemen
on the truck, however, and there was no disturbance until
they came to a place where the street was blocked with a
dense throng. Those on the flying truck yelled a warning
and the crowd scattered pell-mell, disclosing one of the
steers lying in its blood. There were a good many cattle
butchers about just then, with nothing much to do, and hungry
children at home; and so someone had knocked out the
steer—and as a first-class man can kill and dress one in a
couple of minutes, there were a good many steaks and roasts
already missing. This called for punishment, of course; and
the police proceeded to administer it by leaping from the
truck and cracking at every head they saw. There were
yells of rage and pain, and the terrified people fled into houses
and stores, or scattered helter-skelter down the street. Jurgis

272

and his gang joined in the sport, every man singling out
his victim, and striving to bring him to bay and punch him.
If he fled into a house his pursuer would smash in the flimsy
door and follow him up the stairs, hitting every one who
came within reach, and finally dragging his squealing quarry
from under a bed or a pile of old clothes in a closet.

Jurgis and two policemen chased some men into a bar-room.
One of them took shelter behind the bar, where a police-
man cornered him and proceeded to whack him over the back
and shoulders, until he lay down and gave a chance at his
head. The others leaped a fence in the rear, balking the
second policeman, who was fat; and as he came back,
furious and cursing, a big Polish woman, the owner of the
saloon, rushed in screaming, and received a poke in the
’ stomach that doubled her up on the floor. Meantime Jurgis,
who was of a practical temper, was helping himself at the
bar; and the first policeman, who had laid out his man,
joined him, handing out several more bottles, and filling his
pockets besides, and then, as he started to leave, cleaning off
all the balance with a sweep of his club. The din of the
glass crashing to the floor brought the fat Polish woman
to her feet again, but another policeman came up behind her
and put his knee into her back and his hands over her eyes
—and then called to his companion, who went back and broke
open the cash-drawer and filled his pockets with the contents.
Then the three went outside, and the man who was holding
the woman gave her a shove and dashed out himself. The
gang having already got the carcass on to the truck, the party
set out at a trot, followed by screams and curses, and a
shower of bricks and stones from unseen enemies. These
bricks and stones would figure in the accounts of the “riot”
which would be sent out to a few thousand newspapers
within an hour or two; but the episode of the cash-drawer
would never be mentioned again, save only in the heart-
breaking legends of Packingtown.

It was late in the afternoon when they got back, and they
dressed out the remainder of the steer, and a couple of others
that had been killed, and then knocked off for the day. Jurgis
went downtown to supper, with three friends who had been
on the other trucks, and they exchanged reminiscences on the
way. Afterward they drifted into a roulette-parlor, and
Jurgis, who was never lucky at gambling, dropped about fif-
teen dollars. To console himself he had to drink a good deal,

273

and he went back to Packingtown about two o’clock in the
morning, very much the worse for his excursion, and, it must
be confessed, entirely deserving the calamity that was in
store for him.

As he was going to the place where he slept, he met a
painted-cheeked woman in a greasy “kimono,” and she put
her arm about his waist to steady him; they turned into a dark
room they were passing—but scarcely had they taken two
steps before suddenly a door swung open, and a man entered,
carrying a lantern. ““Who’s there?” he called sharply. And Jur-
gis started to mutter some reply; but at the same instant the
man raised his light, which flashed in his face, so that it
was possible to recognize him. Jurgis stood stricken dumb, and
his heart gave a leap like a mad thing. The man was Connor!

Connor, the boss of the loading gang! The man who
had seduced his wife—who had sent him to prison, and
wrecked his home, and ruined his life! He stood there, staring,
with the light shining full upon him.

Jurgis had often thought of Connor since coming back to
Packingtown, but it had been as of something far off, that no
longer concerned him. Now, however, when he saw him, alive
and in the flesh, the same thing happened to him that had
happened before—a flood of rage boiled up in him, a blind
frenzy seized him. And he flung himself at the man, and
smote him between the eyes—and then, as he fell, seized him
by the throat and began to pound his head upon the stones.

The woman began screaming, and people came rushing in.
The lantern had been upset and extinguished, and it was so
dark they could not see a thing; but they could hear Jurgis
panting, and hear the thumping of his victim’s skull, and they
rushed there and tried to pull him off. Precisely as before,
Jurgis came away with a piece of his enemy’s flesh between
his teeth; and, as before, he went on fighting with those
who had interfered with him, until a policeman had come and
beaten him into insensibility.

And so Jurgis spent the balance of the night in the stock-
yards station house. This time, however, he had money in his
pocket, and when he came to his senses he could get something
to drink, and also a messenger to take word of his plight to
“Bush” Harper. Harper did not appear, however, until after
the prisoner, feeling very weak and ill, had been hailed into
court and remanded at five hundred dollars’ bail to await
the result of his victim’s injuries. Jurgis was wild about this,

274

because a different magistrate had chanced to be on the
bench, and he had stated that he had never been arrested
before, and also that he had been attacked first—and if only
someone had been there to speak a good word for him, he
could have been let off at once.

But Harper explained that he had been downtown, and had
not got the message. “What’s happened to you?” he asked.

“T’ve been doing a fellow up,” said Jurgis, “and I’ve got to
get five hundred doilars’ bail.”

“I can arrange that all right,” said the other—“though
it may cost you a few dollars, of course. But what was the
trouble?”

“It was a man that did me a mean trick once,” answered
Jurgis.

“Who is he?”

‘He’s a foreman in Brown’s—or used to be. His name’s
Connor.”

And the other gave a start. “Connor!” he cried. “Not Phil
Connor!”

“Yes,” said Jurgis, “that’s the fellow. Why?”

“Good God!” exclaimed the other, “then you're in for it,
old man! J can’t help you!”

“Not help me! Why not?”

“Why, he’s one of Scully’s biggest men—he’s a member of
the War-Whoop League, and they talked of sending him to
the Jegislature! Phil Connor! Crreat heavens!”

Jurgis sat dumb with dismay.

“Why. he can send you to Joliet, if he wants to!” declared
the other.

“Can't I have Scully get me off before he finds out about
it?” askc @ Jurgis, at length.

“Bui Scully’s out of town,” the other answered. “I don’t
even know where he is—he’s run away to dodge the strike.”

That was a pretty mess, indeed. Poor Jurgis sat half-dazed.
His pull had run up against a bigger pull, and he was down
and out! “But what am I going to do?” he asked, weakly.

“How should I know?” said the other. “I shouldn’t even
dare to get bail for you—why, I might ruin myself for life!”

Aga. there was silence. “Can’t you do it for me,” Jurgis
asked, “and pretend that you didn’t know who I'd hit?”

“But what good would that do you when you came to
stand trial?’ asked Harper. Then he sat buried in thought
for a minute or two. “There’s nothing—unless it’s this,”

215

he said. “I could have your bail reduced; and then if you
had the money you could pay it and skip.”

‘How much will it be?” Jurgis asked, after he had had
this explained more in detail.

“T don’t know,” said the other. “How much do you own?”

“T’ve got about three hundred dollars,” was the answer.

“Well,” was Harper’s reply, “I’m not sure, but Ill try and
get you off for that. [ll take the risk for friendship’s sake—
for I’d hate to see you sent to state’s prison for a year or
two.”

And so finally Jurgis ripped out his bankbook—which was
sewed up in his trousers—and signed an order, which “Bush”
Harper wrote, for all the money to be paid out. Then the
latter went and got it, and hurried to the court, and explained
to the magistrate that Jurgis was a decent fellow and a
friend of Scully’s, who had been attacked by a strike-breaker.
So the bail was reduced to three hundred dollars, and Harper
went on it himself; he did not tell this to Jurgis, however—
nor did he tell him that when the time for trial came it
would be an easy matter for him to avoid the forfeiting of
the bail, and pocket the three hundred dollars as his reward
for the risk of offending Mike Scully! All that he told Jurgis
was that he was now free, and that the best thing he could
do was to clear out as quickly as possible; and so Jurgis,
overwhelmed with gratitude and relief, took the dollar and
fourteen cents that was left him out of all his bank account,
and put it with the two dollars and a quarter that was left
from his last night’s celebration, and boarded a streetcar and
got off at the other end of Chicago.

RKKKKK BW w»wnnwn»

PB... Jurgis was now an outcast and a tramp once more.
He was crippled—he was as literally crippled as any wild
animal which has lost its claws, or been torn out-of its
shell. He had been shorn, at one cut, of all those mysterious
weapons whereby he had been able to make a living easily
and to escape the consequences of his actions. He could no
longer command a job when he wanted it; he could no longer
steal with impunity—he must take his chances with the
common herd. Nay worse, he dared not mingle with the
herd—he must hide by himself, for he was one marked out for
276

destruction. His old companions would betray him, for the
sake of the influence they would gain thereby; and he would
be made to suffer, not merely for the offence he had com-
mitted, but for others which would be laid at his door, just
as had been done for some poor devil on the occasion of
that assault upon the “country customer” by him and Duane.

And also he labored under another handicap now. He had
acquired new standards of living, which were not easily
to be altered. When he had been out of work before, he
had been content if he could sleep in a doorway or under a
truck out of the rain, and if he could get fifteen cents a day
for saloon lunches. But now he desired all sorts of other
things, and suffered because he had to do without them.
He must have a drink now and then, a drink for its own
sake, and apart from the food that came with it. The craving
for it was strong enough to master every other consideration
—he would have it, though it were his last nickel and he
had to starve the balance of the day in consequence.

Jurgis became once more a besieger of factory gates. But
never since he had been in Chicago had he stood less chance
of getting a job than just then. For one thing, there was the
economic crisis, the million or two of men who had been out
of work in the spring and summer, and were not yet all back,
by any means. And then there was the strike, with seventy
thousand men and women all over the country idle for a
couple of months—twenty thousand in Chicago, and many
of them now seeking work throughout the city. It did not
remedy matters that a few days later the strike was given up
and about half the strikers went back to work; for everyone
taken on, there was a “scab” who gave up and fled. The ten
or fifteen thousand “green” Negroes, foreigners, and crimi-
nals were now being turned loose to shift for themselves.
Everywhere Jurgis went he kept meeting them, and he was in
an agony of fear lest some one of them should know that
he was “wanted.” He would have left Chicago, only by the
time he had realized his danger he was almost penniless; and
it would be better to go to jail than to be caught out in the
country in the wintertime.

At the end of about ten days Jurgis had only a few pennies
left; and he had not yet found a job—not even a day’s work
at anything, not a chance to carry a satchel. Once again,
as when he had come out of the hospital, he was bound hand
and foot, and facing the grisly phantom of starvation. Raw,
naked terror possessed him, a maddening passion that would

277

never leave him, and that wore him down more quickly than
the actual want of food. He was going to die of hunger!
The fiend reached out its scaly arms for him—it touched
him, its breath came into his face; and he would cry out for
the awfulness of it, he would wake up in the night, shuddering,
and bathed in perspiration, and start up and flee. He would
walk, begging for work, until he was exhausted; he could
not remain still—he would wander on, gaunt and haggard,
gazing about him with restless eyes. Everywhere he went,
from one end of the vast city to che other, there were hun-
dreds of others like him; everywhere was the sight of plenty
—and the merciless hand of author.iy waving them away.
There is one kind of prison where the man is behind bars,
and everything that he desires is outside; and there is an-
other kind where the things are behind the bars, and the
man is outside.

When he was down to his last quarter, Jurgis learned that
before the bakeshops closed at night they sold out what was
left at half price, and after that he would go and get two
loaves of stale bread for a nickel, and break them up and
stuff his pockets with them, munching a bit from time to
time. He would not spend a penny save for this; and,
after two or three days more, he even became sparing of the
bread, and would stop and peer into the ash-barrels as he
walked along the streets, and now and then rake out a bit of
something, shake it free from dust, and count himself just so
many minutes further from the end.

So for several days he had been going about, ravenous
all the time, and growing weaker and weaker; and then one
morning he had a hideous experience, that almost broke his
heart. He was passing down a Street lined with warehouses,
and a boss offered him a job, and then, after he had started
to work, turned him off because he was not strong enough.
And he stood by and saw another man put into his place,
and then picked up his coat, and walked off, doing all that
he could to keep from breaking down and crying like a baby.
He was lost! He was doomed! There was no hope for him!
But then, with a sudden rush, his fear gave place to rage.
He fell to cursing. He would come back there after dark,
and he would show that scoundrel whether he was good for
anything or not!

He was still muttering this when suddenly, at the cor-
ner, he came upon a green-grocery, with a tray full of cab-

278

eee

bages in front of it. Jurgis, after one swift glance about him,
stooped and seized the biggest of them, and darted round
the corner with it. There was a hue and cry, and a score of
men and boys started in chase of him; but he came to an
alley, and then to another branching off from it and leading
him into another street, where he fell into a walk, and slipped
his cabbage under his coat and went off unsuspected in the
crowd. When he had gotten a safe distance away he sat down
and devoured half the cabbage raw, stowing the balance
away in his pockets till the next day.

Just about this time one of the Chicago newspapers, which
made much of the “common people,’ opened a “free-soup
kitchen’ for the benefit of the unemployed. Some people said
that they did this for the sake of the advertising it gave them,
and some others said that their motive was a fear lest all
their readers should be starved off; but whatever the reason,
the soup was thick and hot, and there was a bowl for every
man, all night long. When Jurgis heard of this, from a
fellow “hobo,” he vowed that he would have half a dozen
bowls before morning; but, as it proved, he was lucky to get
one, for there was a line of men two blocks long before the
stand, and there was just as long a line when the place was
finally closed up.

This depot was within the danger-line for Jurgis—in
the ‘“Levée” district, where he was known; but he went
there, all the same, for he was desperate, and beginning to
think of even the Bridewell as a place of refuge. So far
the weather had been fair, and he had slept out every night
in a vacant lot; but now there fell suddenly a shadow of
the advancing winter, a chill wind from the north and a
driving storm of rain. That day Jurgis bought two drinks
for the sake of the shelter, and at night he spent his last
two pennies in a “stale-beer dive.” This was a place kept
by a Negro, who went out and drew off the old dregs of
beer that lay in barrels set outside of the saloons; and after
he had doctored it with chemicals to make it “fizz, he
sold it for two cents a can, the purchase of a can including
the privilege of sleeping the night through upon the fioor,
with a mass of degraded outcasts, men and women.

All these horrors afflicted Jurgis all the more cruelly,
because he was always contrasting them with the oppor-
tunities he had lost. For instance, just now it was election
time again—within five or six weeks the voters of the
country would select a President; and he heard the wretches

279

with whom he associated discussing it, and saw the streets
of the city decorated with placards and banners—and what
words could describe the pangs of grief and despair that shot
through him?

For instance, there was a night during this cold spell. He
had begged all day, for his very life, and found not a soul
to heed him, until toward evening he saw an old lady getting
off a streetcar and helped her down with her umbrellas and
bundles, and then told her his “hard-luck story,” and after
answering all her suspicious questions satisfactorily, was
taken to a restaurant and saw a quarter paid down for a
meal. And so he had soup and bread, and boiled beef and
potatoes and beans, and pie and coffee, and came out with
his skin stuffed tight as a football. And then, through the
rain and the darkness, far down the street he saw red lights
flaring and heard the thumping of a bass drum; and his
heart gave a leap, and he made for the place on the run—
knowing without the asking that it meant a political meeting.

The campaign had so far been characterized by what the
newspapers termed “apathy.” For some reason the people
refused to get excited over the struggle, and it was almost
impossible to get them to come to meetings, or to make
any noise when they did come. Those which had been held
in Chicago so far had proven most dismal failures, and to-
night, the speaker being no less a personage than a candi-
date for the vice-presidency of the nation, the political
managers had been trembling with anxiety. But a merciful
Providence had sent this storm of cold rain—and now all
it was necessary to do was to set off a few fireworks, and
thump awhile on a drum, and all the homeless wretches
from a mile around would pour in and fill the hall! And
then on the morrow the newspapers would have a chance to
report the tremendous ovation, and to add that it had
been no “silk-stocking” audience, either, proving clearly that
the high-tariff sentiments of the distinguished candidate
were pleasing to the wage-earners of the nation.

So Jurgis found himself in a large hall, elaborately dec-
orated with flags and bunting; and after the chairman had
made his little speech, and the orator of the evening rose
up, amid an uproar from the band—only fancy the emo-
tions of Jurgis upon making the discovery that the personage
was none other than the famous and eloquent Senator
Spareshanks, who had addressed the “Doyle Republican As-

280

i
a
f
¥
‘i
vi
,
.

sociation” at the stockyards, and helped to elect Mike Scully’s
tenpin setter to the Chicago Board of Aldermen!

In truth, the sight of the senator almost brought the tears
into Jurgis’s eyes. What agony it was to him to look back
upon those golden hours, when he, too, had a place beneath
the shadow of the plum tree! When he, too, had been of the
elect, through whom the country is governed—when he had
had a bung in the campaign barrel for his own! And this
was another election in which the Republicans had all the
money; and but for that one hideous accident he might have
had a share of it, instead of being where he was!

The eloquent senator was explaining the system of Pro-
tection; an ingenious device whereby the workingman per-
mitted the manufacturer to charge him higher prices, in
order that he might receive higher wages; thus taking his
money out of his pocket with one hand, and putting a part
of it back with the other. To the senator this unique arrange-
ment had somehow become identified with the higher verities
of the universe. It was because of it that Columbia was the
gem of the ocean; and all her future triumphs, her power
and good repute among the nations, depended upon the zeal
and fidelity with which each citizen held up the hands of
those who were toiling to maintain it. The name of this
heroic company was “the Grand Old Party”—

And here the band began to play, and Jurgis sat up with
a violent start. Singular as it may seem, Jurgis was making a
desperate effort to understand what the senator was saying
—to comprehend the extent of American prosperity, the
enormous expansion of American commerce, and the Re-
public’s future in the Pacific and in South America, and
wherever else the oppressed were groaning. The reason
for it was that he wanted to keep awake. He knew that if
he aliowed himself to fall asleep he would begin to snore
loudly; and so he must listen—he must be interested! But
he had eaten such a big dinner, and he was so exhausted,
and the hall was so warm, and his seat was so comfortable!
The senator’s gaunt form began to grow dim and hazy, to
tower before him and dance about, with figures of exports
and imports. Once his neighbor gave him a savage poke in the
ribs, and he sat up with a start and tried to look innocent;
but then he was at it again, and men began to stare at
him with annoyance, and to call out in vexation. Finally
one of them called a policeman, who came and grabbed

281

Jurgis by the collar, and jerked him to his feet, bewildered ©

and terrified. Some of the audience turned to see the com-
motion, and Senator Spareshanks faltered in his speech; but
a voice shouted cheerily: “We're just firing a bum! Go ahead,
old sport!” And so the crowd roared, and the senator smiled
genially, and went on; and in a few seconds poor Jurgis
found himself landed out in the rain, with a kick and a
string of curses.

He got into the shelter of a doorway and took stock of
himself. He was not hurt, and he was not arrested—more
than he had any right to expect. He swore at himself and his
luck for a while, and then turned his thoughts to practical
matters. He had no money, and no place to sleep; he must
begin begging again.

He went out, hunching his shoulders together and shivering
at the touch of the icy rain. Coming down the street
toward him was a lady, well-dressed, and protected by an
umbrella; and he turned and walked beside her. “Please,
ma’am,” he began, “could you lend me the price of a
night’s lodging? I’m a poor workingman—”

Then, suddenly, he stopped short. By the light of a street
lamp he had caught sight of the lady’s face. He knew her.

It was Alena Jasaityte, who had been the belle of his
wedding feast! Alena Jasaityte, who had looked so beautiful,
and danced with such a queenly air, with Juozas Raczius, the
teamster! Jurgis had only seen her once or twice afterward,
for Juozas had thrown her over for another girl, and Alena
had gone away from Packingtown, no one knew where. And
now he met her here!

She was as much surprised as he was. “Jurgis Rudkus!”
she gasped. “And what in the world is the matter with
you?”

“T—I’ve had hard luck,” he stammered. “I’m out of work,
and I’ve no home and no money. And you, Alena—are you
married?”

“No,” she answered, “I’m not married, but I’ve got a good
place.”

They stood staring at each other for a few moments long-
er. Finally Alena spoke again. “Jurgis,” she said, “I’d help
you if I could, upon my word I would, but it happens that
Ive come out without my purse, and I honestly haven’t a
penny with me. I can do something better for you, though—
I can tell you how to get help. I can tell you where Marija

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Jurgis gave a start. “Marija!” he gasped.

“Yes,” said Alena; “and she'll help you. She’s got a place,
and she’s doing well; she'll be glad to see you.”

It was not much more than a year since Jurgis had left
Packingtown, feeling like one escaped from jail; and it
had been from Marija and Elzbieta that he was escaping. But
now, at the mere mention of them, his whole being cried
out with joy. He wanted to see them; he wanted to go
home! They would help him—they would be kind to him.
In a flash he had thought over the situation. He had a good
excuse for running away—his grief at the death of his
son; and also he had a good excuse for not returning—the
fact that they had left Packingtown. “All right,” he said, “I'll
go.”

So she gave him a number on Clark Street, adding, “There’s
no need to give you my address, because Marija knows it.”
And Jurgis set out, without further ado.

He found a large brown-stone house of aristocratic ap-
pearance, and rang the basement bell. A young colored
girl came to the door, opening it about an inch, and gazing at
him suspiciously.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

“Does Marija Berczynskas live here?” he inquired.

“T dunno,” said the girl. “What you want wid her?”

“T want to see her,” said he; “she’s a relative of mine.”

The girl hesitated a moment. Then she opened the door
and said, “Come in.” Jurgis came and stood in the hall, and
she continued: “Ill go see. What’s yo? name?”

“Tell her it’s Jurgis,” he answered, and the girl went up-
stairs. She came back at the end of a minute or two, and
replied, “Dey ain’t no sich person here.”

Jurgis’s heart went down into his boots. “I was told this
was where she lived!” he cried.

But the girl only shook her head. “De lady says dey
ain’t no sich person here,” she said.

And he stood for a moment, hesitating, helpless with dis-
may. Then he turned to go to the door. At the same instant,
however, there came a knock upon it, and the girl went to
open it. Jurgis heard the shuffling of feet, and then heard
her give a cry; and the next moment she sprang back, and
past him, her eyes shining white with terror, and bounded
up the stairway, screaming at the top of her lungs, “Police!
Police! We’re pinched!”

283

Jurgis stood for a second, bewildered. Then, seeing blue-
coated forms rushing upon him, he sprang after the Negress.
Her cries had been the signal for a wild uproar above; the
house was. full of people, and as he entered the hallway
he saw them rushing hither and thither, crying and screaming
with alarm. There were men and women, the latter clad for
the most part in wrappers, the former in all stages of
déshabille. At one side Jurgis caught a glimpse of a big
apartment with plush-covered chairs, and tables covered with
trays and glasses. There were playing-cards scattered all
over the floor—one of the tables had been upset, and bottles
of wine were rolling about, their contents running out
upon the carpet. There was a young girl who had fainted,
and two men who were supporting her; and there were a
dozen others crowding toward the front-door.

Suddenly, however, there came a series of resounding
blows upon it, causing the crowd to give back. At the same
instant a stout woman, with painted cheeks and diamonds
in her ears, came running down the stairs, panting breath-
lessly: ““To the rear! Quick!”

She led the way to a back staircase, Jurgis following; in
the kitchen she pressed a spring, and a cupboard gave way
and opened, disclosing a dark passageway. “Go in!” she
cried to the crowd, which now amounted to twenty or
thirty, and they began to pass through. Scarcely had the last
one disappeared, however, before there were cries from in
front, and then the panic-stricken throng poured out again,
exclaiming: “They’re there too! We're trapped!”

“Upstairs!” cried the woman, and there was another rush
of the mob, women and men cursing and screaming and
fighting to be first. One flight, two, three—and then there
was a ladder to the roof, with a crowd packed at the foot of
it, and one man at the top, straining and struggling to lift
the trap-door. It was not to be stirred, however, and when
the woman shouted up to unhook it, he answered: “It’s
already unhooked. There’s somebody sitting on it!”

And a moment later came a voice from downstairs: “You
might as well quit, you people. We mean business, this time.”

So the crowd subsided; and a few moments later several
policemen came up, staring here and there, and leering at
their victims. Of the latter the men were for the most part
frightened and sheepish-looking. The women took it as a
joke, as if they were used to it—though if they had been
pale, one could not have told, for the paint on their cheeks.

284

One black-eyed young girl perched herself upon the top of
the balustrade, and began to kick with her slippered foot
at the helmets of the policemen, until one of them caught
her by the ankle and pulled her down. On the fioor below
four or five other girls sat upon trunks in the hall, making
_ fun of the procession which filed by them. They were noisy
and hilarious, and had evidently been drinking; one of them,
who wore a bright red kimono, shouted and screamed in a
voice that drowned out all the other sounds in the hall—and
Jurgis took a glance at her, and then gave a start, and a cry,
“Marija!”

She heard him, and glanced around; then she shrank back
and half sprang to her feet in amazement. “Jurgis!” she
gasped.

For a second or two they stood staring at each other. “How
did you come here?” Marija exclaimed.

“T came to see you,” he answered.

“When?”

“Just now.”

“But how did you know—who told you I was here?”

“Alena Jasaityte. I met her on the street.”

Again there was a silence, while they gazed at each other.
The rest of the crowd was watching them, and so Marija
got up and came closer to him. “And you?” Jurgis asked.
“You live here?”

“Yes,” said Marija, “I live here.”

Then suddenly came a hail from below: “Get your clothes
on now, girls, and come along. You'd best begin, or you'll
be sorry— it’s raining outside.”

“Br-r-r!” shivered someone, and the women got up and
entered the various doors which lined the hallway.

“Come,” said Marija, and took Jurgis into her room, which
was a tiny place about eight by six, with a cot and a chair
and a dressing stand and some dresses hanging behind the
door. There were clothes scattered about on the fioor, and
hopeless confusion everywhere—boxes of rouge and bottles
of perfume mixed with hats and soiled dishes on the
dresser, and a pair of slippers and a clock and a whiskey
bottle on a chair.

Marija had nothing on but a kimono and a pair of stock-
ings; yet she proceeded to dress before Jurgis, and without
even taking the trouble to close the door. He had by this
time divined what sort of a place he was in; and he had seen
a great deal of the world since he had left home, and was

285

big enough to be a drum major’s, and full of ostrich feathers.
She went out into the hall and Jurgis followed, the policeman
remaining to look under the bed and behind the door.

“What’s going to come of this?” Jurgis asked, as they
started down the steps.

“The raid, you mean? Oh, nothing—it happens to us
every now and then. The madame’s having some sort of
time with the police; I don’t know what it is, but maybe
they'll come to terms before morning. Anyhow, they won’t
do anything to you. They always let the men off.”

“Maybe so,” he responded, “but not me—I’m afraid I’m
in for it.”

““How do you mean?”

“I'm wanted by the police,” he said, lowering his voice,
though of course their conversation was in Lithuanian.
“They'll send me up for a year or two, I’m afraid.”

“Hell!” said Marija. “That’s too bad. Ill see if I can’t get
you off.”

Downstairs, where the greater part of the prisoners were
now massed, she sought out the stout personage with the
diamond earrings, and had a few whispered words with her.
The latter then approached the police sergeant who was in
charge of the raid. “Billy,” she said, pointing to Jurgis,
“there’s a fellow who came in to see his sister. He’d just got
in the door when you knocked. You aren’t taking hobos,
are you?”

The sergeant laughed as he looked at Jurgis. “Sorry,” he
said, “but the orders are every one but the servants.”

So Jurgis slunk in among the rest of the men, who kept
dodging behind each other like sheep that have smelt a wolf.
There were old men and young men, college boys and gray-
beards old enough to be their grandfathers; some of them
wore evening dress—there was no one among them save
Jurgis who showed any signs of poverty.

When the round-up was completed, the doors were opened
and the party marched out. Three patrol wagons were drawn
up at the curb, and the whole neighborhood had turned out
to see the sport; there was much chaffing, and a universal
craning of necks. The women stared about them with de-
fiant eyes, or laughed and joked, while the men kept their
heads bowed, and their hats pulled over their faces. They
were crowded into the patrol wagons as if into streetcars,
and then off they went amid a din of cheers. At the
Station house Jurgis gave a Polish name and was put into a

288

cell with half a dozen others; and while these sat and talked
in whispers, he lay down in a corner and gave himself up to
his thoughts.

Jurgis had looked into the deepest reaches of the social
pit, and grown used to the sights in them. Yet when he
had thought of all humanity as vile and hideous, he had some-
how always excepted his own family, that he had loved; and
now this sudden horrible discovery—Marija a whore, and
Elzbieta and the children living off her shame! Jurgis might
argue with himself all he chose, that he had done worse, and
was a fool for caring—but still he could not get over the
shock of that sudden unveiling, he could not help being
sunk in grief because of it. The depths of him were troubled
and shaken, memories were stirred in him that had been
sleeping so long he had counted them dead. Memories of
the old life—his old hopes and his old yearnings, his old
dreams of decency and independence! He saw Ona again, he
heard her gentle voice pleading with him. He saw little An-
tanas, whom he had meant to make a man. He saw his trem-
bling old father, who had blessed them all with his wonderful
love. He lived again through that day of horror when he
had discovered Ona’s shame—God, how he had suffered,
what a madman he had been! How dreadful it had all seemed
to him; and now, today, he had sat and listened, and half
agreed when Marija told him he had been a fool! Yes—
told him that he ought to have sold his wife’s honor and lived
by it!—And then there was Stanislovas and his awful fate—
that brief story which Marija had narrated so calmly, with
such dull indifference! The poor little fellow, with his frost-
bitten fingers and his terror of the snow—his wailing voice
rang in Jurgis’ ears, as he lay there in the darkness, until
the sweat started on his forehead. Now and then he would
quiver with a sudden spasm of horror, at the picture of
little Stanislovas shut up in the deserted building and fighting
for his life with the rats!

All these emotions had become strangers to the soul of
Jurgis; it was so long since they had troubled him that he
had ceased to think they might ever trouble him again. Help-
less, trapped, as he was, what good did they do him—
why should he ever have allowed them to torment him? It
had been the task of his recent life to fight them down,
to crush them out of him; never in his life would he have
suffered from them again, save that they had caught him
unawares, and overwhelmed him before he could protect

289

=~

himself. He heard the old voices of his soul, he saw its old
ghosts beckoning to him, stretching out their arms to him!
But they were far off and shadowy, and the gulf between them
was black and bottomless; they would fade away into the
mists of the past once more. Their voices would die, and
never again would he hear them—and so the last faint spark
of manhood in his soul would flicker out.

KERKEE ZY www»

Arcee breakfast Jurgis was driven to the court, which was
crowded with the prisoners and those who had come out of
curiosity or in the hope of recognizing one of the men and
getting a case for blackmail. The men were called up first,
and reprimanded in a bunch, and then dismissed; but Jurgis,
to his terror, was called separately, as being a suspicious-
looking case. It was in this very same court that he had
been tried, that time when his sentence had been “suspended”;
it was the same judge, and the same clerk. The latter now
stared at Jurgis, as if he half thought that he knew him; but
the judge had no suspicions—just then his thoughts were upon
a telephone message he was expecting from a friend of
the police captain of the district, telling what disposition he
should make of the case of Polly Simpson, as the “madame”
of the house was known. Meantime, he listened to the story
of how Jurgis had been looking for his sister, and advised him
dryly to keep his sister in a better place; then he let him go,
and proceeded to fine each of the girls five dollars, which
fines were paid in a bunch from a wad of bills which Mad-
ame Polly extracted from her stocking.

Jurgis waited outside and walked home with Marija. The
police had left the house, and already there were a few
visitors; by evening the place would be running again, exactly
as if nothing had happened. Meantime, Marija took
Jurgis upstairs to her room, and they sat and talked. By
daylight, Jurgis was able to observe that the color on her
cheeks was not the old natural one of abounding health;
her complexion was in reality a parchment yellow, and there
were black rings under her eyes.

“Have you been sick?” he asked.

“Sick?” she said. “Hell!” (Marija had learned to scatter her
conversation with as many oaths as a longshoreman or a

290

mule driver.) “How can I ever be anything but sick, at this
life?”

She fell silent for a moment, staring ahead of her gloomily.
“It’s morphine,” she said, at last. “I seem to take more of it
every day.”

“What’s that for?” he asked.

“It’s the way of it; I don’t know why. If it isn’t that, it’s
drink. If the girls didn’t booze they couldn’t stand it any
time at all. And the madame always gives them dope when
they first come, and they learn to like it; or else they take it
for headaches and such things, and get the habit that way.
I’ve got it, I know; I’ve tried to quit, but I never will while ’m
here.”

“How long are you going to stay?” he asked.

“JT don’t know,” she said. “Always, I guess. What else could
I do?”

“Don’t you save any money?”

“Save!” said Marija. “Good Lord, no! I get enough, I sup-
pose, but it all goes. I get a half share, two dollars and a half
for each customer, and sometimes I make twenty-five or thirty
dollars a night, and you’d think I ought to save something
out of that! But then I am charged for my room and my
meals—and such prices as you never heard of; and then for
extras, and drinks—for everything I get, and some I don’t.
My laundry bill is nearly twenty dollars each week alone—
think of that! Yet what can I do? I either have to stand it or
quit, and it would be the same anywhere else. It’s all I can
do to save the fifteen dollars I give Elzbieta each week, so
the children can go to school.”

Marija sat brooding in silence for a while; then, seeing
that Jurgis was interested, she went on: “That’s the way
they keep the girls—they let them run up debts, so they can’t
get away. A young girl comes from abroad, and she doesn’t
know a word of English, and she gets into a place like this,
and when she wants to go the madame shows her that she is a
couple of hundred dollars in debt, and takes all her clothes
away, and threatens to have her arrested if she doesn’t stay
and do as she’s told. So she stays, and the longer she stays,
the more in debt she gets. Often, too, they are girls that
didn’t know what they were coming to, that had hired out
for housework. Did you notice that little French girl with the
yellow hair, that stood next to me in the court?”

Jurgis answered in the affirmative.

“Well, she came to America about a year ago. She was a

291

himself. He heard the old voices of his soul, he saw its old
ghosts beckoning to him, stretching out their arms to him!
But they were far off and shadowy, and the gulf between them
was black and bottomless; they would fade away into the
mists of the past once more. Their voices would die, and
never again would he hear them—and so the last faint spark
of manhood in his soul would flicker out.

KKEKKKK BY www”

Boercer breakfast Jurgis was driven to the court, which was
crowded with the prisoners and those who had come out of
curiosity or in the hope of recognizing one of the men and
getting a case for blackmail. The men were called up first,
and reprimanded in a bunch, and then dismissed; but Jurgis,
to his terror, was called separately, as being a suspicious-
looking case. It was in this very same court that he had
been tried, that time when his sentence had been “suspended”;
it was the same judge, and the same clerk. The latter now
stared at Jurgis, as if he half thought that he knew him; but
the judge had no suspicions—just then his thoughts were upon
a telephone message he was expecting from a friend of
the police captain of the district, telling what disposition he
should make of the case of Polly Simpson, as the “madame”
of the house was known. Meantime, he listened to the story
of how Jurgis had been looking for his sister, and advised him
dryly to keep his sister in a better place; then he let him go,
and proceeded to fine each of the girls five dollars, which
fines were paid in a bunch from a wad of bills which Mad-
ame Polly extracted from her stocking.

Jurgis waited outside and walked home with Marija. The
police had left the house, and already there were a few
visitors; by evening the place would be running again, exactly
as if nothing had happened. Meantime, Marija took
Jurgis upstairs to her room, and they sat and talked. By
daylight, Jurgis was able to observe that the color on her
cheeks was not the old natural one of abounding health;
her complexion was in reality a parchment yellow, and there
were black rings under her eyes.

“Have you been sick?” he asked.

“Sick?” she said. “Hell!” (Marija had learned to scatter her
conversation with as many oaths as a longshoreman or a

290

Tae eee

mule driver.) “How can I ever be anything but sick, at this
life?”

She fell silent for a moment, staring ahead of her gloomily.
“It’s morphine,” she said, at last. “I seem to take more of it
every day.”

“What’s that for?” he asked.

“It’s the way of it; I don’t know why. If it isn’t that, it’s
drink. If the girls didn’t booze they couldn’t stand it any
time at all. And the madame always gives them dope when
they first come, and they learn to like it; or else they take it
for headaches and such things, and get the habit that way.
I’ve got it, I know; I’ve tried to quit, but I never will while I’m
here.”

“How long are you going to stay?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Always, I guess. What else could
I do?”

“Don’t you save any money?”

“Save!” said Marija. “Good Lord, no! I get enough, I sup-
pose, but it all goes. I get a half share, two dollars and a half
for each customer, and sometimes I make twenty-five or thirty
dollars a night, and you’d think I ought to save something
out of that! But then I am charged for my room and my
meals—and such prices as you never heard of; and then for
extras, and drinks—for everything I get, and some I don’t.
My laundry bill is nearly twenty dollars each week alone—
think of that! Yet what can I do? I either have to stand it or
quit, and it would be the same anywhere else. It’s all I can
do to save the fifteen dollars I give Elzbieta each week, so
the children can go to school.”

Marija sat brooding in silence for a while; then, seeing
that Jurgis was interested, she went on: “That’s the way
they keep the girls—they let them run up debts, so they can’t
get away. A young girl comes from abroad, and she doesn’t
know a word of English, and she gets into a place like this,
and when she wants to go the madame shows her that she is a
couple of hundred dollars in debt, and takes all her clothes
away, and threatens to have her arrested if she doesn’t stay
and do as she’s told. So she stays, and the longer she stays,
the more in debt she gets. Often, too, they are girls that
didn’t know what they were coming to, that had hired out
for housework. Did you notice that little French girl with the
yellow hair, that stood next to me in the court?”

Jurgis answered in the affirmative.

“Well, she came to America about a year ago. She was a

291

store clerk, and she hired herself to a man to be sent here
to work in a factory. There were six of them, all together,
and they were brought to a house just down the street from
here, and this girl was put into a room alone, and they gave
her some dope in her food, and when she came to she found
that she had been ruined. She cried, and screamed, and tore
her hair, but she had nothing but a wrapper, and couldn’t get
away, and they kept her half insensible with drugs all the
time, until she gave up. She never got outside of that place
for ten months, and then they sent her away, because she
didn’t suit. I guess theyll put her out of here, too—she’s get-
ting to have crazy fits, from drinking absinthe. Only one of
the girls that came out with her got away, and she jumped out
of a second-story window one night. There was a great fuss
about that—-maybe you heard of it.”

“I did,” said Jurgis, “I heard of it afterward.” (It had
happened in the place where he and Duane had taken refuge
from their “country customer.” The girl had become insane,
fortunately for the police.)

“There’s lots of money in it,” said Marija—‘“they get as
much as forty dollars a head for girls, and they bring them
from all over. There are seventeen in this place, and nine
different countries among them. In some places you might
find even more. We have half a dozen French girls—I sup-
pose it’s because the madame speaks the language. French
girls are bad, too, the worst of all, except for the Japanese.
There’s a place next door that’s full of Japanese women, but
I wouldn’t live in the same house with one of them.”

Marija paused for a moment or two, and then she added:
“Most of the women here are pretty decent—you’d be sur-
prised. I used to think they did it because they liked to; but
fancy a woman selling herself to every kind of man that
comes, old or young, black or white—and doing it because
she likes to!”

“Some of them say they do,” said Jurgis.

“I know,” said she; “they say anything. They’re in, and
they know they can’t get out. But they didn’t like it when
they began—you’d find out—it’s always misery! There’s a
little Jewish girl here who used to run errands for a milliner,
and got sick and lost her place; and she was four days on the
streets without a mouthful of food, and then she went to a
place just around the corner and offered herself, and they
made her give up her clothes before they would give her a
bite to eat!”

292 ae 2 34

Marija sat for a minute or two, brooding sombrely. “Tell
me about yourself, Jurgis,” she said, suddenly. “Where have
you been?”

So he told her the long story of his adventures since his
flight from home; his life as a tramp, and his work in the
freight tunnels, and the accident; and then of Jack Duane, and
of his political career in the stockyards, and his downfall and
subsequent failures. Marija listened with sympathy; it was easy
to believe the tale of his late starvation, for his face showed it
all. “You found me just in the nick of time,” she said. “Tl
stand by you—I’ll help you till you can get some work.”

“T don’t like to let you—” he began.

“Why not? Because I’m here?”

“No, not that,” he said. “But I went off and left you—”

“Nonsense!” said Marija. “Don’t think about it. I don’t
blame you.”

“You must be hungry,” she said, after a minute or two.
“You stay here to lunch—Ill have something up in the
room.”

She pressed a button, and a colored woman came to the
door and took her order. “It’s nice to have somebody to wait
on you,” she observed, with a laugh, as she lay back on the
bed.

As the prison breakfast had not been liberal, Jurgis had
a good appetite, and they had a little feast together, talking
meanwhile of Elzbieta and the children and old times. Shortly
before they were through, there came another colored girl,
with the message that the “madame” wanted Marija—‘Lith-
uanian Mary,” as they called her here.

“That means you have to go,” she said to Jurgis.

So he got up, and she gave him the new address of the
family, a tenement over in the Ghetto district. “You go
there,”’ she said. “They'll be glad to see you.”

But Jurgis stood hesitating.

“I—I don’t like to,” he said. “Honest, Marija, why don’t
you just give me a little money and let me look for work
first?”

“How do you need money?” was her reply. “All you want
is something to eat and a place to sleep, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said; “but then I don’t like to go there after I
left them—and while I have nothing to do, and while you—
you—”

“Go on!” said Marija, giving him a push. “What are you
talking?—I won’t give you money,” she added, as she fol-

2o5

lowed him to the door, “because you'll drink it up, and do
yourself harm. Here’s a quarter for you now, and go along,
and they'll be so glad to have you back, you won't have
time to feel ashamed. Good-by!”

So Jurgis went out, and walked down the street to think
it over. He decided that he would first try to get work, and so
he put in the rest of the day wandering here and there
among factories and warehouses without success. Then,
when it was nearly dark, he concluded to go home, and set
out; but he came to a restaurant, and went in and spent his
quarter for a meal; and when he came out he changed his
mind—the night was pleasant, and he would sleep somewhere
outside, and put in the morrow hunting, and so have one
more chance of a job. So he started away again, when sud-
denly he chanced to look about him, and found that he was
walking down the same street and past the same hall where
he had listened to the political speech the night before. There
was no red fire and no band now, but there was a sign out,
announcing a meeting, and a stream of people pouring in
through the entrance. In a flash Jurgis had decided that he
would chance it once more, and sit down and rest while
making up his mind what do do. There was no one taking
tickets, so it must be a free show again.

He entered. There were no decorations in the hall this
time; but there was quite a crowd upon the platform, and
almost every seat in the place was filled. He took one of the
last, far in the rear, and straightway forgot all about his
surroundings. Would Elzbieta think that he had come to
sponge off her, or would she understand that he meant to
get to work again and do his share? Would she be decent to
him, or would she scold him? If only he could get some sort
of a job before he went—if that last boss had only been
willing to try him!

—Then suddenly Jurgis looked up. A tremendous roar
had burst from the throats of the crowd, which by this time
had packed the hall to the very doors. Men and women were
standing up, waving handkerchiefs, shouting, yelling. Evi-
dently the speaker had arrived, thought Jurgis; what fools
they were making of themselves! What were they expecting
to get out of it anyhow—what had they to do with elections,
with governing the country? Jurgis had been behind the
scenes in politics.

He went back to his thoughts, but with one further fact to

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reckon with—that he was caught here. The hall was now
filled to the doors; and after the meeting it would be too
late for him to go home, so he would have to make the best
of it outside. Perhaps it would be better to go home in the
morning, anyway, for the children would be at school, and
he and Elzbieta could have a quiet explanation. She always
had been a reasonable person; and he really did mean to do
right. He would manage to persuade her of it—and besides,
Marija was willing, and Marija was furnishing the money. If
Elzbieta were ugly, he would tell her that in so many words.

So Jurgis went on meditating; until finally, when he
had been an hour or two in the hall, there began to prepare
itself a repetition of the dismal catastrophe of the night
before. Speaking had been going on all the time, and the
audience was clapping its hands and shouting, thrilling with
excitement; and little by little the sounds were beginning to
blur in Jurgis’s ears, and his thoughts were beginning to run
together, and his head to wobble and nod. He caught himself
many times, as usual, and made desperate resolutions; but
the hall was hot and close, and his long walk and his dinner
were too much for him—in the end his head sank forward and
he went off again.

And then again some one nudged him, and he sat up with
his old terrified start! He had been snoring again, of course!
And now what? He fixed his eyes ahead of him, with painful
intensity, staring at the platform as if nothing else ever had
interested him, or ever could interest him, all his life. He
imagined the angry exclamations, the hostile glances; he
imagined the policeman striding toward him—reaching for
his neck.—Or was he to have one more chance? Were they
going to let him alone this time? He sat trembling, waiting—

And then suddenly came a voice in his ear, a woman’s
voice, gentle and sweet, “If you would try to listen, comrade,
perhaps you would be interested.”

Jurgis was more startled by that than he would have been
by the touch of a policeman. He still kept his eyes fixed
ahead, and did not stir; but his heart gave a great leap. Com-
rade! Who was it that called him “comrade”?

He waited long, long; and at last, when he was sure that
he was no longer watched, he stole a glance out of the corner
of his eyes at the woman who sat beside him. She was young
and beautiful; she wore fine clothes, and was what is called a
“lady.” And she called him “comrade.”

He turned a little, carefully, so that he could see her bet-

295

ter; then he began to watch her, fascinated. She had ap-
parently forgotten all about him, and was looking toward
the platform. A man was speaking there—Jurgis heard his
voice vaguely; but all his thoughts were for this woman’s
face. A feeling of alarm stole over him as he stared at her.
It made his fiesh creep. What was the matter with her,
what could be going on, to affect anyone like that? She sat as
one turned to stone, her hands clenched tightly in her
lap, so tightly that he could see the cords standing out in her
wrists. There was a.look of excitement upon her face, of
tense effort, as of one struggling mightily, or witnessing a
struggle. There was a faint quivering of her nostrils; and
now and then she would moisten her lips with feverish
haste. Her bosom rose and fell as she breathed, and her
excitement seemed to mount higher and higher, and then to
sink away again, like a boat tossing upon ocean surges. What
was it? What was the matter? It must be something that the
man was saying, up there on the platform. What sort of
a man was he? And what sort of a thing was this, anyhow?—
So all at once it occurred to Jurgis to look at the speaker.

It was like coming suddenly upon some wild sight of
nature—a mountain forest lashed by a tempest, a ship
tossed about upon a stormy sea. Jurgis had an unpleasant
sensation, a sense of confusion, of disorder, of wild and
meaningless uproar. The man was tall and gaunt, as haggard
as his auditor himself; a thin black beard covered half of his
face, and one could see only two black hollows where the eyes
were. He was speaking rapidly, in great excitement; he used
many gestures—as he spoke he moved here and there upon the
stage, reaching with his long arms as if to seize each person
in his audience. His voice was deep, like an organ; it was some
time, however, before Jurgis thought of the voice—he was too
much occupied with his eyes to think of what the man was
saying. But suddenly it seemed as if the speaker had begun
pointing straight at him, as if he had singled him out partic-
ularly for his remarks; and so Jurgis became suddenly aware
of the voice, trembling, vibrant with emotion, with pain and
longing, with a burden of things unutterable, not to be com-
passed by words. To hear it was to be suddenly arrested, to
be gripped, transfixed.

“You listen to these things,” the man was saying, “and
you say, ‘Yes, they are true, but they have been that way
always.’ Or you say, ‘Maybe it will come, but not in my
time—it will not help me.’ And so you return to your

296

daily round of toil, you go back to be ground up for
profits in the world-wide mill of economic might! To toil
long hours for another’s advantage; to live in mean and
squalid homes, to work in dangerous and unhealthful places;
to wrestle with the specters of hunger and privation, to
take your chances of accident, disease, and death. And each
day the struggle becomes fiercer, the pace more cruel;
each day you have to toil a little harder, and feel the iron
hand of circumstance close upon you a little tighter. Months
pass, years maybe—and then you come again; and again I
am here to plead with you, to know if want and misery have
yet done their work with you, if injustice and oppression
have yet opened your eyes! I shall still be waiting—there
is nothing else that I can do. There is no wilderness where
I can hide from these things, there is no haven where I can
escape them; though I travel to the ends of the earth, I
find the same accursed system—I find that all the fair and
noble impulses of humanity, the dreams of poets and the
agonies of martyrs, are shackled and bound in the service
of organized and predatory Greed! And therefore I cannot
rest, I cannot be silent; therefore I cast aside comfort and
happiness, health and good repute—and go out into the
world and cry out the pain of my spirit! Therefore I am
not to be silenced by poverty and sickness, not by hatred
and obloquy, by threats and ridicule—not by prison and
persecution, if they should come—not by any power that is
upon the earth or above the earth, that was, or is, or ever can
be created. If I fail tonight, I can only try tomorrow; know-
ing that the fault must be mine—that if once the vision of
my soul were spoken upon earth, if once the anguish of
its defeat were uttered in human’ speech, it would break the
stoutest barriers of prejudice, it would shake the most slug-
gish soul to action! It would abash the most cynical, it
would terrify the most selfish; and the voice of mockery
would be silenced, and fraud and falsehood would slink
back into their dens, and the truth would stand forth
alone! For I speak with the voice of the millions who are
voiceless! Of them that are oppressed and have no comforter!
Of the disinherited of life, for whom there is no respite
and no deliverance, to whom the world is a prison, a dun-
geon of torture, a tomb! With the voice of the little child
who toils tonight in a Southern cotton mill, staggering with
exhaustion, numb with agony, and knowing no hope but
the grave! Of the mother who sews by candlelight in her
297

tenement garret, weary and weeping, smitten with the
mortal hunger of her babes! Of the man who lies upon a
bed of rags, wrestling in his last sickness and leaving his
loved ones to perish! Of the young girl who, somewhere
at this moment, is walking the streets of this horrible city,
beaten and starving, and making her choice between the
brothel and the lake! With the voice of those, whoever and
wherever they may be, who are caught beneath the wheels
of the juggernaut of Greed! With the voice of humanity,
calling for deliverance! Of the everlasting soul of Man, arising
from the dust; breaking its way out of its prison—rending the
bands of oppression and ignorance—groping its way to the
light!”

The speaker paused. There was an instant of silence,
while men caught their breaths, and then like a single
sound there came a cry from a thousand people.—Through
it all Jurgis sat still, motionless and rigid, his eyes fixed
upon the speaker; he was trembling, smitten with wonder.

Suddenly the man raised his hands, and silence fell, and
he began again.

“T plead with you,” he said, “whoever you may be, pro-
vided that you care about the truth; but most of all I plead
with workingmen, with those to whom the evils I portray are
not mere matters of sentiment, to be dallied and toyed
with, and then perhaps put aside and forgotten—to whom
they are the grim and relentless realities of the daily grind,
the chains upon their limbs, the lash upon their backs, the
iron in their souls. To you, workingmen! To you, the toilers,
who have made this land, and have no voice in its councils!
To you, whose lot it is to sow that others may reap, to
labor and obey, and ask no more than the wages of a
beast of burden, the food and shelter to keep you alive
from day to day. It is to you that I come with my message of
salvation, it is to you that I appeal. I know how much it is
to ask of you—I know, for I have been in your place, I have
lived your life, and there is no man before me here tonight
who knows it better. I have known what it is to be a street
waif, a boot-black, living upon a crust of bread and sleeping
in cellar stairways and under empty wagons. I have known
what it is to dare and to aspire, to dream mighty dreams
and to see them perish—to see all the fair flowers of my
spirit trampled into the mire by the wild beast powers of
life. I know what is the price that a workingman pays for
knowledge—I have paid for it with food and sleep, with

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agony of body and mind, with health, almost with life itself;
and so, when I come to you with a story of hope and free-
dom, with the vision of a new earth to be created, of a new
labor to be dared, I am not surprised that I find you sordid
and material, sluggish and incredulous. That I do not
despair is because I know also the forces that are driving
behind you—because I know the raging lash of poverty,
the sting of contempt and mastership, ‘the insolence of
office and the spurns.’ Because I feel sure that in the crowd
that has come to me tonight, no matter how many may be
dull and heedless, no matter how many may have come out
of idle curiosity, or in order to ridicule—there will be some
one man whom pain and suffering have made desperate,
whom some chance vision of wrong and horror has
startled and shocked into attention. And to him my words
will come like a sudden flash of lightning to one who travels
in darkness—revealing the way before him, the perils and
the obstacles—solving all problems, making all difficulties
clear! The scales will fall from his eyes, the shackles will
be torn from his limbs—he will leap up with a cry of thank-
fulness, he will stride forth a free man at last! A man de-
livered from his self-created slavery! A man who will never
more be trapped—whom no blandishments will cajole, whom
no threats will frighten; who from tonight on will move
forward, and not backward, who will study and understand,
who will gird on his sword and take his place in the army
of his comrades and brothers. Who will carry the good tidings
to others, as I have carried them to him—the priceless gift
of liberty and light that is neither mine nor his, but is the
heritage of the soul of man! Workingmen, workingmen—
comrades! open your eyes and look about you! You have
lived so long in the toil and heat that your senses are dulled,
your souls are numbed; but realize once in your lives this
world in which you dwell—tear off the rags of its customs
and conventions—behold it as it is, in all its hideous naked-
ness! Realize it, realize it! Realize that out upon the plains of
Manchuria tonight two hostile armies are facing each other
—that now, while we are seated here, a million human be-
ings may be hurled at each other’s throats, striving with the
fury of maniacs to tear each other to pieces! And this in the
twentieth century, nineteen hundred years since the Prince of
Peace was born on earth! Nineteen hundred years that his
words have been preached as divine, and here two armies
of men are rending and tearing each other like the wild beasts
299

of the forest! Philosophers have reasoned, prophets have de-
nounced, poets have wept and pleaded—and still this hideous
Monster roams at large! We have schools and colleges, news-
papers and books; we have searched the heavens and the
earth, we have weighed and probed and reasoned—and all
to equip men to destroy each other! We call it War, and pass
it by—but do not put me off with platitudes and conventions
—come with me, come with me—realize it! See the bodies of
men pierced by bullets, blown into pieces by bursting shells!
Hear the crunching of the bayonet, plunged into human flesh;
hear the groans and shrieks of agony, see the faces of men
crazed by pain, turned into fiends by fury and hate} Put your
hand upon that piece of flesh—it is hot and quivering—
just now it was a part of a man! This blood is still steam-
ing—it was driven by a human heart! Almighty God! and this
goes on— it is systematic, organized, premeditated! And we
know it, and read of it, and take it for granted; our papers
tell of it, and the presses are not stopped—our churches
know of it, and do not close their doors—the people behold
it, and do not rise up in horror and revolution!

“Or perhaps Manchuria is too far away for you—come
home with me then, come here to Chicago. Here in this city
tonight ten thousand women are shut up in foul pens, and
driven by hunger to sell their bodies to live. And we know it,
we make it a jest! And these women are made in the image
of your mothers, they may be your sisters, your daughters;
the child whom you left at home tonight, whose laughing
eyes will greet you in the morning—that fate may be waiting
for her! Tonight in Chicago there are ten thousand men,
homeless and wretched, willing to work and begging for a
chance, yet starving, and fronting in terror the awful winter
cold! Tonight in Chicago there are a hundred thousand
children wearing out their strength and blasting their lives in
the effort to earn their bread! There are a hundred thousand
mothers who are living in misery and squalor, struggling to
earn enough to feed their little ones! There are a hundred
thousand old people, cast off and helpless, waiting for death
to take them from their torments! There are a million peo-
ple, men and women and children, who share the curse of
the wage-slave; who toil every hour they can stand and see,
for just enough to keep them alive; who are condemned till
the end of their days to monotony and weariness, to hunger
and misery, to heat and cold, to dirt and disease, to ig-
norance and drunkenness and vice! And then turn over the

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page with me, and gaze upon the other side of the picture.
There are a thousand—ten thousand, maybe—who are
the masters of these slaves, who own their toil. They do noth-
ing to earn what they receive, they do not even have to ask
for it—it comes to them of itself, their only care is to dispose
| of it. They live in palaces, they riot in luxury and extrav-
_ agance—such as no words can describe, as makes the imag-
ination reel and stagger, makes the soul grow sick and faint.
_ They spend hundreds of dollars for a pair of shoes, a hand-
_kerchief, a garter; they spend millions for horses and auto-
mobiles and yachts, for palaces and banquets, for little shiny
stones with which to deck their bodies. Their life is a con-
_ test among themselves for supremacy in ostentation and reck-
_ lessness, in the destroying of useful and necessary things,
_ in the wasting of the labor and the lives of their fellow crea-
_ tures, the toil and anguish of the nations, the sweat and tears

_and blood of the human race! It is all theirs—it comes to

| them; just as all the springs pour into streamlets, and the
- streamlets into rivers, and the rivers into the ocean—-so, au-
_ tomatically and inevitably, all the wealth of society comes
_ to them. The farmer tills the soil, the miner digs in the earth,
_ the weaver tends the loom, the mason carves the stone; the
_ clever man invents, the shrewd man directs, the wise man
studies, the inspired man sings—and all the result, the prod-
ucts of the labor of brain and muscle, are gathered into
' one stupendous stream and poured into their laps! The whole
of society is in their grip, the whole labor of the world lies
at their mercy—and like fierce wolves they rend and destroy,
_ like ravening vultures they devour and tear! The whole
| power of mankind belongs to them, forever and beyond recall
—do what it can, strive as it will, humanity lives for them
and dies for them! They own not merely the labor of society,
they have bought the governments; and everywhere they
use their raped and stolen power to intrench themselves in
their privileges, to dig wider and deeper the channels through
which the river of profits flows to them!—And you, work-
ingmen, workingmen! You have been brought up to it, you
plod on like beasts of burden, thinking only of the day and its
pain—yet is there a man among you who can believe that
such a system will continue forever—is there a man here in
this audience tonight so hardened and debased that he dare
rise up before me and say that he believes it can continue
forever; that the product of the labor of society, the means
of existence of the human race, will always belong to idlers
301

and parasites, to be spent for the gratification of vanity and
lust—to be spent for any purpose whatever, to be at the dis-
posal of any individual will whatever—that somehow, some-
where, the labor of humanity will not belong to humanity,
to be used for the purposes of humanity, to be controlled by
the will of humanity? And if this is ever to be, how is it to be
—what power is there that will bring it about? Will it be the
task of your masters, do you think—will they write the char-
ter of your liberties? Will they forge you the sword of your
deliverance, will they marshal you the army and lead it to the
fray? Will their wealth be spent for the purpose—will they
build colleges and churches to teach you, will they print
papers to herald your progress, and organize political parties
to guide and carry on the struggle? Can you not see that the
task is your task—yours to dream, yours tc resolve, yours
to execute? That if ever it is carried out, it will be in the face
of every obstacle that wealth and mastership can oppose—
in the face of ridicule and slander, of hatred and persecution,
of the bludgeon and the jail? That it will be by the power of
your naked bosoms, opposed to the rage of oppression! By
the grim and bitter teaching of blind and merciless af-
fliction! By the painful gropings of the untutored mind, by
the feeble stammerings of the uncultured voice! By the sad
and lonely hunger of the spirit; by seeking and striving and
yearning, by heartache and despairing, by agony and sweat
of blood! It will be by money paid for with hunger, by knowl-
edge stolen from sleep, by thoughts communicated under the
shadow of the gallows! It will be a movement beginning in
the far-off past, a thing obscure and unhonored, a thing
easy to ridicule, easy to despise; a thing unlovely, wearing
the aspect of vengeance and hate—but to you, the working-
man, the wage slave, calling with a voice insistent, imperious
—with a voice that you cannot escape, wherever upon the
earth you may be! With the voice of all your wrongs, with the
voice of all your desires; with the voice of your duty and
your hope—of everything in the world that is worth while to
you! The voice of the poor, demanding that poverty shall
cease! The voice of the oppressed, pronouncing the doom of
oppression! The voice of power, wrought out of suffering—
of resolution, crushed out of weakness—of joy and courage,
born in the bottomless pit of anguish and despair! The voice
of Labor, despised and outraged; a mighty giant, lying
prostrate—mountainous, colossal, but blinded, bound, and
ignorant of his strength. And now a dream of resistance
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ad

haunts him, hope battling with fear; until suddenly he stirs,
and a fetter snaps—and a thrill shoots through him, to
the farthest ends of his huge body, and in a flash the dream
becomes an act! He starts, he lifts himself; and the bands are
shattered, the burdens roll off him; he rises—towering, gigan-
tic; he springs to his feet, he shouts in his new-born exulta-
tion—”

And the speaker’s voice broke suddenly, with the stress of
his feelings; he stood with his arms stretched out above him,
and the power of his vision seemed to lift him from the floor.
The audience came to its feet with a yell; men waved their
arms, laughing aloud in their excitement. And Jurgis was with
them, he was shouting to tear his throat; shouting because
he could not help it, because the stress of his feeling was

' more than he could bear. It was not merely the man’s words,

the torrent of his eloquence. It was his presence, it was his
voice: a voice with strange intonations that rang through the
chambers of the soul like the clanging of a bell—that gripped
the listener like a mighty hand about his body, that shook
him and startled him with sudden fright, with a sense of
things not of earth, of mysteries never spoken before, of pres-
ences of awe and terror! There was an unfolding of vistas be-
fore him, a breaking of the ground beneath him, an upheav-
ing, a stirring, a trembling; he felt himself suddenly a mere
man no longer—there were powers within him undreamed
of, there were demon forces contending, age-long wonders
struggling to be born; and he sat oppressed with pain and joy,
while a tingling stole down into his fingertips, and his breath
came hard and fast. The sentences of this man were to Jur-
gis like the crashing of thunder in his soul; a flood of emotion
surged up in him—all his old hopes and longings, his old
griefs and rages and despairs. All that he had ever felt in his
whole life seemed to come back to him at once, and with
one new emotion, hardly to be described. That he should have
suffered such oppressions and such horrors was bad enough;
but that he should have been crushed and beaten by them,
that he should have submitted, and forgotten, and lived in
peace—ah, truly that was a thing not to be put into words, a
thing not to be borne by a human creature, a thing of ter-
ror and madness! “What,” asks the prophet, “is the murder
of them that kill the body, to the murder of them that kill
the soul?” And Jurgis was a man whose soul had been mur-
dered, who had ceased to hope and to struggle—who had
made terms with degradation and despair; and now, suddenly,
303

in one awful convulsion, the black and hideous fact was
made plain to him! There was a falling in of all the pillars
of his soul, the sky seemed to split above him—he stood
there, with his clenched hands upraised, his eyes bloodshot,
and the veins standing out purple in his face, roaring in the
voice of a wild beast, frantic, incoherent, maniacal. And
when he could shout no more he still stood there, gasping,
and whispering hoarsely to himself: “By God! By God! By
God!”

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| man had gone back to a seat upon the platform, and
Jurgis realized that his speech was over. The applause con-
tinued for several minutes; and then someone started a song,
and the crowd took it up, and the place shook with it. Jurgis
had never heard it, and he could not make out the words,
but the wild and wonderful spirit of it seized upon him—it
was the Marseillaise! As stanza after stanza of it thundered
forth, he sat with his hands clasped, trembling in every
nerve. He had never been so stirred in his life—it was a
miracle that had been wrought in him. He could not think at
all, he was stunned; yet he knew that in the mighty upheaval
that had taken place in his soul, a new man had been born.
He had been torn out of the jaws of destruction, he had been
delivered from the thraldom of despair; the whole world had
been changed for him—he was free, he was free! Even
if he were to suffer as he had before, even if he were to beg
and starve, nothing would be the same to him; he would
understand it, and bear it. He would no longer be the sport
of circumstances, he would be a man, with a will and a
purpose; he would have something to fight for, something to
die for, if need be! Here were men who would show him and
help him; and he would have friends and allies, he would
dwell in the sight of justice, and walk arm in arm with
power.

The audience subsided again, and Jurgis sat back. The
chairman of the meeting came forward and began to speak.
His voice sounded thin and futile after the other’s, and to
Jurgis it seemed a profanation. Why should anyone else
speak, after that miraculous man—why should they not all
sit in silence? The chairman was explaining that a collection

304

would now be taken up to defray the expenses of the meet-
ing, and for the benefit of the campaign fund of the party.
Jurgis heard; but he had not a penny to give, and so his
thoughts went elsewhere again.

He kept his eyes fixed on the orator, who sat in an arm-
chair, his head leaning on his hand and his attitude indi-
cating exhaustion. But suddenly he stood up again, and
Jurgis heard the chairman of the meeting saying that the
speaker would now answer any questions which the audi-
ence might care to put to him. The man came forward, and
someone—a woman—arose and asked about some opinion
the speaker had expressed concerning Tolstoi. Jurgis had
never heard of Tolstoi, and did not care anything about him.
Why should anyone want to ask such questions, after an
address like that? The thing was not to talk, but to do; the
thing was to get hold of others and rouse them, to organize
them and prepare for the fight!

But still the discussion went on, in ordinary conversa-
tional tones, and it brought Jurgis back to the everyday world.
A few minutes ago he had felt like seizing the hand of the
beautiful lady by his side, and kissing it; he had felt like
flinging his arms about the neck of the man on the other side
of him. And now he began to realize again that he was a
“hobo”—that he was ragged and dirty, and smelt bad, and
had no place to sleep that night!

And so, at last, when the meeting broke up, and the
audience started to leave, poor Jurgis was in an agony of un-
certainty. He had not thought of leaving—he had thought
that the vision must last forever, that he had found com-
rades and brothers. But now he would go out, and the thing
would fade away, and he would never be able to find it again!
He sat in his seat, frightened and wondering; but others in the
same row wanted to get out, and so he had to stand up and
move along. As he was swept down the aisle he looked from
one person to another, wistfully; they were all excitedly dis-
cussing the address—but there was nobody who offered to
discuss it with him. He was near enough to the door to feel
the night air, when desperation seized him. He knew nothing
at all about that speech he had heard, not even the name of
the orator; and he was to go away—no, no, it was preposter-
ous, he must speak to someone; he must find that man him-
self and tell him. He would not despise him, tramp as he was!

So he stepped into an empty row of seats and watched,
and when the crowd had thinned out, he started toward the

305

platform. The speaker was gone; but there was a stage-door
that stood open, with people passing in and out, and no one
on guard. Jurgis summoned up his courage and went in, and
down a hallway, and to the door of a room where many people
were crowded. No one paid any attention to him, and he
pushed in, and in a corner he saw the man he sought. The
orator sat in a chair, with his shoulders sunk together and
his eyes half closed; his face was ghastly pale, almost green-
ish in hue, and one arm lay limp at his side. A big man with
spectacles on stood near him, and kept pushing back the
crowd, saying, “Stand away a little, please; can’t you see
the comrade is worn out?”

So Jurgis stood watching, while five or ten minutes passed.
Now and then the man would look up, and address a word or
two to those who were near him; and, at last, on one of these
occasions, his glance rested on Jurgis. There seemed to be a
slight hint of inquiry about it, and a sudden impulse seized
the other. He stepped forward.

“J wanted to thank you, sir!” he began, in breathless
haste. “I could not go away without telling you how much—
how glad I am I heard you. I—I didn’t know anything about it
a} Pag

The big man with the spectacles, who had moved away,
came back at this moment. “The comrade is too tired to talk
to any one—” he began; but the other held up his hand.

“Wait,” he said. “He has something to say to me.” And
then he looked into Jurgis’s face. “You want to know more
about Socialism?” he asked.

Jurgis started. “I—I—” he stammered. “Is it Socialism?
I didn’t know. I want to know about what you spoke of—I
want to help. I have been through all that.”

“Where do you live?” asked the other.

“T have no home,” said Jurgis, “I am out of work.”

“You are a foreigner, are you not?”

“Lithuanian, sir.”

The man thought for a moment, and then turned to his
friend. ‘Who is there, Walters?” he asked. “There is Ostrinski
—but he is a Pole—”

“Ostrinski speaks Lithuanian,” said the other.

“All right, then; would you mind seeing if he has gone
yet?”

The other started away, and the speaker looked at Jurgis
again. He had deep, black eyes, and a face full of gentleness
and pain. “You must excuse me, comrade,” he said. “I am

306

just tired out—I have spoken every day for the last month.
I will introduce you to someone who will be able to help you
as well as I could—”

The messenger had had to go no further than the door;
he came back, followed by a man whom he introduced to
Jurgis as Comrade Ostrinski. Comrade Ostrinski was a little
man, scarcely up to Jurgis’s shoulder, wizened and wrinkled,
very ugly, and slightly lame. He had on a long-tailed black
coat, worn green at the seams and the buttonholes; his eyes
must have been weak, for he wore green spectacles, that gave
him a grotesque appearance. But his hand clasp was hearty,
and he spoke in Lithuanian, which warmed Jurgis to him.

“You want to know about Socialism?” he said. “Surely. Let
us go out and take a stroll, where we can be quiet and talk
some.”

And so Jurgis bade farewell to the master wizard, and
went out. Ostrinski asked where he lived, offering to walk in
that direction; and so he had to explain once more that he
was without a home. At the other’s request he told his
story; how he had come to America, and what had happened
to him in the stockyards, and how his family had been
broken up, and how he had become a wanderer. So much the
little man heard, and then he pressed Jurgis’s arm tightly. “You
have been through the mill, comrade!” he said. “We will make
a fighter out of you!”

Then Ostrinski in turn explained his circumstances. He
would have asked Jurgis to his home—but he had only two
rooms, and had no bed to offer. He would have given up his
own bed, but his wife was ill. Later on, when he understood
that otherwise Jurgis would have to sleep in a hallway, he
offered him his kitchen-floor, a chance which the other was
only too glad to accept. “Perhaps tomorrow we can do bet-
ter,” said Ostrinski. “We try not to let a comrade starve.”

Ostrinski’s home was in the Ghetto district, where he had
two rooms in the basement of a tenement. There was a baby
crying as they entered, and he closed the door leading into
the bedroom. He had three young children, he explained, and
a baby had just come. He drew up two chairs near the kitchen
stove, adding that Jurgis must excuse the disorder of the
place, since at such a time one’s domestic arrangements
were upset. Half of the kitchen was given up to a work bench,
which was piled with clothing, and Ostrinski explained that he
was a “pants-finisher.”, He brought great bundles of clothing
here to his home, where he and his wife worked on them. He

307

made a living at it, but it was getting harder all the time, be-
cause his eyes were failing. What would come when they gave
out he could not tell; there had been no saving anything—a
man could barely keep alive by twelve or fourteen hours’
work a day. The finishing of pants did not take much skill,
and anybody could learn it, and so the pay was forever
getting less. That was the competitive wage system; and if
Jurgis wanted to understand what Socialism was, it was there
he had best begin. The workers were dependent upon a job
to exist from day to day, and so they bid against each other,
and no man could get more than the lowest man would con-
sent to work for. And thus the mass of the people were al-
ways in a life-and-death struggle with poverty. That was
“competition,” so far as it concerned the wage-earner, the
man who had only his labor to sell; to those on top, the ex-
ploiters, it appeared very differently, of course—there were
few of them, and they could combine and dominate, and
their power would be unbreakable. And so all over the world
two classes were forming, with an unbridged chasm between
them—the capitalist class, with its enormous fortunes, and the
proletariat, bound into slavery by unseen chains. The latter
were a thousand to one in numbers, but they were ignorant
and helpless, and they would remain at the mercy of their
exploiters until they were organized—until they had become
“class conscious.” It was a slow and weary process, but it
would go on—it was like the movement of a glacier, once it
was started it could never be stopped. Every Socialist did his
share, and lived upon the vision of the “good time coming”—
when the working class should go to the polls and seize the
powers of government, and put an end to private property in
the means of production. No matter how poor a man was,
or how much he suffered, he could never be really unhappy
while he knew of that future; even if he did not live to see it
himself, his children would, and, to a Socialist, the victory
of his class was his victory. Also he had always the progress
to encourage him; here in Chicago, for instance, the move-
ment was growing by leaps and bounds. Chicago was the in-
dustrial center of the country, and nowhere else were the un-
ions so strong; but their organizations did the workers little
good, for the employers were organized, also; and so the
strikes generally failed, and as fast as the unions were broken
up the men were coming over to the Socialists.

Ostrinski explained the organization of the party, the
machinery by which the proletariat was educating itself.

308

tte ie

There were “locals” in every big city and town, and they
were being organized rapidly in the smaller places; a local
had anywhere from six to a thousand members, and there were
fourteen hundred of them in all, with a total of about twenty-
five thousand members, who paid dues to support the or-
ganization. “Local Cook County,” as the city organization
was Called, had eighty branch locals, and it alone was spend-
ing several thousand dollars in the campaign. It published a
weekly in English, and one each in Bohemian and German;
also there was a monthly published in Chicago, and a co-
operative publishing house, that issued a million and a half of
Socialist books and pamphlets every year. All this was the
growth of the last few years—there had been almost nothing
of it when Ostrinski first came to Chicago.

Ostrinski was a Pole, about fifty years of age. He had lived
in Silesia, a member of a despised and persecuted race,
and had taken part in the proletarian movement in the early
seventies, when Bismarck, having conquered France, had
turned his policy of blood and iron upon the “International.”
Ostrinski himself had twice been in jail, but he had been
young then, and had not cared. He had had more of his share
of the fight, though, for just when Socialism had broken all
its barriers and become the great political force of the em-
pire, he had come to America, and begun all over again. In
America everyone had laughed at the mere idea of Socialism
then—in America all men were free. As if political liberty
made wage slavery any the more tolerable! said Ostrinski.

The little tailor sat tilted back in his stiff kitchen chair,
with his feet stretched out upon the empty stove, and speak-
ing in low whispers, so as not to waken those in the next
room. To Jurgis he seemed a scarcely less wonderful person
than the speaker at the meeting; he was poor, the lowest of
the low, hunger-driven and miserable—and yet how much
he knew, how much he had dared and achieved, what a hero
he had been! There were others like him, too—thousands
like him, and all of them workingmen! That all this wonderful
machinery of progress had been created by his fellows—Jur-
gis could not believe it, it seemed too good to be true.

That was always the way, said Ostrinski; when a man was
first converted to Socialism he was like a crazy person—he
could not understand how others could fail to see it, and he
expected to convert all the world the first week. After a while
he would realize how hard a task it was; and then it would be
fortunate that other new hands kept coming, to save him

309

from settling down into a rut. Just now Jurgis would have
plenty of chance to vent his excitement, for a presidential
campaign was on, and everybody was talking politics. Os-
trinski would take him to the next meeting of the branch
local, and introduce him, and he might join the party. The
dues were five cents a week, but anyone who could not af-
ford this might be excused from paying. The Socialist party
was a really democratic political organization—it was con-
trolled absolutely by its own membership, and had no bosses.
All of these things Ostrinski explained, as also the principles
of the party. You might say that there was really but one
Socialist principle-—that of “no compromise,” which was the
essence of the proletarian movement all over the world. When
a Socialist was elected to office he voted with old party legis-
lators for amy measure that was likely to be of help to the
working class, but he never forgot that these concessions,
whatever they might be, were trifles compared with the great
purpose—the organizing of the working class for the revolu-
tion. So far, the rule in America had been that one Socialist
made another Socialist once every two years; and if they
should maintain the same rate they would carry the country
in 1912—though not all of them expected to succeed as
quickly as that.

The Socialists were organized in every civilized nation;
it was an international political party, said Ostrinski, the
greatest the world had ever known. It numbered thirty mil-
lions of adherents, and it cast eight million votes. It had
started its first newspaper in Japan, and elected its first deputy
in Argentina; in France it named members of cabinets, and
in Italy and Australia it held the balance of power and turned
out ministries. In Germany, where its vote was more than a
third of the total vote of the empire, all other parties and
powers had united to fight it. It would not do, Ostrinski ex-
plained, for the proletariat of one nation to achieve the vic-
tory for that nation would be crushed by the military power
of the others; and so the Socialist movement was a world
movement, an organization of all mankind to establish liberty
and fraternity. It was the new religion of humanity—or you
might say it was the fulfilment of the old religion, since it
implied but the literal application of all the teachings of
Christ.

Until long after midnight Jurgis sat lost in the conver-
sation of his new acquaintance. It was a most wonderful ex-

310

: —

perience to him—an almost supernatural experience. It was
like encountering an inhabitant of the fourth dimension of
space, a being who was free from all one’s own limitations.
For four years, now, Jurgis had been wandering and blunder-
ing in the depths of a wilderness; and here, suddenly, a
hand reached down and seized him, and lifted him out of it,
and set him upon a mountain top, from which he could sur-
vey it all—could see the paths from which he had wandered,
the morasses into which he had stumbled, the hiding places
of the beasts of prey that had fallen upon him. There were
his Packingtown experiences, for instance—what was there
about Packingtown that Ostrinski could not explain! To Jur-
gis the packers had been equivalent to fate; Ostrinski
showed him that they were the Beef Trust. They were a gigan-
tic combination of capital, which had crushed all opposition,
and overthrown the laws of the land, and was preying upon
the people. Jurgis recollected how, when he had first come
to Packingtown, he had stood and watched the hog-killing,
and thought how cruel and savage it was, and come
away congratulating himself that he was not a hog; now his
new acquaintance showed him that a hog was just what he
had been—one of the packers’ hogs. What they wanted from
a hog was all the profits that could be got out of him; and that
was what they wanted from the workingman, and also that
was what they wanted from the public. What the hog
thought of it, and what he suffered, were not considered; and
no more was it with labor, and no more with the pur-
chaser of meat. That was true everywhere in the world, but
it was especially true in Packingtown; there seemed to be
something about the work of slaughtering that tended to
ruthlessness and ferocity—it was literally the fact that in the
methods of the packers a hundred human lives did not balance
a penny of profit. When Jurgis had made himself familiar
with the Socialist literature, as he would very quickly, he
would get glimpses of the Beef Trust from all sorts of aspects,
and he would find it everywhere the same; it was the incarna-
tion of blind and insensate Greed. It was a monster devour-
ing with a thousand mouths, trampling with a thousand
hoofs: it was the Great Butcher—it was the spirit of Capital-
ism made flesh. Upon the ocean of commerce it sailed as a
pirate ship; it had hoisted the black flag and declared war
upon civilization. Bribery and corruption were its everyday
methods. In Chicago the city government was simply one of its
branch offices; it stole billions of gallons of city water openly,
311

it dictated to the courts the sentences of disorderly strikers, it
forbade the mayor to enforce the building laws against it.
In the national capital it had power to prevent inspection of
its product, and to falsify government reports; it violated the
rebate laws, and when an investigation was threatened it
burned its books and sent its criminal agents out of the
country. In the commercial world it was a Juggernaut car; it
wiped out thousands of businesses every year, it drove men
to madness and suicide. It had forced the price of cattle so
low as to destroy the stock-raising industry, an occupation
upon which whole states existed; it had ruined thousands of
butchers who had refused to handle its products. It divided
the country into districts, and fixed the price of meat in all
of them; and it owned all the refrigerator cars, and levied an
enormous tribute upon all poultry and eggs and fruit and
vegetables. With the millions of dollars a week that poured in
upon it, it was reaching out for the control of other inter-
ests, railroads and trolley lines, gas and electric-light fran-
chises—it already owned the leather and the grain business
of the country. The people were tremendously stirred up
over its encroachments, but nobody had any remedy to sug-
gest; it was the task of Socialists to teach and organize them,
and prepare them for the time when they were to seize the
huge machine called the Beef Trust, and use it to produce
food for human beings and not to heap up fortunes for a band
of pirates.—It was long after midnight when Jurgis lay down
upon the floor of Ostrinski’s kitchen; and yet it was an hour
before he could get to sleep, for the glory of that joyful vision
of the people of Packingtown marching in and taking posses-
sion of the Union Stockyards!

KKKKKK ZY wnnnn»

J URGIS had breakfast with Ostrinski and his family, and
then he went home to Elzbieta. He was no longer shy about
it—when he went in, instead of saying all the things he had
been planning to say, he started to tell Elzbieta about
the revolution! At first she thought he was out of his mind,
and it was hours before she could really feel certain that he
was himself. When, however, she had satisfied herself that
he was sane upon all subjects except politics, she troubled
herself no further about it. Jurgis was destined to find that
312

Elzbieta’s armor was absolutely impervious to Socialism.
Her soul had been baked hard in the fire of adversity, and
there was no altering it now; life to her was the hunt for
daily bread, and ideas existed for her only as they bore upon
that. All that interested her in regard to this new frenzy
which had seized hold of her son-in-law was whether or not
it had a tendency to make him sober and industrious; and
when she found he intended to look for work and to con-
tribute his share to the family fund, she gave him full rein
to convince her of anything. A wonderfully wise little woman
was Elzbieta; she could think as quickly as a hunted rabbit,
and in half an hour she had chosen her life-attitude to the
Socialist movement. She agreed in everything with Jurgis,
except the need of his paying his dues; and she would even
go to a meeting with him now and then, and sit and plan
her next day’s dinner amid the storm.

For a week after he became a convert Jurgis continued
to wander about all day, looking for work; until at last he
met with a strange fortune. He was passing one of Chicago’s
innumerable small hotels, and after some hesitation he con-
cluded to go in. A man he took for the proprietor was
standing in the lobby, and he went up to him and tackled
him for a job.

“What can you do?” the man asked.

“Anything, sir,” said Jurgis, and added quickly: “I’ve been
out of work for a long time, sir. ’'m an honest man, and lm
strong and willing—”

The other was eying him narrowly. “Do you drink?” he
asked.

“No, sir,” said Jurgis.

“Well, I’ve been employing a man as a porter, and he
drinks. I’ve discharged him seven times now, and I’ve about
made up my mind that’s enough. Would you be a porter?”

eS. SIE:

“Tt’s hard work. You'll have to clesn floors and wash spit-
toons and fill lamps and handle trunks—”

“Tm willing, sir.”

“All right. Pll pay you thirty a month and board, and you
can begin now, if you feel like it. You can put on the other
fellow’s rig.”

And so Jurgis fell to work, and toiled like a Trojan till
night. Then he went and told Elzbieta, and also. late as it
was, he paid a visit to Ostrinski to let him know of his good

313

fortune. Here he received a great surprise, for when he was
describing the location of the hotel Ostrinski interrupted sud-
denly, “Not Hinds’s!”

“Yes,” said Jurgis, “that’s the name.”

To which the other replied, “Then you’ve got the best
boss in Chicago—he’s a state organizer of our party, and one
of our best-known speakers!”

So the next morning Jurgis went to his employer and told
him; and the man seized him by the hand and shook it.
“By Jove!” he cried, “that lets me out. I didn’t sleep all last
night because I had discharged a good Socialist!”

So, after that, Jurgis was known to his “boss” as “Com-
rade Jurgis,” and in return he was expected to call him “Com-
rade Hinds.” Tommy Hinds, as he was known to his inti-
mates, was a squat little man, with broad shoulders and a
florid face, decorated with gray side-whiskers. He was the
kindest-hearted man that ever lived, and the liveliest—in-
exhaustible in his enthusiasm, and talking Socialism all day
and all night. He was a great fellow to jolly along a crowd,
and would keep a meeting in an uproar; when once he got
really waked up, the torrent of his eloquence could be
compared with nothing save Niagara.

Tommy Hinds had begun life as a blacksmith’s helper, and
had run away to join the Union army, where he had made
his first acquaintance with “graft,” in the shape of rotten
muskets and shoddy blankets. To a musket that broke in a
crisis he always attributed the death of his only brother,
and upon worthless blankets he blamed all the agonies of
his own old age. Whenever it rained, the rheumatism would
get into his joints, and then he would screw up his face and
mutter: “Capitalism, my boy, Capitalism! ‘Ecrasez IlIn-
fame!” He had one unfailing remedy for all the evils of
this world, and he preached it to everyone; no matter wheth-
er the person’s trouble was failure in business, or dyspep-
sia, or a quarrelsome mother-in-law, a twinkle would come
into his eyes and he would say, “You know what to do about
it—vote the Socialist ticket!”

Tommy Hinds had set out upon the trail of the Octopus
as soon as the war was over. He had gone into business, and
found himself in competition with the fortunes of those
who had been stealing while he had been fighting. The city
government was in their hands and the railroads were in
league with them, and honest business was driven to the
wall; and so Hinds had put all his savings into Chicago real

314

-

estate, and set out single-handed to dam the river of graft.
He had been a reform member of the city council, he had
been a Greenbacker, a Labor Unionist, a Populist, a Bryan-
ite—and after thirty years of fighting, the year 1896 had
served to convince him that the power of concentrated wealth
could never be controlled, but could only be destroyed. He
had published a pamphlet about it, and set out to organize
a party of his own, when a stray Socialist leaflet had re-
vealed to him that others had been ahead of him. Now for
eight years he had been fighting for the party, anywhere,
everywhere—whether it was a G. A. R. reunion, or a hotel-
keepers’ convention, or an Afro-American businessmen’s ban-
quet, or a Bible Society picnic, Tommy Hinds would man-
age to get himself invited to explain the relations of Social-
ism to the subject in hand. After that he would start off upon
a tour of his own, ending at some place between New York
and Oregon; and when he came back from there, he would
go out to organize new locals for the state committee; and
finally he would come home to rest—and talk Socialism in
Chicago. Hinds’s hotel was a very hot-bed of the propaganda;
all the employees were party men, and if they were not
when they came, they were quite certain to be before they
went away. The proprietor would get into a discussion with
someone in the lobby, and as the conversation grew ani-
mated, others would gather about to listen, until finally every
one in the place would be crowded into a group, and a regu-
lar debate would be under way. This went on every night—
when Tommy Hinds was not there to do it, his clerk did it;
and when his clerk was away campaigning, the assistant at-
tended to it, while Mrs. Hinds sat behind the desk and did the
work. The clerk was an old crony of the proprietor’s, an
awkward, raw-boned giant of a man, with a lean, sallow
face, a broad mouth, and whiskers under his chin, the
very type and body of a prairie farmer. He had been that
all his life—he had fought the railroads in Kansas for fifty
years, a Granger, a Farmers’ Alliance man, a “middle-of-
the-road” Populist. Finally, Tommy Hinds had revealed to
him the wonderful idea of using the trusts instead of de-
stroying them, and he had sold his farm and come to Chi-
cago.

That was Amos Struver; and then there was Harry Adams,
the assistant clerk, a pale, scholarly-looking man, who came
from Massachusetts, of Pilgrim stock. Adams had been a
cotton operative in Fall River, and the continued depression

3i5

in the industry had worn him and his family out, and he had
emigrated to South Carolina. In Massachusetts the percentage
of white illiteracy is eight-tenths of one per cent, while in
South Carolina it is thirteen and six-tenths per cent; also in
South Carolina there is a property qualification for voters
—and for these and other reasons child labor is the rule,
and so the cotton mills were driving those of Massachusetts
out of the business. Adams did not know this, he only
knew that the Southern mills were running; but when he
got there he found that if he was to live, all his family would
have to work, and from six o’clock at night to six o’clock in
the morning. So he had set to work to organize the mill-
hands, after the fashion in Massachusetts, and had been dis-
charged; but he had gotten other work, and stuck at it, and
at last there had been a strike for shorter hours, and Harry
Adams had attempted to address a street meeting, which was
the end of him. In the states of the far South the labor of
convicts is leased to contractors, and when there are not
convicts enough they have to be supplied. Harry Adams was
sent up by a judge who was a cousin of the mill-owner with
whose business he had interfered; and though the life had
nearly killed him, he had been wise enough not to murmur,
and at the end of his term he and his family had left the
state of South Carolina—hell’s back yard, as he called it.
He had no money for carfare, but it was harvest-time, and
they walked one day and worked the next; and so Adams got
at last to Chicago, and joined the Socialist party. He was a
studious man, reserved, and nothing of an orator; but he al-
ways had a pile of books under his desk in the hotel, and
articles from his pen were beginning to attract attention in
the party press.

Contrary to what one would have expected, all this radi-
calism did not hurt the hotel business; the radicals flocked to
it, and the commercial travellers all found it diverting. Of
late, also, the hotel had become a favorite stopping place
for Western cattlemen. Now that the Beef Trust had adopted
the trick of raising prices to induce enormous shipments of
cattle, and then dropping them again and scooping in all
they needed, a stock-raiser was very apt to find himself in
Chicago without money enough to pay his freight bill; and
so he had to go to a cheap hotel, and it was no drawback to
him if there was an agitator talking in the lobby. These
Western fellows were just “meat” for Tommy Hinds—he
would get a dozen of them around him and paint little pic-

316

tures of “the System.” Of course, it was not a week before he
had heard Jurgis’ story, and after that he would not have let
his new porter go for the world. “See here,” he would say, in
the middle of an argument, “I’ve got a fellow right here in
my place who’s worked there and seen every bit of it!” And
then Jurgis would drop his work, whatever it was, and come,
and the other would say, “Comrade Jurgis, just tell these
gentlemen what you saw on the killing beds.” At first this
request caused poor Jurgis the most acute agony, and it was
like pulling teeth to get him to talk; but gradually he found
out what was wanted, and in the end he learned to stand up
and speak his piece with enthusiasm. His employer would
sit by and encourage him with exclamations and shakes of
the head; when Jurgis would give the formula for “potted
ham,” or tell about the condemned hogs that were dropped
into the “destructors” at the top and immediately taken out
again at the bottom, to be shipped into another state and
made into lard, Tommy Hinds would bang his knee and cry,
“Do you think a man could make up a thing like that out of
his head?”

And then the hotel-keeper would go on to show how the
Socialists had the only real remedy for such evils, how they
alone “meant business” with the Beef Trust. And when, in
answer to this, the victim would say that the whole country
was getting stirred up, that the newspapers were full of
denunciations of it, and the government taking action
against it, Tommy Hinds had a knock-out blow all ready.
“Yes,” he would say, “all that is true—but what do you sup-
pose is the reason for it? Are you foolish enough to believe
that it’s done for the public? There are other trusts in the
country just as illegal and extortionate as the Beef Trust:
there is the Coal Trust, that freezes the poor in winter—
there is the Steel Trust, that doubles the price of every nail
in your shoes—there is the Oil Trust, that keeps you from
reading at night—and why do you suppose it is that all the
fury of the press and the government is directed against the
Beef Trust?” And when to this the victim would reply that
there was clamor enough over the Oil Trust, the other would
continue: “Ten years ago Henry D. Lloyd told all the truth
about the Standard Oil Company in his Wealth versus Com-
monwealth; and the book was allowed to die, and you hardly
ever hear of it. And now, at last, two magazines have the
courage to tackle Standard Oil again, and what hapnens? The
newspapers ridicule the authors, the churches defend the

317

criminals, and the government—does nothing. And now, why
is it all so different with the Beef Trust?”

Here the other would generally admit that he was “stuck”;
and Tommy Hinds would explain to him, and it was fun to
see his eyes open. “If you were a Socialist,” the hotel-keeper
would say, “you would understand that the power which
really governs the United States today is the Railroad Trust.
It is the Railroad Trust that runs your state government,
wherever you live, and that runs the United States Senate.
And all of the trusts that we have named are railroad trusts
—save only the Beef Trust! The Beef Trust has defied the
railroads—it is plundering them day by day through the
private car; and so the public is roused to fury, and the
papers clamor for action, and the government goes on the
warpath! And you poor common people watch and applaud
the job, and think it’s all done for you, and never dream
that it is really the grand climax of the century-long battle
of commercial competition—the final death-grapple be-
tween the chiefs of the Beef Trust and Standard Oil, for the
prize of the mastery and at of the United States of
America!”

Such was the new home in which Jurgis lived and worked,
and in which his education was completed. Perhaps you
would imagine that he did not do much work there, but
that would be a great mistake. He would have cut off one
hand for Tommy Hinds; and to keep Hinds’s hotel a thing of
beauty was his joy in life. That he had a score of Socialist
arguments chasing through his brain in the meantime did
not interfere with this; on the contrary, Jurgis scrubbed the
spittoons and polished the banisters all the more vehemently
because at the same time he was wrestling inwardly with an
imaginary recalcitrant. It would be pleasant to record that
he swore off drinking immediately, and all the rest of his
bad habits with it; but that would hardly be exact. These
revolutionists were not angels; they were men, and men who
had come up from the social pit, and with the mire of it
smeared over them. Some of them drank, and some of them
swore, and some of them ate pie with their knives; there
was only one difference between them and all the rest of the
populace—that they were men with a hope, with a cause to
fight for and suffer for. There came times to Jurgis when the
vision seemed far off and pale, and a glass of beer loomed
large in comparison; but if the glass led to another glass,

318

and to too many glasses, he had something to spur him to
remorse and resolution on the morrow. It was so evidently a
wicked thing to spend one’s pennies for drink, when the
working class was wandering in darkness, and waiting to
be delivered; the price of a glass of beer would buy fifty
copies of a leaflet, and one could hand these out to the
unregenerate, and then get drunk upon the thought of the
good that was being accomplished. That was the way the
movement had been made, and it was the only way it would
progress; it availed nothing to know of it, without fighting
for it—it was a thing for all, not for a few! A corollary of
this proposition of course was, that any one who refused to
receive the new gospel was personally responsible for keep-
ing Jurgis from his heart’s desire; and this, alas, made him
uncomfortable as an acquaintance. He met some neighbors
with whom Elzbieta had made friends in her neighbor-
hood, and he set out to make Socialists of them by wholesale,
and several times he all but got into a fight.

It was all so painfully obvious to Jurgis! It was so in-
comprehensible how a man could fail to see it! Here were
all the opportunities of the country, the land, and the build-
ings upon the land, the railroads, the mines, the factories,
and the stores, all in the hands of a few private individuals,
called capitalists, for whom the people were obliged to work
for wages. The whole balance of what the people produced
went to heap up the fortunes of these capitalists, to heap, and
heap again, and yet again—and that in spite of the fact that
they, and every one about them, lived in unthinkable lux-
ury! And was it not plain that if the people cut off the share
of those who merely “owned,” the share of those who
worked would be much greater? That was as plain as two and
two makes four; and it was the whole of it, absolutely the
whole of it; and yet there were people who could not see it,
who would argue about everything else in the world. They
would tell you that governments could not manage things as
economically as private individuals; they would repeat and
repeat that, and think they were saying something! They
could not see that “economical” management by masters
meant simply that they, the people, were worked harder
and ground closer and paid less! They were wage-earners
and servants, at the mercy of exploiters whose one thought
was to get as much out of them as possible; and they were
taking an interest in the process, were anxious lest it should

319

not be done thoroughly enough! Was it not honestly a trial
to listen to an argument such as that?

And yet there were things even worse. You would begin
talking to some poor devil who had worked in one shop for
the last thirty years, and had never been able to save a penny;
who left home every morning at six o’clock, to go and tend
a machine, and come back at night too tired to take his
clothes off; who had never had a week’s vacation in his life,
had never travelled, never had an adventure, never learned
anything, never hoped anything—and when you started to tell
him about Socialism he would sniff and say, “I’m not in-
terested in that—I’m an individualist!” And then he would
go on to tell you that Socialism was “Paternalism,” and that
if it ever had its way the world would stop progressing. It
was enough to make a mule laugh, to hear arguments like
that; and yet it was no laughing matter, as you found out—
for how many millions of such poor deluded wretches there
were, whose lives had been so stunted by Capitalism that they
no longer knew what freedom was! And they really thought
that it was “Individualism” for tens of thousands of them to
herd together and obey the orders of a steel magnate, and pro-
duce hundreds of millions of dollars of wealth for him,
and then let him give them libraries; while for them to take
the industry, and run it to suit themselves, and build their
own libraries—that would have been “Paternalism”!

Sometimes the agony of such things as this was almost
more than Jurgis could bear; yet there was no way of escape
from it, there was nothing to do but to dig away at the base
of this mountain of ignorance and prejudice. You must keep
at the poor fellow; you must hold your temper, and argue
with him, and watch for your chance to stick an idea or two
into his head. And the rest of the time you must sharpen up
your weapons—you must think out new replies to his ob-
jections, and provide yourself with new facts to prove to him
the folly of his ways.

So Jurgis acquired the reading habit. He would carry in his
pocket a tract or a pamphlet which someone had loaned him,
and whenever he had an idle moment during the day he would
plod through a paragraph, and then think about it while he
worked. Also he read the newspapers, and asked questions
about them. One of the other porters at Hinds’s was a sharp
little Irishman, who knew everything that Jurgis wanted to
know; and while they were busy he would explain to him the
geography of America, and its history, its constitution and

320

Pe Te Te ee ee ee ee,

its laws; also he gave him an idea of the business system of
the country, the great railroads and corporations, and who
owned them, and the labor unions, and the big strikes, and
the men who had led them. Then at night, when he could
get off, Jurgis would attend the Socialist meetings. During the
campaign one was not dependent upon the street-corner af-
fairs, where the weather and the quality of the orator were
equally uncertain; there were hall meetings every night, and
one could hear speakers of national prominence. These dis-
cussed the political situation from every point of view, and
all that troubled Jurgis was the impossibility of carrying off
but a small part of the treasures they offered him.

There was a man who was known in the party as the
“Little Giant.” The Lord had used up so much material in
the making of his head that there had not been enough to com-
plete his legs; but he got about on the platform, and when he
shook his raven whiskers the pillars of Capitalism rocked. He
had written a veritable encyclopedia upon the subject, a book
that was nearly as big as himself.—And then there was a
young author, who came from California, and had been a
salmon fisher, an oyster pirate, a longshoreman, a sailor; who
had tramped the country and been sent to jail, had lived in
the Whitechapel slums, and been to the Klondike in search of
gold. All these things he pictured in his books, and because he
was a man of genius he forced the world to hear him. Now
he was famous, but wherever he went he still preached the
gospel of the poor.—And then there was one who was known
as the “millionaire Socialist.” He had made a fortune in
business, and spent nearly all of it in building up a magazine,
which the post-office department had tried to suppress, and
had driven to Canada. He was a quiet-mannered man, whom

-_ you would have taken for anything in the world but a Socialist

agitator. His speech was simple and informal—he could not
understand why anyone should get excited about these
things. It was a process of economic evolution, he said, and
he exhibited its laws and methods. Life was a struggle for ex-
istence, and the strong overcame the weak, and in turn were
overcome by the strongest. Those who lost in the struggle
were. generally exterminated; but now and then they had
been known to save themselves by combination—which was
a new and higher kind of strength. It was so that the gregari-
ous animals had overcome the predaceous; it was so, in
human history, that the people had mastered the kings. The
workers were simply the citizens of industry, and the Socialist
321

movement was the expression of their will to survive. The in-
evitability of the revolution depended upon this fact, that
they had no choice but to unite or be exterminated; this fact,
grim and inexorable, depended upon no human will, it was the
law of the economic process, of which the editor showed
the details with the most marvelous precision.

And later on came the evening of the great meeting of the
campaign, when Jurgis heard the two standard-bearers of his
party. Ten years before there had been in Chicago a strike of
a hundred and fifty thousand railroad employees, and thugs
had been hired by the railroads to commit violence, and the
President of the United States had sent in troops to break
the strike, by flinging the officers of the union into jail with-
out trial. The president of the union came out of his cell a
ruined man; but also he came out a Socialist; and now for
just ten years he had been traveling up and down the coun-
try, standing face to face with the people, and pleading with
them for justice. He was a man of electric presence, tall and
gaunt, with a face worn thin by struggle and suffering. The
fury of outraged manhood gleamed in it—and the tears of
suffering little children pleaded in his voice. When he spoke
he paced the stage, lithe and eager, like a panther. He leaned
over, reaching out for his audience; he pointed into their
souls with an insistent finger. His voice was husky from
much speaking, but the great auditorium was as still as death,
and every one heard him.

And then, as Jurgis came out from this meeting, some one
handed him a paper which he carried home with him and
read; and so he became acquainted with the Appeal to
Reason. About twelve years previously a Colorado real-estate
speculator had made up his mind that it was wrong to gamble
in the necessities of life of human beings; and so he had re-
tired and begun the publication of a Socialist weekly. There
had come a time when he had to set his own type, but he had
held on and won out, and now his publication was an institu-
tion. It used a carload of paper every week, and the mail
trains would be hours loading up at the depot of the little
Kansas town. It was a four-page weekly, which sold for less
than half a cent a copy; its regular subscription list was a quar-
ter of a million, and it went to every cross-roads post-office in
America.

The Appeal was a “propaganda” paper. It had a manner
all its own—it was full of ginger and spice, of Western slang
and hustle. It collected news of the doings of the “plutes,”

322

and served it up for the benefit of the “American working-
mule.” It would have columns of the deadly parallel—the mil-
lion dollars’ worth of diamonds, or the fancy pet-poodle es-
tablishment of a society dame, beside the fate of Mrs.
- Murphy of San Francisco, who had starved to death on the
streets, or of John Robinson, just out of the hospital, who
had hanged himself in New York because he could not find
work. It collected the stories of graft and misery from the
daily press, and made little pungent paragraphs out of them.
“Three banks of Bungtown, South Dakota, failed, and more
savings of the workers swallowed up!” “The mayor of Sandy
Creek, Oklahoma, has skipped with a hundred thousand dol-
lars. That’s the kind of rulers the old partyites give you!”
“The president of the Florida Flying Machine Company is in
jail for bigamy. He was a prominent opponent of Socialism,
which he said would break up the home!” The Appeal had
what it called its “Army,” about thirty thousand of the faith-
ful, who did things for it; and it was always exhorting the
“Army” to keep its dander up, and occasionally encouraging
it with a prize competition, for anything from a gold watch
to a private yacht or an eighty-acre farm. Its office helpers
were all known to the “Army” by quaint titles—‘“Inky Ike,”
“the Bald-headed Man,” “the Red-headed Girl,” “the Bull-
dog,” “the Office Goat,” and “the One Hoss.”

But sometimes, again, the Appeal would be desperately
serious. It sent a correspondent to Colorado, and printed pages
describing the overthrow of American institutions in that
state. In a certain city of the country it had over forty of its
“Army” in the headquarters of the Telegraph Trust,
and no message of importance to Socialists ever went
through that a copy of it did not go to the Appeal. It
would print great broadsides during the campaign; one copy
that came to Jurgis was a manifesto addressed to striking
workingmen, of which nearly a million copies had been dis-
tributed in the industrial centers, wherever the employers’
associations had been carrying out their “open shop” pro-
gram. “You have lost the strike!” it was headed. “And
now what are you going to do about it?” It was what is called
an “incendiary” appeal—it was written by a man into whose
soul the iron had entered. When this edition appeared,
twenty thousand copies were sent to the stockyards district;
and they were taken out and stowed away in the rear of a little
Cigar store, and every evening, and on Sundays, the mem-
bers of the Packingtown locals would get armfuls and dis-

323

tribute them on the streets and in the houses. The people of
Packingtown had lost their strike, if ever a people had, and
so they read these papers gladly, and twenty thousand were
hardly enough to go round. Jurgis had resolved not to go near
his old home again, but when he heard of this it was too
much for him, and every night for a week he would get on
the car and ride out to the stockyards, and help to undo his
work of the previous year, when he had sent Mike Scully’s
tenpin setter to the city Board of Aldermen.

It was quite marvelous to see what a difference twelve
months had made in Packingtown—the eyes of the people
were getting opened! The Socialists were literally sweeping
everything before them that election, and Scully and the
Cook County machine were at their wits’ end for an “issue.”
At the very close of the campaign they bethought themselves
of the fact that the strike had been broken by Negroes, and
so they sent for a South Carolina fire-eater, the “pitchfork
senator,” as he was called, a man who took off his coat when
he talked to workingmen, and damned and swore like a
Hessian. This meeting they advertised extensively, and the
Socialists advertised it too—with the result that about a
thousand of them were on hand that evening. The “pitchfork
senator’ stood their fusillade of questions for about an hour,
and then went home in disgust, and the balance of the
meeting was a strictly party affair. Jurgis, who had insisted
upon coming, had the time of his life that night; he danced
about and waved his arms in his excitement—and at the very
climax he broke loose from his friends, and got out into the
aisle, and proceeded to make a speech himself! The senator
had been denying that the Democratic party was corrupt; it
was always the Republicans who bought the votes, he said—
and here was Jurgis shouting furiously, “It’s a lie! It’s a lie!”
After which he went on to tell them how he knew it—that he
knew it because he had bought them himself! And he would
have told the “pitchfork senator” all his experiences, had not
Harry Adams and a friend grabbed him about the neck and
shoved him into a seat.

KKKKKK QF »»»»»»

O.: of the first things that Jurgis had done after he got a
job was to go and see Marija. She came down into the base-
324

ment of the house to meet him, and he stood by the door
with his hat in his hand, saying, “I’ve got work now, and so
you can leave here.”

But Marija only shook her head. There was nothing else
for her to do, she said, and nobody to employ her. She
could not keep her past a secret—girls had tried it, and they
were always found out. There were thousands of men who
came to this place, and sooner or later she would meet one
of them. “And besides,” Marija added, “I can’t do anything,
I’m no good—lI take dope. What could you do with me?”

“Can’t you stop?” Jurgis cried.

“No,” she answered, “Ill never stop. What’s the use of
talking about it—Ill stay here till I die, I guess. It’s all ’'m
fit for.” And that was all that he could get her to say—there
was no use trying. When he told her he would not let Elzbieta
take her money, she answered indifferently: “Then itll be
wasted here—that’s all.” Her eyelids looked heavy and her
face was red and swollen; he saw that he was annoying her,
that she only wanted him to go away. So he went, disappointed
and sad.

Poor Jurgis was not very happy in his home life. Elzbieta
was sick a good deal now, and the boys were wild and
unruly, and very much the worse for their life upon the
streets. But he stuck by the family nevertheless, for they
reminded him of his old happiness; and when things went
wrong he could solace himself with a plunge into the Socialist
movement. Since his life had been caught up into the current
of this great stream, things which had before been the whole
of life to him came to seem of relatively slight importance;
his interests were elsewhere, in the world of ideas. His
outward life was commonplace and uninteresting; he was
just a hotel porter, and expected to remain one while he
lived; but meantime, in the realm of thought, his life was a
perpetual adventure. There was so much to know—so many
wonders to be discovered! Never in all his life did Jurgis for-
get the day before election, when there came a telephone
message from a friend of Harry Adams, asking him to bring
Jurgis to see him that night; and Jurgis went, and met one of
the minds of the movement.

The invitation was from a man named Fisher, a Chicago
millionaire who had given up his life to settlement work, and
_ had a little home in the heart of the city’s slums. He did not

_ belong to the party, but he was in sympathy with it; and he
_ said that he was to have as his guest that night the editor of a
o25

big Eastern magazine, who wrote against Socialism, but really
did not know what it was. The millionaire suggested that
- Adams bring Jurgis along, and then start up the subject of
“pure food,” in which the editor was interested.

Young Fisher’s home was a little two-story brick house,
dingy and weather-beaten outside, but attractive within. The
room that Jurgis saw was half lined with books, and upon the
walls were many pictures, dimly visible in the soft, yellow
light; it was a cold, rainy night, so a log fire was crackling in ©
the open hearth. Seven or eight people were gathered about
it when Adams and his friend arrived, and Jurgis saw to his
dismay that three of them were ladies. He had never talked
to people of this sort before, and he fell into an agony of
embarrassment. He stood in the doorway clutching his hat
tightly in his hands, and made a deep bow to each of the
persons as he was introduced; then, when he was asked to
have a seat, he took a chair in a dark corner, and sat down
upon the edge of it, and wiped the perspiration off his fore-
head with his sleeve. He was terrified lest they should expect
him to talk.

There was the host himself, a tall, athletic young man,
clad in evening dress, as also was the editor, a dyspeptic-
looking gentleman named Maynard. There was the former’s
frail young wife, and also an elderly lady, who taught kinder-
garten in the settlement, and a young college student, a beau-
tiful girl with an intense and earnest face. She only spoke
once or twice while Jurgis was there—the rest of the time
she sat by the table in the center of the room, resting her
chin in her hands and drinking in the conversation. There
were two other men, whom young Fisher had introduced to
Jurgis as Mr. Lucas and Mr. Schliemann; he heard them ad-
dress Adams as “Comrade,” and so he knew that they were
Socialists.

The one called Lucas was a mild and meek-looking little
gentleman of clerical aspect; he had been an itinerant evan-
gelist, it transpired, and had seen the light and become a
prophet of the new dispensation. He travelled all over the
country, living like the apostles of old, upon hospitality, and
preaching upon street corners when there was no hall. The
other man had been in the midst of a discussion with the
editor when Adams and Jurgis came in; and at the suggestion
of the host they resumed it after the interruption. Jurgis was
soon sitting spellbound, thinking that here was surely the
strangest man that had ever lived in the world.

326

Nicholas Schliemann was a Swede, a tall, gaunt person,
with hairy hands and bristling yellow beard; he was a uni-
versity man, and had been a professor of philosophy—until,
as he said, he had found that he was selling his character as
well as his time. Instead he had come to America, where he
lived in a garret room in this slum district, and made volcanic
energy take the place of fire. He studied the composition of
foodstuffs, and knew exactly how many proteins and carbohy-
drates his body needed; and by scientific chewing he said that
he tripled the value of all he ate, so that it cost him eleven
cents a day. About the first of July he would leave Chicago for
his vacation, on foot; and when he struck the harvest fields
he would set to work for two dollars and a half a day, and
come home when he had another year’s supply—a hundred
and twenty-five dollars. That was the nearest approach to in-
dependence a man could make “under capitalism,” he ex-
plained; he would never marry, for no sane man would allow
himself to fall in love until after the revolution.

He sat in a big armchair, with his legs crossed, and his head
so far in the shadow that one saw only two glowing lights,
reflected from the fire on the hearth. He spoke simply, and
utterly without emotion; with the manner of a teacher setting
forth to a group of scholars an axiom in geometry, he would
enunciate such propositions as made the hair of an ordinary
person rise on end. And when the auditor had asserted his
non-comprehension, he would proceed to elucidate by some
new proposition, yet more appalling. To Jurgis the Herr Dr.
Schliemann assumed the proportions of a thunderstorm or
an earthquake. And yet, strange as it might seem, there was a
subtle bond between them, and he could follow the argu-
ment nearly all the time. He was carried over the difficult
places in spite of himself; and he went plunging away in mad
career—a very Mazeppa-ride upon the wild horse Speculation.

Nicholas Schliemann was familiar with all the universe,
and with man as a small part of it. He understood human in-
stitutions, and blew them about like soap bubbles. It was sur-
prising that so much destructiveness could be contained in
one human mind. Was it government? The purpose of govern-
ment was the guarding of property rights, the perpetuation of
ancient force and modern fraud. Or was it marriage? Marriage
and prostitution were two sides of one shield, the predatory
man’s exploitation of the sex pleasure. The difference be-
tween them was a difference of class. If a woman had money
she might dictate her own terms: equality, a life contract,

327

and the legitimacy—that is, the property rights—of her chil-
dren. If she had no money, she was a proletarian, and sold
herself for an existence. And then the subject became Re-
ligion, which was the Arch-fiend’s deadliest weapon. Govern-
ment oppressed the body of the wage slave, but Religion
oppressed his mind, and poisoned the stream of progress at
its source. The workingman was to fix his hopes upon a
future life, while his pockets were picked in this one; he was
brought up to frugality, humility, obedience—in short to all
the pseudo-virtues of capitalism. The destiny of civilization
would be decided in one final death struggle between the
Red International and the Black, between Socialism and the
Roman Catholic Church; while here at home, “the stygian
midnight of American evangelicalism—”

And here the ex-preacher entered the field, and there was
a lively tussle. “Comrade” Lucas was not what is called an
educated man; he knew only the Bible, but it was the Bible
interpreted by real experience. And what was the use, he
asked, of confusing Religion with men’s perversions of it?
That the church was in the hands of the merchants at the
moment was obvious enough; but already there were signs of
rebellion, and if Comrade Schliemann could come back a few
years from now—

“Ah, yes,” said the other, “of course. I have no doubt that
in a hundred years the Vatican will be denying that it ever
opposed Socialism, just as at present it denies that it ever
tortured Galileo.”

“T am not defending the Vatican,’ exclaimed Lucas, ve-
hemently. “I am defending the word of God—which is one
long cry of the human spirit for deliverance from the sway of
oppression. Take the twenty-fourth chapter of the Book of
Job, which I am accustomed to quote in my addresses as ‘the
Bible upon the Beef Trust’; or take the words of Isaiah—or of
the Master himself! Not the elegant prince of our debauched
and vicious art, not the jeweled idol of our society churches
—but the Jesus of the awful reality, the man of sorrow and
pain, the outcast, despised of the world, who had nowhere to
lay his head—”

“T will grant you Jesus,” interrupted the other.

“Well, then,” cried Lucas, “and why should Jesus have
nothing to do with his church—why should his words and
his life be of no authority among those who profess to
adore him? Here is a man who was the world’s first revolu-
tionist, the true founder of the Socialist movement; a man

328

whose whole being was one flame of hatred for wealth, and
all that wealth stands for—for the pride of wealth, and the
luxury of wealth, and the tyranny of wealth; who was him-
self a beggar and a tramp, a man of the people, an associate
of saloon-keepers and women of the town; who again and
again, in the most explicit language, denounced wealth and
the holding of wealth: ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures on
earth!’—‘Sell that ye have and give alms!’—‘Blessed are ye
poor, for yours is the kingdom of Heaven!’—‘Woe unto you
that are rich, for ye have received your consolation!’—
‘Verily, I say unto you, that a rich man shall hardly enter
into the kingdom of Heaven!’ Who denounced in unmeas-
ured terms the exploiters of his own time: ‘Woe unto you,
scribes and pharisees, hypocrites!"—“Woe unto you also, you
lawyers!"—‘Ye serpents, ye generation of vipers, how can ye
escape the damnation of hell?’ Who drove out the business-
men and brokers from the temple with a whip! Who was cruci-
fied—think of it—for an incendiary and a disturber of the
social order! And this man they have made into the high
priest of property and smug respectability, a divine sanc-
tion of all the horrors and abominations of modern commer-
cial civilization! Jeweled images are made of him, sensual
priests burn incense to him, and modern pirates of industry
bring their dollars, wrung from the toil of helpless women
and children, and build temples to him, and sit in cushioned
seats and listen to his teachings expounded by doctors of
dusty divinity—”

“Bravo!” cried Schliemann, laughing. But the other was in
full career—he had talked this subject every day for five
years, and had never yet let himself be stopped. “This
Jesus of Nazareth!” he cried. “This class-conscious working-
man! This union carpenter! This agitator, law-breaker, fire-
brand, anarchist! He, the sovereign lord and master of a
_ world which grinds the bodies and souls of human beings into
dollars—if he could come into the world this day and see the
things that men have made in his name, would it not blast his
soul with horror? Would he not go mad at the sight of it, he
the Prince of Mercy and Love! That dreadful night when he
lay in the Garden of Gethsemane and writhed in agony until
he sweat blood—do you think that he saw anything worse
than he might see tonight upon the plains of Manchuria, where
men march out with a jeweled image of him before them,
to do wholesale murder for the benefit of foul monsters of
sensuality and cruelty? Do you not know that if he were in

329

—

St. Petersburg now, he would take the whip with which he
drove out the bankers from his temple—”

Here the speaker paused an instant for breath. “No, com-
rade,” said the other, dryly, “for he was a practical man. He
would take pretty little imitation-lemons, such as are now
being shipped into Russia, handy for carrying in the pockets,
and strong enough to blow a whole temple out of sight.”

Lucas waited until the company had stopped laughing
over this; then he began again: “But look at it from the point
of view of practical politics, comrade. Here is an historical
figure whom all men reverence and love, whom some regard
as divine; and who was one of us—who lived our life, and
taught our doctrine. And now shall we leave him in the hands
of his enemies—shall we allow them to stifle and stultify his
example? We have his words, which no one can deny; and
shall we not quote them to the people, and prove to them
what he was, and what he taught, and what he did? No, no—
a thousand times no!—we shall use his authority to turn out
the knaves and sluggards from his ministry, and we shall yet
rouse the people to action! —”

Lucas halted again; and the other stretched out his
hand to a paper on the table. “Here, comrade,” he said, with
a laugh, “here is a place for you to begin. A bishop whose wife
has just been robbed of fifty thousand dollars’ worth of
diamonds! And a most unctuous and oily of bishops! An emi-
nent and scholarly bishop! A philanthropist and friend-of-
labor bishop—a Civic Federation decoy-duck for the chloro-
forming of the wage workingman!”

To this little passage of arms the rest of the company sat
as spectators. But now Mr. Maynard, the editor, took oc-
casion to remark, somewhat naively, that he had always
understood that Socialists had a cut-and-dried program for
the future of civilization; whereas here were two active
members of the party, who, from what he could make out,
were agreed about nothing at all. Would the two, for his en-
lightenment, try to ascertain just what they had in com-
mon, and why they belonged to the same party? This re-
sulted, after much debating, in the formulating of two care-
fully worded propositions: First, that a Socialist believes in
the common ownership and democratic management of the
means of producing the necessities of life; and, second, that
a socialist believes that the means by which this is to be
brought about is the class-conscious political organization of
the wage-earners. Thus far they were at one; but no farther.

330

To Lucas, the religious zealot, the co-operative commonwealth
was the New Jerusalem, the kingdom of Heaven, which is
“within you.” To the other, Socialism was simply a necessary
step toward a far-distant goal, a step to be tolerated with im-

patience. Schliemann called himself a “philosophic anarchist’;
and he explained that an anarchist was one who believed that
the end of human existence was the free development of
every personality, unrestricted by laws save those of its own
being. Since the same kind of match would light every one’s
fire and the same-shaped loaf of bread would fill every one’s
stomach, it would be perfectly feasible to submit industry
to the control of a majority vote. There was only one earth,
and the quantity of material things was limited. Of intellec-
tual and moral things, on the other hand, there was no limit,
and one could have more without another’s having less; hence
“Communism in material production, anarchism in intellec-
tual,” was the formula of modern proletarian thought. As
soon as the birth agony was over, and the wounds of society
had been healed, there would be established a simple system
whereby each man was credited with his labor and debited
with his purchases; and after that the processes of produc-
tion, exchange, and consumption would go on automatically,
and without our being conscious of them, any more than a
man is conscious of the beating of his heart. And then, ex-
plained Schliemann, society would break up into independ-
ent, self-governing communities of mutually congenial per-
sons; examples of which at present were clubs, churches, and
political parties. After the revolution, all the intellectual,
artistic, and spiritual activities of men would be cared for
by such “free associations”; romantic novelists would be
supported by those who liked to read romantic novels, and
impressionist painters would be supported by those who
liked to look at impressionist pictures—and the same with
preachers and scientists, editors and actors and musicians.
If any one wanted to work or paint or pray, and could find
no one to maintain him, he could support himself by working
part of the time. That was the case at present, the only differ-
ence being that the competitive wage system compelled a man
to work all the time to live, while, after the abolition of privi-
lege and exploitation, anyone would be able to support him-
self by an hour’s work a day. Also the artist’s audience of the
present was a small minority of people, all debased and
vulgarized by the effort it had cost them to win in the com-
mercial battle; of the intellectual and artistic activities which

331

would result when the whole of mankind was set free from
the nightmare of competition, we could at present form no
conception whatever.

And then the editor wanted to know upon what ground
Dr. Schliemann asserted that it might be possible for a society
to exist upon an hour’s toil by each of its members. “Just
what,” answered the other, “would be the productive capac-
ity of society if the present resources of science were
utilized, we have no means of ascertaining; but we may be
sure it would exceed anything that would sound reasonable
to minds inured to the ferocious barbarities of Capitalism.
After the triumph of the international proletariat, war would
of course be inconceivable; and who can figure the cost of
war to humanity—not merely the value of the lives and the
material that it destroys, not merely the cost of keeping mil-
lions of men in idleness, of arming and equipping them for
battle and parade, but the drain upon the vital energies of
society by the war-attitude and the war-terror, the brutality
and ignorance, the drunkenness, prostitution, and crime it
entails, the industrial impotence and the moral deadness?
Do you think that it would be too much to say that two hours
of the working time of every efficient member of a commun-
ity goes to feed the red fiend of war?”

And then Schliemann went on to outline some of the wastes
of competition: the losses of industrial warfare; the ceaseless
worry and friction; the vices—such as drink, for instance,
the use of which had nearly doubled in twenty years, as a
consequence of the intensification of the economic struggle;
the idle and unproductive members of the community, the
frivolous rich and the pauperized poor; the law and the
whole machinery of repression; the wastes of social ostenta-
tion, the milliners and tailors, the hairdressers, dancing mas-
ters, chefs and lackeys. “You understand,” he said, “that in a
society dominated by the fact of commercial competition,
money is necessarily the test of prowess, and wastefulness
the sole criterion of power. So we have, at the present mo-
ment, a society with, say, thirty per cent of the population
occupied in producing useless articles, and one per cent oc-
cupied in destroying them. And this is not all; for the servants

and panders of the parasites are also parasites, the milliners

and the jewelers and the lackeys have also to be supported by

the useful members of the community. And bear in mind

also that this monstrous disease affects not merely the idlers

and their menials, its poison penetrates the whole social
332

body. Beneath the hundred thousand women of the élite are
a million middle-class women, miserable because they are not
of the élite, and trying to appear of it in public; and beneath
them, in turn, are five million farmers’ wives reading ‘fashion
papers’ and trimming bonnets, and shopgirls and serving
maids selling themselves into brothels for cheap jewelry and
imitation sealskin robes. And then consider that, added to
this competition in display, you have, like oil on the flames, a
whole system of competition in selling! You have manu-
facturers contriving tens of thousands of catchpenny devices,
storekeepers displaying them, and newspapers and maga-
zines filled up with advertisements of them!”

“And don’t forget the wastes of fraud,” put in young
Fisher.

“When one comes to the ultra-modern profession of ad-
vertising,” responded Schliemann—“the science of persuad-
ing people to buy what they do not want, he is in the very
center of the ghastly charnel-house of capitalist destructive-
ness, and he scarcely knows which of a dozen horrors to
point out first. But consider the waste in time and energy
incidental to making ten thousand varieties of a thing for
purposes of ostentation and snobbishness, where one variety
would do for use! Consider all the waste incidental to the
manufacture of cheap qualities of goods, of goods made to
sell and deceive the ignorant; consider the wastes of adultera-
tion—the shoddy clothing, the cotton blankets, the unstable
tenements, the ground-cork life-preservers, the adulterated
milk, the aniline soda-water, the potato-flour sausages—”

“And consider the moral aspects of the thing,” put in
the ex-preacher.

“Precisely,” said Schliemann; “the low knavery and the
ferocious cruelty incidental to them, the plotting and the
lying and the bribing, the blustering and bragging, the scream-
ing egotism, the hurrying and worrying. Of course, imitation
and adulteration are the essence of competition—they are but
another form of the phrase ‘to buy in the cheapest market and
sell in the dearest.” A government official has stated that
the nation suffers a loss of a billion and a quarter dollars a
year through adulterated foods; which means, of course, not
only materials wasted that might have been useful outside of
the human stomach, but doctors and nurses for people
who would otherwise have been well, and undertakers for
the whole human race ten or twenty years before the proper
time. Then again, consider the waste of time and energy fre-

ak

quired to sell these things in a dozen stores, where one would
do. There are a million or two of business firms in the
country, and five or ten times as many clerks; and consider
the handling and rehandling, the accounting and reaccount-
ing, the planning and worrying, the balancing of petty profit
and loss. Consider the whole machinery of the civil law made
necessary by these processes; the libraries of ponderous
tomes, the courts and juries to interpret them, the lawyers
studying to circumvent them, the pettifogging and chicanery,
the hatreds and lies! Consider the wastes incidental to the
blind and haphazard production of commodities—the fac-
tories closed, the workers idle, the goods spoiling in stor-
age; consider the activities of the stock-manipulator, the
paralyzing of whole industries, the over-stimulation of others,
for speculative purposes; the assignments and bank failures,
the crises and panics, the deserted towns and the starving
populations! Consider the energies wasted in the seeking of
markets, the sterile trades, such as drummer, solicitor, bill-
poster, advertising agent. Consider the wastes incidental to
the crowding into cities, made necessary by competition and
by monopoly railroad rates; consider the slums, the bad air,
the disease and the waste of vital energies; consider the
office buildings, the waste of time and material in the piling
of story upon story, and the burrowing underground! Then
take the whole business of insurance, the enormous mass of
administrative and clerical labor it involves, and all utter
waste—”

“T do not follow that,” said the editor.

“The Co-operative Commonwealth is a universal auto-
matic insurance company and savings bank for all its mem-
bers. Capital being the property of all, injury to it is shared
by all and made up by all. The bank is the universal govern-
ment credit account, the ledger in which every individual’s
earnings and spendings are balanced. There is also a uni-
versal government bulletin, in which are listed and pre-
cisely described everything which the commonwealth has for
sale. As no one makes any profit by the sale, there is no
longer any stimulus to extravagance and no misrepresenta-
tion; no cheating, no adulteration or imitation, no bribery or
‘grafting.’ ”

“How is the price of an article determined?”

“The price is the labor it has cost to make and deliver
it, and it is determined by the first principles of arithmetic.
The million workers in the nation’s wheatfields have worked

334

a hundred days each, and the total product of the labor
is a billion bushels, so the value of a bushel of wheat is
the tenth part of a farm labor day. If we employ an arbi-
trary symbol, and pay, say, five dollars a day for farm work,
then the cost of a bushel of wheat is fifty cents.”

“You say ‘for farm work,’ ” said Mr. Maynard. “Then labor
is not to be paid alike?”

“Manifestly not, since some work is easy and some hard,
and we should have millions of rural mail-carriers, and no
coal-miners. Of course the wages may be left the same, and
the hours varied; one or the other will have to be varied con-
tinually, according as a greater or less number of workers is
needed in any particular industry. That is precisely what is
done at present, except that the transfer of the workers is
accomplished blindly and imperfectly, by rumors and ad-
vertisements, instead of instantly and completely, by a uni-
versal government bulletin.”

“How about those occupations in which time is difficult
to calculate? What is the labor cost of a book?”

“Obviously it is the labor cost of the paper, printing, and
binding of it—about a fifth of its present cost.”

“And the author?”

“T have already said that the state could not control in-
tellectual production. The state might say that it had taken
a year to write the book, and the author might say it had
taken thirty. Goethe said that every bon mot of his had
cost a purse of gold. What I outline here is a national, or
rather international, system for the providing of the ma-
terial needs of men. Since a man has intellectual needs also,
he will work longer, earn more, and provide for them to
his own taste and in his own way. I live on the same earth as
the majority, I wear the same kind of shoes and sleep in the
same kind of bed; but I do not think the same kind of
thoughts, and I do not wish to pay for such thinkers as the
majority selects. I wish such things to be left to free effort, as
at present. If people want to listen to a certain preacher, they
get together and contribute what they please, and pay for a
church and support the preacher, and then listen to him; I,
who do not want to listen to him, stay away, and it costs me
nothing. In the same way there are magazines about Egyptian
coins, and Catholic saints, and flying machines, and athletic
records, and I know nothing about any of them. On the other
hand, if wage-slavery were abolished, and I could earn some
spare money without paying tribute to an exploiting capital-

335

ist, then there would be a magazine for the purpose of in-
terpreting and popularizing the gospel of Friedrich Nietzsche,
the prophet of Evolution, and also of Horace Fletcher, the in-
ventor of the noble science of clean eating; and incidentally,
perhaps, for the discouraging of long skirts, and the scientific
breeding of men and women, and the establishing of divorce
by mutual consent.”

Dr. Schliemann paused for a moment. “That was a lec-
ture,” he said with a laugh, “and yet I am only begun!”

‘What else is there?” asked Maynard.

“JT have pointed out some of the negative wastes of com-
petition,” answered the other. “I have hardly mentioned the
positive economies of co-operation. Allowing five to a fam-
ily, there are fifteen million families in this country; and at
least ten million of these live separately, the domestic drudge
being either the wife or a wage slave. Now set aside the
modern system of pneumatic house-cleaning, and the econ-
omies of co-operative cooking; and consider one single item,
the washing of dishes. Surely it is moderate to say that the
dish-washing for a family of five takes half an hour a day;
with ten hours as a day’s work, it takes, therefore, half a
million able-bodied persons—mostly women—to do the dish-
washing of the country. And note that this is most filthy and
deadening and brutalizing work; that it is a cause of anemia,
nervousness, ugliness, and ill-temper; of prostitution, sui-
cide, and insanity; of drunken husbands and degenerate
children—for all of which things the community has natural-
ly to pay. And now consider that in each of my little free
communities there would be a machine which would wash
and dry the dishes, and do it, not merely to the eye and the
touch, but scientifically—sterilizing them—and do it at a
saving of all of the drudgery and nine-tenths of the time!
All of these things you may find in the books of Mrs. Gilman;
and then take Kropotkin’s Fields, Factories, and Workshops,
and read about the new science of agriculture, which has
been built up in the last ten years; by which, with made soils
and intensive culture, a gardener can raise ten or twelve crops
in a season, and two hundred tons of vegetables upon a
single acre; by which the population of the whole globe could
be supported on the soil now cultivated in the United States
alone! It is impossible to apply such methods now, owing to
the ignorance and poverty of our scattered farming popu-
lation; but imagine the problem of providing the food supply
of our nation once taken in hand systematically and rational-

336

ly, by scientists! All the poor and rocky land set apart for a
national timber reserve, in which our children play, and our
young men hunt, and our poets dwell! The most favorable
climate and soil for each product selected; the exact require-
ments of the community known, and the acreage figured ac-
cordingly; the most improved machinery employed, under the
direction of expert agricultural chemists! I was brought
up on a farm, and I know the awful deadliness of farm work;
and I like to picture it all as it will be after the revolution.
To picture the great potato-planting machine, drawn by four
horses, or an electric motor, ploughing the furrow, cutting
and dropping and covering the potatoes, and planting a score
of acres a day! To picture the great potato-digging machine,
run by electricity, perhaps, and moving across a thousand-
acre field, scooping up earth and potatoes, and dropping the
latter into sacks! To see every other kind of vegetable and
fruit handled in the same way—apples and oranges picked
by machinery, cows milked by electricity—things which are
already done, as you may know. To picture the harvest fields
of the future, to which millions of happy men and women
come for a summer holiday, brought by special trains, the ex-
actly needful number to each place! And to contrast all this
with our present agonizing system of independent small farm-
ing—a stunted, haggard, ignorant man, mated with a yellow,
lean, and sad-eyed drudge, and toiling from four o’clock in
the morning until nine at night, working the children as soon
as they are able to walk, scratching the soil with his primitive
tools, and shut out from all knowledge and hope, from all
the benefits of science and invention, and all the joys of the
spirit—held to a bare existence by competition in labor, and
boasting of his freedom because he is too blind to see his
chains!” ‘

Dr. Schliemann paused a moment. “And then,” he con-
tinued, “place beside this fact of an unlimited food supply,
the newest discovery of physiologists, that most of the
ills of the human system are due to overfeeding! And then
again, it has been proven that meat is unnecessary as a food;
and meat is obviously more difficult to produce than veg-
etable food, less pleasant to prepare and handle, and more
likely to be unclean. But what of that, so long as it tickles the
palate more strongly?”

“How would Socialism change that?” asked the girl-stu-
dent, quickly. It was the first time she had spoken.

“So long as we have wage slavery,” answered Schliemann,

337

“it matters not in the least how debasing and repulsive a task
may be, it is easy to find people to perform it. But just as
soon as. labor is set free, then the price of such work will
begin to rise. So one by one the old, dingy, and unsanitary
factories will come down—it will be cheaper to build new;
and so the steamships will be provided with stoking-ma-
chinery, and so the dangerous trades will be made safe, or
substitutes will be found for their products. In exactly the
same way, as the citizens of our Industrial Republic become
refined, year by year the cost of slaughterhouse products will
increase; until eventually those who want to eat meat will
have to do their own killing—and how long do you think
the custom would survive then?—To go on to another item—
one of the necessary accompaniments of capitalism in a de-
mocracy is political corruption; and one of the consequences
of civic administration by ignorant and vicious politicians, is
that preventable diseases kill off half our population. And
even if science were allowed to try, it could do little, because
the majority of human beings are not yet human beings at
all, but simply machines for the creating of wealth for others.
They are penned up in filthy houses and left to rot and stew
in misery, and the conditions of their life make them ill
faster than all the doctors in the world could heal them; and
so, of course, they remain as centers of contagion, poisoning
the lives of all of us, and making happiness impossible for
even the most selfish. For this reason I would seriously
maintain that all the medical and surgical discoveries that
science can make in the future will be of less importance
than the application of the knowledge we already possess,
when the disinherited of the earth have established their right
to a human existence.”

And here the Herr Doctor relapsed into silence again.
Jurgis had noticed that the beautiful young girl who sat by
the center table was listening with something of the same
look that he himself had worn, the time when he had first
discovered Socialism. Jurgis would have liked to talk to her,
he felt sure that she would have understood him. Later on
in the evening, when the group broke up, he heard Mrs.
Fisher say to her, in a low voice, “I wonder if Mr. Maynard
will still write the same things about Socialism”; to which she
answered, “I don’t know—but if he does we shall know that
he is a knave!”

338

And only a few hours after this came election day—when
the long campaign was over, and the whole country seemed
to stand still and hold its breath, awaiting the issue. Jurgis
and the rest of the staff of Hinds’s Hotel could hardly stop
to finish their dinner, before they hurried off to the big hall
which the party had hired for that evening.

But already there were people waiting, and already the
telegraph instrument on the stage had begun clicking off the
returns. When the final accounts were made up, the Socialist
vote proved to be over four hundred thousand—an increase
of something like three hundred and fifty per cent in four
years. And that was doing well; but the party was dependent
for its early returns upon messages from the locals, and nat-
urally those locals which had been most successful were the
ones which felt most like reporting; and so that night every-
one in the hali believed that the vote was going to be six,
or seven, or even eight hundred thousand. Just such an in-
credible increase had actually been made in Chicago, and in
the state; the vote of the city had been 6,700 in 1900, and
now it was 47,000; that of Illinois had been 9,600, and now it
was 69,000! So, as the evening waxed, and the crowd piled
in, the meeting was a sight to be seen. Bulletins would be
read, and the people would shout themselves hoarse; and
then someone would make a speech, and there would be more
shouting; and then a brief silence, and more bulletins. There
would come messages from the secretaries of neighboring
states, reporting their achievements; the vote of Indiana had
gone from 2,300 to 12,000; of Wisconsin from 7,000 to
28,000; of Ohio from 4,800 to 36,000! There were telegrams
to the national office from enthusiastic individuals in little
towns which had made amazing and unprecedented in-
creases in a single year: Benedict, Kansas, from 26 to 260;
Henderson, Kentucky, from 19 to 111; Holland, Michigan,
from 14 to 208; Cleo, Oklahoma, from 0 to 104; Martin’s
Ferry, Ohio, from 0 to 296—and many more of the same
kind. There were literally hundreds of such towns; there
would be reports from half a dozen of them in a single
batch of telegrams. And the men who read the despatches off
to the audience were old campaigners, who had been to the
places and helped to make the vote, and could make ap-
propriate comments: Quincy, Illinois, from 189 to 831—that
was where the mayor had arrested a Socialist speaker! Craw-
ford County, Kansas, from 285 to 1,975; that was the home
of the Appeal to Reason! Battle Creek, Michigan, from 4,261

339

to 10,184; that was the answer of labor to the Citizens’ Al-
liance Movement!

And then there were official returns from the various pre-
cincts and wards of the city itself! Whether it was a factory
district or one of the “silk-stocking” wards seemed to make
no particular difference in the increase; but one of the things
which surprised the party leaders most was the tremendous
vote that came rolling in from the stockyards. Packingtown
comprised three wards of the city, and the vote in the spring
of 1903 had been five hundred, and in the fall of the same
year, sixteen hundred. Now, only a year later, it was over
sixty-three hundred—and the Democratic vote only eighty-
eight hundred! There were other wards in which the Demo-
cratic vote had been actually surpassed, and in two districts,
members of the state legislature had been elected. Thus
Chicago now led the country; it had set a new standard for
the party, it had shown the workingmen the way!

—So spoke an orator upon the platform; and two thousand
pairs of eyes were fixed upon him, and two thousand voices
were cheering his every sentence. The orator had been the
head of the city’s relief bureau in the stockyards, until the
sight of misery and corruption had made him sick. He was
young, hungry-looking, full of fire; and as he swung his long
arms and beat up the crowd, to Jurgis he seemed the very
spirit of the revolution. “Organize! Organize! Organize!”—
that was his cry. He was afraid of this tremendous vote,
which his party had not expected, and which it had not
earned. “These men are not Socialists!” he cried. “This elec-
tion will pass, and the excitement will die, and people will
forget about it; and if you forget about it, too, if you sink
back and rest upon your oars, we shall lose this vote that
we have polled today, and our enemies will laugh us to
scorn! It rests with you to take your resolution—now, in the
flush of victory, to find these men who have voted for us,
and bring them to our meetings, and organize them and bind
them to us! We shall not find all our campaigns as easy as
this one. Everywhere in the country tonight the old party
politicians are studying this vote, and setting their sails by it;
and nowhere will they be quicker or more cunning than
here in our own city. Fifty thousand Socialist votes in Chicago
means a municipal-ownership Democracy in the spring!
And then they will fool the voters once more, and all the
powers of plunder and corruption will be swept into office
again! But whatever they may do when they get in, there is

340

one thing they will not do, and that will be the thing for
which they were elected! They will not give the people of our
city municipal ownership—they will not mean to do it, they
will not try to do it; all that they will do is give our party in
Chicago the greatest opportunity that has ever come to So-
cialism in America! We shall have the sham reformers self-
stultified and self-convicted; we shall have the radical De-
mocracy left without a lie with which to cover its naked-
ness! And then will begin the rush that will never be
checked, the tide that will never turn till it has reached its
flood—that will be irresistible, overwhelming—the rallying
of the outraged workingmen of Chicago to our standard!
And we shall organize them, we shall drill them, we shall
marshal them for the victory! We shall bear down the op-
position, we shall sweep it before us—and Chicago will be
ours! Chicago will be ours! CHICAGO WILL BE OURS!”
THE END

341

Afterword

| PALM for achieving foremost rank among modern Amer-
ican propagandist novelists is readily carried off by Upton
Sinclair. Simultaneously, he is one of the most prolific
writers in the nation’s literary history, and is probably the
most widely read abroad of all American authors; according
to a recent count, there are 772 translations of his books in
forty-seven languages and in thirty-nine countries, with the
totals continuing to mount.

Sinclair has been aptly compared to another great propa-
gandist, Thomas Paine. Like Paine, he attacks with burning
indignation and reckless courage every variety of social
abuse and injustice. The appellations “a pamphleteer for
righteousness” and “the last of the muckrakers” are apt
descriptions of Sinclair’s stormy literary career.

Now eighty-two, Sinclair can view in retrospect a lifetime
devoted to crusades: smiting labor spies, the meat-packing
industry, a corrupt press, Wall Street speculators, New York
society, alcoholism, the murderers of Sacco and Vanzetti,
Tom Mooney’s persecution, bourgeois morality, coal-mine
conditions, popular evangelism, secondary and higher educa-
tion, the oil industry, the evils of war. As Robert Cantwell
ably summed up the case: “Few American public figures, let
alone American inspirational novelists, have written so many
books, delivered so many lectures, covered so much territory,
advocated so many causes or composed so many letters to
the editor, got mixed up in so many scandals, been so in-
sulted, ridiculed, spied on, tricked and left holding the bag
—few, in short, have jumped so nimbly from so many
frying pans into so many fires, and none has ever managed
to keep so sunny and buoyant while the flames were leaping
around him.”

Sinclair was an early convert to Socialism, though frequent-

343

ly failing to follow orthodox party lines. His propagandistic
efforts carry a constant refrain: the theme of the capitalist
as u heartless scoundrel and the workingman as an oppressed
hero. In the midst of the depressed thirties, he narrowly
missed an opportunity to put into practice his Socialistic
theories when, as Democratic nominee for governor of Cali-
fornia, he conducted a spectacular campaign on the EPIC
platform—‘“End Poverty in California.” The bitter and de-
termined opposition of the state’s powerful business interests
cost him the election.

Sinclair’s leap from obscurity to fame was sudden. In his
early twenties he had made up his mind to become a suc-
cessful writer or to starve in the attempt. He came extremely
close to the latter before accomplishing the former: his first
five novels, published from 1901 to 1906, produced alto-
gether less than a thousand dollars in royalties.

The turning point was The Jungle, in 1906, the most pop-
‘ular and most influential of all Sinclair's numerous novels.
This savage indictment of labor and sanitary conditions in
the Chicago stockyards first appeared serially in The Appeal
to Reason, a Socialist weekly, when the author was a mere
twenty-seven.

The times were ripe for The Jungle. Still fresh in the pub-
lic’s memory was the “embalmed beef” scandal of the Spanish-
American War. Theodore Roosevelt, hero of the battle
of San Juan Hill, had testified before a Senate investigating
committee that he would just as soon have eaten his old hat
as the canned food that, under a government contract, had
been shipped to the soldiers in Cuba. Languishing in Con-
gress as Sinclair was composing his celebrated exposé was
a bill prepared by Dr. Harvey W. Wiley, “Father of the Pure
Food and Drugs Act,” to tighten the laws and to protect
consumers against unscrupulous manufacturing and business
practices.

Also helping to set the scene for The Jungle was the
whole school of ‘“muckrakers”—Roosevelt’s epithet for the
journalists and reformers who, during the first decade of
the present century, were busily investigating and exposing
political misrule and business avarice. Among the highlights
of the genre were Lincoln Steffens’ articles on municipal
graft, Ida M. Tarbell’s The History of the Standard Oil
Company, Ray Stannard Baker on the railroads, Thomas
W. Lawton on contemporary financiers, Charles Edward Rus-
~ell on the beef trust, and Samuel Hopkins Adams’ sensational

344

series of articles on patent medicines and the press. As re-
vealed by the muckrakers, wholesale corruption permeated —
the nation’s life, and their charges were buttressed with
stories of stolen franchises, payroll padding, fraudulent let-
ting of contracts, alliances of police with vice, foul slum
dwellings, poverty in the cities, worthless stock schemes, dis-
honest insurance companies, and thieving monopolies.

It is doubtful, however, whether any of the previous muck-
raking jobs had the terrific impact on public consciousness of
Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle, partly perhaps because of its
popular fictional form, but more likely because it hit people
where they were most sensitive—-in the stomachs. The Ap-
peal to Reason, with a circulation of half a million, mainly
in working class districts, offered Sinclair five hundred
dollars for subsistence while he investigated the lives of the
Packingtown workers. For seven weeks Sinclair lived with the
underprivileged, wretched aliens in the Chicago stockyards,
and then returned to his home in New Jersey to write about
what he had seen, heard, and smelled. According to the
author, “The Jungle was written in a board cabin, eight
feet by ten, set on a hillside north of Princeton, New Jersey,”
in a period of about nine months.

Even before serialization of the novel was completed, word
began to spread outside its proletarian audience. Calls for
back issues were reaching the magazine in considerable
numbers. Nevertheless, the first five book publishers ap-
proached by Sinclair rejected his manuscript, afraid that the
book contained too much dynamite. Finally, the impatient
author solicited readers of The Appeal to Reason to insure
publication by ordering copies and paying in advance.
Twelve thousand orders poured in, and the book was set up
in type. At that point, Doubleday, Page and Company stepped
in with an offer to publish the book, provided they could
verify its essential truth. The Doubleday editor, Isaac F.
Marcosson, went to Chicago and interviewed Dr. W. K.
Jaques, formerly head of meat inspection at the stockyards,
who had been fired because of his insistence upon a drastic
scrutiny and condemnation of diseased meat. Dr. Jaques
testified that The Jungle contained no serious exaggerations
or misstatements.

Furthermore, Marcosson reported, “I was able to get a
Meat Inspector’s badge, which gave me access to the secret
confines of the meat empire. Day and night I prowled
over its foul-smelling domain and I was able to see with
345

my own eyes much that Sinclair had never even heard about.”

The Jungle appeared under the Doubleday imprint and
immediately created a sensation at home and abroad. Advance
proofs had been sent to the leading American newspapers,
and on the release date, January 25, 1906, the story ex-
ploded on front pages from coast to coast. Additional
publicity was assured by sending a special advance copy
to the current occupant of the White House, Theodore Roose-
velt, “the master press agent of all time.” So impressed
was Roosevelt with The Jungle’s revelations that he wired
Sinclair to visit him at once to discuss the matter.

The foremost social critic of the period, Finley Peter
Dunne’s “Mr. Dooley,” thus described the Rooseveltian re-
action to The Jungle:

Tiddy was toying with a light breakfast an’ idly turnin’
over th’ pages iv th’ new book with both hands. Sud-
denly he rose fr’m th’ table, an’ cryin’: “I’m pizened,”
begun throwin’ sausages out iv th’ window. Th’ ninth
wan sthruck Sinitor Biv’ridge on th’ head an’ made him
a blond. It bounced off, exploded, an’ blew a leg off a
secret-service agent, an’ th’ scatthred fragmints de-
sthroyed a handsome row iv ol’ oak-trees. Sinitor
Biv’ridge rushed in, thinkin’ that th’ Prisidint was bein’
assassynated be his devoted followers in th’ Sinit, an’
discovered Tiddy engaged in a hand-to-hand conflict
with a potted ham. Th’ Sinitor fr’m Injyanny, with a few
well-directed wurruds, put out th’ fuse an’ rendered th’
missile harmless. Since thin th’ Prisidint, like th’ rest iv
us, has become a viggytaryan...

The Jungle has been compared to the writings of Leo Tol-
stoy and other nineteenth-century Russian novelists and to
such French naturalists as Zola in its complete pessimism,
its mood of black despair, and unrelieved tragedy. The setting

is the stockyards and slums of Chicago. A succession of
Taces—the Germans, the Irish, the Bohemians, the Poles,
the Lithuanians, the Slovaks—had followed each other as
stockyard workers, lured from their Old World villages to
America by agents of the packers with promises of phenom-
enal wages.

_ In The Jungle is told the epic tragedy of Jurgis Rudkus,
a Lithuanian peasant, and a group of his relatives and
friends, immigrants all, who lived, worked, and died in the
stockyards district. There, in Packingtown (as Sinclair called
the stockyards), the immigrants encountered virtually every

346

evil to be found in American industry, politics, and society.
Unable to speak English, they are easily exploited and victim-
ized by those in power—the packers and their foremen, the
police, the political bosses, the real-estate dealers, and all the .
rest of the “upper class.” Jurgis has to pay graft to get and to
Keep his job; the real-estate man cheats him by selling him
a house on the installment plan with hidden clauses the Lith-
uanian cannot read, and which eventually cause him to lose
his home; he is unmercifully speeded up on the job and
suffers injuries; he and his family are afflicted by horrible
diseases; he is laid off and blacklisted, and goes to jail un-
justly for smashing the face of a brutal boss. One by one,
Jurgis and his group are crushed: the old men are thrown on
the scrap heap to starve, the women turn to prostitution to live,
Jurgis’ wife, attended in child birth by an ignorant midwife,
dies from lack of proper care, and his infant son is
drowned in one of the stinking pools of green water around
his wretched shack. Nowhere does Sinclair spare the squeam-
ish reader in his realistic portrayal of the filth, the stench,
and cruelty of the stockyards. Finally, Jurgis, physically
broken and alone, is left to wander until he becomes convinced
that only Socialism can remake and save this hideous world.

The powerful meat-packing industry did not propose to sub-
mit meekly to Sinclair’s accusations nor too tight government
regulation of its operations. On the contrary, it was prepared
to fight them with every weapon at its command. A commis-
sion sent to Chicago by the Secretary of Agriculture to investi-
gate conditions in Packingtown was persuaded by the “Beef
Trust” that The Jungle was the product of a disordered and
sensation-seeking mind. A series of articles in the Saturday
Evening Post, purportedly written by J. Ogden Armour, ac-
tually ghost-written, denied unequivocally the exposés by
Sinclair and others. Such influential newspapers as the Chicago
Tribune and the Boston Transcript rallied to the defense and
attacked Sinclair in editorials and news stories. Large sums
were spent by the meat industry for advertisements attempt-
ing to counteract in the public mind the revolting picture of
the stockyards presented in The Jungle. Equally significant,
relentless pressure was brought on Congress to prevent or to
emasculate any legislation aiming at federal control or reg-
ulation of the industry.

Meanwhile, Roosevelt decided to send to Chicago another
commission composed of two New York social workers,
Charles P. Neill, then Labor Commissioner, and- James B.

347

Reynolds. The commission returned from Chicago with a
scathing report, confirming the main charges of The Jungle
and adding their personal observations on the prevailing
conditions. Roosevelt withheld release of the report tempo-
rarily, retaining it instead as a club to hold over the meat
packers. He hoped that by threatening to publicize the report’s
findings, he could curb the packers’ violent opposition to the
Beveridge amendment to the Agricultural Appropriation Bill.
This bill, introduced with the President’s approval, provided
for the extension of genuine government inspection to all
the processes of preparing meat.

When the packers remained stubborn and unyielding in
their opposition, Roosevelt sent a message to the House
strongly urging the passage of the Beveridge amendment
(already adopted by the Senate without a dissenting vote),
and released the first part of the Neill-Reynolds report.
The country was swept by a storm of indignation as it began
to realize that the canned goods and other meats it consumed
were prepared among filth and degradation. A familiar rhyme
was parodied in the press:

Mary had a little lamb,

And when she saw it sicken,

She shipped it off to Packingtown,
And now it’s labeled chicken.

Though continuing vigorous denials of the charges against
them, the packers were making frantic efforts to clean up
the packing plants. The argument which finally convinced
them that some kind of legislation was necessary was the
hard fact that, as one packing-house executive stated, “The
sale of meat and meat products has been more than cut in
two.” After further bitter debate, both the Pure Food and
Drug Act and the Beef Inspection Act were passed in modi-
fied form and became laws of the land—less than six months
from the appearance in book form of The Jungle.

The results were described by President Roosevelt in a
message to Congress on December 3, 1907: “The pure-food
law was opposed so violently that its passage was delayed for
a decade; yet it has worked unmixed and immediate good.
The meat-inspection law was even more violently assailed
- .. Lwo years have not elapsed, and already it has become
evident that the great benefit the law confers upon the public is
accompanied by an equal benefit to the reputable packing es-

348

———————

tablishments. The latter are better off under the law than
they were without it.”

The most extraordinary aspect of the national furor over
The Jungle, with its international repercussions, was that
public attention was concentrated almost exclusively upon
material regarded by Sinclair as incidental, mere back-
ground and local color for his major theme which was the
oppression of the Packingtown workers. Scarcely a dozen
pages out of 308 were concerned with the gruesome details of
meat production: grinding up of poisoned rats, hogs dead of
cholera used for a fancy grade of lard. the sale to food
markets of the carcasses of steers condemned as tubercular
by government inspectors, and, most dramatic of all, the folk-
lore about men who served in the cooking rooms and oc-
casionally fell into the boiling vats, ultimately going out to
the world as Durham’s Pure Leaf Lard! But it was these
casual references to the food they were buying and eating
that excited and angered the people and created irresistible
demands for reform. :

Sinclair had a larger purpose in writing The Jungle. The
novel was intended first of all as an appeal for socialism and
as a protest against “wage slavery.” This aim was recog-
nized by a fellow Socialist, Jack London, who hailed the
book with unrestrained enthusiasm: “It will open countless
ears that have been deaf to Socialism. It will make thou-
sands of converts to our cause. It depicts what our country
Teally is, the home of oppression and injustice, a nightmare
of misery, an inferno of suffering, a human hell. a jungle
of wild beasts . . . What ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ did for the
black slaves ‘The Jungle’ has a large chance to do for the
white slaves of today.”

Ironically and to Sinclair’s keen disappointment, as he
wrote, “I aimed at the public’s heart and by accident I hit
it in the stomach.” The Socialist vote in America did not in-
crease, nor did the social revolution appear to be any closer.
There was only a prodigious commotion about beef and
pork. With this and the fame and fortune which the book
brought him, the author had to be content. After all, it was
an important fact that The Jungle had, as Marcosson
pointed out, “achieved a permanent and constructive reform
in an industry that touches and affects every human being.”

And yet, perhaps even more had been gained. By the con-
trast which Sinclair emphasized between wealth and poverty
in the American scene, by his attacks on organized greed, his

he 349

condemnation of man’s inhumanity to man, and the “lyrical
emotion” of The Jungle, he has been a moving force in
awakening the nation’s conscience and bringing about drastic
changes in the organization of society. Only the wholly cal-
lous, insensitive person could remain indifferent to Sinclair’s
eloquent plea for an end to the cruelties and injustices of
exploitation of the workers and to his hope for a peaceful
solution of the class struggle.

—Robert B. Downs
UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS

350

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY
Other Works by Upton Sinclair

Springtime and Harvest, 1901 (Reissued as King Midas, 1901)
Novel

The Journal of Arthur Stirling, 1903 Novel
Manassas, 1904 Novel

Love’s Pilgrimage, 1911 Novel

King Coal, 1917 Novel

The Profits of Religion, 1918 Study

The Brass Check: A Study of American Journalism, 1919
The Goose-Step, 1923 Study

The Goslings: A Study of American Schools, 1924
Mammonart, 1925 Study

Oil!, 1927 Novel

Money Writes!, 1927 Study

Roman Holiday, 1931 Novel

American Outpost: A Book of Reminiscences, 1932 Autobiography
World’s End, 1940 Novel

Between Two Worlds, 1941 Novel

Dragon’s Teeth, 1942 Novel

Wide Is the Gate, 1943 Novel

The Presidential Agent, 1944 Novel

Dragon Harvest, 1945 Novel

A World to Win, 1946 Novel

Presidential Mission, 1947 Novel

O Shepherd, Speak! 1949 Novel

The Return of Lanny Budd, 1953 Novel
Autobiography, 1962

Selected Biography and Criticism

Brooks, Van Wyck. Emerson and Others. New York: E. P. Dutton
& Co. Inc. 192.

Cantwell, Robert. “Upton Sinclair,” in After the Genteel Tradition:
American Writers Since 1910, ed. Malcolm Cowley. New York:
W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 1937.

Dell, Floyd. Upton Sinclair: A Study in Social Protest. New York:
Doubleday, Doran & Company, Inc., 1927.

Kazin, Alfred. On Native Grounds: An Interpretation of Modern
American Prose Literature. New York: Reynal & Hitchcock,
1942: London: Jonathan Cape, Ltd., 1943.

McWilliams, C. Southern California Country: An Island on the
Land. New York: Duell, Sloan & Pearce, Inc., 1946.

Parrington, V. L., American Dreams: A Study of American
Utopias. Providence, R. I.: Brown University Press, 1947.

UPTON SINCLAIR
the
Jungle

In some of the most harrowing scenes ever
written in modern literature, Upton Sinclair
vividly depicts factory life in Chicago in the
first years of the twentieth century. The hor-
rors of the slaugtiter houses, their barbarous
working conditions . . . the crushing poverty,
the disease, the depravity, the despair—he
reveals all through the eyes of Jurgis Rudkus,
a young immigrant who has come to the New
World to build a home for himself, his fiancée,
and her family. Published in 1906, THE
JUNGLE aroused the indignation of the public
and forced a government investigation which
led to the passage of the pure food laws. it
also established its young author as a fearless
crusader for the rights of the working man—

one of the world’s leading spokesmen for free--—- ies

dom, equality and humanity.

With an Afterword by Robert B. Downs

PUBLISHED BY THE NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY |