Sister Carrie - Theodore Dreiser (good non fiction books to read txt) 📗

Otherwise, they will be considered discharged, and every vacancy will be filled by a new man as soon as his services can be secured.

(Signed)

Benjamin Norton

President.

He also noted among the want ads one which read:

Wanted⁠—50 skilled motormen, accustomed to Westinghouse system, to run U.S. mail cars only, in the City of Brooklyn; protection guaranteed.

He noted particularly in each the “protection guaranteed.” It signified to him the unassailable power of the companies.

“They’ve got the militia on their side,” he thought. “There isn’t anything those men can do.”

While this was still in his mind, the incident with Oeslogge and Carrie occurred. There had been a good deal to irritate him, but this seemed much the worst. Never before had she accused him of stealing⁠—or very near that. She doubted the naturalness of so large a bill. And he had worked so hard to make expenses seem light. He had been “doing” butcher and baker in order not to call on her. He had eaten very little⁠—almost nothing.

“Damn it all!” he said. “I can get something. I’m not down yet.”

He thought that he really must do something now. It was too cheap to sit around after such an insinuation as this. Why, after a little, he would be standing anything.

He got up and looked out the window into the chilly street. It came gradually into his mind, as he stood there, to go to Brooklyn.

“Why not?” his mind said. “Anyone can get work over there. You’ll get two a day.”

“How about accidents?” said a voice. “You might get hurt.”

“Oh, there won’t be much of that,” he answered. “They’ve called out the police. Anyone who wants to run a car will be protected all right.”

“You don’t know how to run a car,” rejoined the voice.

“I won’t apply as a motorman,” he answered. “I can ring up fares all right.”

“They’ll want motormen mostly.”

“They’ll take anybody; that I know.”

For several hours he argued pro and con with this mental counsellor, feeling no need to act at once in a matter so sure of profit.

In the morning he put on his best clothes, which were poor enough, and began stirring about, putting some bread and meat into a page of a newspaper. Carrie watched him, interested in this new move.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Over to Brooklyn,” he answered. Then, seeing her still inquisitive, he added: “I think I can get on over there.”

“On the trolley lines?” said Carrie, astonished.

“Yes,” he rejoined.

“Aren’t you afraid?” she asked.

“What of?” he answered. “The police are protecting them.”

“The paper said four men were hurt yesterday.”

“Yes,” he returned; “but you can’t go by what the papers say. They’ll run the cars all right.”

He looked rather determined now, in a desolate sort of way, and Carrie felt very sorry. Something of the old Hurstwood was here⁠—the least shadow of what was once shrewd and pleasant strength. Outside, it was cloudy and blowing a few flakes of snow.

“What a day to go over there,” thought Carrie.

Now he left before she did, which was a remarkable thing, and tramped eastward to Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, where he took the car. He had read that scores of applicants were applying at the office of the Brooklyn City Railroad building and were being received. He made his way there by horsecar and ferry⁠—a dark, silent man⁠—to the offices in question. It was a long way, for no cars were running, and the day was cold; but he trudged along grimly. Once in Brooklyn, he could clearly see and feel that a strike was on. People showed it in their manner. Along the routes of certain tracks not a car was running. About certain corners and nearby saloons small groups of men were lounging. Several spring wagons passed him, equipped with plain wooden chairs, and labelled “Flatbush” or “Prospect Park. Fare, Ten Cents.” He noticed cold and even gloomy faces. Labour was having its little war.

When he came near the office in question, he saw a few men standing about, and some policemen. On the far corners were other men⁠—whom he took to be strikers⁠—watching. All the houses were small and wooden, the streets poorly paved. After New York, Brooklyn looked actually poor and hard-up.

He made his way into the heart of the small group, eyed by policemen and the men already there. One of the officers addressed him.

“What are you looking for?”

“I want to see if I can get a place.”

“The offices are up those steps,” said the bluecoat. His face was a very neutral thing to contemplate. In his heart of hearts, he sympathised with the strikers and hated this “scab.” In his heart of hearts, also, he felt the dignity and use of the police force, which commanded order. Of its true social significance, he never once dreamed. His was not the mind for that. The two feelings blended in him⁠—neutralised one another and him. He would have fought for this man as determinedly as for himself, and yet only so far as commanded. Strip him of his uniform, and he would have soon picked his side.

Hurstwood ascended a dusty flight of steps and entered a small, dust-coloured office, in which were a railing, a long desk, and several clerks.

“Well, sir?” said a middle-aged man, looking up at him from the long desk.

“Do you want to hire any men?” inquired Hurstwood.

“What are you⁠—a motorman?”

“No; I’m not anything,” said Hurstwood.

He was not at all abashed by his position. He knew these people needed men. If one didn’t take him, another would. This man could take him or leave him, just as he chose.

“Well, we prefer experienced men, of course,” said the man. He paused, while Hurstwood smiled indifferently. Then he added: “Still, I guess you can learn. What is your name?”

“Wheeler,” said Hurstwood.

The man wrote an order on a small card. “Take that to our barns,” he said, “and give it to the foreman. He’ll show you what to do.”

Hurstwood went down and out. He walked straight away in the direction indicated, while the