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

to the end and both got off. Hurstwood went into the barn and sought a car step, pulling out his paper-wrapped lunch from his pocket. There was no water and the bread was dry, but he enjoyed it. There was no ceremony about dining. He swallowed and looked about, contemplating the dull, homely labour of the thing. It was disagreeable⁠—miserably disagreeable⁠—in all its phases. Not because it was bitter, but because it was hard. It would be hard to anyone, he thought.

After eating, he stood about as before, waiting until his turn came.

The intention was to give him an afternoon of practice, but the greater part of the time was spent in waiting about.

At last evening came, and with it hunger and a debate with himself as to how he should spend the night. It was half-past five. He must soon eat. If he tried to go home, it would take him two hours and a half of cold walking and riding. Besides, he had orders to report at seven the next morning, and going home would necessitate his rising at an unholy and disagreeable hour. He had only something like a dollar and fifteen cents of Carrie’s money, with which he had intended to pay the two weeks’ coal bill before the present idea struck him.

“They must have some place around here,” he thought. “Where does that fellow from Newark stay?”

Finally he decided to ask. There was a young fellow standing near one of the doors in the cold, waiting a last turn. He was a mere boy in years⁠—twenty-one about⁠—but with a body lank and long, because of privation. A little good living would have made this youth plump and swaggering.

“How do they arrange this, if a man hasn’t any money?” inquired Hurstwood, discreetly.

The fellow turned a keen, watchful face on the inquirer.

“You mean eat?” he replied.

“Yes, and sleep. I can’t go back to New York tonight.”

“The foreman’ll fix that if you ask him, I guess. He did me.”

“That so?”

“Yes. I just told him I didn’t have anything. Gee, I couldn’t go home. I live way over in Hoboken.”

Hurstwood only cleared his throat by way of acknowledgment.

“They’ve got a place upstairs here, I understand. I don’t know what sort of a thing it is. Purty tough, I guess. He gave me a meal ticket this noon. I know that wasn’t much.”

Hurstwood smiled grimly, and the boy laughed.

“It ain’t no fun, is it?” he inquired, wishing vainly for a cheery reply.

“Not much,” answered Hurstwood.

“I’d tackle him now,” volunteered the youth. “He may go ’way.”

Hurstwood did so.

“Isn’t there some place I can stay around here tonight?” he inquired. “If I have to go back to New York, I’m afraid I won’t⁠—”

“There’re some cots upstairs,” interrupted the man, “if you want one of them.”

“That’ll do,” he assented.

He meant to ask for a meal ticket, but the seemingly proper moment never came, and he decided to pay himself that night.

“I’ll ask him in the morning.”

He ate in a cheap restaurant in the vicinity, and, being cold and lonely, went straight off to seek the loft in question. The company was not attempting to run cars after nightfall. It was so advised by the police.

The room seemed to have been a lounging place for night workers. There were some nine cots in the place, two or three wooden chairs, a soap box, and a small, round-bellied stove, in which a fire was blazing. Early as he was, another man was there before him. The latter was sitting beside the stove warming his hands.

Hurstwood approached and held out his own toward the fire. He was sick of the bareness and privation of all things connected with his venture, but was steeling himself to hold out. He fancied he could for a while.

“Cold, isn’t it?” said the early guest.

“Rather.”

A long silence.

“Not much of a place to sleep in, is it?” said the man.

“Better than nothing,” replied Hurstwood.

Another silence.

“I believe I’ll turn in,” said the man.

Rising, he went to one of the cots and stretched himself, removing only his shoes, and pulling the one blanket and dirty old comforter over him in a sort of bundle. The sight disgusted Hurstwood, but he did not dwell on it, choosing to gaze into the stove and think of something else. Presently he decided to retire, and picked a cot, also removing his shoes.

While he was doing so, the youth who had advised him to come here entered, and, seeing Hurstwood, tried to be genial.

“Better’n nothin’,” he observed, looking around.

Hurstwood did not take this to himself. He thought it to be an expression of individual satisfaction, and so did not answer. The youth imagined he was out of sorts, and set to whistling softly. Seeing another man asleep, he quit that and lapsed into silence.

Hurstwood made the best of a bad lot by keeping on his clothes and pushing away the dirty covering from his head, but at last he dozed in sheer weariness. The covering became more and more comfortable, its character was forgotten, and he pulled it about his neck and slept.

In the morning he was aroused out of a pleasant dream by several men stirring about in the cold, cheerless room. He had been back in Chicago in fancy, in his own comfortable home. Jessica had been arranging to go somewhere, and he had been talking with her about it. This was so clear in his mind, that he was startled now by the contrast of this room. He raised his head, and the cold, bitter reality jarred him into wakefulness.

“Guess I’d better get up,” he said.

There was no water on this floor. He put on his shoes in the cold and stood up, shaking himself in his stiffness. His clothes felt disagreeable, his hair bad.

“Hell!” he muttered, as he put on his hat.

Downstairs things were stirring again.

He found a hydrant, with a trough which had once been used for horses, but there was no towel here, and his handkerchief was soiled from yesterday. He contented