sister carrie

Chapter 71 (1)

Chapter 41 Strike (1)
The garage where Hurstwood went to look for work was so understaffed that there were actually only three people in charge.There were quite a few novices around—grotesque, sallow-faced people, all rascals and risk-takers.They tried their best to pretend to be more active and obedient, but they always had an expression of self-ashamedness and shame.

Hurstwood walked past the garage into a walled square where several rails and rings were laid.There were five or six cars, driven by trainers, each with an apprentice, at the wheel.There are more apprentices waiting by the back door of the garage.

Hurstwood watched the scene in silence, and waited beside him.He studied his companions for a while, though they were not as interesting to him as the car.However, these are not a safe-looking bunch.One or two of them were skinny.A few were still strong.Some of them were skinny and sallow, as if they had suffered from the wind and rain.

"Did you read in the papers that they were going to call up the militia?" Hurstwood heard one of them say.

"Oh, they'll do that," said the other. "It's their usual way."

"Come to think of it, we're going to be in a lot of trouble, aren't we?" said someone whom Hurstwood didn't see.

"Nothing serious."

"The Scotchman who got out last," said a voice, "told me they put cinders on his ear."

There was a low, nervous laugh.

"According to the papers, the guy on Fifth Street must have had a hard time," said another lazily. "They smashed his window and dragged him away before the police stopped them." to the street."

"Yes, but there are more police today," continued another.

Hurstwood listened indifferently.It seemed to him that the speaker was in a panic.They are anxious when they say these gossips—these words are just for their own peace of mind.He looked out into the square and waited there.

Two of them came close to him, but behind him.They seem to be sociable people.He listened to what they had to say.

"Are you a railroad worker?"

"Me? No. I've been working in a paper mill."

"I had a place at Newark until October," said the other kindly.

A few words were too low to be heard.Afterwards, the voices of the conversation rose again.

"I don't blame the strikers," one said. "They have the right. That's fine, but I've got to find something to do."

"Me too," said another, "if I had a job in Newark, I wouldn't come here and try my luck like this."

"It's a hard time these days, isn't it?" said the man. "There's nothing a poor man can do anywhere. God, you could starve to death on the street, and nobody will help you."

"You're right," said another, "I lost my position because they closed up. They opened all summer, built up a lot, and then closed up."

Hurstwood listened a little to these words.Somehow he thought he was slightly better than either of them—slightly better.In his eyes, they are foolish mediocrity, poor lambs under the shepherd's hands.

"Poor man," he thought.This speaks of the thoughts and feelings of his prosperous days in the past.

"Next," said one of the coaches.

"You are the next one." A person beside him touched him.

He went out and climbed onto the platform.The coaches take it for granted that there is no need for any courtesy.

"You see this handle," he said, reaching for the switch that hitched the roof. "This is the switch that controls the electricity. If you want the car to go backwards, turn it there. If you want it to go forward, hold it down here. To cut the power, turn it in the middle."

He smiled slightly after listening to the introduction of this simple situation.

"Well, this handle governs your speed," he said, pointing with his finger. "Turn here, and you're going about four miles an hour. That's eight miles, and that's about fourteen miles an hour. .”

Hurstwood looked at him calmly.He has seen drivers drive in the past.He knew how they drove and was confident he could do it, even though he hadn't practiced much.

The coach explained some details further and said:
"Okay, let's drive it back."

Hurstwood stood aside calmly, and the car drove into the square.

"One thing you have to watch out for is take your time when you start. Go a little bit, stop a little bit, and then go. Most people's trouble is they want to go full throttle. It's not good. It's dangerous. Motors wear out. You can't do that."

"I see," said Hurstwood.

This person kept talking and talking, and he waited and waited on the sidelines.

"Now you drive," he finally said.

The ex-manager put his hand on the joystick and gave it a gentle tug as he thought.However, the effect was stronger than he had imagined, and the result was that the car jumped forward very quickly, smashing him against the door.He straightened up shyly, and the coach stopped the car.

"You have to be careful." That was all he said.

However, Hurstwood found that braking and speed control were not as easy to master as he originally thought.Once or twice, if his companions had not helped with their hands and pointed with their mouths, he would have almost rushed through the rear fence.His companion was patient enough, but he never smiled.

"You have to get the knack of using both arms at the same time," he said. "It takes practice."

At one o'clock, he was still practicing driving.He felt a little hungry.It was snowing and he felt cold.He was also a little tired of driving around on the short track.

They drove the car to the end of the other end, and they all got out of the car.Hurstwood went into the garage, found a car, and took out of his pocket a lunch wrapped in newspaper.There was no water and the bread was dry, but he ate it with gusto.There are no rules when it comes to eating.He wolfed it down and looked around, thinking about the dull, mundane nature of the job.In all respects, the job was unpleasant--very unpleasant.Not because of hard work, but because of difficulty.He thought, everyone would find it difficult.

After eating, he stood there as before, waiting for his turn.

The original intention was for him to practice all afternoon, but most of the time was spent waiting.

Later in the evening, it was followed by hunger and churning thoughts about how to spend the evening.It is already 05:30.He has to eat soon.If he wanted to go home, he would have to walk and ride for two and a half hours in cold weather.Moreover, he was stipulated to report for duty at seven o'clock the next morning, and to go home he had to get up at an unusually annoying hour.All he had with him was Carrie's money--a dollar and a quarter, which he intended to pay for two weeks' coal.Now, he has another idea.

"There's got to be somewhere around here," he thought. "Where's that fellow from Newark?"

He later decided to ask.There was a young man standing by the door in the cold, waiting for the last shift.By age—21 or so—he was still a boy, but lanky because he was poor.As long as life is better, the instinct will grow plump and free and easy.

"If they have no money, how will they arrange it?" Hurstwood asked cautiously.

The fellow had a sharp, alert look on his interlocutor.

"You mean to eat?" he replied.

"Yes, with sleep. I can't get back to New York tonight."

"I suppose the foreman will arrange it if you ask. That's what he did to me."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. I just told him I had nothing. Well, I can't go home. I live far away in Hoppogen."

Hurstwood cleared his throat as a token of thanks.

"I know. They have a place upstairs. I don't know what kind of a place it is. Anyway, it's pretty bad. He finally gave me a meal ticket. I know it's not much money."

Hurstwood smiled grimly, and the boy laughed.

"This isn't a joke, is it?" he asked, triumphantly expecting a cheery reply.

"Yes," replied Hurstwood.

"If I were you, I'd ask him now," the teenager volunteered. "He might slip away."

Hurstwood did as he was told.

"Can you find me a place tonight?" he asked. "If I go back to New York, I'm afraid—"

"There are a few hanging bunks upstairs," the man interrupted him, "see if you want them."

"That's fine." He agreed.

He wanted to ask for a meal ticket, but he couldn't find the right time, so he decided to pay for it himself this night.

"I'm going to ask him in the morning."

He ate at a small restaurant nearby, and, cold and alone, he went straight to the attic.Companies are not prepared to drive after dark.That's how the police informed them.

This room seemed to be just a resting place for night shift workers.There were nine hammocks, two or three wooden chairs, a soap box, and a small round-bellied stove.There was still a fire in the stove.He was already early, but there was another person who came earlier than him.He was sitting by the fire warming his hands.

Hurstwood walked over and held out his hand to warm the fire.He took a risk this time, and suffered a lot, but he still made up his mind to get through it.He thinks he can hold out for a while.

"It's cold, isn't it?" said the first visitor.

"It's so cold."

There was a long silence.

"It's not a great place to sleep, is it?" said the man.

"Better than nothing," replied Hurstwood.

Silence again.

"I think I'll have to climb up," said the man.

He stood up, climbed onto one of the slings, and lay down. He just took off his shoes and wrapped a blanket and a pile of torn quilts around him.The sight made Hurstwood sick at the sight, but he would rather look at it than think of other things than the fire.Soon, he also decided to rest, so he picked a hanging bunk and just took off his shoes.

While he was doing this, the young man who had advised him entered.When he saw Hurstwood, he tried to appear genial.

"Better than nothing," he said, looking around.

Hurstwood didn't think he was speaking to himself.In his opinion, it was just a person expressing his satisfaction, and there was no need to answer.The young man thought he was not feeling well, so he whistled softly to himself.Seeing that another person was asleep, he stopped whistling and did not make a sound.

Hurstwood did not take off his clothes, and pushed back the dirty quilt, trying to make the most of the bad conditions, and then dozed off from exhaustion.Gradually, I felt that the quilt became more and more comfortable, so I forgot about the dirtiness, pulled it around my neck, and fell asleep.

In the morning, some people moved about in the cold and dim room, waking him from a sweet dream.He dreamed that he was back in Chicago, in the comfort of his own home.Jessica was making arrangements to go somewhere, and he was talking to her about it.The dream was still very clear in his mind, but the contrast with this room now surprised him.He looked up, the harsh reality stabbing him awake.

"I've got to get up," he said.

There is no water in the attic.He put on his shoes in the cold, stood up, and moved his stiff body a few times.His clothes were ugly and his hair was a mess.

"Damn it!" he said to himself as he put on his hat.

Downstairs, commotion broke out again.

He found the water tap and the wooden cans that had been used to feed the horses earlier.But there was no towel, and his handkerchief was soiled again yesterday.He could only be content to wet his eyes with icy water and go to the foreman.The foreman is already on the field.

"Have you had breakfast?" asked the noble man.

"No," Hurstwood answered.

"Then go and eat; your car won't be ready until a while."

Hurstwood hesitated.

"Can you give me a meal ticket?" he struggled to get out.

"Take it," said the man, handing him one.

His breakfast was as bad as last night, some fried steak and bad coffee.Then come back.

"Here," the foreman pointed out as he entered, "you'll be out with this car in a few minutes."

Hurstwood climbed onto the bridge in the garage and waited for the signal.He looked uneasy, but he always took a breath when he drove out.There's nothing better than waiting in the garage.

It was the fourth day of the strike, and the situation deteriorated.Heeding the advice of leaders and newspapers, the strikers have been fighting in fairly peaceful ways.So far, there has been no violence.Yes, the car was stopped, and we had a debate with the driver. Some drivers were won over by them and brought to them, and some windows were smashed. No more than five or six cases.This was done by the masses, and the strike leaders did not agree.

But the workers had no work to do, and seeing the triumphant appearance of the company backed by the police, they were enraged.They saw that as the days went by, more cars were being dispatched, and the company authorities threatened that the effective opposition of the striking workers had been crushed.This makes the drivers have the idea of ​​fighting hard.Peaceful means, they saw, meant that all of the company's vehicles would be rolled out, and those who expressed displeasure would be cast aside.Nothing benefits a company more than peaceful means.

So they exploded all at once, and the storm blew hard for a week.Vehicles were attacked, drivers were beaten, scuffled with police, tracks were dug open and shots were fired.Later, fighting in the streets and crowds gathering to make trouble became commonplace, and the city was full of militias.

Hurstwood was ignorant of the change in atmosphere.

"Get your car out," yelled the foreman, waving a powerful hand at him.A novice conductor jumped up from behind and rang the bell twice as a signal to start.Hurstwood turned the stalk and drove the car out of the garage gate and out into the street.On either side of the bridge stood two burly policemen who had boarded the vehicle—one on each side.

A gong was heard at the garage door, the conductor rang the bell twice, and Hurstwood moved the lever.

The two policemen looked around calmly.

"It's really cold this morning," said the one on the left.He spoke with a thick Irish accent.

"I had enough yesterday," said another, "I don't want a job like this."

"me too."

Neither of them noticed Hurstwood.The cold wind was blowing towards him, and he was cold to the bone, thinking about the task given to him by his superiors.

"Drive steadily," said the foreman, "and don't stop for anyone who doesn't look like a passenger. Whatever you do, don't stop for a crowd."

The two police officers fell silent for a moment.

"The driver who drove out just now must have driven past without incident," said the policeman on the left, "I haven't seen his car anywhere."

"Who's up there?" asked the second policeman.This, of course, refers to the entire police force on board.

"Shaffer and Ryan."

There was another silence, and the car drove smoothly.There are not many houses on this road.Nor did Hurstwood see many people.This situation is not contrary to his wishes.If it hadn't been so cold, he thought he would have done a good job.

There was a sudden turn, which he hadn't expected, which interrupted his original train of thought.He turned off the power and braked hard, but it was still too late to prevent a sharp turn.He was startled, and felt as if he should say something explanatory, but he didn't say it.

(End of this chapter)