sister carrie

Chapter 73 (3)

Chapter 41 Strike (3)
There was one thing in his mind which would have strengthened his resolve to see him through, and that was Carrie's insult to him.I haven't collapsed to the point where I have to bear everything, he thought.There was something he could do--even this one--for a while it would get better.He wants to save some money.

While he was thinking this, a boy threw a piece of mud and hit him on the arm.It hurts a little, and it annoys him more than anything since this morning.

"Little bastard!" he murmured.

"Did it hurt you?" asked one of the policemen.

"No," he replied.

The car drove to a corner, and because it was about to turn, it drove a little slower. The original driver stood on the sidewalk and said to him:

"Come on down, man, be a man, okay? Remember, we're fighting for a decent wage, that's all. We're going to provide for our families." This man seemed to be the one who favored peaceful means.

Hurstwood pretended not to see it.He stared straight ahead, and pulled the joystick open.There was something appealing in that voice.

The whole morning passed like this, and then came the long afternoon.He did this three times.The food he ate could not support such a job.The cold weather also showed its majesty on him.Every time he drove to the end of the route, he always stopped to warm up his body.But he was so cold that he was on the verge of crying.One of the garage-keepers took pity on him and lent him a thick hat and a pair of sheepskin gloves, for which he was most grateful.

On the second train in the afternoon, he came across a group of people halfway on the line, who used an old pole log to block the progress of the vehicle.

"Get this off the track!" the two policemen yelled in unison.

"Okay, okay, okay!" shouted the crowd, "You guys move it yourself."

Two policemen came down.Hurstwood followed.

"You stay there," one of them yelled, "someone will take your car away."

Amid the cacophony of voices, Hurstwood heard a voice near him.

"Come on down, man, be a man. Don't fight the poor. Leave it to the company."

He saw the same man who had called him at the corner.Now, as before, he pretended not to hear what he had to say.

"Come on down," the man said again, politely, "you don't want to fight the poor. Don't fight at all." This was the most philosophical and eloquent driver ever.

Somewhere a third policeman emerged, joining the original two.One went to call for reinforcements.Hurstwood looked about him, determined, but fearful.

One grabs him by the top.

"Get out of the car," he yelled, trying to pull him over the iron bars with a sharp tug.

"Let go," said Hurstwood savagely.

"I'll show you—you scab!" cried a young Irishman, jumping into the car, and gave Hurstwood a blow.Hurstwood dodged and missed the gum, but got a blow on the shoulder.

"Go away!" shouted a policeman, cursing as he rushed to help.

Hurstwood collected himself, pale and trembling.For him, things are now serious.People looked up at him, laughed and cursed at him.One of the girls made faces at him.

A patrol car pulled up and more police got out, and now his resolve began to waver.At this time, the track was quickly cleared and the car could be driven again.

"Go ahead," said the policeman.He started the car again.

Things ended up running into a bunch of real thugs.It happened when the car was driving back, only a mile or two from the garage.This is a place of poverty.He wanted to drive fast through here, but the track was blocked again.When the car was five or six blocks away, he could see from a distance that over there, people were moving things out and putting them on the tracks.

"There they are again!" exclaimed a policeman.

"This time, I'll show them some color." The second policeman said, he couldn't bear it any longer.The car drove forward, and Hurstwood panicked.As before, the crowd started yelling, but instead of approaching, they threw things.A window or two were smashed, and Hurstwood nearly fell against a rock.

The two policemen got out of the car and walked towards the crowd. The crowd responded by rushing towards the car.A woman—only a girl, it seemed—was one of them, carrying a thick stick in her hand.In a fit of rage, she struck Hurstwood with a blow, which he dodged.Her companions, encouraged, jumped into the car and pulled Hurstwood, who fell before he could speak or cry out.

"Let me go!" he said, falling to one side.

"Ah, you vampire!" he heard someone say.Kicked and punched, they all hit him like raindrops.He seemed almost suffocated.Then two people seemed to be dragging him away, and he struggled to get free.

"Stand up," said a voice, "you're all right. Stand up."

He let go, and he calmed down a bit.He recognized two policemen, and he felt almost fainted, something wet on his chin.Touch it with your hand, and look again, it's red.

"They stabbed me," he said foolishly, taking out his handkerchief.

"Well, well," said one of the policemen, "it's just scratched."

He was conscious now and looked around.He was standing in a small shop where he had been temporarily placed.Standing and wiping his chin, he saw the cars and the angry crowd outside.One patrol car was there, and another.

He came over and looked out.An ambulance came from behind.

He witnessed the police crackdown and arrested several people.

"Come on, if you want to drive your car," said a policeman, opening the door and looking inside.

He came out, not knowing what to do.He was cold and scared.

"Where's the conductor?" he asked.

"Oh! He's not here now," said the policeman.

Hurstwood made his way to the car, and climbed into it nervously.At this moment, a gunshot rang out.Something stabbed him in the shoulder.

"Who fired the shot?" he heard a police officer shout. "My God, who did that?" Both left him and ran toward a building.He hesitated for a moment, then got out of the car.

"My God!" cried Hurstwood feebly, "I can't bear it."

He walked hurriedly to the corner of the street, and then hurried down a side street.

"Ouch!" he said, taking a breath.

After walking half a block, a little girl stared at him.

"You'd better sneak away," she said.

He arrived at the ferry at dusk, and walked toward his home in the snow that was blowing his way.During the ferry, the cabin was full of comfortable people, and they all looked at him curiously.His head was still spinning and churning, and he felt dizzy.Nor was he in the mood to watch the spectacle of twinkling lights on the river in a white blizzard.He staggered forward with all his strength, and finally reached home.He walked in and found that the house was warm and warm.Carrie was not at home.There were several evening papers on the table, where she had left them.He lit the gas, sat down, then got up, undressed, and looked over his shoulder.Just scratched.He washed his hands, washed his face, froze, and combed his hair.Then I looked for something to eat, and when I was full, I sat down in the comfortable rocking chair, so relaxed.

He rested his chin in one hand and forgot about the newspaper for a while.

"Well," he said after recovering after a while, "the things over there are really interesting."

Then he turned and began to read the paper.With a slight sigh, he picked up Le Monde.

"Brooklyn strike expands," he read it, "and there are riots all over the city."

He held the paper very comfortably, and went on reading.This was the news he was engrossed in watching.

(End of this chapter)