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That 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 disappointment. 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 and cellars and doorways—until
there came a spell of belated winter weather, with a raging gale, and the
thermometer 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 corridor, crowded with two other men upon a
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 carrying satchels for railroad passengers was a
pre-empted 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 perpetual 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 cellar-way, 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 street 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 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 digging 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 "settlement
worker," she explained 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 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 steelworks 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 steel-works 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 boardinghouses 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
messenger 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 underfoot 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 building, where a company
timekeeper interviewed him. The superintendent was busy, he said, but he
(the timekeeper) 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 marveled.
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 below—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 carload 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 suddenly, 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, overwhelming 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 whiteness not of earth, scorching the eyeballs. Incandescent
rainbows 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 sunlight.
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, great
hammers crashing; traveling cranes creaked and groaned overhead, reaching
down iron hands and seizing iron prey—it was like standing 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.
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
introduced 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 steelworks, 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 bewilderment 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 indifferent, 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 any one, and was laid up
for eight working days without any pay.
Most fortunately, at this juncture, Elzbieta got the long-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
Antanas. 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. Nothing 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
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 education, 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; 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 "God damn," his father nearly
rolled off the chair with glee; but in the end he was sorry for this, for
Antanas was soon "God-damning" 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 prospect of an end to their long agony. They could save money
again, and when another winter came they would have a comfortable 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
before 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 almost stood still.
"What's the matter?" he cried.
A dead silence had fallen in the room, and he saw that every one was
staring at him. "What's the matter?" he exclaimed 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 the old woman answered him weakly: "It's Antanas. He's dead. He was
drowned out in the street!"