<SPAN name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </SPAN>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
After the elections Jurgis stayed on in Packingtown and kept his job. The
agitation to break up the police protection of criminals was continuing,
and it seemed to him best to "lay low" for the present. He had nearly
three hundred dollars in the bank, and might have considered himself
entitled to a vacation; but he had an easy job, and force of habit kept
him at it. Besides, Mike Scully, whom he consulted, advised him that
something might "turn up" before long.
Jurgis got himself a place in a boardinghouse with some congenial friends.
He had already inquired of Aniele, and learned that Elzbieta and her
family had gone downtown, and so he gave no further thought to them. He
went with a new set, now, young unmarried fellows who were "sporty."
Jurgis had long ago cast off his fertilizer clothing, and since going into
politics he had donned a linen collar and a greasy red necktie. He had
some reason for thinking of his dress, for he was making about eleven
dollars a week, and two-thirds of it he might spend upon his pleasures
without ever touching his savings.
Sometimes he would ride down-town with a party of friends to the cheap
theaters and the music halls and other haunts with which they were
familiar. Many of the saloons in Packingtown had pool tables, and some of
them bowling alleys, by means of which he could spend his evenings in
petty gambling. Also, there were cards and dice. One time Jurgis got into
a game on a Saturday night and won prodigiously, and because he was a man
of spirit he stayed in with the rest and the game continued until late
Sunday afternoon, and by that time he was "out" over twenty dollars. On
Saturday nights, also, a number of balls were generally given in
Packingtown; each man would bring his "girl" with him, paying half a
dollar for a ticket, and several dollars additional for drinks in the
course of the festivities, which continued until three or four o'clock in
the morning, unless broken up by fighting. During all this time the same
man and woman would dance together, half-stupefied with sensuality and
Before long Jurgis discovered what Scully had meant by something "turning
up." In May the agreement between the packers and the unions expired, and
a new agreement had to be signed. Negotiations were going on, and the
yards were full of talk of a strike. The old scale had dealt with the
wages of the skilled men only; and of the members of the Meat Workers'
Union about two-thirds were unskilled men. In Chicago these latter were
receiving, for the most part, eighteen and a half cents an hour, and the
unions wished to make this the general wage for the next year. It was not
nearly so large a wage as it seemed—in the course of the
negotiations the union officers examined time checks to the amount of ten
thousand dollars, and they found that the highest wages paid had been
fourteen dollars a week, and the lowest two dollars and five cents, and
the average of the whole, six dollars and sixty-five cents. And six
dollars and sixty-five cents was hardly too much for a man to keep a
family on, considering the fact that the price of dressed meat had
increased nearly fifty per cent in the last five years, while the price of
"beef on the hoof" had decreased as much, it would have seemed that the
packers ought to be able to pay it; but the packers were unwilling to pay
it—they rejected the union demand, and to show what their purpose
was, a week or two after the agreement expired they put down the wages of
about a thousand men to sixteen and a half cents, and it was said that old
man Jones had vowed he would put them to fifteen before he got through.
There were a million and a half of men in the country looking for work, a
hundred thousand of them right in Chicago; and were the packers to let the
union stewards march into their places and bind them to a contract that
would lose them several thousand dollars a day for a year? Not much!
All this was in June; and before long the question was submitted to a
referendum in the unions, and the decision was for a strike. It was the
same in all the packing house cities; and suddenly the newspapers and
public woke up to face the gruesome spectacle of a meat famine. All sorts
of pleas for a reconsideration were made, but the packers were obdurate;
and all the while they were reducing wages, and heading off shipments of
cattle, and rushing in wagon-loads of mattresses and cots. So the men
boiled over, and one night telegrams went out from the union headquarters
to all the big packing centers—to St. Paul, South Omaha, Sioux City,
St. Joseph, Kansas City, East St. Louis, and New York—and the next
day at noon between fifty and sixty thousand men drew off their working
clothes and marched out of the factories, and the great "Beef Strike" was
Jurgis went to his dinner, and afterward he walked over to see Mike
Scully, who lived in a fine house, upon a street which had been decently
paved and lighted for his especial benefit. Scully had gone into
semi-retirement, and looked nervous and worried. "What do you want?" he
demanded, when he saw Jurgis.
"I came to see if maybe you could get me a place during the strike," the
And Scully knit his brows and eyed him narrowly. In that morning's papers
Jurgis had read a fierce denunciation of the packers by Scully, who had
declared that if they did not treat their people better the city
authorities would end the matter by tearing down their plants. Now,
therefore, Jurgis was not a little taken aback when the other demanded
suddenly, "See here, Rudkus, why don't you stick by your job?"
Jurgis started. "Work as a scab?" he cried.
"Why not?" demanded Scully. "What's that to you?"
"But—but—" stammered Jurgis. He had somehow taken it for
granted that he should go out with his union. "The packers need good men,
and need them bad," continued the other, "and they'll treat a man right
that stands by them. Why don't you take your chance and fix yourself?"
"But," said Jurgis, "how could I ever be of any use to you—in
"You couldn't be it anyhow," said Scully, abruptly.
"Why not?" asked Jurgis.
"Hell, man!" cried the other. "Don't you know you're a Republican? And do
you think I'm always going to elect Republicans? My brewer has found out
already how we served him, and there is the deuce to pay."
Jurgis looked dumfounded. He had never thought of that aspect of it
before. "I could be a Democrat," he said.
"Yes," responded the other, "but not right away; a man can't change his
politics every day. And besides, I don't need you—there'd be nothing
for you to do. And it's a long time to election day, anyhow; and what are
you going to do meantime?"
"I thought I could count on you," began Jurgis.
"Yes," responded Scully, "so you could—I never yet went back on a
friend. But is it fair to leave the job I got you and come to me for
another? I have had a hundred fellows after me today, and what can I do?
I've put seventeen men on the city payroll to clean streets this one week,
and do you think I can keep that up forever? It wouldn't do for me to tell
other men what I tell you, but you've been on the inside, and you ought to
have sense enough to see for yourself. What have you to gain by a strike?"
"I hadn't thought," said Jurgis.
"Exactly," said Scully, "but you'd better. Take my word for it, the strike
will be over in a few days, and the men will be beaten; and meantime what
you can get out of it will belong to you. Do you see?"
And Jurgis saw. He went back to the yards, and into the workroom. The men
had left a long line of hogs in various stages of preparation, and the
foreman was directing the feeble efforts of a score or two of clerks and
stenographers and office boys to finish up the job and get them into the
chilling rooms. Jurgis went straight up to him and announced, "I have come
back to work, Mr. Murphy."
The boss's face lighted up. "Good man!" he cried. "Come ahead!"
"Just a moment," said Jurgis, checking his enthusiasm. "I think I ought to
get a little more wages."
"Yes," replied the other, "of course. What do you want?"
Jurgis had debated on the way. His nerve almost failed him now, but he
clenched his hands. "I think I ought to have' three dollars a day," he
"All right," said the other, promptly; and before the day was out our
friend discovered that the clerks and stenographers and office boys were
getting five dollars a day, and then he could have kicked himself!
So Jurgis became one of the new "American heroes," a man whose virtues
merited comparison with those of the martyrs of Lexington and Valley
Forge. The resemblance was not complete, of course, for Jurgis was
generously paid and comfortably clad, and was provided with a spring cot
and a mattress and three substantial meals a day; also he was perfectly at
ease, and safe from all peril of life and limb, save only in the case that
a desire for beer should lead him to venture outside of the stockyards
gates. And even in the exercise of this privilege he was not left
unprotected; a good part of the inadequate police force of Chicago was
suddenly diverted from its work of hunting criminals, and rushed out to
serve him. The police, and the strikers also, were determined that there
should be no violence; but there was another party interested which was
minded to the contrary—and that was the press. On the first day of
his life as a strikebreaker Jurgis quit work early, and in a spirit of
bravado he challenged three men of his acquaintance to go outside and get
a drink. They accepted, and went through the big Halsted Street gate,
where several policemen were watching, and also some union pickets,
scanning sharply those who passed in and out. Jurgis and his companions
went south on Halsted Street; past the hotel, and then suddenly half a
dozen men started across the street toward them and proceeded to argue
with them concerning the error of their ways. As the arguments were not
taken in the proper spirit, they went on to threats; and suddenly one of
them jerked off the hat of one of the four and flung it over the fence.
The man started after it, and then, as a cry of "Scab!" was raised and a
dozen people came running out of saloons and doorways, a second man's
heart failed him and he followed. Jurgis and the fourth stayed long enough
to give themselves the satisfaction of a quick exchange of blows, and then
they, too, took to their heels and fled back of the hotel and into the
yards again. Meantime, of course, policemen were coming on a run, and as a
crowd gathered other police got excited and sent in a riot call. Jurgis
knew nothing of this, but went back to "Packers' Avenue," and in front of
the "Central Time Station" he saw one of his companions, breathless and
wild with excitement, narrating to an ever growing throng how the four had
been attacked and surrounded by a howling mob, and had been nearly torn to
pieces. While he stood listening, smiling cynically, several dapper young
men stood by with notebooks in their hands, and it was not more than two
hours later that Jurgis saw newsboys running about with armfuls of
newspapers, printed in red and black letters six inches high:
VIOLENCE IN THE YARDS! STRIKEBREAKERS SURROUNDED BY FRENZIED MOB!
If he had been able to buy all of the newspapers of the United States the
next morning, he might have discovered that his beer-hunting exploit was
being perused by some two score millions of people, and had served as a
text for editorials in half the staid and solemn business-men's newspapers
in the land.
Jurgis was to see more of this as time passed. For the present, his work
being over, he was free to ride into the city, by a railroad direct from
the yards, or else to spend the night in a room where cots had been laid
in rows. He chose the latter, but to his regret, for all night long gangs
of strikebreakers kept arriving. As very few of the better class of
workingmen could be got for such work, these specimens of the new American
hero contained an assortment of the criminals and thugs of the city,
besides Negroes and the lowest foreigners—Greeks, Roumanians,
Sicilians, and Slovaks. They had been attracted more by the prospect of
disorder than by the big wages; and they made the night hideous with
singing and carousing, and only went to sleep when the time came for them
to get up to work.
In the morning before Jurgis had finished his breakfast, "Pat" Murphy
ordered him to one of the superintendents, who questioned him as to his
experience in the work of the killing room. His heart began to thump with
excitement, for he divined instantly that his hour had come—that he
was to be a boss!
Some of the foremen were union members, and many who were not had gone out
with the men. It was in the killing department that the packers had been
left most in the lurch, and precisely here that they could least afford
it; the smoking and canning and salting of meat might wait, and all the
by-products might be wasted—but fresh meats must be had, or the
restaurants and hotels and brownstone houses would feel the pinch, and
then "public opinion" would take a startling turn.
An opportunity such as this would not come twice to a man; and Jurgis
seized it. Yes, he knew the work, the whole of it, and he could teach it
to others. But if he took the job and gave satisfaction he would expect to
keep it—they would not turn him off at the end of the strike? To
which the superintendent replied that he might safely trust Durham's for
that—they proposed to teach these unions a lesson, and most of all
those foremen who had gone back on them. Jurgis would receive five dollars
a day during the strike, and twenty-five a week after it was settled.
So our friend got a pair of "slaughter pen" boots and "jeans," and flung
himself at his task. It was a weird sight, there on the killing beds—a
throng of stupid black Negroes, and foreigners who could not understand a
word that was said to them, mixed with pale-faced, hollow-chested
bookkeepers and clerks, half-fainting for the tropical heat and the
sickening stench of fresh blood—and all struggling to dress a dozen
or two cattle in the same place where, twenty-four hours ago, the old
killing gang had been speeding, with their marvelous precision, turning
out four hundred carcasses every hour!
The Negroes and the "toughs" from the Levee did not want to work, and
every few minutes some of them would feel obliged to retire and
recuperate. In a couple of days Durham and Company had electric fans up to
cool off the rooms for them, and even couches for them to rest on; and
meantime they could go out and find a shady corner and take a "snooze,"
and as there was no place for any one in particular, and no system, it
might be hours before their boss discovered them. As for the poor office
employees, they did their best, moved to it by terror; thirty of them had
been "fired" in a bunch that first morning for refusing to serve, besides
a number of women clerks and typewriters who had declined to act as
It was such a force as this that Jurgis had to organize. He did his best,
flying here and there, placing them in rows and showing them the tricks;
he had never given an order in his life before, but he had taken enough of
them to know, and he soon fell into the spirit of it, and roared and
stormed like any old stager. He had not the most tractable pupils,
however. "See hyar, boss," a big black "buck" would begin, "ef you doan'
like de way Ah does dis job, you kin get somebody else to do it." Then a
crowd would gather and listen, muttering threats. After the first meal
nearly all the steel knives had been missing, and now every Negro had one,
ground to a fine point, hidden in his boots.
There was no bringing order out of such a chaos, Jurgis soon discovered;
and he fell in with the spirit of the thing—there was no reason why
he should wear himself out with shouting. If hides and guts were slashed
and rendered useless there was no way of tracing it to any one; and if a
man lay off and forgot to come back there was nothing to be gained by
seeking him, for all the rest would quit in the meantime. Everything went,
during the strike, and the packers paid. Before long Jurgis found that the
custom of resting had suggested to some alert minds the possibility of
registering at more than one place and earning more than one five dollars
a day. When he caught a man at this he "fired" him, but it chanced to be
in a quiet corner, and the man tendered him a ten-dollar bill and a wink,
and he took them. Of course, before long this custom spread, and Jurgis
was soon making quite a good income from it.
In the face of handicaps such as these the packers counted themselves
lucky if they could kill off the cattle that had been crippled in transit
and the hogs that had developed disease. Frequently, in the course of a
two or three days' trip, in hot weather and without water, some hog would
develop cholera, and die; and the rest would attack him before he had
ceased kicking, and when the car was opened there would be nothing of him
left but the bones. If all the hogs in this carload were not killed at
once, they would soon be down with the dread disease, and there would be
nothing to do but make them into lard. It was the same with cattle that
were gored and dying, or were limping with broken bones stuck through
their flesh—they must be killed, even if brokers and buyers and
superintendents had to take off their coats and help drive and cut and
skin them. And meantime, agents of the packers were gathering gangs of
Negroes in the country districts of the far South, promising them five
dollars a day and board, and being careful not to mention there was a
strike; already carloads of them were on the way, with special rates from
the railroads, and all traffic ordered out of the way. Many towns and
cities were taking advantage of the chance to clear out their jails and
workhouses—in Detroit the magistrates would release every man who
agreed to leave town within twenty-four hours, and agents of the packers
were in the courtrooms to ship them right. And meantime trainloads of
supplies were coming in for their accommodation, including beer and
whisky, so that they might not be tempted to go outside. They hired thirty
young girls in Cincinnati to "pack fruit," and when they arrived put them
at work canning corned beef, and put cots for them to sleep in a public
hallway, through which the men passed. As the gangs came in day and night,
under the escort of squads of police, they stowed away in unused workrooms
and storerooms, and in the car sheds, crowded so closely together that the
cots touched. In some places they would use the same room for eating and
sleeping, and at night the men would put their cots upon the tables, to
keep away from the swarms of rats.
But with all their best efforts, the packers were demoralized. Ninety per
cent of the men had walked out; and they faced the task of completely
remaking their labor force—and with the price of meat up thirty per
cent, and the public clamoring for a settlement. They made an offer to
submit the whole question at issue to arbitration; and at the end of ten
days the unions accepted it, and the strike was called off. It was agreed
that all the men were to be re-employed within forty-five days, and that
there was to be "no discrimination against union men."
This was an anxious time for Jurgis. If the men were taken back "without
discrimination," he would lose his present place. He sought out the
superintendent, who smiled grimly and bade him "wait and see." Durham's
strikebreakers were few of them leaving.
Whether or not the "settlement" was simply a trick of the packers to gain
time, or whether they really expected to break the strike and cripple the
unions by the plan, cannot be said; but that night there went out from the
office of Durham and Company a telegram to all the big packing centers,
"Employ no union leaders." And in the morning, when the twenty thousand
men thronged into the yards, with their dinner pails and working clothes,
Jurgis stood near the door of the hog-trimming room, where he had worked
before the strike, and saw a throng of eager men, with a score or two of
policemen watching them; and he saw a superintendent come out and walk
down the line, and pick out man after man that pleased him; and one after
another came, and there were some men up near the head of the line who
were never picked—they being the union stewards and delegates, and
the men Jurgis had heard making speeches at the meetings. Each time, of
course, there were louder murmurings and angrier looks. Over where the
cattle butchers were waiting, Jurgis heard shouts and saw a crowd, and he
hurried there. One big butcher, who was president of the Packing Trades
Council, had been passed over five times, and the men were wild with rage;
they had appointed a committee of three to go in and see the
superintendent, and the committee had made three attempts, and each time
the police had clubbed them back from the door. Then there were yells and
hoots, continuing until at last the superintendent came to the door. "We
all go back or none of us do!" cried a hundred voices. And the other shook
his fist at them, and shouted, "You went out of here like cattle, and like
cattle you'll come back!"
Then suddenly the big butcher president leaped upon a pile of stones and
yelled: "It's off, boys. We'll all of us quit again!" And so the cattle
butchers declared a new strike on the spot; and gathering their members
from the other plants, where the same trick had been played, they marched
down Packers' Avenue, which was thronged with a dense mass of workers,
cheering wildly. Men who had already got to work on the killing beds
dropped their tools and joined them; some galloped here and there on
horseback, shouting the tidings, and within half an hour the whole of
Packingtown was on strike again, and beside itself with fury.
There was quite a different tone in Packingtown after this—the place
was a seething caldron of passion, and the "scab" who ventured into it
fared badly. There were one or two of these incidents each day, the
newspapers detailing them, and always blaming them upon the unions. Yet
ten years before, when there were no unions in Packingtown, there was a
strike, and national troops had to be called, and there were pitched
battles fought at night, by the light of blazing freight trains.
Packingtown was always a center of violence; in "Whisky Point," where
there were a hundred saloons and one glue factory, there was always
fighting, and always more of it in hot weather. Any one who had taken the
trouble to consult the station house blotter would have found that there
was less violence that summer than ever before—and this while twenty
thousand men were out of work, and with nothing to do all day but brood
upon bitter wrongs. There was no one to picture the battle the union
leaders were fighting—to hold this huge army in rank, to keep it
from straggling and pillaging, to cheer and encourage and guide a hundred
thousand people, of a dozen different tongues, through six long weeks of
hunger and disappointment and despair.
Meantime the packers had set themselves definitely to the task of making a
new labor force. A thousand or two of strikebreakers were brought in every
night, and distributed among the various plants. Some of them were
experienced workers,—butchers, salesmen, and managers from the
packers' branch stores, and a few union men who had deserted from other
cities; but the vast majority were "green" Negroes from the cotton
districts of the far South, and they were herded into the packing plants
like sheep. There was a law forbidding the use of buildings as
lodginghouses unless they were licensed for the purpose, and provided with
proper windows, stairways, and fire escapes; but here, in a "paint room,"
reached only by an enclosed "chute," a room without a single window and
only one door, a hundred men were crowded upon mattresses on the floor. Up
on the third story of the "hog house" of Jones's was a storeroom, without
a window, into which they crowded seven hundred men, sleeping upon the
bare springs of cots, and with a second shift to use them by day. And when
the clamor of the public led to an investigation into these conditions,
and the mayor of the city was forced to order the enforcement of the law,
the packers got a judge to issue an injunction forbidding him to do it!
Just at this time the mayor was boasting that he had put an end to
gambling and prize fighting in the city; but here a swarm of professional
gamblers had leagued themselves with the police to fleece the
strikebreakers; and any night, in the big open space in front of Brown's,
one might see brawny Negroes stripped to the waist and pounding each other
for money, while a howling throng of three or four thousand surged about,
men and women, young white girls from the country rubbing elbows with big
buck Negroes with daggers in their boots, while rows of woolly heads
peered down from every window of the surrounding factories. The ancestors
of these black people had been savages in Africa; and since then they had
been chattel slaves, or had been held down by a community ruled by the
traditions of slavery. Now for the first time they were free—free to
gratify every passion, free to wreck themselves. They were wanted to break
a strike, and when it was broken they would be shipped away, and their
present masters would never see them again; and so whisky and women were
brought in by the carload and sold to them, and hell was let loose in the
yards. Every night there were stabbings and shootings; it was said that
the packers had blank permits, which enabled them to ship dead bodies from
the city without troubling the authorities. They lodged men and women on
the same floor; and with the night there began a saturnalia of debauchery—scenes
such as never before had been witnessed in America. And as the women were
the dregs from the brothels of Chicago, and the men were for the most part
ignorant country Negroes, the nameless diseases of vice were soon rife;
and this where food was being handled which was sent out to every corner
of the civilized world.
The "Union Stockyards" were never a pleasant place; but now they were not
only a collection of slaughterhouses, but also the camping place of an
army of fifteen or twenty thousand human beasts. All day long the blazing
midsummer sun beat down upon that square mile of abominations: upon tens
of thousands of cattle crowded into pens whose wooden floors stank and
steamed contagion; upon bare, blistering, cinder-strewn railroad tracks,
and huge blocks of dingy meat factories, whose labyrinthine passages
defied a breath of fresh air to penetrate them; and there were not merely
rivers of hot blood, and car-loads of moist flesh, and rendering vats and
soap caldrons, glue factories and fertilizer tanks, that smelt like the
craters of hell—there were also tons of garbage festering in the
sun, and the greasy laundry of the workers hung out to dry, and dining
rooms littered with food and black with flies, and toilet rooms that were
And then at night, when this throng poured out into the streets to play—fighting,
gambling, drinking and carousing, cursing and screaming, laughing and
singing, playing banjoes and dancing! They were worked in the yards all
the seven days of the week, and they had their prize fights and crap games
on Sunday nights as well; but then around the corner one might see a
bonfire blazing, and an old, gray-headed Negress, lean and witchlike, her
hair flying wild and her eyes blazing, yelling and chanting of the fires
of perdition and the blood of the "Lamb," while men and women lay down
upon the ground and moaned and screamed in convulsions of terror and
Such were the stockyards during the strike; while the unions watched in
sullen despair, and the country clamored like a greedy child for its food,
and the packers went grimly on their way. Each day they added new workers,
and could be more stern with the old ones—could put them on
piecework, and dismiss them if they did not keep up the pace. Jurgis was
now one of their agents in this process; and he could feel the change day
by day, like the slow starting up of a huge machine. He had gotten used to
being a master of men; and because of the stifling heat and the stench,
and the fact that he was a "scab" and knew it and despised himself. He was
drinking, and developing a villainous temper, and he stormed and cursed
and raged at his men, and drove them until they were ready to drop with
Then one day late in August, a superintendent ran into the place and
shouted to Jurgis and his gang to drop their work and come. They followed
him outside, to where, in the midst of a dense throng, they saw several
two-horse trucks waiting, and three patrol-wagon loads of police. Jurgis
and his men sprang upon one of the trucks, and the driver yelled to the
crowd, and they went thundering away at a gallop. Some steers had just
escaped from the yards, and the strikers had got hold of them, and there
would be the chance of a scrap!
They went out at the Ashland Avenue gate, and over in the direction of the
"dump." There was a yell as soon as they were sighted, men and women
rushing out of houses and saloons as they galloped by. There were eight or
ten policemen on the truck, however, and there was no disturbance until
they came to a place where the street was blocked with a dense throng.
Those on the flying truck yelled a warning and the crowd scattered
pell-mell, disclosing one of the steers lying in its blood. There were a
good many cattle butchers about just then, with nothing much to do, and
hungry children at home; and so some one had knocked out the steer—and
as a first-class man can kill and dress one in a couple of minutes, there
were a good many steaks and roasts already missing. This called for
punishment, of course; and the police proceeded to administer it by
leaping from the truck and cracking at every head they saw. There were
yells of rage and pain, and the terrified people fled into houses and
stores, or scattered helter-skelter down the street. Jurgis and his gang
joined in the sport, every man singling out his victim, and striving to
bring him to bay and punch him. If he fled into a house his pursuer would
smash in the flimsy door and follow him up the stairs, hitting every one
who came within reach, and finally dragging his squealing quarry from
under a bed or a pile of old clothes in a closet.
Jurgis and two policemen chased some men into a bar-room. One of them took
shelter behind the bar, where a policeman cornered him and proceeded to
whack him over the back and shoulders, until he lay down and gave a chance
at his head. The others leaped a fence in the rear, balking the second
policeman, who was fat; and as he came back, furious and cursing, a big
Polish woman, the owner of the saloon, rushed in screaming, and received a
poke in the stomach that doubled her up on the floor. Meantime Jurgis, who
was of a practical temper, was helping himself at the bar; and the first
policeman, who had laid out his man, joined him, handing out several more
bottles, and filling his pockets besides, and then, as he started to
leave, cleaning off all the balance with a sweep of his club. The din of
the glass crashing to the floor brought the fat Polish woman to her feet
again, but another policeman came up behind her and put his knee into her
back and his hands over her eyes—and then called to his companion,
who went back and broke open the cash drawer and filled his pockets with
the contents. Then the three went outside, and the man who was holding the
woman gave her a shove and dashed out himself. The gang having already got
the carcass on to the truck, the party set out at a trot, followed by
screams and curses, and a shower of bricks and stones from unseen enemies.
These bricks and stones would figure in the accounts of the "riot" which
would be sent out to a few thousand newspapers within an hour or two; but
the episode of the cash drawer would never be mentioned again, save only
in the heartbreaking legends of Packingtown.
It was late in the afternoon when they got back, and they dressed out the
remainder of the steer, and a couple of others that had been killed, and
then knocked off for the day. Jurgis went downtown to supper, with three
friends who had been on the other trucks, and they exchanged reminiscences
on the way. Afterward they drifted into a roulette parlor, and Jurgis, who
was never lucky at gambling, dropped about fifteen dollars. To console
himself he had to drink a good deal, and he went back to Packingtown about
two o'clock in the morning, very much the worse for his excursion, and, it
must be confessed, entirely deserving the calamity that was in store for
As he was going to the place where he slept, he met a painted-cheeked
woman in a greasy "kimono," and she put her arm about his waist to steady
him; they turned into a dark room they were passing—but scarcely had
they taken two steps before suddenly a door swung open, and a man entered,
carrying a lantern. "Who's there?" he called sharply. And Jurgis started
to mutter some reply; but at the same instant the man raised his light,
which flashed in his face, so that it was possible to recognize him.
Jurgis stood stricken dumb, and his heart gave a leap like a mad thing.
The man was Connor!
Connor, the boss of the loading gang! The man who had seduced his wife—who
had sent him to prison, and wrecked his home, ruined his life! He stood
there, staring, with the light shining full upon him.
Jurgis had often thought of Connor since coming back to Packingtown, but
it had been as of something far off, that no longer concerned him. Now,
however, when he saw him, alive and in the flesh, the same thing happened
to him that had happened before—a flood of rage boiled up in him, a
blind frenzy seized him. And he flung himself at the man, and smote him
between the eyes—and then, as he fell, seized him by the throat and
began to pound his head upon the stones.
The woman began screaming, and people came rushing in. The lantern had
been upset and extinguished, and it was so dark they could not see a
thing; but they could hear Jurgis panting, and hear the thumping of his
victim's skull, and they rushed there and tried to pull him off. Precisely
as before, Jurgis came away with a piece of his enemy's flesh between his
teeth; and, as before, he went on fighting with those who had interfered
with him, until a policeman had come and beaten him into insensibility.
And so Jurgis spent the balance of the night in the stockyards station
house. This time, however, he had money in his pocket, and when he came to
his senses he could get something to drink, and also a messenger to take
word of his plight to "Bush" Harper. Harper did not appear, however, until
after the prisoner, feeling very weak and ill, had been hailed into court
and remanded at five hundred dollars' bail to await the result of his
victim's injuries. Jurgis was wild about this, because a different
magistrate had chanced to be on the bench, and he had stated that he had
never been arrested before, and also that he had been attacked first—and
if only someone had been there to speak a good word for him, he could have
been let off at once.
But Harper explained that he had been downtown, and had not got the
message. "What's happened to you?" he asked.
"I've been doing a fellow up," said Jurgis, "and I've got to get five
hundred dollars' bail."
"I can arrange that all right," said the other—"though it may cost
you a few dollars, of course. But what was the trouble?"
"It was a man that did me a mean trick once," answered Jurgis.
"Who is he?"
"He's a foreman in Brown's or used to be. His name's Connor."
And the other gave a start. "Connor!" he cried. "Not Phil Connor!"
"Yes," said Jurgis, "that's the fellow. Why?"
"Good God!" exclaimed the other, "then you're in for it, old man! I can't
"Not help me! Why not?"
"Why, he's one of Scully's biggest men—he's a member of the
War-Whoop League, and they talked of sending him to the legislature! Phil
Connor! Great heavens!"
Jurgis sat dumb with dismay.
"Why, he can send you to Joliet, if he wants to!" declared the other.
"Can't I have Scully get me off before he finds out about it?" asked
Jurgis, at length.
"But Scully's out of town," the other answered. "I don't even know where
he is—he's run away to dodge the strike."
That was a pretty mess, indeed. Poor Jurgis sat half-dazed. His pull had
run up against a bigger pull, and he was down and out! "But what am I
going to do?" he asked, weakly.
"How should I know?" said the other. "I shouldn't even dare to get bail
for you—why, I might ruin myself for life!"
Again there was silence. "Can't you do it for me," Jurgis asked, "and
pretend that you didn't know who I'd hit?"
"But what good would that do you when you came to stand trial?" asked
Harper. Then he sat buried in thought for a minute or two. "There's
nothing—unless it's this," he said. "I could have your bail reduced;
and then if you had the money you could pay it and skip."
"How much will it be?" Jurgis asked, after he had had this explained more
"I don't know," said the other. "How much do you own?"
"I've got about three hundred dollars," was the answer.
"Well," was Harper's reply, "I'm not sure, but I'll try and get you off
for that. I'll take the risk for friendship's sake—for I'd hate to
see you sent to state's prison for a year or two."
And so finally Jurgis ripped out his bankbook—which was sewed up in
his trousers—and signed an order, which "Bush" Harper wrote, for all
the money to be paid out. Then the latter went and got it, and hurried to
the court, and explained to the magistrate that Jurgis was a decent fellow
and a friend of Scully's, who had been attacked by a strike-breaker. So
the bail was reduced to three hundred dollars, and Harper went on it
himself; he did not tell this to Jurgis, however—nor did he tell him
that when the time for trial came it would be an easy matter for him to
avoid the forfeiting of the bail, and pocket the three hundred dollars as
his reward for the risk of offending Mike Scully! All that he told Jurgis
was that he was now free, and that the best thing he could do was to clear
out as quickly as possible; and so Jurgis overwhelmed with gratitude and
relief, took the dollar and fourteen cents that was left him out of all
his bank account, and put it with the two dollars and quarter that was
left from his last night's celebration, and boarded a streetcar and got
off at the other end of Chicago.