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were not so many houses along this part of the way. Hurstwood did not

see many people either. The situation was not wholly disagreeable to

him. If he were not so cold, he thought he would do well enough.

He was brought out of this feeling by the sudden appearance of a curve

ahead, which he had not expected. He shut off the current and did an

energetic turn at the brake, but not in time to avoid an unnaturally

quick turn. It shook him up and made him feel like making some

apologetic remarks, but he refrained.

" You want to look out for them things, " said the officer on the left,

condescendingly.

" That's right, " agreed Hurstwood, shamefacedly.

" There's lots of them on this line, " said the officer on the right.

Around the corner a more populated way appeared. One or two

pedestrians were in view ahead. A boy coming out of a gate with a tin

milk bucket gave Hurstwood his first objectionable greeting.

" Scab! " he yelled. " Scab! "

Hurstwood heard it, but tried to make no comment, even to himself. He

knew he would get that, and much more of the same sort, probably.

At a corner farther up a man stood by the track and signaled the car to

stop.

" Never mind him, " said one of the officers. " He's up to some game. "

Hurstwood obeyed. At the corner he saw the wisdom of it. No sooner

did the man perceive the intention to ignore him, than he shook his

fist.

" Ah, you bloody coward! " he yelled.

Some half dozen men, standing on the corner, flung taunts and jeers

after the speeding car.

Hurstwood winced the least bit. The real thing was slightly worse than

the thoughts of it had been.

Now came in sight, three or four blocks farther on, a heap of something

on the track.

" They've been at work, here, all right, " said one of the policemen.

" We'll have an argument, maybe, " said the other.

Hurstwood ran the car close and stopped. He had not done so wholly,

however, before a crowd gathered about. It was composed of ex-motormen

and conductors in part, with a sprinkling of friends and sympathizers.

" Come off the car, pardner, " said one of the men in a voice meant to be

conciliatory. " You don't want to take the bread out of another man's

mouth, do you? "

Hurstwood held to his brake and lever, pale and very uncertain what to

do.

" Stand back, " yelled one of the officers, leaning over the platform

railing. " Clear out of this, now. Give the man a chance to do his

work. "

" Listen, pardner, " said the leader, ignoring the policeman and

addressing Hurstwood. " We're all working men, like yourself. If you

were a regular motorman, and had been treated as we've been, you

wouldn't want any one to come in and take your place, would you? You

wouldn't want any one to do you out of your chance to get your rights,

would you? "

" Shut her off! shut her off! " urged the other of the policemen,

roughly. " Get out of this, now, " and he jumped the railing and landed

before the crowd and began shoving. Instantly the other officer was

down beside him.

" Stand back, now, " they yelled. " Get out of this. What the hell do

you mean? Out, now. "

It was like a small swarm of bees.

" Don't shove me, " said one of the strikers, determinedly. " I'm not

doing anything. "

" Get out of this! " cried the officer, swinging his club. " I'll give ye

a bat on the sconce. Back, now. "

" What the hell! " cried another of the strikers, pushing the other way,

adding at the same time some lusty oaths.

Crack came an officer's club on his forehead. He blinked his eyes

blindly a few times, wobbled on his legs, threw up his hands, and

staggered back. In return, a swift fist landed on the officer's neck.

Infuriated by this, the latter plunged left and right, laying about

madly with his club. He was ably assisted by his brother of the blue,

who poured ponderous oaths upon the troubled waters. No severe damage

was done, owing to the agility of the strikers in keeping out of reach.

They stood about the sidewalk now and jeered.

" Where is the conductor? " yelled one of the officers, getting his eye

on that individual, who had come nervously forward to stand by

Hurstwood. The latter had stood gazing upon the scene with more

astonishment than fear.

" Why don't you come down here and get these stones off the track? "

inquired the officer. " What you standing there for? Do you want to

stay here all day? Get down. "

Hurstwood breathed heavily in excitement and jumped down with the

nervous conductor as if he had been called.

" Hurry up, now, " said the other policeman.

Cold as it was, these officers were hot and mad. Hurstwood worked with

the conductor, lifting stone after stone and warming himself by the

work.

" Ah, you scab, you! " yelled the crowd. " You coward! Steal a man's job,

will you? Rob the poor, will you, you thief? We'll get you yet, now.

Wait. "

Not all of this was delivered by one man. It came from here and there,

incorporated with much more of the same sort and curses.

" Work, you blackguards, " yelled a voice. " Do the dirty work. You're

the suckers that keep the poor people down! "

" May God starve ye yet, " yelled an old Irish woman, who now threw open

a nearby window and stuck out her head.

" Yes, and you, " she added, catching the eye of one of the policemen.

" You bloody, murtherin' thafe! Crack my son over the head, will you,

you hardhearted, murtherin' divil? Ah, ye----"

But the officer turned a deaf ear.

" Go to the devil, you old hag, " he half muttered as he stared round

upon the scattered company.

Now the stones were off, and Hurstwood took his place again amid a

continued chorus of epithets. Both officers got up beside him and the

conductor rang the bell, when, bang! bang! through window and door came

rocks and stones. One narrowly grazed Hurstwood's head. Another

shattered the window behind.

" Throw open your lever, " yelled one of the officers, grabbing at the

handle himself.

Hurstwood complied and the car shot away, followed by a rattle of

stones and a rain of curses.

" That ---------hit me in the neck, " said one of the officers. " I gave

him a good crack for it, though. "

" I think I must have left spots on some of them, " said the other.

" I know that big guy that called us a ----------" said the first.

" I'll get him yet for that. "

" I thought we were in for it sure, once there, " said the second.

Hurstwood, warmed and excited, gazed steadily ahead. It was an

astonishing experience for him. He had read of these things, but the

reality seemed something altogether new. He was no coward in spirit.

The fact that he had suffered this much now rather operated to arouse a

stolid determination to stick it out. He did not recur in thought to

New York or the flat. This one trip seemed a consuming thing.

They now ran into the business heart of Brooklyn uninterrupted. People

gazed at the broken windows of the car and at Hurstwood in his plain

clothes. Voices called " scab" now and then, as well as other epithets,

but no crowd attacked the car. At the downtown end of the line, one of

the officers went to call up his station and report the trouble.

" There's a gang out there, " he said, " laying for us yet. Better send

some one over there and clean them out. "

The car ran back more quietly--hooted, watched, flung at, but not

attacked. Hurstwood breathed freely when he saw the barns.

" Well, " he observed to himself, " I came out of that all right. "

The car was turned in and he was allowed to loaf a while, but later he

was again called. This time a new team of officers was aboard.

Slightly more confident, he sped the car along the commonplace streets

and felt somewhat less fearful. On one side, however, he suffered

intensely. The day was raw, with a sprinkling of snow and a gusty

wind, made all the more intolerable by the speed of the car. His

clothing was not intended for this sort of work. He shivered, stamped

his feet, and beat his arms as he had seen other motormen do in the

past, but said nothing. The novelty and danger of the situation

modified in a way his disgust and distress at being compelled to be

here, but not enough to prevent him from feeling grim and sour. This

was a dog's life, he thought. It was a tough thing to have to come to.

The one thought that strengthened him was the insult offered by Carrie.

He was not down so low as to take all that, he thought. He could do

something--this, even--for a while. It would get better. He would

save a little.

A boy threw a clod of mud while he was thus reflecting and hit him upon

the arm. It hurt sharply and angered him more than he had been any

time since morning.

" The little cur! " he muttered.

" Hurt you? " asked one of the policemen.

" No, " he answered.

At one of the corners, where the car slowed up because of a turn, an

ex-motorman, standing on the sidewalk, called to him:

" Won't you come out, pardner, and be a man? Remember we're fighting for

decent day's wages, that's all. We've got families to support. " The

man seemed most peaceably inclined.

Hurstwood pretended not to see him. He kept his eyes straight on

before and opened the lever wide. The voice had something appealing in

it.

All morning this went on and long into the afternoon. He made three

such trips. The dinner he had was no stay for such work and the cold

was telling on him. At each end of the line he stopped to thaw out,

but he could have groaned at the anguish of it. One of the barn men,

out of pity, loaned him a heavy cap and a pair of sheepskin gloves, and

for once he was extremely thankful.

On the second trip of the afternoon he ran into a crowd about half way

along the line, that had blocked the car's progress with an old

telegraph pole.

" Get that thing off the track, " shouted the two policemen.

" Yah, yah, yah! " yelled the crowd. " Get it off yourself. "

The two policemen got down and Hurstwood started to follow.

" You stay there, " one called. " Some one will run away with your car. "

Amid the babble of voices, Hurstwood heard one close beside him.

" Come down, pardner, and be a man. Don't fight the poor. Leave that

to the corporations. "

He saw the same fellow who had called to him from the corner. Now, as

before, he pretended not to hear him.

" Come down, " the man repeated gently. " You don't want to fight poor

men. Don't fight at all. " It was a most philosophic and Jesuitical

motorman.

A third policeman joined the other two from somewhere and some one ran

to telephone for more officers. Hurstwood gazed about, determined but

fearful.

A man grabbed him by the coat.

" Come off of that, " he exclaimed, jerking at him and trying to pull him

over the railing.

" Let go, " said Hurstwood, savagely.

" I'll show you--you scab! " cried a young Irishman, jumping up on the

car and aiming a blow at Hurstwood. The latter ducked and caught it on

the shoulder instead of the jaw.

" Away from here, " shouted an officer, hastening to the rescue, and

adding, of course, the usual oaths.

Hurstwood recovered himself, pale and trembling. It was becoming

serious with him now. People were looking up and jeering at him. One

girl was making faces.

He began to waver in his resolution, when a patrol wagon rolled up and

more officers dismounted. Now the track was quickly cleared and the

release effected.

" Let her go now, quick, " said the officer, and again he was off.

The end came with a real mob, which met the car on its return trip a

mile or two from the barns. It was an exceedingly poor looking

neighborhood. He wanted to run fast through it, but again the track

was blocked. He saw men carrying something out to it when he was yet a

half-dozen blocks away.

" There they are again! " exclaimed one policeman.

" I'll give them something this time, " said the second officer, whose

patience was becoming worn. Hurstwood suffered a qualm of body as the

car rolled up. As before, the crowd began hooting, but now, rather

than come near, they threw things. One or two windows were smashed and

Hurstwood dodged a stone.

Both policemen ran out toward the crowd, but the latter replied by

running toward the car. A woman--a mere girl in appearance-was among

these, bearing a rough stick. She was exceedingly wrathful and struck

at Hurstwood, who dodged. Thereupon, her companions, duly encouraged,

jumped on the car and pulled Hurstwood over. He had hardly time to

speak or shout before he fell.

" Let go of me, " he said, falling on his side.

" Ah, you sucker, " he heard some one say. Kicks and blows rained on

him. He seemed to be suffocating. Then two men seemed to be dragging

him off and he wrestled for freedom.

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

He was let loose and recovered himself. Now he recognized two

officers. He felt as if he would faint from exhaustion. Something was

wet on his chin. He put up his hand and felt, then looked. It was

red.

" They cut me, " he said, foolishly, fishing for his handkerchief.

" Now, now, " said one of the officers. " It's only a scratch. "

His senses became cleared now and he looked around. He was standing in

a little store, where they left him for the moment. Outside, he could

see, as he stood wiping his chin, the car and the excited crowd. A

patrol wagon was there, and another.

He walked over and looked out. It was an ambulance, backing in.

He saw some energetic charging by the police and arrests being made.

" Come on, now, if you want to take your car, " said an officer, opening

the door and looking in. He walked out, feeling rather uncertain of

himself. He was very cold and frightened.

" Where's the conductor? " he asked.

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

Hurstwood went toward the car and stepped nervously on. As he did so

there was a pistol shot. Something stung his shoulder.

" Who fired that? " he heard an officer exclaim. " By God! who did that? "

Both left him, running toward a certain building. He paused a moment

and then got down.

" George! " exclaimed Hurstwood, weakly, " this is too much for me. "

He walked nervously to the corner and hurried down a side street.

" Whew! " he said, drawing in his breath.

A half block away, a small girl gazed at him.

" You'd better sneak, " she called.

He walked homeward in a blinding snowstorm, reaching the ferry by dusk.

The cabins were filled with comfortable souls, who studied him

curiously. His head was still in such a whirl that he felt confused.

All the wonder of the twinkling lights of the river in a white storm

passed for nothing. He trudged doggedly on until he reached the flat.

There he entered and found the room warm. Carrie was gone. A couple of

evening papers were lying on the table where she left them. He lit the

gas and sat down. Then he got up and stripped to examine his shoulder.

It was a mere scratch. He washed his hands and face, still in a brown

study, apparently, and combed his hair. Then he looked for something

to eat, and finally, his hunger gone, sat down in his comfortable

rocking-chair. It was a wonderful relief.

He put his hand to his chin, forgetting, for the moment, the papers.

" Well, " he said, after a time, his nature recovering itself, " that's a

pretty tough game over there. "

Then he turned and saw the papers. With half a sigh he picked up the

" World. "

" Strike Spreading in Brooklyn, " he read. " Rioting Breaks Out in all

Parts of the City. "

He adjusted his paper very comfortably and continued. It was the one

thing he read with absorbing interest.

Chapter XLII

A TOUCH OF SPRING--THE EMPTY SHELL

Those who look upon Hurstwood's Brooklyn venture as an error of

judgment will none the less realize the negative influence on him of

the fact that he had tried and failed. Carrie got a wrong idea of it.

He said so little that she imagined he had encountered nothing worse

than the ordinary roughness--quitting so soon in the face of this

seemed trifling. He did not want to work.

She was now one of a group of oriental beauties who, in the second act

of the comic opera, were paraded by the vizier before the new potentate

as the treasures of his harem. There was no word assigned to any of

them, but on the evening when Hurstwood was housing himself in the loft

of the street-car barn, the leading comedian and star, feeling

exceedingly facetious, said in a profound voice, which created a ripple

of laughter:

" Well, who are you? "

It merely happened to be Carrie who was curtsying before him. It might

as well have been any of the others, so far as he was concerned. He

expected no answer and a dull one would have been reproved. But

Carrie, whose experience and belief in herself gave her daring,

curtsied sweetly again and answered:

" I am yours truly. "

It was a trivial thing to say, and yet something in the way she did it

caught the audience, which laughed heartily at the mock fierce

potentate towering before the young woman. The comedian also liked it,

hearing the laughter.

" I thought your name was Smith, " he returned, endeavoring to get the

last laugh.

Carrie almost trembled for her daring after she had said this. All

members of the company had been warned that to interpolate lines or

" business" meant a fine or worse. She did not know what to think.

As she was standing in her proper position in the wings, awaiting

another entry, the great comedian made his exit past her and paused in

recognition.

" You can just leave that in hereafter, " he remarked, seeing how

intelligent she appeared. " Don't add any more, though. "

" Thank you, " said Carrie, humbly. When he went on she found herself

trembling violently.

" Well, you're in luck, " remarked another member of the chorus. " There

isn't another one of us has got a line. "

There was no gainsaying the value of this. Everybody in the company

realized that she had got a start. Carrie hugged herself when next

evening the lines got the same applause. She went home rejoicing,

knowing that soon something must come of it. It was Hurstwood who, by

his presence, caused her merry thoughts to flee and replaced them with

sharp longings for an end of distress.

The next day she asked him about his venture.

" They're not trying to run any cars except with police. They don't

want anybody just now--not before next week. "

Next week came, but Carrie saw no change. Hurstwood seemed more

apathetic than ever. He saw her off mornings to rehearsals and the

like with the utmost calm. He read and read. Several times he found

himself staring at an item, but thinking of something else. The first

of these lapses that he sharply noticed concerned a hilarious party he

had once attended at a driving club, of which he had been a member. He

sat, gazing downward, and gradually thought he heard the old voices and

the clink of glasses.

" You're a dandy, Hurstwood, " his friend Walker said. He was standing

again well dressed, smiling, good-natured, the recipient of encores for

a good story.

All at once he looked up. The room was so still it seemed ghostlike.

He heard the clock ticking audibly and half suspected that he had been

dozing. The paper was so straight in his hands, however, and the items

he had been reading so directly before him, that he rid himself of the

doze idea. Still, it seemed peculiar. When it occurred a second time,

however, it did not seem quite so strange.

Butcher and grocery man, baker and coal man--not the group with whom he

was then dealing, but those who had trusted him to the limit--called.

He met them all blandly, becoming deft in excuse. At last he became

bold, pretended to be out, or waved them off.

" They can't get blood out of a turnip, " he said. " if I had it I'd pay

them. "

Carrie's little soldier friend, Miss Osborne, seeing her succeeding,

had become a sort of satellite. Little Osborne could never of herself

amount to anything. She seemed to realize it in a sort of pussy-like

way and instinctively concluded to cling with her soft little claws to

Carrie.

" Oh, you'll get up, " she kept telling Carrie with admiration. " You're

so good. "

Timid as Carrie was, she was strong in capability. The reliance of

others made her feel as if she must, and when she must she dared.

Experience of the world and of necessity was in her favor. No longer

the lightest word of a man made her head dizzy. She had learned that

men could change and fail. Flattery in its most palpable form had lost

its force with her. It required superiority--kindly superiority--to

move her--the superiority of a genius like Ames.

" I don't like the actors in our company, " she told Lola one day.

" They're all so struck on themselves. "

" Don't you think Mr. Barclay's pretty nice? " inquired Lola, who had

received a condescending smile or two from that quarter.

" Oh, he's nice enough, " answered Carrie; " but he isn't sincere. He

assumes such an air. "

Lola felt for her first hold upon Carrie in the following manner:

" Are you paying room-rent where you are? "

" Certainly, " answered Carrie. " Why? "

" I know where I could get the loveliest room and bath, cheap. It's too

big for me, but it would be just right for two, and the rent is only

six dollars a week for both. "

" Where? " said Carrie.

" In Seventeenth Street. "

" Well, I don't know as I'd care to change, " said Carrie, who was

already turning over the three-dollar rate in her mind. She was

thinking if she had only herself to support this would leave her

seventeen for herself.

Nothing came of this until after the Brooklyn adventure of Hurstwood's

and her success with the speaking part. Then she began to feel as if

she must be free. She thought of leaving Hurstwood and thus making him

act for himself, but he had developed such peculiar traits she feared

he might resist any effort to throw him off. He might hunt her out at

the show and hound her in that way. She did not wholly believe that he

would, but he might. This, she knew, would be an embarrassing thing if

he made himself conspicuous in any way. It troubled her greatly.

Things were precipitated by the offer of a better part. One of the

actresses playing the part of a modest sweetheart gave notice of

leaving and Carrie was selected.

" How much are you going to get? " asked Miss Osborne, on hearing the

good news.

" I didn't ask him, " said Carrie.

" Well, find out. Goodness, you'll never get anything if you don't ask.

Tell them you must have forty dollars, anyhow. "

" Oh, no, " said Carrie.

" Certainly! " exclaimed Lola. " Ask 'em, anyway. "

Carrie succumbed to this prompting, waiting, however, until the manager

gave her notice of what clothing she must have to fit the part.

" How much do I get? " she inquired.

" Thirty-five dollars, " he replied.

Carrie was too much astonished and delighted to think of mentioning

forty. She was nearly beside herself, and almost hugged Lola, who

clung to her at the news.

" It isn't as much as you ought to get, " said the latter, " especially

when you've got to buy clothes. "

Carrie remembered this with a start. Where to get the money? She had

none laid up for such an emergency. Rent day was drawing near.

" I'll not do it, " she said, remembering her necessity. " I don't use

the flat. I'm not going to give up my money this time. I'll move. "

Fitting into this came another appeal from Miss Osborne, more urgent

than ever.

" Come live with me, won't you? " she pleaded. " We can have the

loveliest room. It won't cost you hardly anything that way. "

" I'd like to, " said Carrie, frankly.

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