“What a day to go over there,” thought Carrie.
Now he left before she did, which was a remarkable thing, and tramped eastward to Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, where he took the car. He had read that scores of applicants were applying at the office of the Brooklyn City Railroad building and were being received. He made his way there by horse-car and ferry—a dark, silent man—to the offices in question. It was a long way, for no cars were running, and the day was cold; but he trudged along grimly. Once in Brooklyn, he could clearly see and feel that a strike was on. People showed it in their manner. Along the routes of certain tracks not a car was running. About certain corners and nearby saloons small groups of men were lounging. Several spring wagons passed him, equipped with plain wooden chairs, and labelled “Flatbush” or “Prospect Park. Fare, Ten Cents.” He noticed cold and even gloomy faces. Labour was having its little war.
When he came near the office in question, he saw a few men standing about, and some policemen. On the far corners were other men—whom he took to be strikers—watching. All the houses were small and wooden, the streets poorly paved. After New York, Brooklyn looked actually poor and hard-up.
He made his way into the heart of the small group, eyed by policemen and the men already there. One of the officers addressed him.
“What are you looking for?”
“I want to see if I can get a place.”
“The offices are up those steps,” said the bluecoat. His face was a very neutral thing to contemplate. In his heart of hearts, he sympathised with the strikers and hated this “scab.” In his heart of hearts, also, he felt the dignity and use of the police force, which commanded order. Of its true social significance, he never once dreamed. His was not the mind for that. The two feelings blended in him—neutralised one another and him. He would have fought for this man as determinedly as for himself, and yet only so far as commanded. Strip him of his uniform, and he would have soon picked his side.
Hurstwood ascended a dusty flight of steps and entered a small, dust-coloured office, in which were a railing, a long desk, and several clerks.
“Well, sir?” said a middle-aged man, looking up at him from the long desk.
“Do you want to hire any men?” inquired Hurstwood.
“What are you—a motorman?”
“No; I’m not anything,” said Hurstwood.
He was not at all abashed by his position. He knew these people needed men. If one didn’t take him, another would. This man could take him or leave him, just as he chose.
“Well, we prefer experienced men, of course,” said the man. He paused, while Hurstwood smiled indifferently. Then he added: “Still, I guess you can learn. What is your name?”
“Wheeler,” said Hurstwood.
The man wrote an order on a small card. “Take that to our barns,” he said, “and give it to the foreman. He’ll show you what to do.”
Hurstwood went down and out. He walked straight away in the direction indicated, while the policemen looked after.
“There’s another wants to try it,” said Officer Kiely to Officer Macey.
“I have my mind he’ll get his fill,” returned the latter, quietly.
They had been in strikes before.
CHAPTER XLI
THE STRIKE
THE BARN AT WHICH Hurstwood applied was exceedingly short-handed, and was being operated practically by three men as directors. There were a lot of green hands around—queer, hungry-looking men, who looked as if want had driven them to desperate means. They tried to be lively and willing, but there was an air of hang-dog diffidence about the place.
Hurstwood went back through the barns and out into a large, enclosed lot, where were a series of tracks and loops. A half-dozen cars were there, manned by instructors, each with a pupil at the lever. More pupils were waiting at one of the rear doors of the barn.
In silence Hurstwood viewed this scene, and waited. His companions took his eye for a while, though they did not interest him much more than the cars. They were an uncomfortable-looking gang, however. One or two were very thin and lean. Several were quite stout. Several others were rawboned and sallow, as if they had been beaten upon by all sorts of rough weather.
“Did you see by the paper they are going to call out the militia?” Hurstwood heard one of them remark.
“Oh, they’ll do that,” returned the other. “They always do.”
“Think we’re liable to have much trouble?” said another, whom Hurstwood did not see.
“Not very.”
“That Scotchman that went out on the last car,” put in a voice, “told me that they hit him in the ear with a cinder.”
A small, nervous laugh accompanied this.
“One of those fellows on the Fifth Avenue line must have had a hell of a time, according to the papers,” drawled another. “They broke his car windows and pulled him off into the street ‘fore the police could stop ’em.”
“Yes; but there are more police around to-day,” was added by another.
Hurstwood hearkened without much mental comment. These talkers seemed scared to him. Their gabbling was feverish—things said to quiet their own minds. He looked out into the yard and waited.
Two of the men got around quite near him, but behind his back. They were rather social, and he listened to what they said.
“Are you a railroad man?” said one.
“Me? No. I’ve always worked in a paper factory.”
“I had a job in Newark until last October,” returned the other, with reciprocal feeling.
There were some words which passed too low to hear. Then the conversation became strong again.
“I don’t blame these fellers for striking,” said one. “They’ve got the right of it, all right, but I had to get something to do.”
“Same here,” said the other. “If I had any job in Newark I wouldn’t be over here takin’ chances like these.”
“It’s hell these days, ain’t it?” said the man. “A poor man ain’t nowhere. You could starve, by God, right in the streets, and there ain’t most no one would help you.”
“Right you are,” said the other. “The job I had I lost ’cause they shut down. They run all summer and lay up a big stock, and then shut down.”
Hurstwood paid some little attention to this. Somehow, he felt a little superior to these two—a little better off. To him these were ignorant and commonplace, poor sheep in a driver’s hand.
“Poor devils,” he thought, speaking out of the thoughts and feelings of a bygone period of success.
“Next,” said one of the instructors.
“You’re next,” said a neighbour, touching him.
He went out and climbed on the platform. The instructor took it for granted that no preliminaries were needed.
“You see this handle,” he said, reaching up to an electric cut-off, which was fastened to the roof. “This throws the current off or on. If you want to reverse the car you turn it over here. If you want to send it forward, you put it over here. If you want to cut off the power, you keep it in the middle.”
Hurstwood smiled at the simple information.
“Now, this handle here regulates your speed. To here,” he said, pointing with his finger, “gives you about four miles an hour. This is eight. When it’s full on, you make about fourteen miles an hour.”
Hurstwood watched him calmly. He had seen motormen work before. He knew just about how they did it, and was sure he could do as well, with a very little practice.
The instructor explained a few more details, and then said:
“Now, we’ll back her up.”
Hurstwood stood placidly by, while the car rolled back into the yard.
“One thing you want to be careful about, and that is to start easy. Give one degree time to act before you start another. The one fault of most men is that they always want to throw her wide open. That’s bad. It’s dangerous, too. Wears out the motor. You don’t want to do that.”