Sister Carrie, Theodore Dreiser [ebook reader below 3000 .TXT] 📗

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.

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 hangdog 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 today,” 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 cutoff, 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.”

“I see,” said Hurstwood.

He waited and waited, while the man talked on.

“Now you take it,” he said, finally.

The ex-manager laid hand to the lever and pushed it gently, as he thought. It worked much easier than he imagined, however, with the result that the car jerked quickly forward, throwing him back against the door. He straightened up sheepishly, while the instructor stopped the car with the brake.

“You want to be careful about that,” was all he said.

Hurstwood found, however, that handling a brake and regulating speed were not so instantly mastered as he had imagined. Once or twice he would have ploughed through the rear fence if it had not been for the hand and word of his companion. The latter was rather patient with him, but he never smiled.

“You’ve got to get the knack of working both arms at once,” he said. “It takes a little practice.”

One o’clock came while he was still on the car practising, and he began to feel hungry. The day set in snowing, and he was cold. He grew weary of running to and fro on the short track.

They ran the car