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CHAPTER 11
During the summer the packing houses were in full activity again, and Jurgis made
more money.
He did not make so much, however, as he had the previous summer, for the packers took
on more hands.
There were new men every week, it seemed-- it was a regular system; and this number
they would keep over to the next slack season, so that every one would have less
than ever.
Sooner or later, by this plan, they would have all the floating labor of Chicago
trained to do their work. And how very cunning a trick was that!
The men were to teach new hands, who would some day come and break their strike; and
meantime they were kept so poor that they could not prepare for the trial!
But let no one suppose that this superfluity of employees meant easier work
for any one!
On the contrary, the speeding-up seemed to be growing more savage all the time; they
were continually inventing new devices to crowd the work on--it was for all the world
like the thumbscrew of the medieval torture chamber.
They would get new pacemakers and pay them more; they would drive the men on with new
machinery--it was said that in the hog- killing rooms the speed at which the hogs
moved was determined by clockwork, and that it was increased a little every day.
In piecework they would reduce the time, requiring the same work in a shorter time,
and paying the same wages; and then, after the workers had accustomed themselves to
this new speed, they would reduce the rate
of payment to correspond with the reduction in time!
They had done this so often in the canning establishments that the girls were fairly
desperate; their wages had gone down by a full third in the past two years, and a
storm of discontent was brewing that was likely to break any day.
Only a month after Marija had become a beef-trimmer the canning factory that she
had left posted a cut that would divide the girls' earnings almost squarely in half;
and so great was the indignation at this
that they marched out without even a parley, and organized in the street
outside.
One of the girls had read somewhere that a red flag was the proper symbol for
oppressed workers, and so they mounted one, and paraded all about the yards, yelling
with rage.
A new union was the result of this outburst, but the impromptu strike went to
pieces in three days, owing to the rush of new labor.
At the end of it the girl who had carried the red flag went downtown and got a
position in a great department store, at a salary of two dollars and a half a week.
Jurgis and Ona heard these stories with dismay, for there was no telling when their
own time might come.
Once or twice there had been rumors that one of the big houses was going to cut its
unskilled men to fifteen cents an hour, and Jurgis knew that if this was done, his turn
would come soon.
He had learned by this time that Packingtown was really not a number of
firms at all, but one great firm, the Beef Trust.
And every week the managers of it got together and compared notes, and there was
one scale for all the workers in the yards and one standard of efficiency.
Jurgis was told that they also fixed the price they would pay for beef on the hoof
and the price of all dressed meat in the country; but that was something he did not
understand or care about.
The only one who was not afraid of a cut was Marija, who congratulated herself,
somewhat naively, that there had been one in her place only a short time before she
came.
Marija was getting to be a skilled beef- trimmer, and was mounting to the heights
again.
During the summer and fall Jurgis and Ona managed to pay her back the last penny they
owed her, and so she began to have a bank account.
Tamoszius had a bank account also, and they ran a race, and began to figure upon
household expenses once more.
The possession of vast wealth entails cares and responsibilities, however, as poor
Marija found out.
She had taken the advice of a friend and invested her savings in a bank on Ashland
Avenue.
Of course she knew nothing about it, except that it was big and imposing--what possible
chance has a poor foreign working girl to understand the banking business, as it is
conducted in this land of frenzied finance?
So Marija lived in a continual dread lest something should happen to her bank, and
would go out of her way mornings to make sure that it was still there.
Her principal thought was of fire, for she had deposited her money in bills, and was
afraid that if they were burned up the bank would not give her any others.
Jurgis made fun of her for this, for he was a man and was proud of his superior
knowledge, telling her that the bank had fireproof vaults, and all its millions of
dollars hidden safely away in them.
However, one morning Marija took her usual detour, and, to her horror and dismay, saw
a crowd of people in front of the bank, filling the avenue solid for half a block.
All the blood went out of her face for terror.
She broke into a run, shouting to the people to ask what was the matter, but not
stopping to hear what they answered, till she had come to where the throng was so
dense that she could no longer advance.
There was a "run on the bank," they told her then, but she did not know what that
was, and turned from one person to another, trying in an agony of fear to make out what
they meant.
Had something gone wrong with the bank? Nobody was sure, but they thought so.
Couldn't she get her money?
There was no telling; the people were afraid not, and they were all trying to get
it. It was too early yet to tell anything--the
bank would not open for nearly three hours.
So in a frenzy of despair Marija began to claw her way toward the doors of this
building, through a throng of men, women, and children, all as excited as herself.
It was a scene of wild confusion, women shrieking and wringing their hands and
fainting, and men fighting and trampling down everything in their way.
In the midst of the melee Marija recollected that she did not have her
bankbook, and could not get her money anyway, so she fought her way out and
started on a run for home.
This was fortunate for her, for a few minutes later the police reserves arrived.
In half an hour Marija was back, Teta Elzbieta with her, both of them breathless
with running and sick with fear.
The crowd was now formed in a line, extending for several blocks, with half a
hundred policemen keeping guard, and so there was nothing for them to do but to
take their places at the end of it.
At nine o'clock the bank opened and began to pay the waiting throng; but then, what
good did that do Marija, who saw three thousand people before her--enough to take
out the last penny of a dozen banks?
To make matters worse a drizzling rain came up, and soaked them to the skin; yet all
the morning they stood there, creeping slowly toward the goal--all the afternoon
they stood there, heartsick, seeing that
the hour of closing was coming, and that they were going to be left out.
Marija made up her mind that, come what might, she would stay there and keep her
place; but as nearly all did the same, all through the long, cold night, she got very
little closer to the bank for that.
Toward evening Jurgis came; he had heard the story from the children, and he brought
some food and dry wraps, which made it a little easier.
The next morning, before daybreak, came a bigger crowd than ever, and more policemen
from downtown.
Marija held on like grim death, and toward afternoon she got into the bank and got her
money--all in big silver dollars, a handkerchief full.
When she had once got her hands on them her fear vanished, and she wanted to put them
back again; but the man at the window was savage, and said that the bank would
receive no more deposits from those who had taken part in the run.
So Marija was forced to take her dollars home with her, watching to right and left,
expecting every instant that some one would try to rob her; and when she got home she
was not much better off.
Until she could find another bank there was nothing to do but sew them up in her
clothes, and so Marija went about for a week or more, loaded down with bullion, and
afraid to cross the street in front of the
house, because Jurgis told her she would sink out of sight in the mud.
Weighted this way she made her way to the yards, again in fear, this time to see if
she had lost her place; but fortunately about ten per cent of the working people of
Packingtown had been depositors in that
bank, and it was not convenient to discharge that many at once.
The cause of the panic had been the attempt of a policeman to arrest a drunken man in a
saloon next door, which had drawn a crowd at the hour the people were on their way to
work, and so started the "run."
About this time Jurgis and Ona also began a bank account.
Besides having paid Jonas and Marija, they had almost paid for their furniture, and
could have that little sum to count on.
So long as each of them could bring home nine or ten dollars a week, they were able
to get along finely.
Also election day came round again, and Jurgis made half a week's wages out of
that, all net profit.
It was a very close election that year, and the echoes of the battle reached even to
Packingtown.
The two rival sets of grafters hired halls and set off fireworks and made speeches, to
try to get the people interested in the matter.
Although Jurgis did not understand it all, he knew enough by this time to realize that
it was not supposed to be right to sell your vote.
However, as every one did it, and his refusal to join would not have made the
slightest difference in the results, the idea of refusing would have seemed absurd,
had it ever come into his head.
Now chill winds and shortening days began to warn them that the winter was coming
again.
It seemed as if the respite had been too short--they had not had time enough to get
ready for it; but still it came, inexorably, and the hunted look began to
come back into the eyes of little Stanislovas.
The prospect struck fear to the heart of Jurgis also, for he knew that Ona was not
fit to face the cold and the snowdrifts this year.
And suppose that some day when a blizzard struck them and the cars were not running,
Ona should have to give up, and should come the next day to find that her place had
been given to some one who lived nearer and could be depended on?
It was the week before Christmas that the first storm came, and then the soul of
Jurgis rose up within him like a sleeping lion.
There were four days that the Ashland Avenue cars were stalled, and in those
days, for the first time in his life, Jurgis knew what it was to be really
opposed.
He had faced difficulties before, but they had been child's play; now there was a
death struggle, and all the furies were unchained within him.
The first morning they set out two hours before dawn, Ona wrapped all in blankets
and tossed upon his shoulder like a sack of meal, and the little boy, bundled nearly
out of sight, hanging by his coat-tails.
There was a raging blast beating in his face, and the thermometer stood below zero;
the snow was never short of his knees, and in some of the drifts it was nearly up to
his armpits.
It would catch his feet and try to trip him; it would build itself into a wall
before him to beat him back; and he would fling himself into it, plunging like a
wounded buffalo, puffing and snorting in rage.
So foot by foot he drove his way, and when at last he came to Durham's he was
staggering and almost blind, and leaned against a pillar, gasping, and thanking God
that the cattle came late to the killing beds that day.
In the evening the same thing had to be done again; and because Jurgis could not
tell what hour of the night he would get off, he got a saloon-keeper to let Ona sit
and wait for him in a corner.
Once it was eleven o'clock at night, and black as the pit, but still they got home.
That blizzard knocked many a man out, for the crowd outside begging for work was
never greater, and the packers would not wait long for any one.
When it was over, the soul of Jurgis was a song, for he had met the enemy and
conquered, and felt himself the master of his fate.--So it might be with some monarch
of the forest that has vanquished his foes
in fair fight, and then falls into some cowardly trap in the night-time.
A time of peril on the killing beds was when a steer broke loose.
Sometimes, in the haste of speeding-up, they would dump one of the animals out on
the floor before it was fully stunned, and it would get upon its feet and run amuck.
Then there would be a yell of warning--the men would drop everything and dash for the
nearest pillar, slipping here and there on the floor, and tumbling over each other.
This was bad enough in the summer, when a man could see; in wintertime it was enough
to make your hair stand up, for the room would be so full of steam that you could
not make anything out five feet in front of you.
To be sure, the steer was generally blind and frantic, and not especially bent on
hurting any one; but think of the chances of running upon a knife, while nearly every
man had one in his hand!
And then, to cap the climax, the floor boss would come rushing up with a rifle and
begin blazing away! It was in one of these melees that Jurgis
fell into his trap.
That is the only word to describe it; it was so cruel, and so utterly not to be
foreseen.
At first he hardly noticed it, it was such a slight accident--simply that in leaping
out of the way he turned his ankle. There was a twinge of pain, but Jurgis was
used to pain, and did not coddle himself.
When he came to walk home, however, he realized that it was hurting him a great
deal; and in the morning his ankle was swollen out nearly double its size, and he
could not get his foot into his shoe.
Still, even then, he did nothing more than swear a little, and wrapped his foot in old
rags, and hobbled out to take the car.
It chanced to be a rush day at Durham's, and all the long morning he limped about
with his aching foot; by noontime the pain was so great that it made him faint, and
after a couple of hours in the afternoon he
was fairly beaten, and had to tell the boss.
They sent for the company doctor, and he examined the foot and told Jurgis to go
home to bed, adding that he had probably laid himself up for months by his folly.
The injury was not one that Durham and Company could be held responsible for, and
so that was all there was to it, so far as the doctor was concerned.
Jurgis got home somehow, scarcely able to see for the pain, and with an awful terror
in his soul, Elzbieta helped him into bed and bandaged his injured foot with cold
water and tried hard not to let him see her
dismay; when the rest came home at night she met them outside and told them, and
they, too, put on a cheerful face, saying it would only be for a week or two, and
that they would pull him through.
When they had gotten him to sleep, however, they sat by the kitchen fire and talked it
over in frightened whispers. They were in for a siege, that was plainly
to be seen.
Jurgis had only about sixty dollars in the bank, and the slack season was upon them.
Both Jonas and Marija might soon be earning no more than enough to pay their board, and
besides that there were only the wages of Ona and the pittance of the little boy.
There was the rent to pay, and still some on the furniture; there was the insurance
just due, and every month there was sack after sack of coal.
It was January, midwinter, an awful time to have to face privation.
Deep snows would come again, and who would carry Ona to her work now?
She might lose her place--she was almost certain to lose it.
And then little Stanislovas began to whimper--who would take care of him?
It was dreadful that an accident of this sort, that no man can help, should have
meant such suffering. The bitterness of it was the daily food and
drink of Jurgis.
It was of no use for them to try to deceive him; he knew as much about the situation as
they did, and he knew that the family might literally starve to death.
The worry of it fairly ate him up--he began to look haggard the first two or three days
of it.
In truth, it was almost maddening for a strong man like him, a fighter, to have to
lie there helpless on his back. It was for all the world the old story of
Prometheus bound.
As Jurgis lay on his bed, hour after hour there came to him emotions that he had
never known before.
Before this he had met life with a welcome- -it had its trials, but none that a man
could not face.
But now, in the nighttime, when he lay tossing about, there would come stalking
into his chamber a grisly phantom, the sight of which made his flesh curl and his
hair to bristle up.
It was like seeing the world fall away from underneath his feet; like plunging down
into a bottomless abyss into yawning caverns of despair.
It might be true, then, after all, what others had told him about life, that the
best powers of a man might not be equal to it!
It might be true that, strive as he would, toil as he would, he might fail, and go
down and be destroyed!
The thought of this was like an icy hand at his heart; the thought that here, in this
ghastly home of all horror, he and all those who were dear to him might lie and
perish of starvation and cold, and there
would be no ear to hear their cry, no hand to help them!
It was true, it was true,--that here in this huge city, with its stores of heaped-
up wealth, human creatures might be hunted down and destroyed by the wild-beast powers
of nature, just as truly as ever they were in the days of the cave men!
Ona was now making about thirty dollars a month, and Stanislovas about thirteen.
To add to this there was the board of Jonas and Marija, about forty-five dollars.
Deducting from this the rent, interest, and installments on the furniture, they had
left sixty dollars, and deducting the coal, they had fifty.
They did without everything that human beings could do without; they went in old
and ragged clothing, that left them at the mercy of the cold, and when the children's
shoes wore out, they tied them up with string.
Half invalid as she was, Ona would do herself harm by walking in the rain and
cold when she ought to have ridden; they bought literally nothing but food--and
still they could not keep alive on fifty dollars a month.
They might have done it, if only they could have gotten pure food, and at fair prices;
or if only they had known what to get--if they had not been so pitifully ignorant!
But they had come to a new country, where everything was different, including the
food.
They had always been accustomed to eat a great deal of smoked sausage, and how could
they know that what they bought in America was not the same--that its color was made
by chemicals, and its smoky flavor by more
chemicals, and that it was full of "potato flour" besides?
Potato flour is the waste of potato after the starch and alcohol have been extracted;
it has no more food value than so much wood, and as its use as a food adulterant
is a penal offense in Europe, thousands of
tons of it are shipped to America every year.
It was amazing what quantities of food such as this were needed every day, by eleven
hungry persons.
A dollar sixty-five a day was simply not enough to feed them, and there was no use
trying; and so each week they made an inroad upon the pitiful little bank account
that Ona had begun.
Because the account was in her name, it was possible for her to keep this a secret from
her husband, and to keep the heartsickness of it for her own.
It would have been better if Jurgis had been really ill; if he had not been able to
think.
For he had no resources such as most invalids have; all he could do was to lie
there and toss about from side to side.
Now and then he would break into cursing, regardless of everything; and now and then
his impatience would get the better of him, and he would try to get up, and poor Teta
Elzbieta would have to plead with him in a frenzy.
Elzbieta was all alone with him the greater part of the time.
She would sit and smooth his forehead by the hour, and talk to him and try to make
him forget.
Sometimes it would be too cold for the children to go to school, and they would
have to play in the kitchen, where Jurgis was, because it was the only room that was
half warm.
These were dreadful times, for Jurgis would get as cross as any bear; he was scarcely
to be blamed, for he had enough to worry him, and it was hard when he was trying to
take a nap to be kept awake by noisy and peevish children.
Elzbieta's only resource in those times was little Antanas; indeed, it would be hard to
say how they could have gotten along at all if it had not been for little Antanas.
It was the one consolation of Jurgis' long imprisonment that now he had time to look
at his baby.
Teta Elzbieta would put the clothes-basket in which the baby slept alongside of his
mattress, and Jurgis would lie upon one elbow and watch him by the hour, imagining
things.
Then little Antanas would open his eyes--he was beginning to take notice of things now;
and he would smile--how he would smile!
So Jurgis would begin to forget and be happy because he was in a world where there
was a thing so beautiful as the smile of little Antanas, and because such a world
could not but be good at the heart of it.
He looked more like his father every hour, Elzbieta would say, and said it many times
a day, because she saw that it pleased Jurgis; the poor little terror-stricken
woman was planning all day and all night to
soothe the prisoned giant who was intrusted to her care.
Jurgis, who knew nothing about the age-long and everlasting hypocrisy of woman, would
take the bait and grin with delight; and then he would hold his finger in front of
little Antanas' eyes, and move it this way
and that, and laugh with glee to see the baby follow it.
There is no pet quite so fascinating as a baby; he would look into Jurgis' face with
such uncanny seriousness, and Jurgis would start and cry: "Palauk!
Look, Muma, he knows his papa!
He does, he does! Tu mano szirdele, the little rascal!"