The magnet attracting a waif amid forces

 
 

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CHAPTER XL 
A PUBLIC DISSENSION: A FINAL APPEAL 
There was no after-theatre lark, however, so far as Carrie was concerned. 
She made her way homeward, thinking about her absence. Hurstwood was 
asleep, but roused up to look as she passed through to her own bed. 
"Is that you?" he said. 
"Yes," she answered. 
The next morning at breakfast she felt like apologising. 
"I couldn't get home last evening," she said. 
"Ah, Carrie," he answered, "what's the use saying that? I don't care. You 
needn't tell me that, though." 
"I couldn't," said Carrie, her colour rising. Then, seeing that he looked as if 
he said "I know," she exclaimed: "Oh, all right. I don't care." 
From now on, her indifference to the flat was even greater. There seemed no 
common ground on which they could talk to one another. She let herself be 
asked for expenses. It became so with him that he hated to do it. He 
preferred standing off the butcher and baker. He ran up a grocery bill of 
sixteen dollars with Oeslogge, laying in a supply of staple articles, so that 
they would not have to buy any of those things for some time to come. Then 
he changed his grocery. It was the same with the butcher and several 
others. Carrie never heard anything of this directly from him. He asked for 
such as he could expect, drifting farther and farther into a situation which 
could have but one ending. 
In this fashion, September went by. 
"Isn't Mr. Drake going to open his hotel?" Carrie asked several times. 
"Yes. He won't do it before October, though, now." 
Carrie became disgusted. "Such a man," she said to herself frequently. More 
and more she visited. She put most of her spare money in clothes, which, 
after all, was not an astonishing amount. At last the opera she was with 
announced its departure within four weeks. "Last two weeks of the Great 
Comic Opera success—The ——," etc., was upon all bill-boards and in the 
newspapers, before she acted. 
"I'm not going out on the road," said Miss Osborne. 
Carrie went with her to apply to another manager. 
"Ever had any experience?" was one of his questions. 
"I'm with the company at the Casino now." 

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"Oh, you are?" he said. 
The end of this was another engagement at twenty per week. 
Carrie was delighted. She began to feel that she had a place in the world. 
People recognised ability. 
So changed was her state that the home atmosphere became intolerable. It 
was all poverty and trouble there, or seemed to be, because it was a load to 
bear. It became a place to keep away from. Still she slept there, and did a 
fair amount of work, keeping it in order. It was a sitting place for 
Hurstwood. He sat and rocked, rocked and read, enveloped in the gloom of 
his own fate. October went by, and November. It was the dead of winter 
almost before he knew it, and there he sat. 
Carrie was doing better, that he knew. Her clothes were improved now, even 
fine. He saw her coming and going, sometimes picturing to himself her rise. 
Little eating had thinned him somewhat. He had no appetite. His clothes, 
too, were a poor man's clothes. Talk about getting something had become 
even too threadbare and ridiculous for him. So he folded his hands and 
waited—for what, he could not anticipate. 
At last, however, troubles became too thick. The hounding of creditors, the 
indifference of Carrie, the silence of the flat, and presence of winter, all 
joined to produce a climax. It was effected by the arrival of Oeslogge, 
personally, when Carrie was there. 
"I call about my bill," said Mr. Oeslogge. 
Carrie was only faintly surprised. 
"How much is it?" she asked. 
"Sixteen dollars," he replied. 
"Oh, that much?" said Carrie. "Is this right?" she asked, turning to 
Hurstwood. 
"Yes," he said. 
"Well, I never heard anything about it." 
She looked as if she thought he had been contracting some needless 
expense. 
"Well, we had it all right," he answered. Then he went to the door. "I can't 
pay you anything on that to-day," he said, mildly. 
"Well, when can you?" said the grocer. 
"Not before Saturday, anyhow," said Hurstwood. 

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"Huh!" returned the grocer. "This is fine. I must have that. I need the 
money." 
Carrie was standing farther back in the room, hearing it all. She was greatly 
distressed. It was so bad and commonplace. Hurstwood was annoyed also. 
"Well," he said, "there's no use talking about it now. If you'll come in 
Saturday, I'll pay you something on it." 
The grocery man went away. 
"How are we going to pay it?" asked Carrie, astonished by the bill. "I can't do 
it." 
"Well, you don't have to," he said. "He can't get what he can't get. He'll have 
to wait." 
"I don't see how we ran up such a bill as that," said Carrie. 
"Well, we ate it," said Hurstwood. 
"It's funny," she replied, still doubting. 
"What's the use of your standing there and talking like that, now?" he asked. 
"Do you think I've had it alone? You talk as if I'd taken something." 
"Well, it's too much, anyhow," said Carrie. "I oughtn't to be made to pay for 
it. I've got more than I can pay for now." 
"All right," replied Hurstwood, sitting down in silence. He was sick of the 
grind of this thing. 
Carrie went out, and there he sat, determining to do something. 
There had been appearing in the papers about this time rumours and 
notices of an approaching strike on the trolley lines in Brooklyn. There was 
general dissatisfaction as to the hours of labour required and the wages 
paid. As usual—and for some inexplicable reason—the men chose the winter 
for the forcing of the hand of their employers and the settlement of their 
difficulties. 
Hurstwood had been reading of this thing, and wondering concerning the 
huge tie-up which would follow. A day or two before this trouble with Carrie, 
it came. On a cold afternoon, when everything was grey and it threatened to 
snow, the papers announced that the men had been called out on all the 
lines. 
Being so utterly idle, and his mind filled with the numerous predictions 
which had been made concerning the scarcity of labour this winter and the 
panicky state of the financial market, Hurstwood read this with interest. He 
noted the claims of the striking motormen and conductors, who said that 
they had been wont to receive two dollars a day in times past, but that for a 

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year or more "trippers" had been introduced, which cut down their chance of 
livelihood one-half, and increased their hours of servitude from ten to 
twelve, and even fourteen. These "trippers" were men put on during the busy 
and rush hours, to take a car out for one trip. The compensation paid for 
such a trip was only twenty-five cents. When the rush or busy hours were 
over, they were laid off. Worst of all, no man might know when he was going 
to get a car. He must come to the barns in the morning and wait around in 
fair and foul weather until such time as he was needed. Two trips were an 
average reward for so much waiting—a little over three hours' work for fifty 
cents. The work of waiting was not counted. 
The men complained that this system was extending, and that the time was 
not far off when but a few out of 7,000 employees would have regular two-
dollar-a-day work at all. They demanded that the system be abolished, and 
that ten hours be considered a day's work, barring unavoidable delays, with 
$2.25 pay. They demanded immediate acceptance of these terms, which the 
various trolley companies refused. 
Hurstwood at first sympathised with the demands of these men—indeed, it 
is a question whether he did not always sympathise with them to the end, 
belie him as his actions might. Reading nearly all the news, he was attracted 
first by the scare-heads with which the trouble was noted in the "World." He 
read it fully—the names of the seven companies involved, the number of 
men. 
"They're foolish to strike in this sort of weather," he thought to himself. "Let 
'em win if they can, though." 
The next day there was even a larger notice of it. "Brooklynites Walk," said 
the "World." "Knights of Labour Tie up the Trolley Lines Across the Bridge." 
"About Seven Thousand Men Out." 
Hurstwood read this, formulating to himself his own idea of what would be 
the outcome. He was a great believer in the strength of corporations. 
"They can't win," he said, concerning the men. "They haven't any money. 
The police will protect the companies. They've got to. The public has to have 
its cars." 
He didn't sympathise with the corporations, but strength was with them. So 
was property and public utility. 
"Those fellows can't win," he thought. 
Among other things, he noticed a circular issued by one of the companies, 
which read: