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"ATLANTIC AVENUE RAILROAD.
"SPECIAL NOTICE
.
"The motormen and conductors and other employees of this company having
abruptly left its service, an opportunity is now given to all loyal men who
have struck against their will to be reinstated, providing they will make their
applications by twelve o'clock noon on Wednesday, January 16th. Such men
will be given employment (with guaranteed protection) in the order in which
such applications are received, and runs and positions assigned them
accordingly. Otherwise, they will be considered discharged, and every
vacancy will be filled by a new man as soon as his services can be secured.
"(Signed)
"BENJAMIN NORTON,
"President."
He also noted among the want ads. one which read:
"WANTED.—50 skilled motormen, accustomed to Westinghouse system, to
run U. S. mail cars only, in the City of Brooklyn; protection guaranteed."
He noted particularly in each the "protection guaranteed." It signified to him
the unassailable power of the companies.
"They've got the militia on their side," he thought. "There isn't anything
those men can do."
While this was still in his mind, the incident with Oeslogge and Carrie
occurred. There had been a good deal to irritate him, but this seemed much
the worst. Never before had she accused him of stealing—or very near that.
She doubted the naturalness of so large a bill. And he had worked so hard
to make expenses seem light. He had been "doing" butcher and baker in
order not to call on her. He had eaten very little—almost nothing.
"Damn it all!" he said. "I can get something. I'm not down yet."
He thought that he really must do something now. It was too cheap to sit
around after such an insinuation as this. Why, after a little, he would be
standing anything.
He got up and looked out the window into the chilly street. It came gradually
into his mind, as he stood there, to go to Brooklyn.
"Why not?" his mind said. "Any one can get work over there. You'll get two a
day."
"How about accidents?" said a voice. "You might get hurt."
"Oh, there won't be much of that," he answered. "They've called out the
police. Any one who wants to run a car will be protected all right."
"You don't know how to run a car," rejoined the voice.
"I won't apply as a motorman," he answered. "I can ring up fares all right."
"They'll want motormen mostly."
"They'll take anybody; that I know."
For several hours he argued pro and con with this mental counsellor, feeling
no need to act at once in a matter so sure of profit.
In the morning he put on his best clothes, which were poor enough, and
began stirring about, putting some bread and meat into a page of a
newspaper. Carrie watched him, interested in this new move.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Over to Brooklyn," he answered. Then, seeing her still inquisitive, he added:
"I think I can get on over there."
"On the trolley lines?" said Carrie, astonished.
"Yes," he rejoined.
"Aren't you afraid?" she asked.
"What of?" he answered. "The police are protecting them."
"The paper said four men were hurt yesterday."
"Yes," he returned; "but you can't go by what the papers say. They'll run the
cars all right."
He looked rather determined now, in a desolate sort of way, and Carrie felt
very sorry. Something of the old Hurstwood was here—the least shadow of
what was once shrewd and pleasant strength. Outside, it was cloudy and
blowing a few flakes of snow.
"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 near-by 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
ascommanded. 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.
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