He was still muttering this when suddenly, at the corner, he came upon
a green-grocery, with a tray full of cabbages in front of it. Jurgis,
after one swift glance about him, stooped and seized the biggest of
them, and darted round the corner with it. There was a hue and cry,
and a score of men and boys started in chase of him; but he came to an
alley, and then to another branching off from it and leading him into
another street, where he fell into a walk, and slipped his cabbage under
his coat and went off unsuspected in the crowd. When he had gotten
a safe distance away he sat down and devoured half the cabbage raw,
stowing the balance away in his pockets till the next day.

Just about this time one of the Chicago newspapers, which made much of
the "common people," opened a "free-soup kitchen" for the benefit of
the unemployed. Some people said that they did this for the sake of the
advertising it gave them, and some others said that their motive was
a fear lest all their readers should be starved off; but whatever the
reason, the soup was thick and hot, and there was a bowl for every man,
all night long. When Jurgis heard of this, from a fellow "hobo," he
vowed that he would have half a dozen bowls before morning; but, as it
proved, he was lucky to get one, for there was a line of men two blocks
long before the stand, and there was just as long a line when the place
was finally closed up.

This depot was within the danger line for Jurgis--in the "Levee"
district, where he was known; but he went there, all the same, for he
was desperate, and beginning to think of even the Bridewell as a place
of refuge. So far the weather had been fair, and he had slept out every
night in a vacant lot; but now there fell suddenly a shadow of the
advancing winter, a chill wind from the north and a driving storm of
rain. That day Jurgis bought two drinks for the sake of the shelter, and
at night he spent his last two pennies in a "stale-beer dive." This was
a place kept by a Negro, who went out and drew off the old dregs of
beer that lay in barrels set outside of the saloons; and after he had
doctored it with chemicals to make it "fizz," he sold it for two cents a
can, the purchase of a can including the privilege of sleeping the night
through upon the floor, with a mass of degraded outcasts, men and women.

All these horrors afflicted Jurgis all the more cruelly, because he
was always contrasting them with the opportunities he had lost. For
instance, just now it was election time again--within five or six weeks
the voters of the country would select a President; and he heard the
wretches with whom he associated discussing it, and saw the streets
of the city decorated with placards and banners--and what words could
describe the pangs of grief and despair that shot through him?

For instance, there was a night during this cold spell. He had begged
all day, for his very life, and found not a soul to heed him, until
toward evening he saw an old lady getting off a streetcar and helped
her down with her umbrellas and bundles and then told her his "hard-luck
story," and after answering all her suspicious questions satisfactorily,
was taken to a restaurant and saw a quarter paid down for a meal. And so
he had soup and bread, and boiled beef and potatoes and beans, and pie
and coffee, and came out with his skin stuffed tight as a football. And
then, through the rain and the darkness, far down the street he saw red
lights flaring and heard the thumping of a bass drum; and his heart gave
a leap, and he made for the place on the run--knowing without the asking
that it meant a political meeting.

The campaign had so far been characterized by what the newspapers termed
"apathy." For some reason the people refused to get excited over the
struggle, and it was almost impossible to get them to come to meetings,
or to make any noise when they did come. Those which had been held in
Chicago so far had proven most dismal failures, and tonight, the speaker
being no less a personage than a candidate for the vice-presidency of
the nation, the political managers had been trembling with anxiety. But
a merciful providence had sent this storm of cold rain--and now all it
was necessary to do was to set off a few fireworks, and thump awhile on
a drum, and all the homeless wretches from a mile around would pour in
and fill the hall! And then on the morrow the newspapers would have a
chance to report the tremendous ovation, and to add that it had been no
"silk-stocking" audience, either, proving clearly that the high
tariff sentiments of the distinguished candidate were pleasing to the
wage-earners of the nation.

So Jurgis found himself in a large hall, elaborately decorated with
flags and bunting; and after the chairman had made his little speech,
and the orator of the evening rose up, amid an uproar from the
band--only fancy the emotions of Jurgis upon making the discovery
that the personage was none other than the famous and eloquent Senator
Spareshanks, who had addressed the "Doyle Republican Association" at
the stockyards, and helped to elect Mike Scully's tenpin setter to the
Chicago Board of Aldermen!

In truth, the sight of the senator almost brought the tears into
Jurgis's eyes. What agony it was to him to look back upon those golden
hours, when he, too, had a place beneath the shadow of the plum tree!
When he, too, had been of the elect, through whom the country is
governed--when he had had a bung in the campaign barrel for his own! And
this was another election in which the Republicans had all the money;
and but for that one hideous accident he might have had a share of it,
instead of being where he was!


The eloquent senator was explaining the system of protection; an
ingenious device whereby the workingman permitted the manufacturer to
charge him higher prices, in order that he might receive higher wages;
thus taking his money out of his pocket with one hand, and putting a
part of it back with the other. To the senator this unique arrangement
had somehow become identified with the higher verities of the universe.
It was because of it that Columbia was the gem of the ocean; and all her
future triumphs, her power and good repute among the nations, depended
upon the zeal and fidelity with which each citizen held up the hands of
those who were toiling to maintain it. The name of this heroic company
was "the Grand Old Party"--

And here the band began to play, and Jurgis sat up with a violent
start. Singular as it may seem, Jurgis was making a desperate effort
to understand what the senator was saying--to comprehend the extent of
American prosperity, the enormous expansion of American commerce, and
the Republic's future in the Pacific and in South America, and wherever
else the oppressed were groaning. The reason for it was that he wanted
to keep awake. He knew that if he allowed himself to fall asleep
he would begin to snore loudly; and so he must listen--he must be
interested! But he had eaten such a big dinner, and he was so exhausted,
and the hall was so warm, and his seat was so comfortable! The senator's
gaunt form began to grow dim and hazy, to tower before him and dance
about, with figures of exports and imports. Once his neighbor gave him
a savage poke in the ribs, and he sat up with a start and tried to look
innocent; but then he was at it again, and men began to stare at him
with annoyance, and to call out in vexation. Finally one of them called
a policeman, who came and grabbed Jurgis by the collar, and jerked him
to his feet, bewildered and terrified. Some of the audience turned to
see the commotion, and Senator Spareshanks faltered in his speech; but a
voice shouted cheerily: "We're just firing a bum! Go ahead, old sport!"
And so the crowd roared, and the senator smiled genially, and went on;
and in a few seconds poor Jurgis found himself landed out in the rain,
with a kick and a string of curses.

He got into the shelter of a doorway and took stock of himself. He was
not hurt, and he was not arrested--more than he had any right to expect.
He swore at himself and his luck for a while, and then turned his
thoughts to practical matters. He had no money, and no place to sleep;
he must begin begging again.

He went out, hunching his shoulders together and shivering at the touch
of the icy rain. Coming down the street toward him was a lady, well
dressed, and protected by an umbrella; and he turned and walked beside
her. "Please, ma'am," he began, "could you lend me the price of a
night's lodging? I'm a poor working-man--"

Then, suddenly, he stopped short. By the light of a street lamp he had
caught sight of the lady's face. He knew her.

It was Alena Jasaityte, who had been the belle of his wedding feast!
Alena Jasaityte, who had looked so beautiful, and danced with such a
queenly air, with Juozas Raczius, the teamster! Jurgis had only seen
her once or twice afterward, for Juozas had thrown her over for another
girl, and Alena had gone away from Packingtown, no one knew where. And
now he met her here!

She was as much surprised as he was. "Jurgis Rudkus!" she gasped. "And
what in the world is the matter with you?"

"I--I've had hard luck," he stammered. "I'm out of work, and I've no
home and no money. And you, Alena--are you married?"

"No," she answered, "I'm not married, but I've got a good place."

They stood staring at each other for a few moments longer. Finally Alena
spoke again. "Jurgis," she said, "I'd help you if I could, upon my
word I would, but it happens that I've come out without my purse, and
I honestly haven't a penny with me: I can do something better for you,
though--I can tell you how to get help. I can tell you where Marija is."

Jurgis gave a start. "Marija!" he exclaimed.

"Yes," said Alena; "and she'll help you. She's got a place, and she's
doing well; she'll be glad to see you."

It was not much more than a year since Jurgis had left Packingtown,
feeling like one escaped from jail; and it had been from Marija and
Elzbieta that he was escaping. But now, at the mere mention of them, his
whole being cried out with joy. He wanted to see them; he wanted to go
home! They would help him--they would be kind to him. In a flash he had
thought over the situation. He had a good excuse for running away--his
grief at the death of his son; and also he had a good excuse for not
returning--the fact that they had left Packingtown. "All right," he
said, "I'll go."

So she gave him a number on Clark Street, adding, "There's no need
to give you my address, because Marija knows it." And Jurgis set out,
without further ado. He found a large brownstone house of aristocratic
appearance, and rang the basement bell. A young colored girl came to the
door, opening it about an inch, and gazing at him suspiciously.

"What do you want?" she demanded.

"Does Marija Berczynskas live here?" he inquired.

"I dunno," said the girl. "What you want wid her?"

"I want to see her," said he; "she's a relative of mine."

The girl hesitated a moment. Then she opened the door and said, "Come
in." Jurgis came and stood in the hall, and she continued: "I'll go see.
What's yo' name?"

"Tell her it's Jurgis," he answered, and the girl went upstairs. She
came back at the end of a minute or two, and replied, "Dey ain't no sich
person here."

Jurgis's heart went down into his boots. "I was told this was where she
lived!" he cried. But the girl only shook her head. "De lady says dey
ain't no sich person here," she said.

And he stood for a moment, hesitating, helpless with dismay. Then he
turned to go to the door. At the same instant, however, there came a
knock upon it, and the girl went to open it. Jurgis heard the shuffling
of feet, and then heard her give a cry; and the next moment she sprang
back, and past him, her eyes shining white with terror, and bounded up
the stairway, screaming at the top of her lungs: "Police! Police! We're
pinched!"

Jurgis stood for a second, bewildered. Then, seeing blue-coated forms
rushing upon him, he sprang after the Negress. Her cries had been the
signal for a wild uproar above; the house was full of people, and as he
entered the hallway he saw them rushing hither and thither, crying and
screaming with alarm. There were men and women, the latter clad for the
most part in wrappers, the former in all stages of dishabille. At one
side Jurgis caught a glimpse of a big apartment with plush-covered
chairs, and tables covered with trays and glasses. There were playing
cards scattered all over the floor--one of the tables had been upset,
and bottles of wine were rolling about, their contents running out upon
the carpet. There was a young girl who had fainted, and two men who were
supporting her; and there were a dozen others crowding toward the front
door.

Suddenly, however, there came a series of resounding blows upon it,
causing the crowd to give back. At the same instant a stout woman, with
painted cheeks and diamonds in her ears, came running down the stairs,
panting breathlessly: "To the rear! Quick!"

She led the way to a back staircase, Jurgis following; in the kitchen
she pressed a spring, and a cupboard gave way and opened, disclosing a
dark passageway. "Go in!" she cried to the crowd, which now amounted to
twenty or thirty, and they began to pass through. Scarcely had the last
one disappeared, however, before there were cries from in front, and
then the panic-stricken throng poured out again, exclaiming: "They're
there too! We're trapped!"

"Upstairs!" cried the woman, and there was another rush of the mob,
women and men cursing and screaming and fighting to be first. One
flight, two, three--and then there was a ladder to the roof, with a
crowd packed at the foot of it, and one man at the top, straining and
struggling to lift the trap door. It was not to be stirred, however,
and when the woman shouted up to unhook it, he answered: "It's already
unhooked. There's somebody sitting on it!"

And a moment later came a voice from downstairs: "You might as well
quit, you people. We mean business, this time."

So the crowd subsided; and a few moments later several policemen came
up, staring here and there, and leering at their victims. Of the latter
the men were for the most part frightened and sheepish-looking. The
women took it as a joke, as if they were used to it--though if they had
been pale, one could not have told, for the paint on their cheeks. One
black-eyed young girl perched herself upon the top of the balustrade,
and began to kick with her slippered foot at the helmets of the
policemen, until one of them caught her by the ankle and pulled her
down. On the floor below four or five other girls sat upon trunks in the
hall, making fun of the procession which filed by them. They were noisy
and hilarious, and had evidently been drinking; one of them, who wore a
bright red kimono, shouted and screamed in a voice that drowned out all
the other sounds in the hall--and Jurgis took a glance at her, and then
gave a start, and a cry, "Marija!"

She heard him, and glanced around; then she shrank back and half sprang
to her feet in amazement. "Jurgis!" she gasped.

For a second or two they stood staring at each other. "How did you come
here?" Marija exclaimed.

"I came to see you," he answered.

"When?"

"Just now."

"But how did you know--who told you I was here?"

"Alena Jasaityte. I met her on the street."

Again there was a silence, while they gazed at each other. The rest of
the crowd was watching them, and so Marija got up and came closer to
him. "And you?" Jurgis asked. "You live here?"

"Yes," said Marija, "I live here." Then suddenly came a hail from below:
"Get your clothes on now, girls, and come along. You'd best begin, or
you'll be sorry--it's raining outside."

"Br-r-r!" shivered some one, and the women got up and entered the
various doors which lined the hallway.

"Come," said Marija, and took Jurgis into her room, which was a tiny
place about eight by six, with a cot and a chair and a dressing stand
and some dresses hanging behind the door. There were clothes scattered
about on the floor, and hopeless confusion everywhere--boxes of rouge
and bottles of perfume mixed with hats and soiled dishes on the dresser,
and a pair of slippers and a clock and a whisky bottle on a chair.

Marija had nothing on but a kimono and a pair of stockings; yet she
proceeded to dress before Jurgis, and without even taking the trouble to
close the door. He had by this time divined what sort of a place he was
in; and he had seen a great deal of the world since he had left home,
and was not easy to shock--and yet it gave him a painful start that
Marija should do this. They had always been decent people at home, and
it seemed to him that the memory of old times ought to have ruled her.
But then he laughed at himself for a fool. What was he, to be pretending
to decency!

"How long have you been living here?" he asked.

"Nearly a year," she answered.

"Why did you come?"

"I had to live," she said; "and I couldn't see the children starve."

He paused for a moment, watching her. "You were out of work?" he asked,
finally.

"I got sick," she replied, "and after that I had no money. And then
Stanislovas died--"

"Stanislovas dead!"

"Yes," said Marija, "I forgot. You didn't know about it."

"How did he die?"

"Rats killed him," she answered.

Jurgis gave a gasp. "Rats killed him!"

"Yes," said the other; she was bending over, lacing her shoes as she
spoke. "He was working in an oil factory--at least he was hired by the
men to get their beer. He used to carry cans on a long pole; and he'd
drink a little out of each can, and one day he drank too much, and fell
asleep in a corner, and got locked up in the place all night. When they
found him the rats had killed him and eaten him nearly all up."

Jurgis sat, frozen with horror. Marija went on lacing up her shoes.
There was a long silence.

Suddenly a big policeman came to the door. "Hurry up, there," he said.

"As quick as I can," said Marija, and she stood up and began putting on
her corsets with feverish haste.

"Are the rest of the people alive?" asked Jurgis, finally.

"Yes," she said.

"Where are they?"

"They live not far from here. They're all right now."

"They are working?" he inquired.

"Elzbieta is," said Marija, "when she can. I take care of them most of
the time--I'm making plenty of money now."

Jurgis was silent for a moment. "Do they know you live here--how you
live?" he asked.

"Elzbieta knows," answered Marija. "I couldn't lie to her. And maybe the
children have found out by this time. It's nothing to be ashamed of--we
can't help it."

"And Tamoszius?" he asked. "Does he know?"

Marija shrugged her shoulders. "How do I know?" she said. "I haven't
seen him for over a year. He got blood poisoning and lost one finger,
and couldn't play the violin any more; and then he went away."

Marija was standing in front of the glass fastening her dress. Jurgis
sat staring at her. He could hardly believe that she was the same woman
he had known in the old days; she was so quiet--so hard! It struck fear
to his heart to watch her.

Then suddenly she gave a glance at him. "You look as if you had been
having a rough time of it yourself," she said.

"I have," he answered. "I haven't a cent in my pockets, and nothing to
do."

"Where have you been?"

"All over. I've been hoboing it. Then I went back to the yards--just
before the strike." He paused for a moment, hesitating. "I asked for
you," he added. "I found you had gone away, no one knew where. Perhaps
you think I did you a dirty trick running away as I did, Marija--"

"No," she answered, "I don't blame you. We never have--any of us. You
did your best--the job was too much for us." She paused a moment, then
added: "We were too ignorant--that was the trouble. We didn't stand any
chance. If I'd known what I know now we'd have won out."

"You'd have come here?" said Jurgis.

"Yes," she answered; "but that's not what I meant. I meant you--how
differently you would have behaved--about Ona."

Jurgis was silent; he had never thought of that aspect of it.

"When people are starving," the other continued, "and they have anything
with a price, they ought to sell it, I say. I guess you realize it
now when it's too late. Ona could have taken care of us all, in the
beginning." Marija spoke without emotion, as one who had come to regard
things from the business point of view.

"I--yes, I guess so," Jurgis answered hesitatingly. He did not add
that he had paid three hundred dollars, and a foreman's job, for the
satisfaction of knocking down "Phil" Connor a second time.

The policeman came to the door again just then. "Come on, now," he said.
"Lively!"

"All right," said Marija, reaching for her hat, which was big enough to
be a drum major's, and full of ostrich feathers. She went out into the
hall and Jurgis followed, the policeman remaining to look under the bed
and behind the door.

"What's going to come of this?" Jurgis asked, as they started down the
steps.

"The raid, you mean? Oh, nothing--it happens to us every now and then.
The madame's having some sort of time with the police; I don't know
what it is, but maybe they'll come to terms before morning. Anyhow, they
won't do anything to you. They always let the men off."

"Maybe so," he responded, "but not me--I'm afraid I'm in for it."

"How do you mean?"

"I'm wanted by the police," he said, lowering his voice, though of
course their conversation was in Lithuanian. "They'll send me up for a
year or two, I'm afraid."

"Hell!" said Marija. "That's too bad. I'll see if I can't get you off."

Downstairs, where the greater part of the prisoners were now massed, she
sought out the stout personage with the diamond earrings, and had a few
whispered words with her. The latter then approached the police sergeant
who was in charge of the raid. "Billy," she said, pointing to Jurgis,
"there's a fellow who came in to see his sister. He'd just got in the
door when you knocked. You aren't taking hoboes, are you?"

The sergeant laughed as he looked at Jurgis. "Sorry," he said, "but the
orders are every one but the servants."

So Jurgis slunk in among the rest of the men, who kept dodging behind
each other like sheep that have smelled a wolf. There were old men
and young men, college boys and gray-beards old enough to be their
grandfathers; some of them wore evening dress--there was no one among
them save Jurgis who showed any signs of poverty.

When the roundup was completed, the doors were opened and the party
marched out. Three patrol wagons were drawn up at the curb, and the
whole neighborhood had turned out to see the sport; there was much
chaffing, and a universal craning of necks. The women stared about them
with defiant eyes, or laughed and joked, while the men kept their heads
bowed, and their hats pulled over their faces. They were crowded into
the patrol wagons as if into streetcars, and then off they went amid a
din of cheers. At the station house Jurgis gave a Polish name and was
put into a cell with half a dozen others; and while these sat and
talked in whispers, he lay down in a corner and gave himself up to his
thoughts.

Jurgis had looked into the deepest reaches of the social pit, and grown
used to the sights in them. Yet when he had thought of all humanity as
vile and hideous, he had somehow always excepted his own family that he
had loved; and now this sudden horrible discovery--Marija a whore, and
Elzbieta and the children living off her shame! Jurgis might argue
with himself all he chose, that he had done worse, and was a fool
for caring--but still he could not get over the shock of that sudden
unveiling, he could not help being sunk in grief because of it. The
depths of him were troubled and shaken, memories were stirred in him
that had been sleeping so long he had counted them dead. Memories of the
old life--his old hopes and his old yearnings, his old dreams of decency
and independence! He saw Ona again, he heard her gentle voice pleading
with him. He saw little Antanas, whom he had meant to make a man. He saw
his trembling old father, who had blessed them all with his wonderful
love. He lived again through that day of horror when he had discovered
Ona's shame--God, how he had suffered, what a madman he had been!
How dreadful it had all seemed to him; and now, today, he had sat and
listened, and half agreed when Marija told him he had been a fool!
Yes--told him that he ought to have sold his wife's honor and lived by
it!--And then there was Stanislovas and his awful fate--that brief story
which Marija had narrated so calmly, with such dull indifference! The
poor little fellow, with his frostbitten fingers and his terror of the
snow--his wailing voice rang in Jurgis's ears, as he lay there in the
darkness, until the sweat started on his forehead. Now and then he
would quiver with a sudden spasm of horror, at the picture of little
Stanislovas shut up in the deserted building and fighting for his life
with the rats!

All these emotions had become strangers to the soul of Jurgis; it was so
long since they had troubled him that he had ceased to think they might
ever trouble him again. Helpless, trapped, as he was, what good did they
do him--why should he ever have allowed them to torment him? It had been
the task of his recent life to fight them down, to crush them out of
him, never in his life would he have suffered from them again, save
that they had caught him unawares, and overwhelmed him before he could
protect himself. He heard the old voices of his soul, he saw its old
ghosts beckoning to him, stretching out their arms to him! But they were
far-off and shadowy, and the gulf between them was black and bottomless;
they would fade away into the mists of the past once more. Their voices
would die, and never again would he hear them--and so the last faint
spark of manhood in his soul would flicker out.


Chapter 28


After breakfast Jurgis was driven to the court, which was crowded with
the prisoners and those who had come out of curiosity or in the hope
of recognizing one of the men and getting a case for blackmail. The men
were called up first, and reprimanded in a bunch, and then dismissed;
but, Jurgis to his terror, was called separately, as being a
suspicious-looking case. It was in this very same court that he had been
tried, that time when his sentence had been "suspended"; it was the same
judge, and the same clerk. The latter now stared at Jurgis, as if he
half thought that he knew him; but the judge had no suspicions--just
then his thoughts were upon a telephone message he was expecting from a
friend of the police captain of the district, telling what disposition
he should make of the case of "Polly" Simpson, as the "madame" of the
house was known. Meantime, he listened to the story of how Jurgis had
been looking for his sister, and advised him dryly to keep his sister
in a better place; then he let him go, and proceeded to fine each of the
girls five dollars, which fines were paid in a bunch from a wad of bills
which Madame Polly extracted from her stocking.

Jurgis waited outside and walked home with Marija. The police had left
the house, and already there were a few visitors; by evening the place
would be running again, exactly as if nothing had happened. Meantime,
Marija took Jurgis upstairs to her room, and they sat and talked. By
daylight, Jurgis was able to observe that the color on her cheeks was
not the old natural one of abounding health; her complexion was in
reality a parchment yellow, and there were black rings under her eyes.

"Have you been sick?" he asked.

"Sick?" she said. "Hell!" (Marija had learned to scatter her
conversation with as many oaths as a longshoreman or a mule driver.)
"How can I ever be anything but sick, at this life?"

She fell silent for a moment, staring ahead of her gloomily. "It's
morphine," she said, at last. "I seem to take more of it every day."

"What's that for?" he asked.

"It's the way of it; I don't know why. If it isn't that, it's drink. If
the girls didn't booze they couldn't stand it any time at all. And the
madame always gives them dope when they first come, and they learn to
like it; or else they take it for headaches and such things, and get
the habit that way. I've got it, I know; I've tried to quit, but I never
will while I'm here."

"How long are you going to stay?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said. "Always, I guess. What else could I do?"

"Don't you save any money?"

"Save!" said Marija. "Good Lord, no! I get enough, I suppose, but it all
goes. I get a half share, two dollars and a half for each customer, and
sometimes I make twenty-five or thirty dollars a night, and you'd think
I ought to save something out of that! But then I am charged for my
room and my meals--and such prices as you never heard of; and then for
extras, and drinks--for everything I get, and some I don't. My laundry
bill is nearly twenty dollars each week alone--think of that! Yet what
can I do? I either have to stand it or quit, and it would be the same
anywhere else. It's all I can do to save the fifteen dollars I give
Elzbieta each week, so the children can go to school."

Marija sat brooding in silence for a while; then, seeing that Jurgis was
interested, she went on: "That's the way they keep the girls--they
let them run up debts, so they can't get away. A young girl comes from
abroad, and she doesn't know a word of English, and she gets into a
place like this, and when she wants to go the madame shows her that she
is a couple of hundred dollars in debt, and takes all her clothes away,
and threatens to have her arrested if she doesn't stay and do as she's
told. So she stays, and the longer she stays, the more in debt she gets.
Often, too, they are girls that didn't know what they were coming to,
that had hired out for housework. Did you notice that little French girl
with the yellow hair, that stood next to me in the court?"

Jurgis answered in the affirmative.

"Well, she came to America about a year ago. She was a store clerk, and
she hired herself to a man to be sent here to work in a factory. There
were six of them, all together, and they were brought to a house just
down the street from here, and this girl was put into a room alone, and
they gave her some dope in her food, and when she came to she found that
she had been ruined. She cried, and screamed, and tore her hair, but she
had nothing but a wrapper, and couldn't get away, and they kept her half
insensible with drugs all the time, until she gave up. She never got
outside of that place for ten months, and then they sent her away,
because she didn't suit. I guess they'll put her out of here, too--she's
getting to have crazy fits, from drinking absinthe. Only one of
the girls that came out with her got away, and she jumped out of a
second-story window one night. There was a great fuss about that--maybe
you heard of it."

"I did," said Jurgis, "I heard of it afterward." (It had happened in the
place where he and Duane had taken refuge from their "country customer."
The girl had become insane, fortunately for the police.)

"There's lots of money in it," said Marija--"they get as much as forty
dollars a head for girls, and they bring them from all over. There are
seventeen in this place, and nine different countries among them.
In some places you might find even more. We have half a dozen French
girls--I suppose it's because the madame speaks the language. French
girls are bad, too, the worst of all, except for the Japanese. There's
a place next door that's full of Japanese women, but I wouldn't live in
the same house with one of them."

Marija paused for a moment or two, and then she added: "Most of the
women here are pretty decent--you'd be surprised. I used to think they
did it because they liked to; but fancy a woman selling herself to
every kind of man that comes, old or young, black or white--and doing it
because she likes to!"

"Some of them say they do," said Jurgis.

"I know," said she; "they say anything. They're in, and they know they
can't get out. But they didn't like it when they began--you'd find
out--it's always misery! There's a little Jewish girl here who used to
run errands for a milliner, and got sick and lost her place; and she was
four days on the streets without a mouthful of food, and then she went
to a place just around the corner and offered herself, and they made her
give up her clothes before they would give her a bite to eat!"

Marija sat for a minute or two, brooding somberly. "Tell me about
yourself, Jurgis," she said, suddenly. "Where have you been?"

So he told her the long story of his adventures since his flight from
home; his life as a tramp, and his work in the freight tunnels, and the
accident; and then of Jack Duane, and of his political career in the
stockyards, and his downfall and subsequent failures. Marija listened
with sympathy; it was easy to believe the tale of his late starvation,
for his face showed it all. "You found me just in the nick of time," she
said. "I'll stand by you--I'll help you till you can get some work."

"I don't like to let you--" he began.

"Why not? Because I'm here?"

"No, not that," he said. "But I went off and left you--"

"Nonsense!" said Marija. "Don't think about it. I don't blame you."

"You must be hungry," she said, after a minute or two. "You stay here to
lunch--I'll have something up in the room."

She pressed a button, and a colored woman came to the door and took her
order. "It's nice to have somebody to wait on you," she observed, with a
laugh, as she lay back on the bed.

As the prison breakfast had not been liberal, Jurgis had a good
appetite, and they had a little feast together, talking meanwhile
of Elzbieta and the children and old times. Shortly before they were
through, there came another colored girl, with the message that the
"madame" wanted Marija--"Lithuanian Mary," as they called her here.

"That means you have to go," she said to Jurgis.

So he got up, and she gave him the new address of the family, a tenement
over in the Ghetto district. "You go there," she said. "They'll be glad
to see you."

But Jurgis stood hesitating.

"I--I don't like to," he said. "Honest, Marija, why don't you just give
me a little money and let me look for work first?"

"How do you need money?" was her reply. "All you want is something to
eat and a place to sleep, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said; "but then I don't like to go there after I left
them--and while I have nothing to do, and while you--you--"

"Go on!" said Marija, giving him a push. "What are you talking?--I won't
give you money," she added, as she followed him to the door, "because
you'll drink it up, and do yourself harm. Here's a quarter for you now,
and go along, and they'll be so glad to have you back, you won't have
time to feel ashamed. Good-by!"


So Jurgis went out, and walked down the street to think it over. He
decided that he would first try to get work, and so he put in the rest
of the day wandering here and there among factories and warehouses
without success. Then, when it was nearly dark, he concluded to go home,
and set out; but he came to a restaurant, and went in and spent his
quarter for a meal; and when he came out he changed his mind--the night
was pleasant, and he would sleep somewhere outside, and put in the
morrow hunting, and so have one more chance of a job. So he started away
again, when suddenly he chanced to look about him, and found that he
was walking down the same street and past the same hall where he had
listened to the political speech the night 'before. There was no red
fire and no band now, but there was a sign out, announcing a meeting,
and a stream of people pouring in through the entrance. In a flash
Jurgis had decided that he would chance it once more, and sit down
and rest while making up his mind what to do. There was no one taking
tickets, so it must be a free show again.

He entered. There were no decorations in the hall this time; but there
was quite a crowd upon the platform, and almost every seat in the place
was filled. He took one of the last, far in the rear, and straightway
forgot all about his surroundings. Would Elzbieta think that he had come
to sponge off her, or would she understand that he meant to get to work
again and do his share? Would she be decent to him, or would she scold
him? If only he could get some sort of a job before he went--if that
last boss had only been willing to try him!

--Then suddenly Jurgis looked up. A tremendous roar had burst from the
throats of the crowd, which by this time had packed the hall to the very
doors. Men and women were standing up, waving handkerchiefs, shouting,
yelling. Evidently the speaker had arrived, thought Jurgis; what fools
they were making of themselves! What were they expecting to get out
of it anyhow--what had they to do with elections, with governing the
country? Jurgis had been behind the scenes in politics.

He went back to his thoughts, but with one further fact to reckon
with--that he was caught here. The hall was now filled to the doors; and
after the meeting it would be too late for him to go home, so he would
have to make the best of it outside. Perhaps it would be better to go
home in the morning, anyway, for the children would be at school, and
he and Elzbieta could have a quiet explanation. She always had been a
reasonable person; and he really did mean to do right. He would manage
to persuade her of it--and besides, Marija was willing, and Marija was
furnishing the money. If Elzbieta were ugly, he would tell her that in
so many words.

So Jurgis went on meditating; until finally, when he had been an hour
or two in the hall, there began to prepare itself a repetition of the
dismal catastrophe of the night before. Speaking had been going on
all the time, and the audience was clapping its hands and shouting,
thrilling with excitement; and little by little the sounds were
beginning to blur in Jurgis's ears, and his thoughts were beginning to
run together, and his head to wobble and nod. He caught himself many
times, as usual, and made desperate resolutions; but the hall was hot
and close, and his long walk and is dinner were too much for him--in the
end his head sank forward and he went off again.

And then again someone nudged him, and he sat up with his old terrified
start! He had been snoring again, of course! And now what? He fixed his
eyes ahead of him, with painful intensity, staring at the platform as
if nothing else ever had interested him, or ever could interest him, all
his life. He imagined the angry exclamations, the hostile glances; he
imagined the policeman striding toward him--reaching for his neck. Or
was he to have one more chance? Were they going to let him alone this
time? He sat trembling; waiting--

And then suddenly came a voice in his ear, a woman's voice, gentle
and sweet, "If you would try to listen, comrade, perhaps you would be
interested."

Jurgis was more startled by that than he would have been by the touch of
a policeman. He still kept his eyes fixed ahead, and did not stir;
but his heart gave a great leap. Comrade! Who was it that called him
"comrade"?

He waited long, long; and at last, when he was sure that he was no
longer watched, he stole a glance out of the corner of his eyes at the
woman who sat beside him. She was young and beautiful; she wore fine
clothes, and was what is called a "lady." And she called him "comrade"!

He turned a little, carefully, so that he could see her better; then he
began to watch her, fascinated. She had apparently forgotten all
about him, and was looking toward the platform. A man was speaking
there--Jurgis heard his voice vaguely; but all his thoughts were for
this woman's face. A feeling of alarm stole over him as he stared at
her. It made his flesh creep. What was the matter with her, what could
be going on, to affect any one like that? She sat as one turned to
stone, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, so tightly that he could
see the cords standing out in her wrists. There was a look of excitement
upon her face, of tense effort, as of one struggling mightily, or
witnessing a struggle. There was a faint quivering of her nostrils; and
now and then she would moisten her lips with feverish haste. Her bosom
rose and fell as she breathed, and her excitement seemed to mount higher
and higher, and then to sink away again, like a boat tossing upon ocean
surges. What was it? What was the matter? It must be something that the
man was saying, up there on the platform. What sort of a man was he?
And what sort of thing was this, anyhow?--So all at once it occurred to
Jurgis to look at the speaker.

It was like coming suddenly upon some wild sight of nature--a mountain
forest lashed by a tempest, a ship tossed about upon a stormy sea.
Jurgis had an unpleasant sensation, a sense of confusion, of disorder,
of wild and meaningless uproar. The man was tall and gaunt, as haggard
as his auditor himself; a thin black beard covered half of his face,
and one could see only two black hollows where the eyes were. He was
speaking rapidly, in great excitement; he used many gestures--he spoke
he moved here and there upon the stage, reaching with his long arms as
if to seize each person in his audience. His voice was deep, like an
organ; it was some time, however, before Jurgis thought of the voice--he
was too much occupied with his eyes to think of what the man was saying.
But suddenly it seemed as if the speaker had begun pointing straight at
him, as if he had singled him out particularly for his remarks; and
so Jurgis became suddenly aware of his voice, trembling, vibrant with
emotion, with pain and longing, with a burden of things unutterable, not
to be compassed by words. To hear it was to be suddenly arrested, to be
gripped, transfixed.

"You listen to these things," the man was saying, "and you say, 'Yes,
they are true, but they have been that way always.' Or you say, 'Maybe
it will come, but not in my time--it will not help me.' And so you
return to your daily round of toil, you go back to be ground up for
profits in the world-wide mill of economic might! To toil long hours
for another's advantage; to live in mean and squalid homes, to work in
dangerous and unhealthful places; to wrestle with the specters of hunger
and privation, to take your chances of accident, disease, and death. And
each day the struggle becomes fiercer, the pace more cruel; each day
you have to toil a little harder, and feel the iron hand of circumstance
close upon you a little tighter. Months pass, years maybe--and then you
come again; and again I am here to plead with you, to know if want and
misery have yet done their work with you, if injustice and oppression
have yet opened your eyes! I shall still be waiting--there is nothing
else that I can do. There is no wilderness where I can hide from these
things, there is no haven where I can escape them; though I travel to
the ends of the earth, I find the same accursed system--I find that all
the fair and noble impulses of humanity, the dreams of poets and the
agonies of martyrs, are shackled and bound in the service of organized
and predatory Greed! And therefore I cannot rest, I cannot be
silent; therefore I cast aside comfort and happiness, health and good
repute--and go out into the world and cry out the pain of my spirit!
Therefore I am not to be silenced by poverty and sickness, not by hatred
and obloquy, by threats and ridicule--not by prison and persecution, if
they should come--not by any power that is upon the earth or above the
earth, that was, or is, or ever can be created. If I fail tonight, I can
only try tomorrow; knowing that the fault must be mine--that if once
the vision of my soul were spoken upon earth, if once the anguish of
its defeat were uttered in human speech, it would break the stoutest
barriers of prejudice, it would shake the most sluggish soul to action!
It would abash the most cynical, it would terrify the most selfish; and
the voice of mockery would be silenced, and fraud and falsehood would
slink back into their dens, and the truth would stand forth alone! For I
speak with the voice of the millions who are voiceless! Of them that are
oppressed and have no comforter! Of the disinherited of life, for whom
there is no respite and no deliverance, to whom the world is a prison, a
dungeon of torture, a tomb! With the voice of the little child who toils
tonight in a Southern cotton mill, staggering with exhaustion, numb
with agony, and knowing no hope but the grave! Of the mother who sews by
candlelight in her tenement garret, weary and weeping, smitten with
the mortal hunger of her babes! Of the man who lies upon a bed of rags,
wrestling in his last sickness and leaving his loved ones to perish! Of
the young girl who, somewhere at this moment, is walking the streets of
this horrible city, beaten and starving, and making her choice between
the brothel and the lake! With the voice of those, whoever and wherever
they may be, who are caught beneath the wheels of the Juggernaut of
Greed! With the voice of humanity, calling for deliverance! Of the
everlasting soul of Man, arising from the dust; breaking its way out of
its prison--rending the bands of oppression and ignorance--groping its
way to the light!"

The speaker paused. There was an instant of silence, while men caught
their breaths, and then like a single sound there came a cry from a
thousand people. Through it all Jurgis sat still, motionless and rigid,
his eyes fixed upon the speaker; he was trembling, smitten with wonder.

Suddenly the man raised his hands, and silence fell, and he began again.

"I plead with you," he said, "whoever you may be, provided that you care
about the truth; but most of all I plead with working-man, with those
to whom the evils I portray are not mere matters of sentiment, to be
dallied and toyed with, and then perhaps put aside and forgotten--to
whom they are the grim and relentless realities of the daily grind, the
chains upon their limbs, the lash upon their backs, the iron in their
souls. To you, working-men! To you, the toilers, who have made this
land, and have no voice in its councils! To you, whose lot it is to sow
that others may reap, to labor and obey, and ask no more than the wages
of a beast of burden, the food and shelter to keep you alive from day to
day. It is to you that I come with my message of salvation, it is to you
that I appeal. I know how much it is to ask of you--I know, for I have
been in your place, I have lived your life, and there is no man before
me here tonight who knows it better. I have known what it is to be a
street-waif, a bootblack, living upon a crust of bread and sleeping in
cellar stairways and under empty wagons. I have known what it is to dare
and to aspire, to dream mighty dreams and to see them perish--to see all
the fair flowers of my spirit trampled into the mire by the wild-beast
powers of my life. I know what is the price that a working-man pays for
knowledge--I have paid for it with food and sleep, with agony of body
and mind, with health, almost with life itself; and so, when I come to
you with a story of hope and freedom, with the vision of a new earth to
be created, of a new labor to be dared, I am not surprised that I find
you sordid and material, sluggish and incredulous. That I do not despair
is because I know also the forces that are driving behind you--because
I know the raging lash of poverty, the sting of contempt and mastership,
'the insolence of office and the spurns.' Because I feel sure that in
the crowd that has come to me tonight, no matter how many may be dull
and heedless, no matter how many may have come out of idle curiosity, or
in order to ridicule--there will be some one man whom pain and suffering
have made desperate, whom some chance vision of wrong and horror has
startled and shocked into attention. And to him my words will come like
a sudden flash of lightning to one who travels in darkness--revealing
the way before him, the perils and the obstacles--solving all problems,
making all difficulties clear! The scales will fall from his eyes, the
shackles will be torn from his limbs--he will leap up with a cry of
thankfulness, he will stride forth a free man at last! A man
delivered from his self-created slavery! A man who will never more
be trapped--whom no blandishments will cajole, whom no threats will
frighten; who from tonight on will move forward, and not backward, who
will study and understand, who will gird on his sword and take his
place in the army of his comrades and brothers. Who will carry the good
tidings to others, as I have carried them to him--priceless gift of
liberty and light that is neither mine nor his, but is the heritage of
the soul of man! Working-men, working-men--comrades! open your eyes and
look about you! You have lived so long in the toil and heat that your
senses are dulled, your souls are numbed; but realize once in your lives
this world in which you dwell--tear off the rags of its customs and
conventions--behold it as it is, in all its hideous nakedness! Realize
it, realize it! Realize that out upon the plains of Manchuria tonight
two hostile armies are facing each other--that now, while we are seated
here, a million human beings may be hurled at each other's throats,
striving with the fury of maniacs to tear each other to pieces! And this
in the twentieth century, nineteen hundred years since the Prince of
Peace was born on earth! Nineteen hundred years that his words have been
preached as divine, and here two armies of men are rending and tearing
each other like the wild beasts of the forest! Philosophers have
reasoned, prophets have denounced, poets have wept and pleaded--and
still this hideous Monster roams at large! We have schools and colleges,
newspapers and books; we have searched the heavens and the earth, we
have weighed and probed and reasoned--and all to equip men to destroy
each other! We call it War, and pass it by--but do not put me off with
platitudes and conventions--come with me, come with me--realize it!
See the bodies of men pierced by bullets, blown into pieces by bursting
shells! Hear the crunching of the bayonet, plunged into human flesh;
hear the groans and shrieks of agony, see the faces of men crazed by
pain, turned into fiends by fury and hate! Put your hand upon that piece
of flesh--it is hot and quivering--just now it was a part of a man! This
blood is still steaming--it was driven by a human heart! Almighty God!
and this goes on--it is systematic, organized, premeditated! And we know
it, and read of it, and take it for granted; our papers tell of it, and
the presses are not stopped--our churches know of it, and do not close
their doors--the people behold it, and do not rise up in horror and
revolution!