After walking a ways, Jurgis met a little ragamuffin whom he hailed:
"Hey, sonny!" The boy cocked one eye at him--he knew that Jurgis was a
"jailbird" by his shaven head. "Wot yer want?" he queried.

"How do you go to the stockyards?" Jurgis demanded.

"I don't go," replied the boy.

Jurgis hesitated a moment, nonplussed. Then he said, "I mean which is
the way?"

"Why don't yer say so then?" was the response, and the boy pointed to
the northwest, across the tracks. "That way."

"How far is it?" Jurgis asked. "I dunno," said the other. "Mebbe twenty
miles or so."

"Twenty miles!" Jurgis echoed, and his face fell. He had to walk every
foot of it, for they had turned him out of jail without a penny in his
pockets.

Yet, when he once got started, and his blood had warmed with walking,
he forgot everything in the fever of his thoughts. All the dreadful
imaginations that had haunted him in his cell now rushed into his mind
at once. The agony was almost over--he was going to find out; and he
clenched his hands in his pockets as he strode, following his flying
desire, almost at a run. Ona--the baby--the family--the house--he would
know the truth about them all! And he was coming to the rescue--he was
free again! His hands were his own, and he could help them, he could do
battle for them against the world.

For an hour or so he walked thus, and then he began to look about him.
He seemed to be leaving the city altogether. The street was turning into
a country road, leading out to the westward; there were snow-covered
fields on either side of him. Soon he met a farmer driving a two-horse
wagon loaded with straw, and he stopped him.

"Is this the way to the stockyards?" he asked.

The farmer scratched his head. "I dunno jest where they be," he said.
"But they're in the city somewhere, and you're going dead away from it
now."

Jurgis looked dazed. "I was told this was the way," he said.

"Who told you?"

"A boy."

"Well, mebbe he was playing a joke on ye. The best thing ye kin do is to
go back, and when ye git into town ask a policeman. I'd take ye in, only
I've come a long ways an' I'm loaded heavy. Git up!"

So Jurgis turned and followed, and toward the end of the morning he
began to see Chicago again. Past endless blocks of two-story shanties
he walked, along wooden sidewalks and unpaved pathways treacherous with
deep slush holes. Every few blocks there would be a railroad crossing
on the level with the sidewalk, a deathtrap for the unwary; long freight
trains would be passing, the cars clanking and crashing together, and
Jurgis would pace about waiting, burning up with a fever of impatience.
Occasionally the cars would stop for some minutes, and wagons and
streetcars would crowd together waiting, the drivers swearing at each
other, or hiding beneath umbrellas out of the rain; at such times Jurgis
would dodge under the gates and run across the tracks and between the
cars, taking his life into his hands.

He crossed a long bridge over a river frozen solid and covered with
slush. Not even on the river bank was the snow white--the rain which
fell was a diluted solution of smoke, and Jurgis' hands and face were
streaked with black. Then he came into the business part of the city,
where the streets were sewers of inky blackness, with horses sleeping
and plunging, and women and children flying across in panic-stricken
droves. These streets were huge canyons formed by towering black
buildings, echoing with the clang of car gongs and the shouts of
drivers; the people who swarmed in them were as busy as ants--all
hurrying breathlessly, never stopping to look at anything nor at each
other. The solitary trampish-looking foreigner, with water-soaked
clothing and haggard face and anxious eyes, was as much alone as he
hurried past them, as much unheeded and as lost, as if he had been a
thousand miles deep in a wilderness.

A policeman gave him his direction and told him that he had five miles
to go. He came again to the slum districts, to avenues of saloons and
cheap stores, with long dingy red factory buildings, and coalyards and
railroad tracks; and then Jurgis lifted up his head and began to sniff
the air like a startled animal--scenting the far-off odor of home. It
was late afternoon then, and he was hungry, but the dinner invitations
hung out of the saloons were not for him.

So he came at last to the stockyards, to the black volcanoes of smoke
and the lowing cattle and the stench. Then, seeing a crowded car, his
impatience got the better of him and he jumped aboard, hiding behind
another man, unnoticed by the conductor. In ten minutes more he had
reached his street, and home.

He was half running as he came round the corner. There was the house, at
any rate--and then suddenly he stopped and stared. What was the matter
with the house?

Jurgis looked twice, bewildered; then he glanced at the house next door
and at the one beyond--then at the saloon on the corner. Yes, it was
the right place, quite certainly--he had not made any mistake. But the
house--the house was a different color!

He came a couple of steps nearer. Yes; it had been gray and now it was
yellow! The trimmings around the windows had been red, and now they were
green! It was all newly painted! How strange it made it seem!

Jurgis went closer yet, but keeping on the other side of the street.
A sudden and horrible spasm of fear had come over him. His knees were
shaking beneath him, and his mind was in a whirl. New paint on the
house, and new weatherboards, where the old had begun to rot off, and
the agent had got after them! New shingles over the hole in the roof,
too, the hole that had for six months been the bane of his soul--he
having no money to have it fixed and no time to fix it himself, and the
rain leaking in, and overflowing the pots and pans he put to catch it,
and flooding the attic and loosening the plaster. And now it was fixed!
And the broken windowpane replaced! And curtains in the windows! New,
white curtains, stiff and shiny!

Then suddenly the front door opened. Jurgis stood, his chest heaving as
he struggled to catch his breath. A boy had come out, a stranger to him;
a big, fat, rosy-cheeked youngster, such as had never been seen in his
home before.

Jurgis stared at the boy, fascinated. He came down the steps whistling,
kicking off the snow. He stopped at the foot, and picked up some, and
then leaned against the railing, making a snowball. A moment later
he looked around and saw Jurgis, and their eyes met; it was a hostile
glance, the boy evidently thinking that the other had suspicions of the
snowball. When Jurgis started slowly across the street toward him, he
gave a quick glance about, meditating retreat, but then he concluded to
stand his ground.

Jurgis took hold of the railing of the steps, for he was a little
unsteady. "What--what are you doing here?" he managed to gasp.

"Go on!" said the boy.

"You--" Jurgis tried again. "What do you want here?"

"Me?" answered the boy, angrily. "I live here."

"You live here!" Jurgis panted. He turned white and clung more tightly
to the railing. "You live here! Then where's my family?"

The boy looked surprised. "Your family!" he echoed.

And Jurgis started toward him. "I--this is my house!" he cried.

"Come off!" said the boy; then suddenly the door upstairs opened, and he
called: "Hey, ma! Here's a fellow says he owns this house."

A stout Irishwoman came to the top of the steps. "What's that?" she
demanded.

Jurgis turned toward her. "Where is my family?" he cried, wildly. "I
left them here! This is my home! What are you doing in my home?"

The woman stared at him in frightened wonder, she must have thought
she was dealing with a maniac--Jurgis looked like one. "Your home!" she
echoed.

"My home!" he half shrieked. "I lived here, I tell you."

"You must be mistaken," she answered him. "No one ever lived here. This
is a new house. They told us so. They--"

"What have they done with my family?" shouted Jurgis, frantically.

A light had begun to break upon the woman; perhaps she had had doubts of
what "they" had told her. "I don't know where your family is," she said.
"I bought the house only three days ago, and there was nobody here, and
they told me it was all new. Do you really mean you had ever rented it?"

"Rented it!" panted Jurgis. "I bought it! I paid for it! I own it! And
they--my God, can't you tell me where my people went?"

She made him understand at last that she knew nothing. Jurgis' brain
was so confused that he could not grasp the situation. It was as if his
family had been wiped out of existence; as if they were proving to be
dream people, who never had existed at all. He was quite lost--but then
suddenly he thought of Grandmother Majauszkiene, who lived in the next
block. She would know! He turned and started at a run.

Grandmother Majauszkiene came to the door herself. She cried out when
she saw Jurgis, wild-eyed and shaking. Yes, yes, she could tell him. The
family had moved; they had not been able to pay the rent and they had
been turned out into the snow, and the house had been repainted and sold
again the next week. No, she had not heard how they were, but she could
tell him that they had gone back to Aniele Jukniene, with whom they had
stayed when they first came to the yards. Wouldn't Jurgis come in and
rest? It was certainly too bad--if only he had not got into jail--

And so Jurgis turned and staggered away. He did not go very far round
the corner he gave out completely, and sat down on the steps of a
saloon, and hid his face in his hands, and shook all over with dry,
racking sobs.

Their home! Their home! They had lost it! Grief, despair, rage,
overwhelmed him--what was any imagination of the thing to this
heartbreaking, crushing reality of it--to the sight of strange people
living in his house, hanging their curtains to his windows, staring at
him with hostile eyes! It was monstrous, it was unthinkable--they could
not do it--it could not be true! Only think what he had suffered for
that house--what miseries they had all suffered for it--the price they
had paid for it!

The whole long agony came back to him. Their sacrifices in the
beginning, their three hundred dollars that they had scraped together,
all they owned in the world, all that stood between them and starvation!
And then their toil, month by month, to get together the twelve dollars,
and the interest as well, and now and then the taxes, and the other
charges, and the repairs, and what not! Why, they had put their very
souls into their payments on that house, they had paid for it with their
sweat and tears--yes, more, with their very lifeblood. Dede Antanas had
died of the struggle to earn that money--he would have been alive and
strong today if he had not had to work in Durham's dark cellars to earn
his share. And Ona, too, had given her health and strength to pay for
it--she was wrecked and ruined because of it; and so was he, who had
been a big, strong man three years ago, and now sat here shivering,
broken, cowed, weeping like a hysterical child. Ah! they had cast their
all into the fight; and they had lost, they had lost! All that they had
paid was gone--every cent of it. And their house was gone--they were
back where they had started from, flung out into the cold to starve and
freeze!

Jurgis could see all the truth now--could see himself, through the whole
long course of events, the victim of ravenous vultures that had torn
into his vitals and devoured him; of fiends that had racked and tortured
him, mocking him, meantime, jeering in his face. Ah, God, the horror
of it, the monstrous, hideous, demoniacal wickedness of it! He and his
family, helpless women and children, struggling to live, ignorant and
defenseless and forlorn as they were--and the enemies that had been
lurking for them, crouching upon their trail and thirsting for their
blood! That first lying circular, that smooth-tongued slippery agent!
That trap of the extra payments, the interest, and all the other charges
that they had not the means to pay, and would never have attempted to
pay! And then all the tricks of the packers, their masters, the tyrants
who ruled them--the shutdowns and the scarcity of work, the irregular
hours and the cruel speeding-up, the lowering of wages, the raising of
prices! The mercilessness of nature about them, of heat and cold, rain
and snow; the mercilessness of the city, of the country in which they
lived, of its laws and customs that they did not understand! All of
these things had worked together for the company that had marked them
for its prey and was waiting for its chance. And now, with this last
hideous injustice, its time had come, and it had turned them out bag
and baggage, and taken their house and sold it again! And they could
do nothing, they were tied hand and foot--the law was against them, the
whole machinery of society was at their oppressors' command! If Jurgis
so much as raised a hand against them, back he would go into that
wild-beast pen from which he had just escaped!

To get up and go away was to give up, to acknowledge defeat, to leave
the strange family in possession; and Jurgis might have sat shivering
in the rain for hours before he could do that, had it not been for
the thought of his family. It might be that he had worse things yet to
learn--and so he got to his feet and started away, walking on, wearily,
half-dazed.

To Aniele's house, in back of the yards, was a good two miles; the
distance had never seemed longer to Jurgis, and when he saw the familiar
dingy-gray shanty his heart was beating fast. He ran up the steps and
began to hammer upon the door.

The old woman herself came to open it. She had shrunk all up with her
rheumatism since Jurgis had seen her last, and her yellow parchment face
stared up at him from a little above the level of the doorknob. She gave
a start when she saw him. "Is Ona here?" he cried, breathlessly.

"Yes," was the answer, "she's here."

"How--" Jurgis began, and then stopped short, clutching convulsively at
the side of the door. From somewhere within the house had come a sudden
cry, a wild, horrible scream of anguish. And the voice was Ona's. For a
moment Jurgis stood half-paralyzed with fright; then he bounded past the
old woman and into the room.

It was Aniele's kitchen, and huddled round the stove were half a dozen
women, pale and frightened. One of them started to her feet as Jurgis
entered; she was haggard and frightfully thin, with one arm tied up in
bandages--he hardly realized that it was Marija. He looked first for
Ona; then, not seeing her, he stared at the women, expecting them to
speak. But they sat dumb, gazing back at him, panic-stricken; and a
second later came another piercing scream.

It was from the rear of the house, and upstairs. Jurgis bounded to a
door of the room and flung it open; there was a ladder leading through
a trap door to the garret, and he was at the foot of it when suddenly he
heard a voice behind him, and saw Marija at his heels. She seized him by
the sleeve with her good hand, panting wildly, "No, no, Jurgis! Stop!"

"What do you mean?" he gasped.

"You mustn't go up," she cried.

Jurgis was half-crazed with bewilderment and fright. "What's the
matter?" he shouted. "What is it?"

Marija clung to him tightly; he could hear Ona sobbing and moaning
above, and he fought to get away and climb up, without waiting for her
reply. "No, no," she rushed on. "Jurgis! You mustn't go up! It's--it's
the child!"

"The child?" he echoed in perplexity. "Antanas?"

Marija answered him, in a whisper: "The new one!"

And then Jurgis went limp, and caught himself on the ladder. He stared
at her as if she were a ghost. "The new one!" he gasped. "But it isn't
time," he added, wildly.

Marija nodded. "I know," she said; "but it's come."

And then again came Ona's scream, smiting him like a blow in the face,
making him wince and turn white. Her voice died away into a wail--then
he heard her sobbing again, "My God--let me die, let me die!" And Marija
hung her arms about him, crying: "Come out! Come away!"


She dragged him back into the kitchen, half carrying him, for he had
gone all to pieces. It was as if the pillars of his soul had fallen
in--he was blasted with horror. In the room he sank into a chair,
trembling like a leaf, Marija still holding him, and the women staring
at him in dumb, helpless fright.

And then again Ona cried out; he could hear it nearly as plainly here,
and he staggered to his feet. "How long has this been going on?" he
panted.

"Not very long," Marija answered, and then, at a signal from Aniele, she
rushed on: "You go away, Jurgis you can't help--go away and come back
later. It's all right--it's--"

"Who's with her?" Jurgis demanded; and then, seeing Marija hesitating,
he cried again, "Who's with her?"

"She's--she's all right," she answered. "Elzbieta's with her."

"But the doctor!" he panted. "Some one who knows!"

He seized Marija by the arm; she trembled, and her voice sank beneath a
whisper as she replied, "We--we have no money." Then, frightened at
the look on his face, she exclaimed: "It's all right, Jurgis! You don't
understand--go away--go away! Ah, if you only had waited!"

Above her protests Jurgis heard Ona again; he was almost out of his
mind. It was all new to him, raw and horrible--it had fallen upon him
like a lightning stroke. When little Antanas was born he had been at
work, and had known nothing about it until it was over; and now he was
not to be controlled. The frightened women were at their wits' end; one
after another they tried to reason with him, to make him understand that
this was the lot of woman. In the end they half drove him out into
the rain, where he began to pace up and down, bareheaded and frantic.
Because he could hear Ona from the street, he would first go away to
escape the sounds, and then come back because he could not help it. At
the end of a quarter of an hour he rushed up the steps again, and for
fear that he would break in the door they had to open it and let him in.

There was no arguing with him. They could not tell him that all was
going well--how could they know, he cried--why, she was dying, she was
being torn to pieces! Listen to her--listen! Why, it was monstrous--it
could not be allowed--there must be some help for it! Had they tried to
get a doctor? They might pay him afterward--they could promise--

"We couldn't promise, Jurgis," protested Marija. "We had no money--we
have scarcely been able to keep alive."

"But I can work," Jurgis exclaimed. "I can earn money!"

"Yes," she answered--"but we thought you were in jail. How could we know
when you would return? They will not work for nothing."

Marija went on to tell how she had tried to find a midwife, and how they
had demanded ten, fifteen, even twenty-five dollars, and that in cash.
"And I had only a quarter," she said. "I have spent every cent of my
money--all that I had in the bank; and I owe the doctor who has been
coming to see me, and he has stopped because he thinks I don't mean
to pay him. And we owe Aniele for two weeks' rent, and she is nearly
starving, and is afraid of being turned out. We have been borrowing and
begging to keep alive, and there is nothing more we can do--"

"And the children?" cried Jurgis.

"The children have not been home for three days, the weather has been so
bad. They could not know what is happening--it came suddenly, two months
before we expected it."

Jurgis was standing by the table, and he caught himself with his hand;
his head sank and his arms shook--it looked as if he were going to
collapse. Then suddenly Aniele got up and came hobbling toward him,
fumbling in her skirt pocket. She drew out a dirty rag, in one corner of
which she had something tied.

"Here, Jurgis!" she said, "I have some money. Palauk! See!"

She unwrapped it and counted it out--thirty-four cents. "You go, now,"
she said, "and try and get somebody yourself. And maybe the rest can
help--give him some money, you; he will pay you back some day, and it
will do him good to have something to think about, even if he doesn't
succeed. When he comes back, maybe it will be over."

And so the other women turned out the contents of their pocketbooks;
most of them had only pennies and nickels, but they gave him all. Mrs.
Olszewski, who lived next door, and had a husband who was a skilled
cattle butcher, but a drinking man, gave nearly half a dollar, enough
to raise the whole sum to a dollar and a quarter. Then Jurgis thrust it
into his pocket, still holding it tightly in his fist, and started away
at a run.



Chapter 19


"Madame Haupt Hebamme", ran a sign, swinging from a second-story window
over a saloon on the avenue; at a side door was another sign, with a
hand pointing up a dingy flight of stairs. Jurgis went up them, three at
a time.

Madame Haupt was frying pork and onions, and had her door half open to
let out the smoke. When he tried to knock upon it, it swung open the
rest of the way, and he had a glimpse of her, with a black bottle turned
up to her lips. Then he knocked louder, and she started and put it away.
She was a Dutchwoman, enormously fat--when she walked she rolled like
a small boat on the ocean, and the dishes in the cupboard jostled each
other. She wore a filthy blue wrapper, and her teeth were black.

"Vot is it?" she said, when she saw Jurgis.

He had run like mad all the way and was so out of breath he could hardly
speak. His hair was flying and his eyes wild--he looked like a man that
had risen from the tomb. "My wife!" he panted. "Come quickly!" Madame
Haupt set the frying pan to one side and wiped her hands on her wrapper.

"You vant me to come for a case?" she inquired.

"Yes," gasped Jurgis.

"I haf yust come back from a case," she said. "I haf had no time to eat
my dinner. Still--if it is so bad--"

"Yes--it is!" cried he. "Vell, den, perhaps--vot you pay?"

"I--I--how much do you want?" Jurgis stammered.

"Tventy-five dollars." His face fell. "I can't pay that," he said.

The woman was watching him narrowly. "How much do you pay?" she
demanded.

"Must I pay now--right away?"

"Yes; all my customers do."

"I--I haven't much money," Jurgis began in an agony of dread. "I've been
in--in trouble--and my money is gone. But I'll pay you--every cent--just
as soon as I can; I can work--"

"Vot is your work?"

"I have no place now. I must get one. But I--"

"How much haf you got now?"

He could hardly bring himself to reply. When he said "A dollar and a
quarter," the woman laughed in his face.

"I vould not put on my hat for a dollar and a quarter," she said.

"It's all I've got," he pleaded, his voice breaking. "I must get some
one--my wife will die. I can't help it--I--"

Madame Haupt had put back her pork and onions on the stove. She turned
to him and answered, out of the steam and noise: "Git me ten dollars
cash, und so you can pay me the rest next mont'."

"I can't do it--I haven't got it!" Jurgis protested. "I tell you I have
only a dollar and a quarter."

The woman turned to her work. "I don't believe you," she said. "Dot is
all to try to sheat me. Vot is de reason a big man like you has got only
a dollar und a quarter?"

"I've just been in jail," Jurgis cried--he was ready to get down upon
his knees to the woman--"and I had no money before, and my family has
almost starved."

"Vere is your friends, dot ought to help you?"

"They are all poor," he answered. "They gave me this. I have done
everything I can--"

"Haven't you got notting you can sell?"

"I have nothing, I tell you--I have nothing," he cried, frantically.

"Can't you borrow it, den? Don't your store people trust you?" Then, as
he shook his head, she went on: "Listen to me--if you git me you vill be
glad of it. I vill save your wife und baby for you, and it vill not seem
like mooch to you in de end. If you loose dem now how you tink you feel
den? Und here is a lady dot knows her business--I could send you to
people in dis block, und dey vould tell you--"

Madame Haupt was pointing her cooking-fork at Jurgis persuasively; but
her words were more than he could bear. He flung up his hands with
a gesture of despair and turned and started away. "It's no use," he
exclaimed--but suddenly he heard the woman's voice behind him again--

"I vill make it five dollars for you."

She followed behind him, arguing with him. "You vill be foolish not to
take such an offer," she said. "You von't find nobody go out on a rainy
day like dis for less. Vy, I haf never took a case in my life so sheap
as dot. I couldn't pay mine room rent--"

Jurgis interrupted her with an oath of rage. "If I haven't got it," he
shouted, "how can I pay it? Damn it, I would pay you if I could, but I
tell you I haven't got it. I haven't got it! Do you hear me I haven't
got it!"

He turned and started away again. He was halfway down the stairs before
Madame Haupt could shout to him: "Vait! I vill go mit you! Come back!"

He went back into the room again.

"It is not goot to tink of anybody suffering," she said, in a melancholy
voice. "I might as vell go mit you for noffing as vot you offer me, but
I vill try to help you. How far is it?"

"Three or four blocks from here."

"Tree or four! Und so I shall get soaked! Gott in Himmel, it ought to
be vorth more! Vun dollar und a quarter, und a day like dis!--But you
understand now--you vill pay me de rest of twenty-five dollars soon?"

"As soon as I can."

"Some time dis mont'?"

"Yes, within a month," said poor Jurgis. "Anything! Hurry up!"

"Vere is de dollar und a quarter?" persisted Madame Haupt, relentlessly.

Jurgis put the money on the table and the woman counted it and stowed it
away. Then she wiped her greasy hands again and proceeded to get ready,
complaining all the time; she was so fat that it was painful for her to
move, and she grunted and gasped at every step. She took off her wrapper
without even taking the trouble to turn her back to Jurgis, and put on
her corsets and dress. Then there was a black bonnet which had to be
adjusted carefully, and an umbrella which was mislaid, and a bag full of
necessaries which had to be collected from here and there--the man being
nearly crazy with anxiety in the meantime. When they were on the street
he kept about four paces ahead of her, turning now and then, as if he
could hurry her on by the force of his desire. But Madame Haupt could
only go so far at a step, and it took all her attention to get the
needed breath for that.

They came at last to the house, and to the group of frightened women in
the kitchen. It was not over yet, Jurgis learned--he heard Ona crying
still; and meantime Madame Haupt removed her bonnet and laid it on
the mantelpiece, and got out of her bag, first an old dress and then a
saucer of goose grease, which she proceeded to rub upon her hands. The
more cases this goose grease is used in, the better luck it brings to
the midwife, and so she keeps it upon her kitchen mantelpiece or stowed
away in a cupboard with her dirty clothes, for months, and sometimes
even for years.

Then they escorted her to the ladder, and Jurgis heard her give an
exclamation of dismay. "Gott in Himmel, vot for haf you brought me to a
place like dis? I could not climb up dot ladder. I could not git troo a
trap door! I vill not try it--vy, I might kill myself already. Vot sort
of a place is dot for a woman to bear a child in--up in a garret, mit
only a ladder to it? You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!" Jurgis
stood in the doorway and listened to her scolding, half drowning out the
horrible moans and screams of Ona.

At last Aniele succeeded in pacifying her, and she essayed the ascent;
then, however, she had to be stopped while the old woman cautioned her
about the floor of the garret. They had no real floor--they had laid old
boards in one part to make a place for the family to live; it was all
right and safe there, but the other part of the garret had only the
joists of the floor, and the lath and plaster of the ceiling below, and
if one stepped on this there would be a catastrophe. As it was half dark
up above, perhaps one of the others had best go up first with a candle.
Then there were more outcries and threatening, until at last Jurgis had
a vision of a pair of elephantine legs disappearing through the trap
door, and felt the house shake as Madame Haupt started to walk. Then
suddenly Aniele came to him and took him by the arm.

"Now," she said, "you go away. Do as I tell you--you have done all you
can, and you are only in the way. Go away and stay away."

"But where shall I go?" Jurgis asked, helplessly.

"I don't know where," she answered. "Go on the street, if there is no
other place--only go! And stay all night!"

In the end she and Marija pushed him out of the door and shut it behind
him. It was just about sundown, and it was turning cold--the rain had
changed to snow, and the slush was freezing. Jurgis shivered in his thin
clothing, and put his hands into his pockets and started away. He had
not eaten since morning, and he felt weak and ill; with a sudden throb
of hope he recollected he was only a few blocks from the saloon where he
had been wont to eat his dinner. They might have mercy on him there,
or he might meet a friend. He set out for the place as fast as he could
walk.

"Hello, Jack," said the saloonkeeper, when he entered--they call all
foreigners and unskilled men "Jack" in Packingtown. "Where've you been?"

Jurgis went straight to the bar. "I've been in jail," he said, "and I've
just got out. I walked home all the way, and I've not a cent, and had
nothing to eat since this morning. And I've lost my home, and my wife's
ill, and I'm done up."

The saloonkeeper gazed at him, with his haggard white face and his blue
trembling lips. Then he pushed a big bottle toward him. "Fill her up!"
he said.

Jurgis could hardly hold the bottle, his hands shook so.

"Don't be afraid," said the saloonkeeper, "fill her up!"

So Jurgis drank a large glass of whisky, and then turned to the lunch
counter, in obedience to the other's suggestion. He ate all he dared,
stuffing it in as fast as he could; and then, after trying to speak his
gratitude, he went and sat down by the big red stove in the middle of
the room.

It was too good to last, however--like all things in this hard
world. His soaked clothing began to steam, and the horrible stench of
fertilizer to fill the room. In an hour or so the packing houses would
be closing and the men coming in from their work; and they would not
come into a place that smelt of Jurgis. Also it was Saturday night, and
in a couple of hours would come a violin and a cornet, and in the rear
part of the saloon the families of the neighborhood would dance and
feast upon wienerwurst and lager, until two or three o'clock in the
morning. The saloon-keeper coughed once or twice, and then remarked,
"Say, Jack, I'm afraid you'll have to quit."

He was used to the sight of human wrecks, this saloonkeeper; he "fired"
dozens of them every night, just as haggard and cold and forlorn as this
one. But they were all men who had given up and been counted out, while
Jurgis was still in the fight, and had reminders of decency about him.
As he got up meekly, the other reflected that he had always been a
steady man, and might soon be a good customer again. "You've been up
against it, I see," he said. "Come this way."

In the rear of the saloon were the cellar stairs. There was a door above
and another below, both safely padlocked, making the stairs an admirable
place to stow away a customer who might still chance to have money, or a
political light whom it was not advisable to kick out of doors.

So Jurgis spent the night. The whisky had only half warmed him, and he
could not sleep, exhausted as he was; he would nod forward, and then
start up, shivering with the cold, and begin to remember again. Hour
after hour passed, until he could only persuade himself that it was not
morning by the sounds of music and laughter and singing that were to
be heard from the room. When at last these ceased, he expected that he
would be turned out into the street; as this did not happen, he fell to
wondering whether the man had forgotten him.

In the end, when the silence and suspense were no longer to be borne,
he got up and hammered on the door; and the proprietor came, yawning
and rubbing his eyes. He was keeping open all night, and dozing between
customers.

"I want to go home," Jurgis said. "I'm worried about my wife--I can't
wait any longer."

"Why the hell didn't you say so before?" said the man. "I thought you
didn't have any home to go to." Jurgis went outside. It was four o'clock
in the morning, and as black as night. There were three or four inches
of fresh snow on the ground, and the flakes were falling thick and fast.
He turned toward Aniele's and started at a run.


There was a light burning in the kitchen window and the blinds were
drawn. The door was unlocked and Jurgis rushed in.

Aniele, Marija, and the rest of the women were huddled about the
stove, exactly as before; with them were several newcomers, Jurgis
noticed--also he noticed that the house was silent.

"Well?" he said.

No one answered him, they sat staring at him with their pale faces. He
cried again: "Well?"

And then, by the light of the smoky lamp, he saw Marija who sat nearest
him, shaking her head slowly. "Not yet," she said.

And Jurgis gave a cry of dismay. "Not yet?"

Again Marija's head shook. The poor fellow stood dumfounded. "I don't
hear her," he gasped.

"She's been quiet a long time," replied the other.

There was another pause--broken suddenly by a voice from the attic:
"Hello, there!"

Several of the women ran into the next room, while Marija sprang toward
Jurgis. "Wait here!" she cried, and the two stood, pale and trembling,
listening. In a few moments it became clear that Madame Haupt was
engaged in descending the ladder, scolding and exhorting again, while
the ladder creaked in protest. In a moment or two she reached the
ground, angry and breathless, and they heard her coming into the room.
Jurgis gave one glance at her, and then turned white and reeled. She had
her jacket off, like one of the workers on the killing beds. Her hands
and arms were smeared with blood, and blood was splashed upon her
clothing and her face.

She stood breathing hard, and gazing about her; no one made a sound. "I
haf done my best," she began suddenly. "I can do noffing more--dere is
no use to try."

Again there was silence.

"It ain't my fault," she said. "You had ought to haf had a doctor, und
not vaited so long--it vas too late already ven I come." Once more there
was deathlike stillness. Marija was clutching Jurgis with all the power
of her one well arm.

Then suddenly Madame Haupt turned to Aniele. "You haf not got something
to drink, hey?" she queried. "Some brandy?"

Aniele shook her head.

"Herr Gott!" exclaimed Madame Haupt. "Such people! Perhaps you vill give
me someting to eat den--I haf had noffing since yesterday morning, und
I haf vorked myself near to death here. If I could haf known it vas
like dis, I vould never haf come for such money as you gif me." At this
moment she chanced to look round, and saw Jurgis: She shook her finger
at him. "You understand me," she said, "you pays me dot money yust de
same! It is not my fault dat you send for me so late I can't help your
vife. It is not my fault if der baby comes mit one arm first, so dot I
can't save it. I haf tried all night, und in dot place vere it is not
fit for dogs to be born, und mit notting to eat only vot I brings in
mine own pockets."

Here Madame Haupt paused for a moment to get her breath; and Marija,
seeing the beads of sweat on Jurgis's forehead, and feeling the
quivering of his frame, broke out in a low voice: "How is Ona?"

"How is she?" echoed Madame Haupt. "How do you tink she can be ven
you leave her to kill herself so? I told dem dot ven they send for de
priest. She is young, und she might haf got over it, und been vell und
strong, if she had been treated right. She fight hard, dot girl--she is
not yet quite dead."

And Jurgis gave a frantic scream. "Dead!"

"She vill die, of course," said the other angrily. "Der baby is dead
now."

The garret was lighted by a candle stuck upon a board; it had almost
burned itself out, and was sputtering and smoking as Jurgis rushed up
the ladder. He could make out dimly in one corner a pallet of rags and
old blankets, spread upon the floor; at the foot of it was a crucifix,
and near it a priest muttering a prayer. In a far corner crouched
Elzbieta, moaning and wailing. Upon the pallet lay Ona.

She was covered with a blanket, but he could see her shoulders and
one arm lying bare; she was so shrunken he would scarcely have known
her--she was all but a skeleton, and as white as a piece of chalk. Her
eyelids were closed, and she lay still as death. He staggered toward her
and fell upon his knees with a cry of anguish: "Ona! Ona!"

She did not stir. He caught her hand in his, and began to clasp
it frantically, calling: "Look at me! Answer me! It is Jurgis come
back--don't you hear me?"

There was the faintest quivering of the eyelids, and he called again in
frenzy: "Ona! Ona!"

Then suddenly her eyes opened one instant. One instant she looked at
him--there was a flash of recognition between them, he saw her afar off,
as through a dim vista, standing forlorn. He stretched out his arms to
her, he called her in wild despair; a fearful yearning surged up in him,
hunger for her that was agony, desire that was a new being born
within him, tearing his heartstrings, torturing him. But it was all in
vain--she faded from him, she slipped back and was gone. And a wail of
anguish burst from him, great sobs shook all his frame, and hot tears
ran down his cheeks and fell upon her. He clutched her hands, he shook
her, he caught her in his arms and pressed her to him but she lay cold
and still--she was gone--she was gone!

The word rang through him like the sound of a bell, echoing in the far
depths of him, making forgotten chords to vibrate, old shadowy fears to
stir--fears of the dark, fears of the void, fears of annihilation. She
was dead! She was dead! He would never see her again, never hear her
again! An icy horror of loneliness seized him; he saw himself standing
apart and watching all the world fade away from him--a world of shadows,
of fickle dreams. He was like a little child, in his fright and grief;
he called and called, and got no answer, and his cries of despair echoed
through the house, making the women downstairs draw nearer to each other
in fear. He was inconsolable, beside himself--the priest came and laid
his hand upon his shoulder and whispered to him, but he heard not a
sound. He was gone away himself, stumbling through the shadows, and
groping after the soul that had fled.


So he lay. The gray dawn came up and crept into the attic. The
priest left, the women left, and he was alone with the still, white
figure--quieter now, but moaning and shuddering, wrestling with the
grisly fiend. Now and then he would raise himself and stare at the white
mask before him, then hide his eyes because he could not bear it. Dead!
dead! And she was only a girl, she was barely eighteen! Her life had
hardly begun--and here she lay murdered--mangled, tortured to death!

It was morning when he rose up and came down into the kitchen--haggard
and ashen gray, reeling and dazed. More of the neighbors had come in,
and they stared at him in silence as he sank down upon a chair by the
table and buried his face in his arms.

A few minutes later the front door opened; a blast of cold and snow
rushed in, and behind it little Kotrina, breathless from running, and
blue with the cold. "I'm home again!" she exclaimed. "I could hardly--"

And then, seeing Jurgis, she stopped with an exclamation. Looking from
one to another she saw that something had happened, and she asked, in a
lower voice: "What's the matter?"

Before anyone could reply, Jurgis started up; he went toward her,
walking unsteadily. "Where have you been?" he demanded.

"Selling papers with the boys," she said. "The snow--"

"Have you any money?" he demanded.

"Yes."

"How much?"

"Nearly three dollars, Jurgis."

"Give it to me."

Kotrina, frightened by his manner, glanced at the others. "Give it to
me!" he commanded again, and she put her hand into her pocket and pulled
out a lump of coins tied in a bit of rag. Jurgis took it without a word,
and went out of the door and down the street.

Three doors away was a saloon. "Whisky," he said, as he entered, and as
the man pushed him some, he tore at the rag with his teeth and pulled
out half a dollar. "How much is the bottle?" he said. "I want to get
drunk."



Chapter 20


But a big man cannot stay drunk very long on three dollars. That was
Sunday morning, and Monday night Jurgis came home, sober and sick,
realizing that he had spent every cent the family owned, and had not
bought a single instant's forgetfulness with it.

Ona was not yet buried; but the police had been notified, and on the
morrow they would put the body in a pine coffin and take it to the
potter's field. Elzbieta was out begging now, a few pennies from each of
the neighbors, to get enough to pay for a mass for her; and the children
were upstairs starving to death, while he, good-for-nothing rascal, had
been spending their money on drink. So spoke Aniele, scornfully, and
when he started toward the fire she added the information that her
kitchen was no longer for him to fill with his phosphate stinks. She
had crowded all her boarders into one room on Ona's account, but now he
could go up in the garret where he belonged--and not there much longer,
either, if he did not pay her some rent.

Jurgis went without a word, and, stepping over half a dozen sleeping
boarders in the next room, ascended the ladder. It was dark up above;
they could not afford any light; also it was nearly as cold as outdoors.
In a corner, as far away from the corpse as possible, sat Marija,
holding little Antanas in her one good arm and trying to soothe him to
sleep. In another corner crouched poor little Juozapas, wailing because
he had had nothing to eat all day. Marija said not a word to Jurgis; he
crept in like a whipped cur, and went and sat down by the body.

Perhaps he ought to have meditated upon the hunger of the children, and
upon his own baseness; but he thought only of Ona, he gave himself up
again to the luxury of grief. He shed no tears, being ashamed to make a
sound; he sat motionless and shuddering with his anguish. He had never
dreamed how much he loved Ona, until now that she was gone; until now
that he sat here, knowing that on the morrow they would take her away,
and that he would never lay eyes upon her again--never all the days
of his life. His old love, which had been starved to death, beaten to
death, awoke in him again; the floodgates of memory were lifted--he saw
all their life together, saw her as he had seen her in Lithuania, the
first day at the fair, beautiful as the flowers, singing like a bird. He
saw her as he had married her, with all her tenderness, with her heart
of wonder; the very words she had spoken seemed to ring now in his ears,
the tears she had shed to be wet upon his cheek. The long, cruel battle
with misery and hunger had hardened and embittered him, but it had not
changed her--she had been the same hungry soul to the end, stretching
out her arms to him, pleading with him, begging him for love and
tenderness. And she had suffered--so cruelly she had suffered, such
agonies, such infamies--ah, God, the memory of them was not to be borne.
What a monster of wickedness, of heartlessness, he had been! Every angry
word that he had ever spoken came back to him and cut him like a knife;
every selfish act that he had done--with what torments he paid for them
now! And such devotion and awe as welled up in his soul--now that it
could never be spoken, now that it was too late, too late! His bosom-was
choking with it, bursting with it; he crouched here in the darkness
beside her, stretching out his arms to her--and she was gone forever,
she was dead! He could have screamed aloud with the horror and despair
of it; a sweat of agony beaded his forehead, yet he dared not make a
sound--he scarcely dared to breathe, because of his shame and loathing
of himself.

Late at night came Elzbieta, having gotten the money for a mass, and
paid for it in advance, lest she should be tempted too sorely at home.
She brought also a bit of stale rye bread that some one had given her,
and with that they quieted the children and got them to sleep. Then she
came over to Jurgis and sat down beside him.

She said not a word of reproach--she and Marija had chosen that course
before; she would only plead with him, here by the corpse of his dead
wife. Already Elzbieta had choked down her tears, grief being crowded
out of her soul by fear. She had to bury one of her children--but then
she had done it three times before, and each time risen up and gone back
to take up the battle for the rest. Elzbieta was one of the primitive
creatures: like the angleworm, which goes on living though cut in half;
like a hen, which, deprived of her chickens one by one, will mother the
last that is left her. She did this because it was her nature--she asked
no questions about the justice of it, nor the worth-whileness of life in
which destruction and death ran riot.

And this old common-sense view she labored to impress upon Jurgis,
pleading with him with tears in her eyes. Ona was dead, but the others
were left and they must be saved. She did not ask for her own children.
She and Marija could care for them somehow, but there was Antanas, his
own son. Ona had given Antanas to him--the little fellow was the only
remembrance of her that he had; he must treasure it and protect it, he
must show himself a man. He knew what Ona would have had him do, what
she would ask of him at this moment, if she could speak to him. It was
a terrible thing that she should have died as she had; but the life had
been too hard for her, and she had to go. It was terrible that they
were not able to bury her, that he could not even have a day to mourn
her--but so it was. Their fate was pressing; they had not a cent, and
the children would perish--some money must be had. Could he not be a man
for Ona's sake, and pull himself together? In a little while they would
be out of danger--now that they had given up the house they could live
more cheaply, and with all the children working they could get along,
if only he would not go to pieces. So Elzbieta went on, with feverish
intensity. It was a struggle for life with her; she was not afraid that
Jurgis would go on drinking, for he had no money for that, but she was
wild with dread at the thought that he might desert them, might take to
the road, as Jonas had done.

But with Ona's dead body beneath his eyes, Jurgis could not well think
of treason to his child. Yes, he said, he would try, for the sake of
Antanas. He would give the little fellow his chance--would get to work
at once, yes, tomorrow, without even waiting for Ona to be buried. They
might trust him, he would keep his word, come what might.

And so he was out before daylight the next morning, headache, heartache,
and all. He went straight to Graham's fertilizer mill, to see if he
could get back his job. But the boss shook his head when he saw him--no,
his place had been filled long ago, and there was no room for him.

"Do you think there will be?" Jurgis asked. "I may have to wait."

"No," said the other, "it will not be worth your while to wait--there
will be nothing for you here."

Jurgis stood gazing at him in perplexity. "What is the matter?" he
asked. "Didn't I do my work?"

The other met his look with one of cold indifference, and answered,
"There will be nothing for you here, I said."

Jurgis had his suspicions as to the dreadful meaning of that incident,
and he went away with a sinking at the heart. He went and took his stand
with the mob of hungry wretches who were standing about in the snow
before the time station. Here he stayed, breakfastless, for two hours,
until the throng was driven away by the clubs of the police. There was
no work for him that day.

Jurgis had made a good many acquaintances in his long services at the
yards--there were saloonkeepers who would trust him for a drink and a
sandwich, and members of his old union who would lend him a dime at a
pinch. It was not a question of life and death for him, therefore; he
might hunt all day, and come again on the morrow, and try hanging on
thus for weeks, like hundreds and thousands of others. Meantime, Teta
Elzbieta would go and beg, over in the Hyde Park district, and the
children would bring home enough to pacify Aniele, and keep them all
alive.

It was at the end of a week of this sort of waiting, roaming about in
the bitter winds or loafing in saloons, that Jurgis stumbled on a chance
in one of the cellars of Jones's big packing plant. He saw a foreman
passing the open doorway, and hailed him for a job.

"Push a truck?" inquired the man, and Jurgis answered, "Yes, sir!"
before the words were well out of his mouth.

"What's your name?" demanded the other.

"Jurgis Rudkus."

"Worked in the yards before?"

"Yes."

"Whereabouts?"

"Two places--Brown's killing beds and Durham's fertilizer mill."

"Why did you leave there?"

"The first time I had an accident, and the last time I was sent up for a
month."

"I see. Well, I'll give you a trial. Come early tomorrow and ask for Mr.
Thomas."

So Jurgis rushed home with the wild tidings that he had a job--that
the terrible siege was over. The remnants of the family had quite a
celebration that night; and in the morning Jurgis was at the place
half an hour before the time of opening. The foreman came in shortly
afterward, and when he saw Jurgis he frowned.

"Oh," he said, "I promised you a job, didn't I?"

"Yes, sir," said Jurgis.

"Well, I'm sorry, but I made a mistake. I can't use you."