嘉莉妹妹 英文版 Sister Carrie
德莱塞 Theodore Dreiser
Chapter XLI Page 2
Hurstwood breathed heavily in excitement and jumped down with thenervous conductor as if he had been called.
"Hurry up, now," said the other policeman.
Cold as it was, these officers were hot and mad. Hurstwoodworked with the conductor, lifting stone after stone and warminghimself by the work.
"Ah, you scab, you!" yelled the crowd. "You coward! Steal aman's job, will you? Rob the poor, will you, you thief? We'll getyou yet, now. Wait."
Not all of this was delivered by one man. It came from here andthere, incorporated with much more of the same sort and curses.
"Work, you blackguards," yelled a voice. "Do the dirty work.You're the suckers that keep the poor people down!"
"May God starve ye yet," yelled an old Irish woman, who now threwopen a nearby window and stuck out her head.
"Yes, and you," she added, catching the eye of one of thepolicemen. "You bloody, murtherin' thafe! Crack my son over thehead, will you, you hardhearted, murtherin' divil? Ah, ye----"
But the officer turned a deaf ear.
get him yet for that."the same sort and .
"Go to the devil, you old hag," he half muttered as he staredround upon the scattered company.
Now the stones were off, and Hurstwood took his place again amida continued chorus of epithets. Both officers got up beside himand the conductor rang the bell, when, bang! bang! through windowand door came rocks and stones. One narrowly grazed Hurstwood'shead. Another shattered the window behind.
"Throw open your lever," yelled one of the officers, grabbing atthe handle himself.
Hurstwood complied and the car shot away, followed by a rattle ofstones and a rain of curses.
"That --- --- --- ---- hit me in the neck," said one of theofficers. "I gave him a good crack for it, though."
"I think I must have left spots on some of them," said the other.
"I know that big guy that called us a --- --- --- ----" said thefirst. "I'll get him yet for that."
"I thought we were in for it sure, once there," said the second.
Hurstwood, warmed and excited, gazed steadily ahead. It was anastonishing experience for him. He had read of these things, butthe reality seemed something altogether new. He was no coward inspirit. The fact that he had suffered this much now ratheroperated to arouse a stolid determination to stick it out. Hedid not recur in thought to New York or the flat. This one tripseemed a consuming thing.
They now ran into the business heart of Brooklyn uninterrupted.People gazed at the broken windows of the car and at Hurstwood inhis plain clothes. Voices called "scab" now and then, as well asother epithets, but no crowd attacked the car. At the downtownend of the line, one of the officers went to call up his stationand report the trouble.
"There's a gang out there," he said, "laying for us yet. Bettersend some one over there and clean them out."
The car ran back more quietly--hooted, watched, flung at, but notattacked. Hurstwood breathed freely when he saw the barns.
"Well," he observed to himself, "I came out of that all right."
The car was turned in and he was allowed to loaf a while, butlater he was again called. This time a new team of officers wasaboard. Slightly more confident, he sped the car along thecommonplace streets and felt somewhat less fearful. On one side,however, he suffered intensely. The day was raw, with asprinkling of snow and a gusty wind, made all the moreintolerable by the speed of the car. His clothing was notintended for this sort of work. He shivered, stamped his feet,and beat his arms as he had seen other motormen do in the past,but said nothing. The novelty and danger of the situationmodified in a way his disgust and distress at being compelled tobe here, but not enough to prevent him from feeling grim andsour. This was a dog's life, he thought. It was a tough thingto have to come to.
The one thought that strengthened him was the insult offered byCarrie. He was not down so low as to take all that, he thought.He could do something--this, even--for a while. It would getbetter. He would save a little.
A boy threw a clod of mud while he was thus reflecting and hithim upon the arm. It hurt sharply and angered him more than hehad been any time since morning.
"The little cur!" he muttered.
"Hurt you?" asked one of the policemen.
"No," he answered.
At one of the corners, where the car slowed up because of a turn,an ex-motorman, standing on the sidewalk, called to him:
"Won't you come out, pardner, and be a man? Remember we'refighting for decent day's wages, that's all. We've got familiesto support." The man seemed most peaceably inclined.
Hurstwood pretended not to see him. He kept his eyes straight onbefore and opened the lever wide. The voice had somethingappealing in it.
All morning this went on and long into the afternoon. He madethree such trips. The dinner he had was no stay for such workand the cold was telling on him. At each end of the line hestopped to thaw out, but he could have groaned at the anguish ofit. One of the barnmen, out of pity, loaned him a heavy cap anda pair of sheepskin gloves, and for once he was extremelythankful.
On the second trip of the afternoon he ran into a crowd abouthalf way along the line, that had blocked the car's progress withan old telegraph pole.
"Get that thing off the track," shouted the two policemen.
"Yah, yah, yah!" yelled the crowd. "Get it off yourself."
The two policemen got down and Hurstwood started to follow.
"You stay there," one called. "Some one will run away with yourcar."
Amid the babel of voices, Hurstwood heard one close beside him.
"Come down, pardner, and be a man. Don't fight the poor. Leavethat to the corporations."
He saw the same fellow who had called to him from the corner.Now, as before, he pretended not to hear him.
"Come down," the man repeated gently. "You don't want to fightpoor men. Don't fight at all." It was a most philosophic andjesuitical motorman.
A third policeman joined the other two from somewhere and someone ran to telephone for more officers. Hurstwood gazed about,determined but fearful.
A man grabbed him by the coat.
"Come off of that," he exclaimed, jerking at him and trying topull him over the railing.
trip of the afternoon he.
"Let go," said Hurstwood, savagely.
"I'll show you--you scab!" cried a young Irishman, jumping up onthe car and aiming a blow at Hurstwood. The latter ducked andcaught it on the shoulder instead of the jaw.
"Away from here," shouted an officer, hastening to the rescue,and adding, of course, the usual oaths.
Hurstwood recovered himself, pale and trembling. It was becomingserious with him now. People were looking up and jeering at him.One girl was making faces.
He began to waver in his resolution, when a patrol wagon rolledup and more officers dismounted. Now the track was quicklycleared and the release effected.
"Let her go now, quick," said the officer, and again he was off.
The end came with a real mob, which met the car on its returntrip a mile or two from the barns. It was an exceedingly poor-looking neighbourhood. He wanted to run fast through it, butagain the track was blocked. He saw men carrying something outto it when he was yet a half-dozen blocks away.
"There they are again!" exclaimed one policeman.
"I'll give them something this time," said the second officer,whose patience was becoming worn. Hurstwood suffered a qualm ofbody as the car rolled up. As before, the crowd began hooting,but now, rather than come near, they threw things. One or twowindows were smashed and Hurstwood dodged a stone.
Both policemen ran out toward the crowd, but the latter repliedby running toward the car. A woman--a mere girl in appearance--was among these, bearing a rough stick. She was exceedinglywrathful and struck at Hurstwood, who dodged. Thereupon, hercompanions, duly encouraged, jumped on the car and pulledHurstwood over. He had hardly time to speak or shout before hefell.
"Let go of me," he said, falling on his side.
"Ah, you sucker," he heard some one say. Kicks and blows rainedon him. He seemed to be suffocating. Then two men seemed to bedragging him off and he wrestled for freedom.
"Let up," said a voice, "you're all right. Stand up."
He was let loose and recovered himself. Now he recognised twoofficers. He felt as if he would faint from exhaustion.Something was wet on his chin. He put up his hand and felt, thenlooked. It was red.
"They cut me," he said, foolishly, fishing for his handkerchief.
"Now, now," said one of the officers. "It's only a scratch."
His senses became cleared now and he looked around. He wasstanding in a little store, where they left him for the moment.Outside, he could see, as he stood wiping his chin, the car andthe excited crowd. A patrol wagon was there, and another.
He walked over and looked out. It was an ambulance, backing in.
He saw some energetic charging by the police and arrests beingmade.
"Come on, now, if you want to take your car," said an officer,opening the door and looking in.He walked out, feeling rather uncertain of himself. He was verycold and frightened.
"Where's the conductor?" he asked.
"Oh, he's not here now," said the policeman.
Hurstwood went toward the car and stepped nervously on. As hedid so there was a pistol shot. Something stung his shoulder.
"Who fired that?" he heard an officer exclaim. "By God! who didthat?" Both left him, running toward a certain building. Hepaused a moment and then got down.
"George!" exclaimed Hurstwood, weakly, "this is too much for me."
He walked nervously to the corner and hurried down a side street.
"Whew!" he said, drawing in his breath.
A half block away, a small girl gazed at him.
"You'd better sneak," she called.
He walked homeward in a blinding snowstorm, reaching the ferry bydusk. The cabins were filled with comfortable souls, who studiedhim curiously. His head was still in such a whirl that he feltconfused. All the wonder of the twinkling lights of the river ina white storm passed for nothing. He trudged doggedly on untilhe reached the flat. There he entered and found the room warm.Carrie was gone. A couple of evening papers were lying on thetable where she left them. He lit the gas and sat down. Then hegot up and stripped to examine his shoulder. It was a merescratch. He washed his hands and face, still in a brown study,apparently, and combed his hair. Then he looked for something toeat, and finally, his hunger gone, sat down in his comfortablerocking-chair. It was a wonderful relief.
He put his hand to his chin, forgetting, for the moment, thepapers.
"Well," he said, after a time, his nature recovering itself,"that's a pretty tough game over there."
Then he turned and saw the papers. With half a sigh he picked upthe "World."
"Strike Spreading in Brooklyn," he read. "Rioting Breaks Out inall Parts of the City."
thing he read with absorbing interest!
He adjusted his paper very comfortably and continued. It was theone thing he read with absorbing interest.