The Jungle | #11

...what possible chance has a poor foreign working-girl to understand the banking business, as it is conducted in the in this land of frenzied finance?

During the summer the packing houses were in full activity again, and Jurgis made more money. He did not make so much, however, as he had the previous summer, for the packers took on more hands. There were new men every week, it seemed—it was a regular system; and this number they would keep over to the next slack season, so that everyone would have less than ever. Sooner or later, by this plan, they would have all the floating labor of Chicago trained to do their work. And how very cunning a trick was that! The men were to teach new hands, who would some day come and break their strike; and meantime they were kept so poor that they could not prepare for the trial!

But let no one suppose that this superfluity of employees meant easier work to anyone! On the contrary, the speeding-up seemed to be growing more savage all the time; they were continually inventing new devices to crowd the work on it—it was for all the world like the thumb-screw of the medieval torture chamber. They would get new peacemakers and pay them more; they would drive the men on with new machinery—it was said that in the hog-killing rooms the speed at which the hogs moved was determined by clock-work, and that it was increased a few minutes every day. In piece-work they would reduce the time, requiring the same work in a short time, and paying the same wages; and then, after the workers had accustomed themselves to this new speed, they would reduce the rate of payment to correspond with the reduction in time! They had done this so often in the canning establishments that the girls were fairly desperate; their wages had gone down by a full third in the past two years, and a storm of discontent was brewing that was likely to break any day. Only a month after Marija had become a beef-trimmer the canning factory that she had left posted a cut that would divide the girls earnings almost squarely in half; and so great was the indignation at this that they marched out without even a parley, and organized in the street outside. One of the girls had read somewhere that a red flag was the proper symbol for oppressed workers, and so they mounted one, and paraded all about the yards, yelling with rage. A new union was the result of this outburst, but the impromptu strike went to pieces in three days, owing to the rush of new labor. At the end of it the girl who had carried the red flag went down town and got a position in Marshall Field's great retail store, at a salary of two dollars and a half a week.

Jurgis on Ona heard these stories with dismay, for there was no telling when their own time might come. Once or twice there had been rumors that one of the big houses was was going to cut its unskilled men to fifteen cents an hour, and Jurgis knew that if this was done, his turn would come soon. He had learned by this time that Packingtown was really not a number of firms at all, but one great firm, the Beef Trust. And every week the managers of it got together and compared notes, and there was one scale for all the workers in the yards, and one standard for efficiency. Jurgis was told that they also fixed the price they would pay for beef on the hoof, and the price of all dressed meat in the country; but that was something he did not understand or care about as yet.

The only one who was not afraid of a cut was Marija, who congratulated herself, somewhat naively, that there had been one in her place only a short time before she came. Marija was getting to be a skilled beef-trimmer, and was mounting to the heights again. During the summer and fall Jurgis and Ona managed to pay her back the last penny they owed her, and so she began to have a bank account. The possession of vast wealth entails cares and responsibilities, however, as poor Marija found out. She had taken the advice of a friend and invested her savings in a bank on Ashland avenue. Of course she knew nothing about it, except that it was big and imposing—what possible chance has a poor foreign working-girl to understand the banking business, as it is conducted in the in this land of frenzied finance? So Marija lived in continual dread lest something should happen to her bank, and would go out of her way mornings to make sure that it was still there; her principal thought was of fire, for she had deposited her money in bills, and was afraid that if they were burned up the bank would not give her any others. Jurgis made fun of her for this, for he was a man and was proud of his superior knowledge, telling her that the bank had fire-proof vaults, and all its millions of dollars hidden safely away in them.

However, one morning Marija took her usual detour and to her horror and dismay saw a crowd of people in front of the bank, filling the avenue solid for half a block. All of the blood went out of her face for terror. She broke into a run, shouting to the people to ask what was the matter, but not stopping to hear what they answered till she had come to where the throng was so dense that she could no longer advance. There was a "run on the bank," they told her then, but she did not know what that was, and turned from one person to another, trying in an agony of fear to make out what they meant. Had something gone wrong with the bank! Nobody was sure, but they thought so. Couldn't she get her money! There was no telling; the people were afraid not, and they were all trying to get it. It was too early yet to tell anything—the bank would not open for nearly three hours. So, in a frenzy of despair, Marija began to claw her way towards the doors of this building, through a throng of men, women and children, all as excited as herself. It was a scene of wild confusion, women shrieking and wringing their hands and fainting, and men fighting and trampling down everything in their way. In the midst of the melee Marija recollected that she did not have her bank-book, and could not get her money anyway, so she fought her way out and started on a run for home. This was fortunate for her, for a few minutes later the police-reserves arrived—and god help the people who are caught in a crowd that the police at the stock-yards are sent out to disperse!

In half an hour Marija was back, Teta Elzbieta with her, both of them breathless with running, and sick with fear. The crowd was now formed in a line, extending for several blocks, with half a hundred policemen keeping guard over it. There was nothing for them to do but to take their places at the end of it. At nine o'clock the bank opened and and began to pay the waiting throng; but then, what good did that do Marija, who saw three thousand people before her—enough to take out the last penny of a dozen banks? And how in all that confusion were they going to tell her money from that of anyone else?

To make matters worse a drizzling rain came up, and soaked them to the skin; yet all the morning they stood there, creeping slowly toward the goal—all the afternoon they stood there, heart-sick, seeing that the hour of closing was coming, and that they were going to be left out. Marija made up her mind that, come what might, she would stay there and keep her place; but as nearly all did the same, all through the long, cold night, she got very little closer to the bank for that. Toward evening Jurgis came; he had heard the story from the children, and he brought some food and dry wraps, which made it a little easier.

The next morning, before daybreak, came a bigger crowd than ever, and more policemen from down town. Marija held on like grim death; and toward afternoon she got into the bank and got her money—all in big silver dollars—a handkerchief full, When she had once got her hands on them her fear vanished, and she wanted to put them back again; but the man at the window was savage, and said that the bank would take no more deposits from those who had taken part in the run. So Marija was forced to take her dollars home with her, watching to right and left, expecting every instant that some one would try to rob her; and when she got home she was not much better off. Until she could find another bank there was nothing to do but sew them up in her clothes, and so Marija went about for a week or more, loaded down with bullion, and afraid to cross the street in front of the house, because Jurgis told her she would sink out of sight in the mud. Weighted this way she made her way to the yards, again in terror, this time to see if she had lost her place. Fortunately about ten per cent of the working people of Packingtown had been depositors in that bank, and it was not convenient to discharge that many at once. The cause of the panic had been the attempt of a policeman to arrest a drunken man in a saloon next door, which had drawn a crowd at the hour the people were on their way to work, and so started the "run."

About this time Jurgis and Ona also began a bank-account. Besides having paid Jonas and Marija, they had almost paid for their furniture, and could have that little sum to count on. So long as each of them could bring home nine or ten dollars a week, they were able to get along finely. Also election-day came round again, and Jurgis made half a week's wages out of that, all net profit. It was a very close election that year, and the echoes of the battle reached even to Packingtown. The two rival sets of grafters hired halls and set off fireworks and made speeches, to try to get the people interested in the matter. Although Jurgis did not understand it all, he knew enough by this time to realize that it was not supposed to be right to sell your vote. However every one did it, and his refusing would have seemed absurd, had it ever came into his head.

Now chill winds and shortening days began to warn them that the winter was coming again. They very memory of the winter was a terror; it seemed that the respite had been too short—they had not had time enough to get ready for it. Still it came, inexorably, and the hunted look began to come back into the eyes of little Stanislovas. The prospect struck fear to the heart of Jurgis also, for he knew that Ona was not fit to face the cold and the snow-drifts this year. And suppose that some day when a blizzard struck them and the cars were not running, Ona should have to give it up, and should come the next day to find that her place had been given to some one who lived nearer and could be depended on!

It was the week before Christmas that the first great storm came, and then the soul of Jurgis rose up within him like a sleeping lion. There were four days that the Ashland avenue cars were stalled, and in those days, for the first time in his life, Jurgis knew what it was to be really opposed. He had faced difficulties before, but they had been child's play; now there was a death struggle, and all the furies were unchained in him. The first morning they set out two hours before dawn, Ona wrapped all in blankets and tossed upon his shoulder like a sack of meal, and the little boy, bundled nearly out of sight, hanging by his coat-tails. There was a raging blast beating in his face, and with the thermometer below zero; the snow was never short of his knees, and in some of the drifts it was nearly up to his arm-pits. It would catch his feet and try to trip him; it would build itself into a wall before him to beat him back; and he would fling himself into it, plunging like a wounded buffalo, puffing and snorting in rage. So foot by foot he drove his way, and when at last he came to Anderson's he was staggering and almost blind, and leaned against a pillar gasping, and thanked God that the cattle came late to the killing-floor that day. In the evening the same thing had to be done again; and because Jurgis could not tell what hour of the night he would get off, he paid a saloon-keeper to let Ona sit and wait for him in a corner. Once it was eleven o'clock at night, and black as the pit, but still they got home.

Originally published illustration, showing Jurgis carrying a bundled Ona, scarves twisting in the wind. Little Stanislovas is hanging on by his coat-tails, snow-drifts and packing houses looming in front of them.

That blizzard knocked many a man out, for the crowd outside begging for work was never greater, and the packers would not wait long for anyone. When it was over the soul of Jurgis was a song, for he had met the enemy and conquered, and felt himself the master of his fate.

So it might be with some monarch of the forest, that had vanished his foes in fair fight, and then fell into some cowardly trap in the night-time. There are so many traps in the jungle—the creature that would escape them all must never sleep!

End of original May 20th publication. This conclusion followed May 27th, 1905.

A time of peril on the killing-floor was when a steer broke loose. In the killing of the cattle at Anderson's they had, of course, no thought save of speed. In the slaughter houses of Europe, where there are laws, they fit over the head of the animal a leather cap having a nail in it; then, provided the knocker has only skill enough to hit the nail with a big mallet, he cannot fail to kill the animal. But they never stopped for things like that in Chicago—the knockers would lean over the pens and slap away at the creatures with a pointed hammer, and if they did not kill at the first blow, they had only to try again. So now and then you might see one banging away for a full minute, with the steer plunging and bellowing in agony and terror. That was nothing—only sometimes, in the haste of speeding-up, they would jump the animal out on the floor before it was fully stunned and it would get upon its feet and run amuck. Then there would be a yell of warning—the men would drop everything, and dash for the nearest pillar, slipping here and there on the slimy floor, and tumbling head over heels over each other. This was bad enough in the summer, when a man could see; in winter time it was enough to make your hair stand up, for the room would be so full of steam that you could not see five feet in front of you. To be sure, the steer was generally blind and frantic, and not especially bent on hurting anyone; but think of the chances of running upon a knife, while two men out of three had one in his hand! And then the floor boss would come rushing up with a rifle and begin blasting away! Jurgis had seen times when as many as eight shots, had to be fired, in a room with hundreds of men in it.

It was in one of the these melees that Jurgis fell into his trap. That is the very word to describe it—it was so cruel, and so utterly not to be foreseen. At first he hardly noticed it, it was such a slight accident—simply that in leaping out of the way he turned his ankle. There was a twinge of pain, but Jurgis was used to pain, and did not coddle himself. When he came to walk home, however, he realized that it was hurting him a great deal; and in the morning his ankle was swollen out nearly double its size, and he could not get his foot into his shoe. Still, even then, he did nothing more than swear a little, and wrapped his foot in old rags, and hobbled out to to take the car. It chanced to be a rush day at Anderson's, and all the long morning he limped about with his aching foot; by noon-time the pain was so great that it made him faint, and after a couple of hours in the afternoon he was fairly beaten, and had to tell the boss. They sent for the company doctor, and he examined the foot and told Jurgis to go home to bed, adding that he had probably laid himself up for months by his folly. The injury was not one that Anderson and Company could be held responsible for, and so that was all there was to it, so far as the doctor was concerned.

Jurgis got home somehow, scarcely able to see for the pain, and with an awful terror in his soul. Elzbieta helped him into bed and bandaged his injured foot with cold water, and tried hard not to let him see her dismay; when the rest came home at night she met them outside and told them, and they too, put on a cheerful face, saying it would only be for a week or two, and that they would pull him through.

When they had gotten him to sleep, however, they sat by the kitchen fire and talked it over in frightened whispers. They were in for a siege, that was plainly to be seen. Jurgis had only about sixty dollars in the bank, and the slack season was upon them. Both Jonas and Marija might soon be earning no more than enough to pay their board, and besides that there was only the wages of Ona, and the little pittance of the boy. There was the rent to pay, and still some on the furniture; and there was the insurance just due, and every month there was sack after sack of coal. It was January, mid-winter, an awful time to have to face privation. Deep snows would come again; and who would carry Ona to her work now! She might lose her place—she was almost certain to lost it. And then little Stanislovas began to whimper—who would take care of him?

It was dreadful that an accident of this sort, that no man can help, and that is quite certain to happen to a workingman now and then in his life, should have meant such suffering. The bitterness of it was now the daily food and drink of Jurgis. It was of no use for them to try to deceive him—he knew as much about the situation as they did, and he knew that the family might literally starve to death. The worry of it fairly ate him up—he began to look haggard the first two or three days of it. In truth, it was almost maddening for a strong man like him, a fighter, to have to lie there helpless on his back. It was for all the world the old story of Prometheus bound; Jurgis felt like a wild animal in a trap—the more so because it was by his foot that he was held, his foot which he wrenched and twisted in his efforts to escape. The naturalists tell us of the creatures of the forest that they never die a natural death. Day and night without rest they are hunted, and they crouch and dart from cover to cover, watching ceaselessly with eyes of terror, and in awful loneliness of soul; whenever by any chance one of them is wounded he crawls into a corner and hides, till his fate finds him out. So it was with Jurgis now; and as he lay on his bed, hour after hour, there came to him emotions that he had never known before. Before this, he had met life with a welcome; it had its trials, but none that a man could not face. But now, in the night time, when he lay tossing about, there would come stalking into his chamber a grisly phantom, the sight of which made his flesh curl and his hair to bristle up. It was like seeing the world fall away from underneath his feet—plunging down into a bottomless abyss, into yawning caverns of despair. It might be true, then, after all, what others had told him about life, that the best powers of a man might not be equal to it! It might be true that, strive as he would, toil as he would, he might fail, and go down, and be destroyed! The thought of this was like an icy hand at his heart; the thought that here, in this ghastly home of all horror, he and all those who were hear to him, might lie and perish of starvation and cold, and there would be no ear to hear their cry, no hand to help them! It was true, it was true—and yet did it not seem a monstrous thing that could happen, here in this huge city, with its stores of heaped-up wealth—that tens and hundreds and thousands of human creatures should be hunted and destroyed by the wild beast powers of nature, just as truly as ever they were in the days of the cave-men.

Ona was now making about forty dollars a month, and Stanislovas about thirteen. To add to this there was the board of Jonas and Marija, about forty-five dollars. Deducting from this the rent, interest and installments on the furniture, they had left seventy dollars, and deducting the coal, they had sixty. They did without everything that human beings could do without; they went in old and ragged clothing, that left them at the mercy of the cold; when the children's shoes wore out, they tied them up with string, and they went to school, when they could go, with old rags tied about their ears, and with nothing but their pockets to keep their poor little fingers in. Half invalid as she was, Ona would do herself harm by walking in the rain and cold when she ought to have ridden; they bought literally nothing but food—and still they could not keep alive on sixty dollars a month. They might have done it if only they could have gotten pure food, and at fair prices; and if only they had known what to get—if they had not been so pitifully ignorant! But they had come to a new country, where everything was different, including the food. Here in America it was the tradition that men and women who had been working hard all day, and children who were growing, had to have plenty of meat; there was no one to tell them that the nutriment they got in meat cost them several times as much if they had gotten it in rice and beans and brown bread. Meat was cheaper (in Packingtown) than anywhere else, but then it is all the very worst of the garbage of the packing-houses, which they sell to the cheap retailers and free-lunch counters of the neighborhood, because otherwise it would have to be canned; yet it was this food the family thought they had to have—and it was amazing what quantities of it were needed every day, by eleven hungry persons! Two dollars a day was simply not enough to feed them, and there was no use trying; and so each week they made an inroad upon the pitiful little bank account that Ona had begun. Because the account was in her name, it was possible for her to keep this a secret from her husband, and to keep the heart-sickness of it for her own.

It would have been better if Jurgis had been really ill, if he had not been able to think. For he had no resources such as most invalids have—he could not read to pass the time, he had nothing to read if he had known how. All he could do was to lie there and toss about from side to side. Now and then he would break into cursing, regardless of everything; and now and then his impatience would get the better of him, and he would try to get up, and poor Teta Elzbieta would have to plead with him in frenzy. Elzbieta was all alone with him the greater part of the time. She would sit and smooth his forehead by the hour, and talk to him and try to make him forget. Sometimes it would be too cold for the children to go to school, and they would have to play in the kitchen, where Jurgis was, because it was the only room that half warm. These were dreadful times, for Jurgis would get as cross as any bear; he was scarcely to be blamed, for he had enough to worry him, and it was hard when he was trying to take a nap to be kept awake by noisy and peevish children.

Teta Elzbieta's only resource in those times was the little Antanas; indeed it would be hard to say how they could have gotten along at all if it had not been for little Antanas. It was the one consolation of Jurgis's long imprisonment, that now he had time to look at his baby. Teta Elzbieta would put the clothes basket in which the baby slept alongside of his mattress, and Jurgis would lie upon one elbow and watch him by the hour, imagining things. Then little Antanas would open his eyes—he was beginning to take notice of things now; and he would smile—how he would smile! So Jurgis would begin to forget, and be happy, because he was in a world where there was a thing so beautiful as the smile of little Antanas, and because such a world could not be of good at the heart of it. He looked more like his father every hour, Teta Elzbieta would say, and said it many times a day, because she saw that it pleased Jurgis; the poor little terror-stricken woman was planning all day and all night to soothe the prisoned giant who was entrusted to her care. Jurgis, who knew nothing about the age-long and everlasting hypocrisy of woman, would take the bait and grin with delight; and then he would hold his finger in front of little Antanas's eyes, and move it this way and that, and laugh with glee to see the baby follow it. There was no pet quite so fascinating as a baby; he would look into Jurgis's face with such uncanny seriousness—and Jurgis would start and cry: "Palauk! Look, Muma, he knows his papa! He does, he does! Tu mano sgirdele, the little rascal!"