Текст книги "Sister Carrie"

Автор книги: Теодор Драйзер

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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

CHAPTER XL

A PUBLIC DISSENSION: A FINAL APPEAL

THERE WAS NO AFTER-THEATRE lark, however, so far as Carrie was concerned. She made her way homeward, thinking about her absence. Hurstwood was asleep, but roused up to look as she passed through to her own bed.

“Is that you?” he said.

“Yes,” she answered.

The next morning at breakfast she felt like apologising.

“I couldn’t get home last evening,” she said.

“Ah, Carrie,” he answered, “what’s the use saying that? I don’t care. You needn’t tell me that, though.”

“I couldn’t,” said Carrie, her colour rising. Then, seeing that he looked as if he said “I know,” she exclaimed: “Oh, all right. I don’t care.”

From now on, her indifference to the flat was even greater. There seemed no common ground on which they could talk to one another. She let herself be asked for expenses. It became so with him that he hated to do it. He preferred standing off the butcher and baker. He ran up a grocery bill of sixteen dollars with Oeslogge, laying in a supply of staple articles, so that they would not have to buy any of those things for some time to come. Then he changed his grocery. It was the same with the butcher and several others. Carrie never heard anything of this directly from him. He asked for such as he could expect, drifting farther and farther into a situation which could have but one ending.

In this fashion, September went by.

“Isn’t Mr. Drake going to open his hotel?” Carrie asked several times.

“Yes. He won’t do it before October, though, now.”

Carrie became disgusted. “Such a man,” she said to herself frequently. More and more she visited. She put most of her spare money in clothes, which, after all, was not an astonishing amount. At last the opera she was with announced its departure within four weeks. “Last two weeks of the Great Comic Opera success—The—,” etc., was upon all billboards and in the newspapers, before she acted.

“I’m not going out on the road,” said Miss Osborne.

Carrie went with her to apply to another manager.

“Ever had any experience?” was one of his questions.

“I’m with the company at the Casino now.”

“Oh, you are?” he said.

The end of this was another engagement at twenty per week.

Carrie was delighted. She began to feel that she had a place in the world. People recognised ability.

So changed was her state that the home atmosphere became intolerable. It was all poverty and trouble there, or seemed to be, because it was a load to bear. It became a place to keep away from. Still she slept there, and did a fair amount of work, keeping it in order. It was a sitting place for Hurstwood. He sat and rocked, rocked and read, enveloped in the gloom of his own fate. October went by, and November. It was the dead of winter almost before he knew it, and there he sat.

Carrie was doing better, that he knew. Her clothes were improved now, even fine. He saw her coming and going, sometimes picturing to himself her rise. Little eating had thinned him somewhat. He had no appetite. His clothes, too, were a poor man’s clothes. Talk about getting something had become even too threadbare and ridiculous for him. So he folded his hands and waited—for what, he could not anticipate.

At last, however, troubles became too thick. The hounding of creditors, the indifference of Carrie, the silence of the flat, and presence of winter, all joined to produce a climax. It was effected by the arrival of Oeslogge, personally, when Carrie was there.

“I call about my bill,” said Mr. Oeslogge.

Carrie was only faintly surprised.

“How much is it?” she asked.

“Sixteen dollars,” he replied.

“Oh, that much?” said Carrie. “Is this right?” she asked, turning to Hurstwood.

“Yes,” he said.

“Well, I never heard anything about it.”

She looked as if she thought he had been contracting some needless expense.

“Well, we had it all right,” he answered. Then he went to the door. “I can’t pay you anything on that to-day,” he said, mildly.

“Well, when can you?” said the grocer.

“Not before Saturday, anyhow,” said Hurstwood.

“Huh!” returned the grocer. “This is fine. I must have that. I need the money.”

Carrie was standing farther back in the room, hearing it all. She was greatly distressed. It was so bad and commonplace. Hurstwood was annoyed also.

“Well,” he said, “there’s no use talking about it now. If you’ll come in Saturday, I’ll pay you something on it.”

The grocery man went away.

“How are we going to pay it?” asked Carrie, astonished by the bill. “I can’t do it.”

“Well, you don’t have to,” he said. “He can’t get what he can’t get. He’ll have to wait.”

“I don’t see how we ran up such a bill as that,” said Carrie.

“Well, we ate it,” said Hurstwood.

“It’s funny,” she replied, still doubting.

“What’s the use of your standing there and talking like that, now?” he asked. “Do you think I’ve had it alone? You talk as if I’d taken something.”

“Well, it’s too much, anyhow,” said Carrie. “I oughtn’t to be made to pay for it. I’ve got more than I can pay for now.”

“All right,” replied Hurstwood, sitting down in silence. He was sick of the grind of this thing.

Carrie went out, and there he sat, determining to do something.

There had been appearing in the papers about this time rumours and notices of an approaching strike on the trolley lines in Brooklyn. There was general dissatisfaction as to the hours of labour required and the wages paid. As usual—and for some inexplicable reason—the men chose the winter for the forcing of the hand of their employers and the settlement of their difficulties.

Hurstwood had been reading of this thing, and wondering concerning the huge tie-up which would follow. A day or two before this trouble with Carrie, it came. On a cold afternoon, when everything was grey and it threatened to snow, the papers announced that the men had been called out on all the lines.

Being so utterly idle, and his mind filled with the numerous predictions which had been made concerning the scarcity of labour this winter and the panicky state of the financial market, Hurstwood read this with interest. He noted the claims of the striking motormen and conductors, who said that they had been wont to receive two dollars a day in times past, but that for a year or more “trippers” had been introduced, which cut down their chance of livelihood one-half, and increased their hours of servitude from ten to twelve, and even fourteen. These “trippers” were men put on during the busy and rush hours, to take a car out for one trip. The compensation paid for such a trip was only twenty-five cents. When the rush or busy hours were over, they were laid off. Worst of all, no man might know when he was going to get a car. He must come to the barns in the morning and wait around in fair and foul weather until such time as he was needed. Two trips were an average reward for so much waiting—a little over three hours’ work for fifty cents. The work of waiting was not counted.

The men complained that this system was extending, and that the time was not far off when but a few out of 7,000 employees would have regular two-dollar-a-day work at all. They demanded that the system be abolished, and that ten hours be considered a day’s work, barring unavoidable delays, with $2.25 pay. They demanded immediate acceptance of these terms, which the various trolley companies refused.¹⁴

Hurstwood at first sympathised with the demands of these men—indeed, it is a question whether he did not always sympathise with them to the end, belie him as his actions might. Reading nearly all the news, he was attracted first by the scareheads with which the trouble was noted in the “World.” He read it fully—the names of the seven companies involved, the number of men.

“They’re foolish to strike in this sort of weather,” he thought to himself. “Let ’em win if they can, though.”

The next day there was even a larger notice of it. “Brooklynites Walk,” said the “World.” “Knights of Labour Tie up the Trolley Lines Across the Bridge.” “About Seven Thousand Men Out.”

Hurstwood read this, formulating to himself his own idea of what would be the outcome. He was a great believer in the strength of corporations.

“They can’t win,” he said, concerning the men. “They haven’t any money. The police will protect the companies. They’ve got to. The public has to have its cars.”

He didn’t sympathise with the corporations, but strength was with them. So was property and public utility.

“Those fellows can’t win,” he thought.

Among other things, he noticed a circular issued by one of the companies, which read:

ATLANTIC AVENUE RAILROAD

SPECIAL NOTICE

The motormen and conductors and other employees of this company having abruptly left its service, an opportunity is now given to all loyal men who have struck against their will to be reinstated, providing they will make their applications by twelve o’clock noon on Wednesday, January 16th. Such men will be given employment (with guaranteed protection) in the order in which such applications are received, and runs and positions assigned them accordingly. Otherwise, they will be considered discharged, and every vacancy will be filled by a new man as soon as his services can be secured.

(SIGNED)

BENJAMIN NORTON,

PRESIDENT

He also noted among the want ads. one which read:

WANTED—50 skilled motormen, accustomed to Westinghouse system, to run U.S. mail cars only, in the City of Brooklyn; protection guaranteed.

He noted particularly in each the “protection guaranteed.” It signified to him the unassailable power of the companies.

“They’ve got the militia on their side,” he thought. “There isn’t anything those men can do.”

While this was still in his mind, the incident with Oeslogge and Carrie occurred. There had been a good deal to irritate him, but this seemed much the worst. Never before had she accused him of stealing—or very near that. She doubted the naturalness of so large a bill. And he had worked so hard to make expenses seem light. He had been “doing” butcher and baker in order not to call on her. He had eaten very little—almost nothing.

“Damn it all!” he said. “I can get something. I’m not down yet.”

He thought that he really must do something now. It was too cheap to sit around after such an insinuation as this. Why, after a little, he would be standing anything.

He got up and looked out the window into the chilly street. It came gradually into his mind, as he stood there, to go to Brooklyn.

“Why not?” his mind said. “Any one can get work over there. You’ll get two a day.”

“How about accidents?” said a voice. “You might get hurt.”

“Oh, there won’t be much of that,” he answered. “They’ve called out the police. Any one who wants to run a car will be protected all right.”

“You don’t know how to run a car,” rejoined the voice.

“I won’t apply as a motorman,” he answered. “I can ring up fares all right.”

“They’ll want motormen mostly.”

“They’ll take anybody; that I know.”

For several hours he argued pro and con with this mental counsellor, feeling no need to act at once in a matter so sure of profit.

In the morning he put on his best clothes, which were poor enough, and began stirring about, putting some bread and meat into a page of a newspaper. Carrie watched him, interested in this new move.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Over to Brooklyn,” he answered. Then, seeing her still inquisitive, he added: “I think I can get on over there.”

“On the trolley lines?” said Carrie, astonished.

“Yes,” he rejoined.

“Aren’t you afraid?” she asked.

“What of?” he answered. “The police are protecting them.”

“The paper said four men were hurt yesterday.”

“Yes,” he returned; “but you can’t go by what the papers say. They’ll run the cars all right.”

He looked rather determined now, in a desolate sort of way, and Carrie felt very sorry. Something of the old Hurstwood was here—the least shadow of what was once shrewd and pleasant strength. Outside, it was cloudy and blowing a few flakes of snow.

“What a day to go over there,” thought Carrie.

Now he left before she did, which was a remarkable thing, and tramped eastward to Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, where he took the car. He had read that scores of applicants were applying at the office of the Brooklyn City Railroad building and were being received. He made his way there by horse-car and ferry—a dark, silent man—to the offices in question. It was a long way, for no cars were running, and the day was cold; but he trudged along grimly. Once in Brooklyn, he could clearly see and feel that a strike was on. People showed it in their manner. Along the routes of certain tracks not a car was running. About certain corners and nearby saloons small groups of men were lounging. Several spring wagons passed him, equipped with plain wooden chairs, and labelled “Flatbush” or “Prospect Park. Fare, Ten Cents.” He noticed cold and even gloomy faces. Labour was having its little war.

When he came near the office in question, he saw a few men standing about, and some policemen. On the far corners were other men—whom he took to be strikers—watching. All the houses were small and wooden, the streets poorly paved. After New York, Brooklyn looked actually poor and hard-up.

He made his way into the heart of the small group, eyed by policemen and the men already there. One of the officers addressed him.

“What are you looking for?”

“I want to see if I can get a place.”

“The offices are up those steps,” said the bluecoat. His face was a very neutral thing to contemplate. In his heart of hearts, he sympathised with the strikers and hated this “scab.” In his heart of hearts, also, he felt the dignity and use of the police force, which commanded order. Of its true social significance, he never once dreamed. His was not the mind for that. The two feelings blended in him—neutralised one another and him. He would have fought for this man as determinedly as for himself, and yet only so far as commanded. Strip him of his uniform, and he would have soon picked his side.

Hurstwood ascended a dusty flight of steps and entered a small, dust-coloured office, in which were a railing, a long desk, and several clerks.

“Well, sir?” said a middle-aged man, looking up at him from the long desk.

“Do you want to hire any men?” inquired Hurstwood.

“What are you—a motorman?”

“No; I’m not anything,” said Hurstwood.

He was not at all abashed by his position. He knew these people needed men. If one didn’t take him, another would. This man could take him or leave him, just as he chose.

“Well, we prefer experienced men, of course,” said the man. He paused, while Hurstwood smiled indifferently. Then he added: “Still, I guess you can learn. What is your name?”

“Wheeler,” said Hurstwood.

The man wrote an order on a small card. “Take that to our barns,” he said, “and give it to the foreman. He’ll show you what to do.”

Hurstwood went down and out. He walked straight away in the direction indicated, while the policemen looked after.

“There’s another wants to try it,” said Officer Kiely to Officer Macey.

“I have my mind he’ll get his fill,” returned the latter, quietly.

They had been in strikes before.

CHAPTER XLI

THE STRIKE

THE BARN AT WHICH Hurstwood applied was exceedingly short-handed, and was being operated practically by three men as directors. There were a lot of green hands around—queer, hungry-looking men, who looked as if want had driven them to desperate means. They tried to be lively and willing, but there was an air of hang-dog diffidence about the place.

Hurstwood went back through the barns and out into a large, enclosed lot, where were a series of tracks and loops. A half-dozen cars were there, manned by instructors, each with a pupil at the lever. More pupils were waiting at one of the rear doors of the barn.

In silence Hurstwood viewed this scene, and waited. His companions took his eye for a while, though they did not interest him much more than the cars. They were an uncomfortable-looking gang, however. One or two were very thin and lean. Several were quite stout. Several others were rawboned and sallow, as if they had been beaten upon by all sorts of rough weather.

“Did you see by the paper they are going to call out the militia?” Hurstwood heard one of them remark.

“Oh, they’ll do that,” returned the other. “They always do.”

“Think we’re liable to have much trouble?” said another, whom Hurstwood did not see.

“Not very.”

“That Scotchman that went out on the last car,” put in a voice, “told me that they hit him in the ear with a cinder.”

A small, nervous laugh accompanied this.

“One of those fellows on the Fifth Avenue line must have had a hell of a time, according to the papers,” drawled another. “They broke his car windows and pulled him off into the street ‘fore the police could stop ’em.”

“Yes; but there are more police around to-day,” was added by another.

Hurstwood hearkened without much mental comment. These talkers seemed scared to him. Their gabbling was feverish—things said to quiet their own minds. He looked out into the yard and waited.

Two of the men got around quite near him, but behind his back. They were rather social, and he listened to what they said.

“Are you a railroad man?” said one.

“Me? No. I’ve always worked in a paper factory.”

“I had a job in Newark until last October,” returned the other, with reciprocal feeling.

There were some words which passed too low to hear. Then the conversation became strong again.

“I don’t blame these fellers for striking,” said one. “They’ve got the right of it, all right, but I had to get something to do.”

“Same here,” said the other. “If I had any job in Newark I wouldn’t be over here takin’ chances like these.”

“It’s hell these days, ain’t it?” said the man. “A poor man ain’t nowhere. You could starve, by God, right in the streets, and there ain’t most no one would help you.”

“Right you are,” said the other. “The job I had I lost ’cause they shut down. They run all summer and lay up a big stock, and then shut down.”

Hurstwood paid some little attention to this. Somehow, he felt a little superior to these two—a little better off. To him these were ignorant and commonplace, poor sheep in a driver’s hand.

“Poor devils,” he thought, speaking out of the thoughts and feelings of a bygone period of success.

“Next,” said one of the instructors.

“You’re next,” said a neighbour, touching him.

He went out and climbed on the platform. The instructor took it for granted that no preliminaries were needed.

“You see this handle,” he said, reaching up to an electric cut-off, which was fastened to the roof. “This throws the current off or on. If you want to reverse the car you turn it over here. If you want to send it forward, you put it over here. If you want to cut off the power, you keep it in the middle.”

Hurstwood smiled at the simple information.

“Now, this handle here regulates your speed. To here,” he said, pointing with his finger, “gives you about four miles an hour. This is eight. When it’s full on, you make about fourteen miles an hour.”

Hurstwood watched him calmly. He had seen motormen work before. He knew just about how they did it, and was sure he could do as well, with a very little practice.

The instructor explained a few more details, and then said:

“Now, we’ll back her up.”

Hurstwood stood placidly by, while the car rolled back into the yard.

“One thing you want to be careful about, and that is to start easy. Give one degree time to act before you start another. The one fault of most men is that they always want to throw her wide open. That’s bad. It’s dangerous, too. Wears out the motor. You don’t want to do that.”

“I see,” said Hurstwood.

He waited and waited, while the man talked on.

“Now you take it,” he said, finally.

The ex-manager laid hand to the lever and pushed it gently, as he thought. It worked much easier than he imagined, however, with the result that the car jerked quickly forward, throwing him back against the door. He straightened up sheepishly, while the instructor stopped the car with the brake.

“You want to be careful about that,” was all he said.

Hurstwood found, however, that handling a brake and regulating speed were not so instantly mastered as he had imagined. Once or twice he would have ploughed through the rear fence if it had not been for the hand and word of his companion. The latter was rather patient with him, but he never smiled.

“You’ve got to get the knack of working both arms at once,” he said. “It takes a little practice.”

One o’clock came while he was still on the car practising, and he began to feel hungry. The day set in snowing, and he was cold. He grew weary of running to and fro on the short track.

They ran the car to the end and both got off. Hurstwood went into the barn and sought a car step, pulling out his paper-wrapped lunch from his pocket. There was no water and the bread was dry, but he enjoyed it. There was no ceremony about dining. He swallowed and looked about, contemplating the dull, homely labour of the thing. It was disagreeable—miserably disagreeable—in all its phases. Not because it was bitter, but because it was hard. It would be hard to any one, he thought.

After eating, he stood about as before, waiting until his turn came.

The intention was to give him an afternoon of practice, but the greater part of the time was spent in waiting about.

At last evening came, and with it hunger and a debate with himself as to how he should spend the night. It was half-past five. He must soon eat. If he tried to go home, it would take him two hours and a half of cold walking and riding. Besides, he had orders to report at seven the next morning, and going home would necessitate his rising at an unholy and disagreeable hour. He had only something like a dollar and fifteen cents of Carrie’s money, with which he had intended to pay the two weeks’ coal bill before the present idea struck him.

“They must have some place around here,” he thought. “Where does that fellow from Newark stay?”

Finally he decided to ask. There was a young fellow standing near one of the doors in the cold, waiting a last turn. He was a mere boy in years—twenty-one about—but with a body lank and long, because of privation. A little good living would have made this youth plump and swaggering.

“How do they arrange this, if a man hasn’t any money?” inquired Hurstwood, discreetly.

The fellow turned a keen, watchful face on the inquirer.

“You mean eat?” he replied.

“Yes, and sleep. I can’t go back to New York tonight.”

“The foreman ’ll fix that if you ask him, I guess. He did me.”

“That so?”

“Yes. I just told him I didn’t have anything. Gee, I couldn’t go home. I live way over in Hoboken.”

Hurstwood only cleared his throat by way of acknowledgment.

“They’ve got a place upstairs here, I understand. I don’t know what sort of a thing it is. Purty tough, I guess. He gave me a meal ticket this noon. I know that wasn’t much.”

Hurstwood smiled grimly, and the boy laughed.

“It ain’t no fun, is it?” he inquired, wishing vainly for a cheery reply.

“Not much,” answered Hurstwood.

“I’d tackle him now,” volunteered the youth. “He may go ’way.”

Hurstwood did so.

“Isn’t there some place I can stay around here tonight?” he inquired. “If I have to go back to New York, I’m afraid I won’t—”

“There’re some cots upstairs,” interrupted the man, “if you want one of them.”

“That’ll do,” he assented.

He meant to ask for a meal ticket, but the seemingly proper moment never came, and he decided to pay himself that night.

“I’ll ask him in the morning.”

He ate in a cheap restaurant in the vicinity, and, being cold and lonely, went straight off to seek the loft in question. The company was not attempting to run cars after nightfall. It was so advised by the police.

The room seemed to have been a lounging place for night workers. There were some nine cots in the place, two or three wooden chairs, a soap box, and a small, round-bellied stove, in which a fire was blazing. Early as he was, another man was there before him. The latter was sitting beside the stove warming his hands.

Hurstwood approached and held out his own toward the fire. He was sick of the bareness and privation of all things connected with his venture, but was steeling himself to hold out. He fancied he could for a while.

“Cold, isn’t it?” said the early guest.

“Rather.”

A long silence.

“Not much of a place to sleep in, is it?” said the man.

“Better than nothing,” replied Hurstwood.

Another silence.

“I believe I’ll turn in,” said the man.

Rising, he went to one of the cots and stretched himself, removing only his shoes, and pulling the one blanket and dirty old comforter over him in a sort of bundle. The sight disgusted Hurstwood, but he did not dwell on it, choosing to gaze into the stove and think of something else. Presently he decided to retire, and picked a cot, also removing his shoes.

While he was doing so, the youth who had advised him to come here entered, and, seeing Hurstwood, tried to be genial.

“Better’n nothin’,” he observed, looking around.

Hurstwood did not take this to himself. He thought it to be an expression of individual satisfaction, and so did not answer. The youth imagined he was out of sorts, and set to whistling softly. Seeing another man asleep, he quit that and lapsed into silence.

Hurstwood made the best of a bad lot by keeping on his clothes and pushing away the dirty covering from his head, but at last he dozed in sheer weariness. The covering became more and more comfortable, its character was forgotten, and he pulled it about his neck and slept.

In the morning he was aroused out of a pleasant dream by several men stirring about in the cold, cheerless room. He had been back in Chicago in fancy, in his own comfortable home. Jessica had been arranging to go somewhere, and he had been talking with her about it. This was so clear in his mind, that he was startled now by the contrast of this room. He raised his head, and the cold, bitter reality jarred him into wakefulness.

“Guess I’d better get up,” he said.

There was no water on this floor. He put on his shoes in the cold and stood up, shaking himself in his stiffness. His clothes felt disagreeable, his hair bad.

“Hell!” he muttered, as he put on his hat.

Downstairs things were stirring again.

He found a hydrant, with a trough which had once been used for horses, but there was no towel here, and his handkerchief was soiled from yesterday. He contented himself with wetting his eyes with the ice-cold water. Then he sought the foreman, who was already on the ground.

“Had your breakfast yet?” inquired that worthy.

“No,” said Hurstwood.

“Better get it, then; your car won’t be ready for a little while.”

Hurstwood hesitated.

“Could you let me have a meal ticket?” he asked, with an effort.

“Here you are,” said the man, handing him one.

He breakfasted as poorly as the night before on some fried steak and bad coffee. Then he went back.

“Here,” said the foreman, motioning him, when he came in. “You take this car out in a few minutes.”

Hurstwood climbed up on the platform in the gloomy barn and waited for a signal. He was nervous, and yet the thing was a relief. Anything was better than the barn.

On this the fourth day of the strike, the situation had taken a turn for the worse. The strikers, following the counsel of their leaders and the newspapers, had struggled peaceably enough. There had been no great violence done. Cars had been stopped, it is true, and the men argued with. Some crews had been won over and led away, some windows broken, some jeering and yelling done; but in no more than five or six instances had men been seriously injured. These by crowds whose acts the leaders disclaimed.

Idleness, however, and the sight of the company, backed by the police, triumphing, angered the men. They saw that each day more cars were going on, each day more declarations were being made by the company officials that the effective opposition of the strikers was broken. This put desperate thoughts in the minds of the men. Peaceful methods meant, they saw, that the companies would soon run all their cars and those who had complained would be forgotten: There was nothing so helpful to the companies as peaceful methods.

All at once they blazed forth, and for a week there was storm and stress. Cars were assailed, men attacked, policemen struggled with, tracks torn up, and shots fired, until at last street fights and mob movements became frequent, and the city was invested with militia.

Hurstwood knew nothing of the change of temper.

“Run your car out,” called the foreman, waving a vigorous hand at him. A green conductor jumped up behind and rang the bell twice as a signal to start. Hurstwood turned the lever and ran the car out through the door into the street in front of the barn. Here two brawny policemen got up beside him on the platform—one on either hand.

At the sound of a gong near the barn door, two bells were given by the conductor and Hurstwood opened his lever.

The two policemen looked about them calmly.

“’Tis cold, all right, this morning,” said the one on the left, who possessed a rich brogue.

“I had enough of it yesterday,” said the other. “I wouldn’t want a steady job of this.”

“Nor I.”

Neither paid the slightest attention to Hurstwood, who stood facing the cold wind, which was chilling him completely, and thinking of his orders.

“Keep a steady gait,” the foreman had said. “Don’t stop for any one who doesn’t look like a real passenger. Whatever you do, don’t stop for a crowd.”

The two officers kept silent for a few moments.

“The last man must have gone through all right,” said the officer on the left. “I don’t see his car anywhere.”

“Who’s on there?” asked the second officer, referring, of course, to its complement of policemen.

“Schaeffer and Ryan.”

There was another silence, in which the car ran smoothly along. There were not so many houses along this part of the way. Hurstwood did not see many people either. The situation was not wholly disagreeable to him. If he were not so cold, he thought he would do well enough.

He was brought out of this feeling by the sudden appearance of a curve ahead, which he had not expected. He shut off the current and did an energetic turn at the brake, but not in time to avoid an unnaturally quick turn. It shook him up and made him feel like making some apologetic remarks, but he refrained.