DUKE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 -caiiEaiaN 
 
r ' 
 
 Always a crusading reformer, 
 Upton Sinclair has written 
 many novels that are widely read, 
 (The Lanny Budd novels are parti¬ 
 cularly popular in Latin America. 
 In The Junp-le . a "muck-raking" 
 expose of conditions in the 
 meat-packing industry in 1905, 
 Sinclair achieved his greatesti 
 success with American readers,/ 
 But he was disappointed in the 
 reaction of the public because, 
 as he said, he had aimed at the 
 nation’s heart and only hit it in 
 the stomach. His hit was so 
 powerful that it prompted the 
 investigations leading to the 
 Pure Pood laws of 1906, See The 
 Oxford Companion to American 
 Literature . 
 
 hrh 
 
 Sinclair, The Jungle . 
 
 Jiithe ?Hnibersit|> ILibrarp 
 JMnbergrabuatt Collection 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2017 with funding from 
 Duke University Libraries 
 
 https://archive.org/details/jungle01sinc 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 M 
 
 BY 
 
 UPTON SINCLAIR 
 
 Published by 
 
 UPTON SINCLAIR 
 1935 
 
CoPTHIGHT, 1905, 1906, BY 
 UPTON SINCLAIR. 
 
 Copyright, 1920, by UPTON SINCLAIR. 
 
 Published February, 1906. 
 
 All rights reserved, 
 
 including that of translation into foreign languages, 
 including the Scandinavian. 
 
 279 
 
Slo IU 
 1^20 
 
 TO THE WORKINGMEN OF AMERICA 
 

 
 
 ) 
 
 , V 
 
 tv • 
 
 
 I ^ ■■. 
 
 • s . 
 
 V 
 
 ■) 
 
 I 
 
 \ 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 It was four o’clock when the ceremony was over and 
 the carriages began to arrive. There had been a crowd 
 following all the way, owing to the exuberance ot Marija 
 Berczynskas. The occasion rested heavily upon Marija’s 
 broad shoulders—it was her task to see that all things 
 went in due form, and after the best home traditions; and, 
 flying wildly hither and thither, bowling every one out of 
 the way, and scolding and exhorting all day with her tre¬ 
 mendous voice, Marija was too eager to see that others 
 conformed to the proprieties to consider them herself. 
 She had left the church last of all, and, desiring to arrive 
 first at the hali, had issued orders to the coachman to 
 drive faster. When that personage had developed a will 
 of his own in the matter, Marija had flung up the window 
 of the carriage, and{ leaning out, proceeded to tell him 
 her opinion of him, first in Lithuanian, which he did not 
 understand, and then in Polish, which he did. Having 
 the advantage of her in altitude, the driver had stood his 
 ground and even ventured to attempt to speak ; and the 
 result had been a furious altercation, which, continuing 
 all the way down Ashland Avenue, had added a new swarm 
 of urchins to the cortege at each side street for half a 
 mile. 
 
 This was unfortunate, for already there was a throng 
 before the door. The music had started up, and half a 
 block away you could hear the dull “broom, broom” of a 
 ’cello, with the squeaking of two fiddles which vied with 
 each other in intricate and altitudinous gymnastics. See- 
 
 1 
 
2 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 lag tHe throng, Marija abandoned precipitately the debate 
 ooncerning the ancestors of her coachman, and springing 
 from the moving carriage, plunged in and proceeded to 
 clear a way to the hall. Once within, she turned and 
 began to push the other way, roaring, meantime, “ Eik i 
 EikI Uzdaryk-duris /” in tones which made the orchestral 
 uproar sound like fairy music. 
 
 “ Z. Graiezunas, Pasilinksminimams darzas. Vynas. 
 Sznapsas. Wines and Liquors. Union Headquarters”— 
 that was the way the signs ran. The reader, who per¬ 
 haps has never held much converse in the language of 
 far-o£f Lithuania, will be glad of the explanation that the 
 place was the rear-room of a saloon in that part of Chi¬ 
 cago known as “ back of the yards.” This information is 
 definite and suited to the matter of fact; but how piti¬ 
 fully inadequate it would have seemed to one who under¬ 
 stood that it was also the supreme hour of ecstasy in the 
 life of one of God’s gentlest creatures, the scene of the 
 wedding-feast and the joy-transfiguration of little Ona 
 Lukoszaite.! 
 
 She stood in the doorway, shepherded by Cousin Marija, 
 breathless from pushing through the crowd, and in her 
 happiness painful to look upon. There was a light of 
 wonder in her eyes and her lids trembled, and her other¬ 
 wise wan little face was flushed. She wore a muslin 
 C.i'ess, conspicuously white, and a stiff little veil coming to 
 her shoulders. There were five pink paper-roses twisted 
 in the veil, aud eleven bright green rose-leaves. There 
 were new white cotton gloves upon her hands, and as she 
 stood staring about her she twisted them together fever¬ 
 ishly. It was almost too much for her—you could see 
 the pain of too great emotion in her face, and all the 
 tremor of her form. She was so young—not quite six¬ 
 teen— and small for her age, a mere child ; and she had 
 just been married—and married to Jurgis,^ of all men, to 
 Jurgis Rudkus, he with the white flower in the button¬ 
 hole of his new black suit, he with the mighty shoulders 
 aud the giant hands. 
 
 'Pronounced YoorgMs. 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 3 
 
 Ona was blue-eyed and fair, wliile Jurgig had great 
 black eyes with beetling brows, and thick black hair that 
 curled in waves about his ears—in short, they were one 
 of those incongruous and impossible married couples with 
 which Mother Nature so often wills to confound all proph¬ 
 ets, before and after. J urgis could take up a two-hundred- 
 and-fifty-pound quarter of beef and carry it into a car 
 without a stagger, or even a thought; and now he stood 
 in a far corner, frightened as a hunted animal, and obliged 
 to moisten his lips with his tongue each time before he 
 could answer the congratulations of his friends. 
 
 Gradually there was eflected a separation between the 
 spectators and the guests—a separation at least suffi¬ 
 ciently complete for working purposes. There was no 
 time during the festivities which ensued when there were 
 not groups of onlookers in the doorways and the corners; 
 and if any one of these onlookers came sufficiently close, 
 or looked sufficiently hungry, a chair was offered him, and 
 he was invited to the feast. It was one of the laws of 
 the veselija that no one goes hungry; and, while a rule 
 made in the forests of Lithuania is hard to apply in the 
 stock-yards district of Chicago, with its quarter of a mill¬ 
 ion inhabitants, still they did their best, and the children 
 who ran in from the street, and even the dogs, went out 
 again happier. A charming informality was one of the 
 characteristics of this celebration. The men wore their 
 hats, or, if they wished, they took them off, and their coats 
 with them; they ate when and where they pleased, and 
 moved as often as they pleased. There were to be speeches 
 and singing, but no one had to listen who did not care to; 
 if he wished, meantime, to speak or sing himself, he was 
 perfectly free. The resulting medley of sound distracted 
 no one, save possibly alone the babies, of which there were 
 present a number equal to the total possessed by all the 
 guests invited. There was no other place for the babies to 
 be, and so part of the preparations for the evening consisted 
 of a collection of cribs and carriages in one corner. In 
 these the babies slept, three or four together, or wakened 
 together, as the case might be. Those who were still 
 
4 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 older, and could reach the tables, inarched about munch* 
 ing contentedly at meat-bones and bologna sausages. 
 
 The room is about thirty feet square, with whitewashed 
 walls, bare save for a calendar, a picture of a race-horse, 
 and a family tree in a gilded frame. To the right there 
 is a door from ihe saloon, with a few loafers in the door¬ 
 way, and in the corner beyond it a bar, with a presiding 
 genius clad in soiled white, with waxed black mustaches 
 and a carefully oiled curl plastered against one side of his 
 forehead. In the opposite corner are two tables, filling a 
 third of the room and laden with dishes and cold viands, 
 which a few of the hungrier guests are already munching. 
 At the head, where sits the bride, is a snow-white cake, 
 with an Eiffel tower of constructed decoration, with sugar 
 roses and two angels upon it, and a generous sprinkling 
 of pink and green and yellow candies. Beyond opens a 
 door into the kitchen, where there is a glimpse to be had 
 of a range with much steam ascending from it, and many 
 women, old and young, rushing hither and thither. In 
 the corner to the left are the three musicians, upon a little 
 platform, toiling heroically to make some impression upon 
 the hubbub; also the babies, similarly occupied, and an 
 open window whence the populace imbibes the sights and 
 sounds and odors. 
 
 Suddenly some of the steam begins to advance, and, 
 peering through it, you discern Aunt Elizabeth, Ona’s 
 step-mother—Teta Elzbieta, as they call her—bearing 
 aloft a great platter of stewed duck. Behind her is Ko- 
 trina, making her way cautiously, staggering beneath a 
 similar burden; and half a minute later there appears 
 'old Grandmother Majauszkiene, with a big yellow bowl 
 of smoking potatoes, nearly as big as herself. So, bit by 
 bit, the feast takes form—there is a ham and a dish of 
 sauerkraut, boiled rice, macaroni, bologna sausages, great 
 piles of penny buns, bowls of milk, and foaming pitchers 
 of beer. There is also, not six feet from your back, the 
 bar, where you may order all you please and do not have 
 to pay for it, “ Eiksz I Graicziau /” screams Marija Ber- 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 5 
 
 czynskas,am falls to work herself—for there is more upon 
 the stove iiside that will be spoiled if it be not eaten. 
 
 So, witnlaughter and shouts and endless badinage and 
 merrimeny, the guests take their places. The young men, 
 who for the most part have been huddled near the door, 
 summon their resolution and advance; and the shrinking 
 Jurgis is poked and scolded by the old folks until he con¬ 
 sents to seat himself at the right hand of the bride. The 
 two bridesmaids,whose insignia of office are paper wreaths, 
 come next, and after them the rest of the guests, old and 
 young, boys and girls. The spirit of the occasion takes 
 hold of the stately bartender, who condescends to a plate 
 of stewed duck ; even the fat policeman—whose duty it 
 will be, later in the evening, to break up the fights— 
 draws up a chair to the foot of tbe teble. And the chil- 
 dresn shout and the babies yell, and everyone laughs and 
 sings and chatters—while above all the deafening clamor 
 Ccjusin Marija shouts orders to the musicians. 
 
 The musicians—how shall one begin to describe them? 
 A|ll this time they have been there, playing in a mad 
 fi-enzy—all of this scene must be read, or said, or sung, 
 t'Aj music. It is the music which makes it what it is; it 
 i;S the music which changes the place from the rear-room 
 olf a saloon in back of the yards to a fairy place, a won- 
 d'.erland, a little corner of the high mansions of the sky. 
 
 The little person who lea ' 'this trio is an inspired man. 
 ’ His fiddle is out of tune, and there is no rosin on his bow, 
 but still he is an inspired man—the hands of the muses 
 have been laid upon him. He plays like one possessed by 
 a demon, by a whole horde of demons. x ou can feel 
 them in the air round about him, capering frenetically; 
 with their invisible feet they set the pace, and the hair 
 of the leader of the orchestra rises on end, and his eye¬ 
 balls start from their sockets, as he toils to keep up with 
 them 
 
 Tamoszius Kuszleika is his name, and he has taught 
 himself to play the violin by practising all night, after 
 working all day on the “killing beds.” He is in his shirt¬ 
 sleeves, with a vest figured with faded gold horseshoes, 
 
6 
 
 THE JITNGLE 
 
 and a pink-stnped shirt, suggestive of peppeunint candy. 
 A pair of military trousers, light blue with a ysllow stripe, 
 «erve to give that suggestion of authority proper to the 
 leader of a band. He is only about five feet high, but 
 even so these trousers are about eight inches short of the 
 ground. You wonder where he can have gotten them — 
 or rather you would wonder, if the excitement of being in 
 his presence left you time to think of such things. 
 
 For he is an inspired man. Every inch of him is in¬ 
 spired— you might almost say inspired separately. He 
 9tamps with his feet, he tosses his head, he sways and 
 swings to and fro; he has a wizened-up little face, irre- 
 (sistibly comical; and, when he executes a turn or a flour¬ 
 ish, his brows knit and his lips work and his eyelids wink 
 — the very ends of his necktie bristle out. And e\'^ery 
 now and then he turns upon his companions, nodding. Sig¬ 
 nalling, beckoning frantically — with every inch of him 
 appealing, imploring, in behalf of the muses and the-ir 
 call. 1 
 
 For they are hardly worthy of Tamoszius, the other tr^'O 
 members of the orchestra. The second \dolin is a Slovalc, 
 a tall, gaunt man with black-rimmed spectacles and thve 
 mute and patient look of an overdriven mule; he respondfs 
 to the whip but feebly, and then always falls back into hiis 
 old rut. The third man is very fat, with a round, red, 
 sentimental nose, and he plays with his ej’^es turned up to? 
 the sky and a look of infinite jreaming. He is playing an 
 bass part upon his ’cello, and so the excitement is nothing'; 
 to him; no matter what happens in the treble, it is his • 
 task to saw out one long-drawn and lugubrious note after 
 another, from four o’clock in the afternoon until nearly 
 the same hour next morning, for his third of the total 
 income of one dollar per hour. 
 
 Before the feast has been five minutes under way, 
 Tamoszius Kuszleika has risen in his excitement; a min¬ 
 ute or two more and you see that he is beginning to edge 
 over toward the tables. His nostrils are dilated and his 
 breath comes fast—his demons are driving him. He 
 'aods and shakes his head at his companions, jerking at 
 
I'HE JUNGLE 
 
 7 
 
 them with his violin, until at last the long form of the 
 second violinist also rises up. In the end all three ol 
 them begin advancing, step by step, upon the banqueters, 
 Valentinavyczia, the ’cellist, bumping along with his in¬ 
 strument between notes. Finally all three are gathered at 
 the foot of the tables, and there Tamoszius mounts upon a 
 stool. 
 
 Now he is in his glory, dominating the scene. Some, of 
 the people are eating, some are laughing and talking—but 
 you will make a great mistake if you think there is one 
 of them who does not hear him. His notes are never 
 true, and his fiddle buzzes on the low ones and squeaks 
 and scratches on the high ; but these things they heed no 
 more than they heed the dirt and noise and squalor about 
 them — it is out of this material that they have to build 
 their lives, with it that they have to utter their souls. 
 And this is their utterance; merry and boisterous, or 
 mournful and wailing, or passionate and rebellious, this 
 music is their music, music of home. It stretches out 
 its arms to them, they have only to give themselves up. 
 Chicago and its saloons and its slums fade away — there 
 are green meadows and sunlit rivers, mighty forests and 
 snow-clad hills. They behold home landscapes and child¬ 
 hood scenes returning; old loves and friendships begin to 
 waken, old joys and griefs to laugh and weep. Some fall 
 back and close their eyes, some beat upon the table. Now 
 and then one leaps up with a cry and calls for this song or 
 that; and then the fire leaps brighter in Tamoszius’s eyes, 
 and he flings up his fiddle and shouts to his companions, 
 and away they go in mad career. The company takes up 
 the choruses, and men and women cry out like all pos- 
 sessea , ■‘ome leap to their feet and stamp upon the floor, 
 lifting ,;heir glasses and pledging each other. Before 
 long it occurs to some one to demand an old wedding- 
 song, which celebrates the beauty of the bride and the 
 joys of love. In the excitement of this masterpiece 
 Tamoszius Kuszleika begins to edge in between the tables, 
 making his way toward the head, where sits the bride. 
 There is not a foot of space between the chairs of the 
 
8 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 guests, and Tamoszius is so short that he pokes them 
 with his bow whenever he reaches over for the low notes; 
 but still he presses in, and insists relentlessly that his 
 companions must follow. During their progress, needless 
 to say, the sounds of the ’cello are pretty well extin¬ 
 guished ; but at last the three are at the head, and 
 Tamoszius takes his station at the right hand of the bride 
 and begins to pour out his soul in melting strains. 
 
 Little Ona is too excited to eat. Once in a while she 
 tastes a little something, when Cousin Marija pinches her 
 elbow and reminds her; but, for the most part, she sits gaz¬ 
 ing with the same fearful eyes of wonder. Teta Elzbieta is 
 all in a flutter, like a humming-bird; her sisters, too, keep 
 running up behind her, whispering, breathless. But Ona 
 seems scarcely to hear them—the music keeps calling, and 
 the far-oif look comes back, and she sits with her hands 
 pressed together over her heart. Then the tears begin to 
 come into her eyes; and as she is ashamed to wipe them 
 away, and ashamed to let them run down her cheeks, she 
 turns and shakes her head a little, and then flushes red 
 when she sees that Jurgis is watching her. When in the 
 end Tamoszius Kuszleika has reached her side, and is 
 waving his magic wand above her, Ona’s cheeks are scar¬ 
 let, and she looks as if she would have to get up and run 
 away. 
 
 In this crisis, however, she is saved by Marija Berczyn- 
 skas, whom the muses suddenly visit. Marija is fond of 
 a song, a song of lovers’ parting; she wishes to hear it, 
 and, as the musicians do not know it, she has risen, and 
 is proceeding to teach them. Marija is short, but power¬ 
 ful in build. She works in a canning factory, and all 
 day long she handles cans of beef that weigh fourteen 
 pounds. She has a broad Slavic face, with prominent red 
 cheeks. When she opens her mouth, it is tragical, but 
 you cannot help thinking of a horse. She wears a blue 
 flannel shirt-waist, which is now rolled up at the sleeves, 
 disclosing her brawny arms; she has a carving-fork in her 
 hand, with which she pounds on the table to mark the 
 time. As she roars her song, in a voice of which it is 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 9 
 
 enough to say that it leaves no portion of the room va¬ 
 cant, the three musicians follow her, laboriously and note 
 by note, but averaging one note behind; thus they toil 
 through stanza after stanza of a love-sick swain’s lamen¬ 
 tation : — 
 
 “ Sudiev’ kvietkeli, tu brangiausis; 
 
 Sudiev’ ir laime, man biednam, 
 klatau — paskyre teip Aukszcziausis; 
 
 Jog vargt ant svieto I'eik vienam I" 
 
 When the song is over, it is time for the speech, and 
 old Dede Antanas rises to his feet. Grandfather An¬ 
 thony, Jurgis’s father, is not more than sixty years of age, 
 but you would think that he was eighty. He has been 
 only six months in America, and the change has not done 
 him good. In his manhood he worked in a cotton-mill, 
 but then a coughing fell upon him, and he had to leave; 
 out in the country the trouble disappeared, but he has 
 been working in the pickle-rooms at Durham’s, and the 
 breathing of the cold, damp air all day has brought it 
 back. Now as he rises he is seized with a coughing-fit. 
 and holds himself by his chair and turns away his Wan 
 and battered face until it passes. 
 
 Generally it is the custom for the speech at a veselija 
 to be taken out of one of the books and learned by 
 heart; but in his youthful days Dede Antanas used to 
 be a scholar, and really make up all the love-letters of his 
 friends. Now it is understood that he has composed an 
 original speech of congratulation and benediction, and this 
 is one of the events of the day. Even the boys, who are 
 romping about the room, draw near and listen, and some 
 of the women sob and Avipe their aprons in their eyes. It 
 is very solemn, for Antanas Rudkus has become possessed 
 of the idea that he has not much longer to stay with his 
 children. His speech leaves them all so tearful that one 
 of the guests, Jokubas Szedvilas, who keeps a delicates¬ 
 sen store on Halsted Street, and is fat and hearty, is moved 
 to rise and say that things may not be as bad as that, and 
 then to go on and make a little speech of his own, in 
 which he showers congratulations and prophecies of hap- 
 
 2 
 
10 
 
 THl!: JUJNWliE 
 
 piness upon the bride and groom, proceeding to particu¬ 
 lars which greatly delight the young men, but which 
 cause Ona to blush more furiously than ever. Jokubas 
 possesses what his wife complacently describes as “poetis- 
 zka vaidintuve”—a poetical imagination. 
 
 Now a good many of the guests have finished, and, since 
 there is no pretence of ceremony, the banquet begins to 
 break up. Some of the men gather about the bar; some 
 wander about, laughing and singing; here and there 
 will be a little group, chanting merrily, and in sublime 
 indifference to the others ’ and to the orchestra as well. 
 Everybody is more or less restless — one would guess that 
 something is on their minds. And so it proves. The last 
 tardy diners are scarcely given time to finish, before the 
 tables and the debris are shoved into the corner, and 
 the chairs and the babies piled out of the way, and the 
 real celebration of the evening begins. Then Tamoszius 
 Kuszleika, after replenishing himself with a pot of beer, 
 returns to his platform, and, standing up, reviews the 
 scene; he taps authoritatively upon the side of his 
 violin, then tucks it carefully under his chin, then waves 
 his bow in an elaborate flourish, and finally smites the 
 sounding strings and closes his eyes, and floats away in 
 spirit upon the wings of a dreamy waltz. His companion 
 follows, but with his eyes open, watching where he treads, 
 so to speak; and finally Valentinavyczia, after waiting for 
 a little and beating with his foot to get the time, casts 
 up his eyes to the ceiling and begins to saw — “ Broom 1 
 broom I broom I ” 
 
 The company pairs off quickly, and the whole room is 
 soon in motion. Apparently nobody knows how to waltz, 
 but that is nothing of any consequence — there is music, 
 and they dance, each as he pleases, just as before they 
 sang. Most of them prefer the “two-step,” especially 
 the young, with whom it is the fashion. The older people 
 have dances from home, strange and complicated steps 
 which they execute with grave solemnity. Some do not 
 dance anything at all, but simply hold each other’s hands 
 and allow the undisciplined joy of motion to express 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 11 
 
 itself with their feet. Among these are Jokubas Szedviias 
 and his wife, Lucija, who together keep the delicatessen 
 store, and consume nearly as much as they sell; they are 
 too fat to dance, but they stand in the middle of the 
 floor, holding each other fast in their arms, rocking slowly 
 from side to side and grinning seraphically, a picture of 
 toothless and perspiring ecstasy. 
 
 Of these older people many wear clothing reminiscent 
 in some detail of home — an embroidered waistcoat or 
 stomacher, or a gayly colored handkerchief, or a coat with 
 large cuffs and fancy buttons. All these things are care¬ 
 fully avoided by the young, most of whom have learned 
 to speak English and to affect the latest style of clothing. 
 The girls wear ready-made dresses or shirt-waists, and 
 some of them look quite pretty. Some of the young men 
 you would take to be Americans, of the type of clerks, 
 but for the fact that they wear their hats in the room. 
 Each of these younger couples affects a style of its own 
 in dancing. Some hold each other tightly, some at a cau¬ 
 tious distance. Some hold their arms out stiffly, some 
 drop them loosely at their sides. Some dance springily, 
 some glide softly, some move with grave dignity. There 
 are boisterous couples, who tear wildly about the room, 
 knocking every one out of their way. There are nervous 
 couples, whom these frighten, and who cry, “Nustok! 
 Kas yra?” at them as they pass. Each couple is paired 
 for the evening — you will never see them change about. 
 There is Alena Jasaityte, for instance, who has danced 
 unending hours with Juozas Raczius, to whom she is 
 engaged. Alena is the beauty of the evening, and she 
 would be really beautiful if she were not so proud. She 
 wears a white shirt-waist, which represents, perhaps, half 
 a week’s labor painting cans. She holds her skirt with 
 her hand as she dances, with stately precision, after the 
 manner of the grander dames. Juozas is driving one of 
 Durham’s wagons, and is making big wages. He affects 
 a “ tough ” aspect, wearing his hat on one side and keep¬ 
 ing a cigarette in his mouth all the evening. Then there 
 is Jadvyga Marcinkus, who is also beautiful, but humble 
 
12 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 J advyga likewise paints cans, bnt then she has an invalid 
 mother and three little sisters to support by it, and so she 
 does not spend her wages for shirt-waists. Jadvyga is 
 Email and delicate, with jet-black eyes and hair, the latter 
 twisted into a little knot and tied on the top of her head. 
 She wears an old white dress which she has made herself 
 and worn to parties for the past five years; it is high- 
 waisted — almost under her arms, and not very becoming, 
 — but that does not trouble Jadvyga, who is dancing with 
 her Mikolas. She is small, while he is big and powerful; 
 she nestles in his arms as if she would hide herself from 
 view, and leans her head upon his shoulder. He in turn 
 has clasped his arms tightly around her, as if he would 
 carry her away; and so she dances, and will dance the 
 entire evening, and would dance forever, in ecstasy of 
 bliss. You would smile, perhaps, to see them—but you 
 would not smile if you knew all the story. This is the 
 fifth year, now, that Jadvyga has been engaged to Mikolas, 
 and her heart is sick. They would have been married in 
 the beginning, only Mikolas has a father who is drunk all 
 day, and he is the only other man in a large family. E-ven 
 so they might have managed it (for Mikolas is a skilled 
 man) but for cruel accidents which ha\e almost taken the 
 heart out of them. He is a beef-boner, and that is a dan¬ 
 gerous trade, especially when you are on piece-work and 
 trying to earn a bride. Your hands are slippery, and 
 your knife is slippery, and you are toiling like mad, when 
 somebody happens to speak to you, or you strike a bone. 
 Then your hand slips up on the blade, and there is a fear* 
 ful gash. And that would not be so bad, only for the 
 deadly contagion. The cut may heal, but you never can 
 tell. Twice now, within the last three years, Mikolas has 
 been lying at home with blood-poisoning—-once for three 
 months and once for nearly seven. The last time, too, he 
 lost his job, arid that meant six weeks more of standing 
 at the doors of the packing-houses, at six o’clock on bitter 
 winter mornings, with a foot of snow on the ground and 
 more in the air. There are learned people who can tell 
 vou out of the statistics that beef-boners make forty cents 
 
THE JUHGLE 
 
 13 
 
 an hour, hut, perhaps, these people have never looked into 
 a beef-boner’s hands. 
 
 When Tamoszius and his companions stop for a rest, as 
 perforce they must, now and then, the dancers halt where 
 they are and wait patiently. They never seem to tire; 
 and there is no place for them to sit down if they did. 
 It is only for a minute, anyway, for the leader starts up 
 again, in spite of all the protests of the other two. This 
 time it is another sort of a dance, a Lithuanian dance. 
 Those who prefer to, go on with the two-step, but the 
 majority go through an intricate series of motions, resem¬ 
 bling more fancy skating than a dance. The climax of it 
 is a furious prestissimo^ at which the couples seize hands 
 and begin a mad whirling. This is quite irresistible, and 
 every one in the room joins in, until the place becomes a 
 maze of fljdng skirts and bodies, quite dazzling to look 
 upon. But the sight of sights at tliis moment is Tamos- 
 zius Kuszleika. The old fiddle squeaks and shrieks in 
 protest, but Tamoszius has no mercy. The sweat starts 
 out on his forehead, and he bends over like a cyclist on 
 the last lap of a race. His body shakes and throbs like a 
 runaway steam-engine, and the ear cannot follow the fly¬ 
 ing showers of notes—there is a pale blue mist where you 
 look to see his bowing arm. With a most wonderful 
 rush he comes to the end of the tune, and flings up his 
 hands and staggers back exhausted; and with a final 
 shout of delight the dancers fly apart, reeling here and 
 there, bringing up against the walls of the room. 
 
 After this there is beer for every one, the musicians in¬ 
 cluded, and the revellers take a long breath and prepare 
 for the great event of tlie evening, which is the acziavimas. 
 The acziavimas is a ceremony which, once begun, will con¬ 
 tinue for three or four hours, and it involves one uninter¬ 
 rupted dance. The guests form a great ring, locking 
 bands, and, when the music starts up, begin to move 
 around in a circle. In the centre stands the bride, and, 
 one by one, the men step into the enclosure and dance 
 with her. Each dances for several minutes — as long as 
 he pleases; it is a very merry proceeding, with laughter 
 
14 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 and singing, and when the guest has finished, he finds 
 himself face to face with Teta Elzbieta, who holds the 
 hat. Into it he drops a sum of money—a dollar, Or per¬ 
 haps five dollars, according to his power, and his estimate 
 of the value of the privilege. The guests are expected 
 to pay for this entertainment; if they be proper guests, 
 they will see that there is a neat sum left over for the 
 bride and bridegroom to start life upon. 
 
 Most fearful they are to contemplate, the expenses of 
 this entertainment. They will certainly be over two hun¬ 
 dred dollars, and may be three hundred; and three hun¬ 
 dred dollars is more than the year’s income of many a 
 person in this room. There are able-bodied men here 
 who work from early morning until late at night, in ice- 
 cold cellars with a quarter of an inch of water on the 
 floor — men who for six or seven months in the year never 
 see the sunlight from Sunday afternoon till the next Sun¬ 
 day morning — and who cannot earn three hundred dol¬ 
 lars in a year. There are little children here, scarce in 
 their teens, who can hardly see the top of the work 
 benches — whose parents have lied to get them their 
 places — and who do not make the half of three hundred 
 dollars a year, and perhaps not even tlie third of it. And 
 then to spend such a sum, all in a single day of your life, 
 at a wedding-feast 1 (For obviously it is the same thing, 
 whether you spend it at once for your own wedding, or in 
 a long time, at the weddings of all your friends.) 
 
 It is very imprudent, it is tragic — but, ah, it is so beau¬ 
 tiful I Bit by bit these poor people have given up every¬ 
 thing else; but to this they cling with all the power of 
 their souls — they cannot gi ve up the veselija ! To do that 
 would mean, not merely to be defeated, but tO acknowl¬ 
 edge defeat — and the difference between these two things 
 is what keeps the world going. The veselija has come 
 down to them from a far-off time; and the meaning of it 
 was that one might dwell within the cave and gaze upon 
 shadows, provided only that once in his lifetime he could 
 break his chains, and feel his wings, and behold the sun ; 
 WOTided that once in his lifetime he might testify to the 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 15 
 
 fact that life, with all its cares and its terrors, is no such 
 great thing after all, but merely a bubble upon the surface 
 of a river, a thing that one may toss about and play with 
 as a juggler tosses liis golden balls, a thing that one may 
 quaff, like a goblet of rare red wine. Thus having known 
 himself for the master of things, a man could go back to 
 his toil and live upon the memory all his days. 
 
 Endlessly the dancers swung round and round—when 
 they were dizzy they swung the other way. Hour after 
 hour this had continued — the darkness had fallen and the 
 room was dim from the light of two smoky oil lamps. 
 The musicians had spent all their fine frenzy by now, and 
 played only one tune, wearily, ploddingly. There were 
 twenty bars or so of it, and when they came to the end 
 they began again. Once every ten minutes or so they 
 would fail to begin again, but instead would sink back 
 exhausted ; a circumstance which invariably brought on 
 a painful and terrifying scene, that made the fat police* 
 man stir uneasily in his sleeping-place behind the door. 
 
 It was all Marija Berczynskas. Marija was one of those 
 hungry souls who cling with desperation to the skirts of 
 the retreating muse. All day long she had been in a state 
 of wonderful exaltation; and now it was leaving — and 
 she would not let it go. Her soul cried out in the words 
 of Faust, “ Stay, thou art fair! ” Whether it was by beer, 
 or by shouting, or by music, or by motion, she meant that 
 it should not go. ' And she would go back to the chase of 
 it — and no sooner be fairly started than her chariot would 
 be thrown off the track, so to speak, by the stupidity of 
 those thrice-accursed musicians. Each time, Marija would 
 emit a howl and fly at them, shaking her fists in their 
 faces, stamping upon the floor, purple and incoherent witf 
 rage. In vain the frightened Tamoszius would attempt 
 to speak, to plead the limitations of the flesh in vain 
 would the puffing and breathless ponas Jokubas insist, ir' 
 vain would Teta Elzbieta implore. “ Szalin 1 ” IMarija would 
 scream, “PalaukI isz kelio! What are you paid for, 
 children of hell? ” And so, in sheer terror, the orchestra 
 
16 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 would strike iip again, and Marija would return to her 
 place and take up her task. 
 
 She bore all the burden of the festivities now. Ona 
 was kept up by her excitement, but all of the women and 
 most of the men were tired — the soul of Marija was alone 
 unconquered. She drove on the dancers — what had once 
 been the ring had now the shape of a pear, with Marija at 
 the stem, pulling one way and pushing the other, shouting, 
 stamping, singing, a very volcano of energy. Now and 
 then some one coming in or out would leave the door open, 
 and the night air was chill; Marija as she passed would 
 stretch out her foot and kick the door-knob, and slam 
 would go the doorl Once this procedure was the cause of 
 a calamity of which Sebastijonas Szedvilas was the hapless 
 victim. Little Sebastijonas, aged three, had been wander¬ 
 ing about oblivious to all things, holding turned up over 
 his mouth a bottle of liquid known as “pop,” pink- 
 colored, ice-cold, and delicious. Passing through the 
 doorway the door smote him full, and the shriek which 
 followed brought the dancing to a halt. Marija, who 
 threatened horrid murder a hundred times a day, and 
 would weep over the injury of a fly, seized little Sebasti¬ 
 jonas in her arms and bid fair to smother him with kisses. 
 There was a long rest for the orchestra, and plenty of 
 refreshments, while Marija was making her peace with 
 her victim, seating him upon the bar, and standing beside 
 him and holding to his lips a foaming schooner of beer. 
 
 In the meantime there was going on in another corner 
 of the room an anxious conference between Teta Elzbieta 
 and Dede Antanas, and a few of the more intimate friends 
 of the family. A trouble was come upon them. The 
 veselija is a compact, a compact not expressed, but there¬ 
 fore only the more binding upon all. Every one’s share 
 was different—and yet every one knew perfectly well 
 what his share was, and strove to give a little more. Now, 
 however, since they had come to the new country, all this 
 was changing; it seemed as if there must be some subtle 
 poison in the air that one breathed here — it was affecting 
 all the young men at once. They would come in crowds 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 17 
 
 and fill themselves with a fine dinner, and then sneak off. 
 One would throw another’s hat out of the window, and 
 both would go out to get it, and neither would be seen 
 again. Or now and then half a dozen of tliem would get 
 together and march out openly, staring at you, and mak¬ 
 ing fun of you to your face. Still others, v/orse yet, 
 would crowd about the bar, and at the expense of the host 
 drink themselves sodden, paying not the least attention 
 to any one, and leaving it to be thought that either they 
 had danced with the bride already, or meant to later on. 
 
 All these things were going on now, and the family 
 was helpless with dismay. So long they had toiled, and 
 such an outlay they had made! Ona stood by, her eyes 
 wide with terror. Those frightful bills — how they had 
 hauirted her, each item gnawing at her soul all day and 
 spoiling her rest at night. How often she had named 
 them over one by oire and figured on them as she went to 
 work— fifteen dollars for the hall, twenty-two dollars 
 and a quarter for the ducks, twelve dollars for the musi¬ 
 cians, five dollars at the church, and a blessing of the 
 Virgin besides — and so on without an end I Worst of 
 all was the frightful bill that was still to come from Graic- 
 zunas for the beer and liquor that might be consumed. 
 One could never get in advance more than a guess as to 
 this from a saloon-keeper — and then, when the time came 
 he always came to you scratching his head and sa3dng 
 that he had guessed too low, but that he had done his 
 best — your guests had gotten so very drunk. B}'- him 
 you were sure to be cheated unmercifully, and that even 
 though you thought yourself the dearest of the hundreds 
 of friends he had. He would begin to serve 3mur guests 
 out of a keg that was half full, and finish with one that 
 was half empty, and then you would be charged for two 
 kegs of beer. He would agree to serve a certain quality 
 at a certain price, and when the time came you and your 
 friends would be drinking some horrible poison that could 
 not be described. You might complain, but you would 
 get nothing for your pains but a ruined evening ; while, 
 as for going to law about it, you might as well go to 
 
18 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 heaven at once. The saloon-keeper stood in with all the 
 big politics men in the district; and when you had once 
 found out what it meant to get into trouble with such 
 people, you would know enough to pay what you were 
 told to pay and shut up. 
 
 What made all this the more painful was that it was so 
 hard on the few that had really done their best. There 
 was poor old ponas Jokubas, for instance — he had already 
 given five dollars, and did not every one know that JokabL_ 
 Szedvilas had just mortgaged his delicatessen store for two 
 hundred dollars to meet several months’ overdue rent ? 
 And then there was withered old poni Aniele — who was 
 a widow, and had three children, and the rheumatism be¬ 
 sides, and did washing for the tradespeople on Halsted 
 Street at prices it would break your heart to hear named. 
 Aniele had given the entire profit of her chickens for sev¬ 
 eral months. Eight of them she ovmed, and she kept them 
 in a little place fenced around on her backstairs. All day 
 long the children of Aniele were raking in the dump for 
 food for these chickens; and sometimes, when the compe¬ 
 tition there was too fierce, you might see them on Halsted 
 Street, walking close to the gutters, and with their mother 
 following to see that no one robbed them of their finds. 
 Money could not tell the value of these chickens to old 
 Mrs. Jukniene — she valued them differently, for she had 
 a feeling that she was getting something for nothing by 
 means of them — that with them she was getting the 
 better of a world that was getting the better of her in so 
 many other ways. So she watched them every hour of the 
 day, and had learned to see like an owl at night to watch 
 them then. One of them had been stolen long ago, and 
 not a month passed that some one did not try to steal 
 another. As the frustrating of this one attempt involved 
 a score of false alarms, it will be understood what a trib¬ 
 ute old Mrs. Jukniene brought, just because Teta Elzbieta 
 had once loaned her some money for a few days and saved 
 her from being turned out of her house. 
 
 More and more friends gathered round while the lamen* 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 19 
 
 tatiou about these things was going on. Some drew nearer, 
 hoping to overhear the conversation, who were themselves 
 among the guilty — and surely that was a thing to try the 
 patience of a saint. Finally there came Jurgis, urged by 
 some one, and the story was retold to him. Jui’gis listened 
 in silence, with his great black eyebrows knitted. Now 
 and then there would come a gleam underneath them 
 and he would glance about the room. Perhaps he 
 would have liked to go at some of those fellows Avith his 
 big clenched fists; but then, doubtless, he realized how 
 little good it would do him. No bill would be any less 
 for turning out any one at this time ; and then there 
 would be the scandal—and Jurgis wanted nothing ex¬ 
 cept to get away with Ona and to let the world go its 
 own M^ay. So his hands relaxed and he merely said 
 quietly: “It is done, and there is no use in weeping, Teta 
 Elzbieta.” Then his look turned toward Ona, who stood 
 close to his side, and he saw the wide look of terror in her 
 eyes. “ Little one,” he said, in a low voice, “ do not worry 
 — it will not matter to us. We will pay them all some¬ 
 how. I will work harder.” That was always what 
 Jurgis said. Ona had grown used to it as the solution 
 of all difficulties — “I will work harder ! ” He had said 
 that in Lithuania when one official liad taken his passport 
 from him, and another had arrested him for being without 
 it, and the two had divided a third of his belongings. He 
 had said it again in New York, when the smooth-spoken 
 agent had taken them in hand and made them pay such 
 high prices, and almost prevented their leaving his place, 
 in spite of their paying. Now he said it a third time, and 
 Ona drew a deep breath; it was so wonderful to have 
 a husband, just like a grown woman — and a husband 
 who could solve all problems, and who was so big and 
 strong I 
 
 The last sob of little Sebastijonas has been stifled, and 
 the orchestra has once more been reminded of its duty. 
 The ceremony begins again — but there are few now left 
 to dance with, and so very soon the collection is over and 
 
20 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 promiscuous dances once more begin. It is now after mid' 
 night, however, and things are not as they were before. 
 The dancers are dull and heavy—most of them have been 
 drinking hard, and have long ago passed the stage of ex¬ 
 hilaration. They dance in monotonous measure, round 
 after round, hour after hour, with eyes fixed upon vacancy, 
 as if they were only lialf conscious, in a coiistantly growing 
 stupor. The men grasp the women very tightly, but there 
 will be half an hour together when neither will see the 
 other’s face. Some couples do not care to dance, and have 
 retired to the corners, where they sit with their arms en¬ 
 laced. Others, who have been drinking still more, wander 
 about the room, bumping into everytliing; some are in 
 groups of two or three, singing, each group its own song. 
 As time goes on there is a variety of drunkenness, among 
 the younger men especially. Some stagger about in each 
 other’s arms, whispering maudlin words—others start quar¬ 
 rels upon the slightest pretext, and come to blows and have 
 to be pulled apart. Now the fat policeman wakens defi¬ 
 nitely, and feels of his club to see that it is ready for 
 business. He has to be prompt — for these two-o’clock- 
 in-the-morning fights, if they once get out of hand, are 
 like a forest fire, and may mean the whole reserves at 
 the station. The thing to do is to crack every fighting 
 head that you see, before there are so many fighting 
 heads that you cannot crack any of them. There is but 
 scant account kept of cracked heads in back of the yards, 
 for men who have to crack the heads of animals all day 
 seem to get into the habit, and to practise on their friends, 
 and even on their families, between times. This makes it 
 a cause for congratulation that by modern methods a very 
 few men can do the painfully necessary work of head¬ 
 cracking for the whole of the cultured world. 
 
 There is no fight that night — perhaps because Jurgis, 
 too, is watchful — even more so than the policeman. 
 Jurgis has drunk a great deal, as any one naturally would 
 on an occasion when it all has to be paid for, whether it is 
 drank or not ; but he is a very steady man, and does not 
 easily lose his temper. Only oncp there is a ^’o’ht shave-— 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 21 
 
 and that is the fault of Marija Berczynskas. Marija has 
 apparently concluded about two hours ago that if the altar 
 in the corner, with the deity in soiled white, be not the 
 true home of the muses, it is, at any rate, the nearest sub¬ 
 stitute on earth attainable. And IMarija is just fighting 
 drunk when there come to her ears the facts about the 
 villains who have not paid that night. Marija goes on 
 the warpath straight off, without even the preliminary of 
 a good cursing, and when she is pulled off it is with the 
 coat collars of two villains in her hands. Fortunately, the 
 policeman is disposed to be reasonable, and so it is not 
 Marija who is flung out of the place. 
 
 All this interrupts the music for not more than a minute 
 or two. Then again the merciless tune begins — the tune 
 that has been played for the last half-hour without one 
 single change. It is an American tune this time, one 
 which they have picked up on the streets; all seem to 
 know the words of it — or, at any rate, the first line of it, 
 which they hum to themselves, over and over again with¬ 
 out rest: “In the good old summer time — in the good 
 old summer time! In the good old summer time — in the 
 good, old summer time! ” There seems to be something 
 hypnotic about this, with its endlessly-recurring domi¬ 
 nant. It has put a stupor upon every one who hears it, 
 as well as upon the men who are playing it. No one can 
 get away from it, or even think of getting away from it; 
 it is three o’clock in the morning, and they have danced 
 out all their joy, and danced out all their strength, and all 
 the strength that unlimited drink can lend them — and 
 still there is no one among them who has the power to 
 think of stopping. Promptly at seven o’clock this same 
 Monday morning they will every one of them have to be 
 in their places at Durham’s or Brown’s or Jones’s, each in 
 his working clothes. If one of them be a minute late, he 
 will be docked an hour’s pay, and if he be many minutes 
 late, he will be apt to find his brass check turned to the 
 wall, which will send him out to join the hungry mob that 
 waits every morning at the gates of the packing-houses, 
 from six o’clock until nearly half-past eight. There is no 
 
22 
 
 THE JUKGLE 
 
 exception to this rule, not even little Ona — who has asked 
 for a holiday the day after her fl^edding-day, a holiday 
 without pay, and been refused. While there are so many 
 v/ho are anxious to work as you wish, there is no occasion 
 for incommoding yourself with those who must work 
 otherwise. 
 
 Little Ona is nearly ready to faint—and half in a stupor 
 herself, because of the heavy scent in the room. She has 
 not taken a drop, but every one else there is literally burn¬ 
 ing alcohol, as the lamps are burning oil; some of the 
 men who are sound asleep in their chairs or on the floor 
 are reeking of it so that you cannot go near them. Now 
 and then Jurgis gazes at her hungrily — he has long since 
 forgotten his shyness; but then the crowd is there, and 
 he still waits and watches the door, where a carriage is 
 supposed to come. It does not, and finally he will wait 
 no longer, but comes up to Ona, who turns white and 
 trembles. He puts her shawl about her and then his own 
 coat. They live only two blocks away, and Jurgis does 
 not care about the carriage. 
 
 There is almost no farewell — the dancers do not notice 
 them, and all of the children and many of the old folks 
 have fallen asleep of sheer exhaustion. Dede Antanas is 
 asleep, and so are the Szedvilases, husband and wife, the 
 former snoring in octaves. There is Teta Elzbieta, and 
 Marija, sobbing loudly; and then there is only the silent 
 light, with the stars beginning to pale a little in the east. 
 Jurgis, without a word, lifts Ona in his arms, and strides 
 out with her, and she sinks her head upon his shoulder 
 with a moan. When he reaches home he is not sure 
 whether she has fainted or is asleep, but when he has to 
 hold her with one hand while he unlocks the door, he sees 
 that she has opened her eyes. 
 
 “ You shall not go to Brown’s to-day, little one,” he 
 whispers, as he climbs the stairs ; and she catches his arm 
 in terror, gasping: “No I No! I dare not I It will ruin 
 us!’” 
 
 But he answers her again: “Leave it to me; leave it 
 to me. I will earn more money — I will work harder.” 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 JuRGis talked lightly about work, because he was young. 
 They told him stories about the breaking down of men, 
 there in the stockyards of Chicago, and of what had hap¬ 
 pened to them afterwards — stories to make your flesh 
 creep, but Jurgis would only laugh. He had only been 
 there four months, and he was young, and a giant besides. 
 There was too much health in him. He could not even 
 imagine how it would feel to be beaten. “ That is well 
 enough for men like you,” he would say, silpnas^ P^^iy 
 fellows — but my back is broad.” 
 
 Jurgis was like a boy, a boy from the country. He was 
 the sort of man the bosses like to get hold of, the sort they 
 make it a grievance they cannot get hold of. When he 
 was told to go to a certain place, he would go there on the 
 run. When he had nothing to do for the moment, he 
 would stand round fidgeting, dancing, with the overflow 
 of energy that was in him. If he were working in a line 
 of men, the line always moved too slowly for him, and you 
 could pick him out by his impatience and restlessness. 
 That was why he had been picked out on one important 
 occasion ; for Jurgis had stood outside of Brown and Com¬ 
 pany’s “Central Time Station” not more than half an 
 hour, the second day of his arrival in Chicago, before he 
 had been beckoned by one of the bosses. Of this he was 
 very proud, and it made him more disposed than ever to 
 laugh at the pessimists. In vain would the}* all tell him 
 that there were men in that crowd from which he had 
 been chosen who had stood there a month — yes, many 
 months — and not been chosen yet. “Yes,” he would 
 say, “ but what sort of men 'I Broken-down tramps 
 and good-for-nothings, fellows who have spent all their 
 money drinking, and want to get more for it. Do you 
 
 23 
 
24 
 
 THE JEIJGLE 
 
 want me to believe that with these arms ” ~ and he would 
 clench his fists and hold them up in the air, so that you 
 might see the rolling muscles — “that with these arms 
 people Avill ever let me starve ? ” 
 
 “ It is plain,” they would answer to this, “ that you have 
 come from the country, and from very far in the country.” 
 And this was the fact, for Jurgis had never seen a city, 
 and scarcely even a fair-sized town, until he had set out 
 to make his fortune in the world and earn his right to 
 Ona. His father, and his father’s father before him, and 
 as many ancestors back as legend could go, had lived in 
 that part of Lithuania knowm as Brelovioz^ the Imperial 
 Forest. This is a great tract of a hundred thousand acres, 
 which from time immemorial has been a hunting preserve 
 of the nobility. There are a very few peasants settled in 
 it, holding title from ancient times ; and one of these was 
 Antanas Rudkus, who had been reared himself, and had 
 reared his children in turn, upon half a dozen acres of 
 cleared land in the midst of a wilderness. There had been 
 one son besides Jurgis, and one sister. The former had 
 been drafted into the army; that had been over ten years 
 ago, but since that day nothing had ever been heard of 
 him. The sister was married, and her husband had bought 
 the place when old Antanas had decided to go with his 
 son. 
 
 It was nearly a year and a half ago that Jurgis had met 
 Ona, at a horse-fair a hundred miles from home. Jurgis 
 had never expected to get married — he had laughed at it 
 as a foolish trap for a man to walk into; but here, without 
 ever having spoken a word to her, with no more than the 
 exchange of half a dozen smiles, he found himself, 
 purple in the face with embarrassment and terror, asking 
 her parents to sell her to him for his wife — and offering 
 his father’s two horses he had been sent to the fair to sell. 
 But Ona’s father proved as a rock — the girl was yet a 
 child, and he was a rich man, and his daughter was not to 
 be had in that way. So J urgis went home with a heavy 
 heart, and that spring and summer toiled and tried hard 
 to forget. In the fall, after the harvest was over, he saw 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 25 
 
 that it would not do, and tramped the full fortnight’s 
 journey that lay between him and Ona. 
 
 He found an unexpected state of affairs — for the girl’s 
 father had died, and his estate was tied up with creditors; 
 Jurgis’s heart leaped as he realized that now the prize was 
 within his reach. There was Elzbieta Lukoszaite, Teta, 
 or Aunt, as they called her, Ona’s stepmother, and there 
 were her six children, of all ages. There was also her 
 brother Jonas, a dried-up little man who had worked upon 
 the farm. They were people of great consequence, as it 
 seemed to Jurgis, fresh out of the woods ; Ona knew how 
 to read, and knew many other things that he did not 
 know; and now the farm had been sold, and the whole 
 family was adrift — all they owned in the world being 
 about seven hundred roubles, which is half as manj^ dol¬ 
 lars. They would have had three times that, but it had 
 gone to court, and the judge had decided against them, and 
 it had cost the balance to get him to change his decision. 
 
 Ona might have married and left them, but she would 
 not, for she loved Teta Elzbieta. It was Jonas who sug¬ 
 gested that they all go to America, where a friend of his 
 had gotten rich. He would work, for his part, and the 
 women would work, and some of the children, doubtless 
 — they would live somehow. Jurgis, too, had heard of 
 America. That was a country where, they said, a man 
 might earn three roubles a day ; and Jurgis figured what 
 three roubles a day would mean, with prices as they were 
 where he lived, and decided forthwith that he would go 
 to America and marry, and be a rich man in the bargain. 
 In that country, rich or poor, a man was free, it was said; 
 he did not have to go into the army, he did not have to 
 pay out his money to rascally officials,—he might do as he 
 pleased, and count himself as good as any other man. So 
 America was a place of which lovers and young people 
 dreamed. If one could only manage to get the price of a 
 passage, he could count his troubles at an end. 
 
 It was arranged that they should leave the following 
 upring, and meantime J urgis sold himself to a contractor 
 for a certain time, and tramped nearly four hundred miles 
 
26 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 from home with a gang of men to work upon a railroad in 
 Smolensk. This was a fearful experience, with filth and 
 bad food and cruelty and overwork ; but Jurgis stood it 
 and came out in fine trim, and with eighty roubles sewed 
 up in his coat. He did not drink or fight, because he was 
 thinking all the time of Ona; and for the rest, he was a 
 quiet, steady man, who did what he was told to, did not 
 lose his temper often, and when he did lose it made the 
 offender anxious that he should not lose it again. When 
 they paid him off he dodged the company gamblers and 
 dramshops, and so they tried to kill him ; but he escaped, 
 and tramped it home, working at odd jobs, and sleeping 
 always with one eye open. 
 
 So in the summer time they had all set out for America. 
 At the last moment there joined them Marija Berczynskas, 
 who Avas a cousin of Ona’s. Marija was an orphan, and 
 had worked since childhood for a rich farmer of Vilna, 
 Avho beat her regularly. It was only at the age of twenty 
 that it had occurred to Marija to try her strength, when 
 she had risen up and nearly murdered the man, and then 
 come away. 
 
 There were twelve in all in the party, five adults and 
 six children — and Ona, who was a little of both. They 
 had a hard time on the passage; there was an agent who 
 helped them, but he proved a scoundrel, and got them into 
 a trap with some officials, and cost them a good deal of 
 their precious money, which they clung to with such hor¬ 
 rible fear. This happened to them again in New York — 
 for, of course, they knew nothing about the country, and 
 had no one to tell them, and it was easy for a man in a 
 blue uniform to lead them away, and to take them to a 
 hotel and keep them there, and make them pay enormous 
 charges to get aAvay. The law says that the rate-card 
 shall be on the door of a hotel, but it does not say that it 
 shall be in Lithuanian. 
 
 It was in the stockyards that Jonas’s friend had gotten 
 rich, and so to Chicago the party was bound. They knew 
 that one word, Chicago, — and that was all they needed 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 27 
 
 to know, at least, until they reached the city. Then, 
 tumbled out of the cars without ceremony, they were no 
 better off than before; they stood staring down the vista 
 of Dearborn Street, with its big black buildings towering 
 in the distance, unable to realize that they .had arrived, 
 and why, when they said “ Chicago,” people no longer 
 pointed in some direction, but instead looked perplexed, 
 or laughed, or went on without paying any attention. 
 They were pitiable in their helplessness; above all things 
 they stood in deadly terror of any sort of person in official 
 uniform, and so whenever they saw a policeman they would 
 cross the street and hurry by. For the whole of the first 
 day they wandered about in the midst of deafening con¬ 
 fusion, utterly lost; and it was only at night that, cower¬ 
 ing in the doorway of a house, they were finally discovered 
 and taken by a policeman to the station. In the morning 
 an interpreter was found, and they were taken and put 
 upon a car, and taught a new word — “stockyards.” 
 Their delight at discovering that they were to get out 
 of this adventure without losing another share of their 
 possessions, it would not be possible to describe. 
 
 They sat and stared out of the window. They were on 
 a street which seemed to run on forever, mile after mile — 
 thirty-four of them, if they had known it — and each side 
 of it one uninterrupted row of wretched little two-story 
 frame buildings. Down every side street they could see, 
 it was the same, — never a hill and never a hollow, but 
 always the same endless vista of ugly and dirty little 
 wooden buildings. Here and there would be a bridge 
 crossing a filthy creek, with hard-baked mud shores and 
 dingy sheds and docks along it; here and there would be 
 a railroad crossing, with a tangle of switches, and loco¬ 
 motives puffing, and rattling freight-cars filing by; here 
 and there would be a great factory, a dingy building with 
 innumerable windows in it, and immense volumes of smoke 
 pouring from the chimneys, darkening the air above and 
 making filthy the earth beneath. But after each of these 
 interruptions, the desolate procession would begin again 
 — the procession of dreary little buildings. 
 
28 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 A fuR hour before the party reached the city they had 
 begun to note the perplexing changes in the atmosphere. 
 It grew darker all the time, and upon the earth the grass 
 seemed to grow less green. Every minute, as the train 
 sped on, the colors of things became dingier ; the fields 
 were grown parched and yellow, the landscape hideous and 
 bare. And along with the thickening smoke they began 
 to notice another circumstance, a strange, pungent odor. 
 They were not sure that it was unpleasant, this odor; 
 some might have called it sickening, but their taste in 
 odors was not developed, and they were only sure that it 
 was curious. Now, sitting in the trolley car, they real¬ 
 ized that they were on their way to the home of it — 
 that they had travelled all the way from Lithuania to it. 
 It was now, no longer something far-off and faint, that you 
 caught in whiffs ; you could literally taste it, as well as 
 smell it — you could take hold of it, almost, and examine 
 it at jmur ’eisure. They were divided in their opinions 
 about it. It was an elemental odoi’, raw and crude ; it 
 was rich, almost rancid, sensual, and strong. There were 
 some who drank it in as if it were an intoxicant; there 
 were others who put their handkerchiefs to their faces. 
 The new emigrants were still tasting it, lost in wonder, 
 when suddenly the car came to a halt, and the door was 
 flung open, and a voice shouted — “ Stockyardsl ” 
 
 They were left standing upon the corner, staring ; down 
 a side street there were two rows of brick houses, and be¬ 
 tween them a vista; half a dozen chimneys, tall as the 
 tallest of buildings, touching the very sky — and leaping 
 from them half a dozen columns of smoke, thick, oily, 
 and black as night. It might have come from the centre 
 of the world, this smoke, where the fires of the ages still 
 smoulder. It came as if self-impelled, driving all before 
 it, a perpetual explosion. It was inexhaustible; one 
 stared, waiting to see it stop, but still the great streams 
 rolled out. They spread in vast clouds overhead, writh¬ 
 ing, curling; then, uniting in one giant river, they 
 streamed away down the sky, stretching a black pall as 
 far as the eye could reach. 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 ?9 
 
 Then the party became aware of another strange thing. 
 This, too, like the odor, was a thing elemental; it was a 
 sound, a sound made up of ten thousand little sounds. 
 You scarcely noticed it at first — it sunk into your con¬ 
 sciousness, a vague disturbance, a trouble. It was like 
 the murmuring of the bees in the spring, the whisperings 
 of the forest ; it suggested endless activity, the rumblings 
 of a world in motion. It was only by an effort that one 
 could realize that it was made b_y animals, that it was the 
 distant lowing of ten thousand cattle, the distant grunting 
 of ten thousand swine. 
 
 They would have liked to follow it up, but, alas, they 
 had no time for adventures just then. The policeman on 
 the corner was beginning to watch them; and so, as usual, 
 they started up the street. Scarcely had they gone a 
 block, however, before Jonas was heard to give a cry, and 
 began pointing excitedly across the street. Before they 
 could gather the meaning of his breathless ejaculations he 
 had bounded away, and tliey saw him enter a shop, over 
 which was a sign : “ J. Szedvilas, Delicatessen.” When 
 he came out again it was in company with a very stout 
 gentleman in shirt sleeves and an apron, clasping Jonas 
 by both hands and laughing hilariously. Then Teta 
 Elzbieta recollected suddenly that Szedvilas had been the 
 name of the mytJiical friend who had made his fortune in 
 America. To find that he had been making it in the deli* 
 catessen business was an extraordinary piece of good for* 
 tune at this juncture ; though it was well on in the 
 morning, they had not breakfasted, and the children were 
 beginning to whimper. 
 
 Thus was the happy ending of a woful voyage. The 
 two families literally fell upon each other’s necks — for it 
 had been years since Jokubas Szedvilas had met a man 
 from his part of Lithuania. Before half the day they were 
 lifelong friends. Jokubas understood all the pitfalls of 
 this new world, and could explain all of its mysteries; 
 he could tell them the things they ought to have done in 
 the different emergencies —and what was still more to the 
 point, he could tell them what to do now. He would 
 
30 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 take them to poni Aniele, who kept a boarding-house the 
 other side of the yards; old Mrs. Jukniene, he explained, 
 had not what one would call choice accommodations, but 
 they might do for the moment. To this Teta Elzbieta 
 hastened to respond that nothing could be too cheap to 
 suit them just then; for they were quite terrified over the 
 sums they had had to expend. A very few days of prac¬ 
 tical experience in this land of high wages had been suffi¬ 
 cient to make clear to them the crnel fact that it was also 
 a land of high prices, and that in it the poor man was 
 almost as poor as in any other corner of the earth ; and so 
 there vanished in a night all the wonderful dreams of 
 wealth that had been haunting Jurgis. What had made 
 the discovery all the more painful was that they were 
 spending, at American prices, money which they had 
 earned at home rates of wages—and so were really being 
 cheated by the world ! The last two days they had all 
 but starved themselves — it made them quite sick to 
 pay the prices that the railroad people asked them for 
 food. 
 
 Yet, when they saw the home of the Widow Jukniene 
 they could not but recoil, even so. In all their journey 
 they had seen nothing so bad as this. Poni Aniele had a 
 four-room flat in one of that wilderness of two-story frame 
 tenements that lie “back of the yards.” There were four 
 such flats in each building, and each of the four was a 
 “boarding-house ” for the occupancj^ of foreigners — Lith¬ 
 uanians, Poles, Slovaks, or Bohemians. Some of these 
 places were kept by private persons, some were coopera¬ 
 tive. fl’liere would be an average of half a dozen boarders 
 to each room — sometimes there were thirteen or fourteen 
 to one room, fifty or sixty to a flat. Each one of the oc¬ 
 cupants furnished his own accommodations — that is, a 
 mattress and some bedding. The mattresses would be 
 spread upon the floor in rows — and there would be 
 nothing else in the place except a stove^ It was by no 
 means unusual for two men to own the same mattress in 
 common, one working by day and using it by night, and 
 the other working at night and usinsr it in the daytime. 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 31 
 
 Very frequently a lodging-house keeper would rent the 
 same beds to double shifts of men. , 
 
 Mrs. Jukniene was a wizened up little woman, with a 
 wrinkled face. Her home was unthinkably filthy; you 
 could not enter by the front door at all, owing to the 
 mattresses, and when you tried to go up the backstairs 
 you found that she had walled up most of the porch with 
 old boards to make a place to keep her chickens. It was 
 a standing jest of the boarders that Aniele cleaned house 
 by letting the chickens loose in the rooms. Undoubtedly 
 this did keep down the vermin, but it seemed probable, in 
 view of all the circumstances, that the old lady regarded 
 it rather as feeding the chickens than as cleaning the 
 rooms. The truth was that she had definitely given up 
 the idea of cleaning anything, under pressure of an attack 
 of rheumatism, which had kept her doubled up in one 
 corner of her room for over a week; during which time 
 eleven of her boarders, heavily in her debt, had concluded 
 to try their chances of employment in Kansas City. This 
 was July, and the fields were green. One never saw the 
 fields, nor any green thing whatever, in Packingtown; but 
 one could go out on the road and “ hobo it,” as the men 
 phrased it, and see the country, and have a long rest, and 
 an easy time riding on the freight-cars. 
 
 Such was the home to wdiich the new arrivals were wel 
 corned. There was nothing better to be had — they might 
 not do so well by looking further, for Mrs. Jukniene had 
 at least kept one room for herself and her three little chil¬ 
 dren, and now offered to share this with the women and 
 the girls of the party. They could get bedding at a 
 second-hand store, she explained; and they would not 
 need any, while the weather was so hot — doubtless they 
 would all sleep on the sidewalk such nights as this, as did 
 nearly all of her guests. “ To-morrow,” Jurgis said, when 
 they were left alone, “ to-morrow I will get a job, and 
 perhaps Jonas will get one also; and then we can get 
 a place of our own.” 
 
 Later that afternoon he and Ona went out to take a 
 
32 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 walk and look about them, to see more of this district 
 which was to be their home. In back of the yards the 
 dreary two-story frame houses were scattered farther 
 apart, and there were great spaces bare — that seemingly 
 had been overlooked by the great sore of a city as it 
 spread itself over the surface of the prairie. These bare 
 places were grown up with dingy, yellow weeds, hiding 
 innumerable tomato-cans; innumerable children played 
 upon them, chasing one another here and there, scream¬ 
 ing and fighting. The most uncanny thing about this 
 neighborhood was the number of the chddren; you 
 thought there must be a school just out, and it was only 
 after long acquaintance that you v^^ere able to realiKe that 
 there was no school, but that these were the children of 
 the neighborhood — that there were so many children to 
 the block in Packingtown that nowhere on its streets 
 could a horse and buggy move faster than a walk I 
 
 It could not move faster anyhow, on account of the 
 state of the streets- Those through which Jurgis and 
 Ona were walking resembled streets less than they did 
 a miniature topographical map. The roadway was com¬ 
 monly several feet lower than the level of the houses, 
 which were sometimes joined by high board walks; there 
 were no pavements — there were mountains and valleys 
 and rivers, gullies and ditches, and great hollows full of 
 stinking green water. In these pools the children played, 
 and rolled about in the mud of the streets; here and there 
 one noticed them digging in it, after trophies which they 
 had stumbled on. One wondered about this, as also 
 about the swarms of flies which hung about the scene, 
 literally blackening the air, and the strange, fetid odor 
 which assailed one’s nostrils, a ghastly odor, of all the 
 dead things of the universe. It impelled the visitor 
 to questions — and then the residents would explain, 
 quietly, that all this was “made” land, and that it had 
 been “made” by using it as a dumping-ground for the 
 city garbage. After a few years the unpleasant effect of 
 this would pass away, it was said; but meantime, in hot 
 weather—and especially when it rained—the flies were 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 33 
 
 apt to be annoying. Was jt not unhealthful? the stranger 
 would ask, and the residents would answer, “ Perhaps; 
 but there is no telling.” 
 
 A little way further on, and Jurgis and Ona, staring 
 open-eyed and wondering, came to the place where this 
 “ made ” ground was in process of making. Here was a 
 great hole, perhaps two city blocks square, and vdth long 
 files of garbage wagons creeping into it. The place had 
 an odor for which there are no polite words; and it was 
 sprinkled over with children, who raked in it from dawn 
 till dark. Sometimes visitors from the packing-houses 
 would wander out to see this “dump,” and they would 
 stand by and debate as to whether the children were eat¬ 
 ing the food they got, or merely collecting it for the 
 chickens at home. Apparently^ none of them ever went 
 down to find out. 
 
 Beyond this dump there stood a great brick-yard, with 
 smoking chimneys. First they took out the soil to make 
 bricks, and then they filled it up again with garbage, 
 which seemed to Jurgis and Ona a felicitous arrangement, 
 characteristic of an enterprising country like America. 
 A little way beyond was another great hole, which they 
 had emptied and not yet filled up. This held water, and 
 all summer it stood there, with the near-by soil draining 
 into it, festering and stewing in the sun ; and then, when 
 winter came, somebodj'^ cut the ice on it, and sold it to the 
 people of the city. This, too, seemed to the newcomers 
 an economical arrangement; for they did not read the 
 newspapers, and their heads were not full of troublesome 
 thoughts about “germs.” 
 
 They stood there while the sun went down upon this 
 scene, and the sky in the west turned blood-red, and the 
 tops of the houses shone like fire. Jurgis and Ona were 
 not thinking of the sunset, however — their backs were 
 turned to it, and all their thoughts were of Packingtown, 
 which they could see so plainly in the distance. The line 
 of the buildings stood clear-cut and black against the 
 sky ; here and there out of the mass rose the great chiii 
 nejs, with the river of smoke streaming away to the end 
 
34 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 of the world. It was a study in colors now, this smoke j 
 in the sunset light it was black and brown and gray and 
 purple. All the sordid suggestions of the place were 
 gone — in the twilight it was a vision of power. To the 
 two who stood watching while the darkness swallowed it 
 ap, it seemed a dream of wonder, with its tale of human 
 energy, of things being done, of employment for thou¬ 
 sands upon thousands of men, of opportunity and free¬ 
 dom, of life and love and joy. When they came away, 
 arm in arm, Jurgis was saying, “To-morrow 1 shall gc 
 there and get a job 1 ” 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 In his capacity as delicatessen vender, Jokubas Szed- 
 vilas had many acquaintanees. Among these was one of 
 the special policemen employed by Durham, whose duty 
 it frequently was to pick out men for employment. Joku¬ 
 bas had never tried it, but he expressed a certainty that 
 he could get some of his friends a job through this man. 
 It was agreed, after consultation, that he should make the 
 effort with old Antanas and with Jonas. Jurgis was con¬ 
 fident of his ability to get wmrk for himself, unassisted by 
 any one. 
 
 As we have said before, he was not mistaken in this. 
 He had gone to Brown’s and stood there not more than 
 half an hour before one of the bosses noticed his form 
 towering above the rest, and signalled to him. The col¬ 
 loquy which followed was brief and to the point: — 
 
 “ Speak English ? ” 
 
 “No; Lit-uanian.” (Jurgis had studied this word 
 carefully.) 
 
 “Job?” 
 
 “Je.” (A nod.) 
 
 “ Worked here before ? ” 
 
 “No ’stand.” 
 
 (Signals and gesticulations on the part of the boss- 
 iT'igorous shakes of the head by Jurgis.) 
 
 “ Shovel guts ? ” 
 
 “No ’stand.” (More shakes of the head.) 
 
 “Zarnos. Pagaiksztis. Szluota!” (Imitative motions.) 
 
 “ Je.” 
 
 “ See door. Durys?” (Pointing.) 
 
 “ Je.” 
 
36 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 “To-morrow, seven o’clock. Understand? Rytoj t 
 Prieszpietys! Septyni ! ” 
 
 “Dekui, tamistai I ” (Thank you, sir.) And that was 
 all. -^urgis turned away, and then in a sudden rush the 
 full realization of his triumph swept over him, and he 
 gave a yell and a jump, and started off on a run. He had 
 a job! He had a job ! And he went all the way home 
 as if upon wings, and burst into the house like a cyclone, 
 to the rage of the numerous lodgers who had just turned 
 in for their daily sleep. 
 
 Meantime Jokubas had been to see his friend the police¬ 
 man, and received encouragement, so it was a happy party. 
 There being no more to be done that day, the shop was 
 left under the care of Lucija, and her husband sallied 
 forth to show his friends the sights of Packingtown. 
 Jokubas did this with the air of a country gentleman 
 escorting a party of visitors over his estate ; he was an 
 old-time resident, and all these wonders had grown up 
 under his eyes, and he had a personal pride in them. 
 The packers might own the land, but he claimed the land¬ 
 scape, and there was no one to say nay to this. 
 
 They passed down the busj^ street that led to the yards. 
 It was still early morning, and everything was at its high 
 tide of activity. A steady stream of employees was pour¬ 
 ing through the gate — employees of the higher sort, at 
 this hour, clerks and stenographers and such. For the 
 women there were waiting big two-horse wagons, which 
 set off at a gallop as fast as they were filled. In the dis¬ 
 tance there was heard again the lowing of the cattle, a 
 sound as of a far-off ocean calling. They followed it, 
 this time, as eager as children in sight of a circus mena¬ 
 gerie— which, indeed, the scene a good deal resembled. 
 They crossed the railroad tracks, and then on each side 
 of the street were the pens full of cattle ; they would 
 have stopped to look, but Jokubas hurried them on, to 
 where there was a stairway and a raised gallery, from 
 which everything could be seen. Here they stood, star¬ 
 ing, breathless with wonder. 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 37 
 
 There is over a square mile of space in the yards, and 
 more than half of it is occupied by cattle-pens; north and 
 south as far as the eye can reach there stretches a sea of 
 pens. And they were all filled — so many cattle no one 
 had ever dreamed existed in the world. Red cattle, black, 
 white, and yellow cattle; old cattle and young cattle; great 
 bellowing bulls and little calves not an hour born; meek¬ 
 eyed milch cows and fierce, long-horned Texas steers. The 
 sound of them here was as of all the barnyards of the uni¬ 
 verse ; and as for counting them — it would have taken all 
 day simply to count the pens. Here and there ran long 
 alleys, blocked at intervals by gates; and Jokubas told 
 them that the number of these gates was twenty-five thou¬ 
 sand. Jokubas had recently been reading a newspaper 
 article which was full of statistics such as that, and he 
 was very proud as he repeated them and made his guests 
 cry out with wonder. Jurgis too had a little of this sense 
 of pride. Had he not just gotten a job, and become a 
 sharer in all this activity, a cog in this marvellous machine? 
 
 Here and there about the alleys galloped men upon 
 horseback, booted, and carrying long whips; they were 
 very busy, calling to each other, and to those who v/ere 
 driving the cattle. They were drovers and stock-raisers, 
 who had come from far states, and brokers and commission- 
 merchants, and buyers for all the big packing-houses. 
 Here and there they would stop to inspect a bunch of 
 cattle, and there would be a parley, brief and business¬ 
 like. The buyer would nod or drop his whip, and that 
 would mean a bargain ; and he would note it in his little 
 book, along with hundreds of others he had made that 
 morning. Then Jokubas pointed out the place where the 
 cattle were driven to be weighed, upon a great scale that 
 would weigh a hundred thousand pounds at once and 
 record it automatically. It was near to the east entrance 
 that they stood, and all along this east side of the yards 
 ran the railroad tracks, into which the cars were run, 
 loaded with cattle. All night long this had been going 
 on, and now the pens were full; by to-night they would 
 all be empty^, and the same thing would be done again. 
 
38 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 “ And what will become of all these creatures ? ” cried 
 Teta Elzbieta. 
 
 “ By to-night,” Jokubas answered, “ they will all be killed 
 and cut up; and over there on the other side of the pack¬ 
 ing-houses are more railroad tracks, where the cars come 
 to take them away.” 
 
 There were two hundred and fifty miles of track within 
 the yards, their guide went on to tell them. They brought 
 about ten thousand head of cattle every day, and as many 
 hogs, and half as many sheep — which meant some eight 
 or ten million live creatures turned into food every year. 
 One stood and watched, and little bj'’ little caught tlie drift 
 of the tide, as it set in the direction of the packing-houses. 
 There were groups of cattle being driven to the chutes, 
 which were roadways about fifteen feet wide, raised high 
 above the pens. In these chutes the stream of animals 
 was continuous; it was quite uncanny to watch them, 
 pressing on to their fate, all unsuspicious — a very river 
 of death. Our friends were not poetical, and the sight 
 suggested to them no metaphors of human destiny; they 
 thought only of the wonderful efficiency of it ail. The 
 chutes into which the hogs went climbed high up — to 
 the very top of the distant buildings; and Jokubas ex¬ 
 plained that the hogs went up by the power of their own 
 legs, and then their weight carried them back through all 
 the processes necessary to make them into pork. 
 
 “ They don’t waste anything here,” said the guide, and 
 then he laughed and added a witticism, which ho was 
 pleased that his unsophisticated friends should take to 
 be his own : “ They use everything about the hog except 
 the squeal.” In front of Brown’s General Office building 
 there grows a tiny plot of grass, and this, you may learn, 
 is the only bit of green thing in Packingtown; likewise 
 this jest about the hog and his squeal, the stock in trade 
 of all the guides, is the one gleam of humor that you will 
 find there. 
 
 After they had seen enoiigh of the pens, the party went 
 up the street, to the mass of buildings which occupy the 
 centre of the yards. These buildings, made of brick and 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 39 
 
 stained with innumerable layers of Packingtown smoke, 
 were painted all over with advertising signs, from which 
 the visitor realized suddenly that he had come to the home 
 of many of the torments of his life. It was here that they 
 made those products with the wonders of which they pes¬ 
 tered him so — by placards that defaced the landscape 
 when he travelled, and by staring advertisements in the 
 newspapers and magazines — by silly little jingles that 
 he could not get out of his mind, and gaudy pictures 
 that lurked for him around every street corner. Here 
 was where they made Brown’s Imperial Hams and Bacon, 
 Brown’s Dressed Beef, Brown’s Excelsior Sausages ! Here 
 was the headquarters of Durham’s Pure Leaf Lard, of 
 Durham’s Breakfast Bacon, Durham’s Canned Beef, Potted 
 Ham, Devilled Chicken, Peerless Fertilizer I 
 
 Entering one of the Durham buildings, they found a 
 number of other visitors waiting ; and before long there 
 came a guide, to escort them through the place. They 
 make a great featui-e of showing strangers through the 
 packing-plants, for it is a good advertisement. But 
 ponas Jokubas whispered maliciously that the visitors did 
 not see an}'- more than the packers wanted them to. 
 
 They climbed a long series of stairways outside of the 
 building, to the top of its five or six stories. Here were 
 the chute, with its river of hogs, all patiently toiling 
 upward; there was a place for them to rest to cool off, 
 and then through another passageway they went into a 
 room from which there is no returning for hogs. 
 
 It was a long, narrow room, with a gallery along it for 
 visitors. At the head there was a great iron wheel, about 
 twenty feet in circumference, with rings here and there 
 along its edge. Upon both sides of this wheel there was 
 a narrow space, into which came the hogs at the end of 
 their journey ; in the midst of them stood a great burly 
 negro, bare-armed and bare-chested. He was resting for 
 the moment, for the wheel had stopped while men were 
 cleaning up. In a minute or two, however, it began 
 slowly to revolve, and then the men upon each side of it 
 sprang to work. They had chains which they fastened 
 
40 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 about the leg of the nearest hog, and the other end of the 
 chain they hooked into one of the rings upon the wheel. 
 So, as the wheel turned, a hog was suddenly jerked off his 
 feet and borne aloft. 
 
 At the same instant the ear was assailed by a most 
 terrifying shriek ; the visitors started in alarm, the women 
 turned pale and shrank back. The shriek was followed 
 by another, louder and yet more agonizing — for once 
 started upon that journey, the hog never came back ; at 
 the top of the wheel he was shunted off upon a trolley, 
 and went sailing down the room. And meantime another 
 was swung up, and then another, and another, until 
 there was a double line of them, each dangling by a foot 
 and kicking in frenzy — and squealing. The uproar was 
 appalling, perilous to the ear-drums ; one feared there was 
 too much sound for the room to hold — that the walls 
 must give way or the ceiling crack. There were high 
 squeals and low squeals, grunts, and wails of agony j 
 there would come a momentary lull, and then a fresh out¬ 
 burst, louder than ever, surging up to a deafening climax. 
 It was too much for some of the vistors — the men would 
 look at each other, laughing nervously, and the women 
 would stand with hands clenched, and the blood rushing 
 to their faces, and the tears starting in their eyes. 
 
 Meantime, heedless of all these things, the men upon the 
 floor were going about their work. Neither squeals of 
 hogs nor tears of visitors made any difference to them ; 
 one by one they hooked up the hogs, and one by one with 
 a swift stroke they slit their throats. There was a long 
 line of hogs, with squeals and life-blood ebbing away to¬ 
 gether ; until at last each started again, and vanished 
 with a splash into a huge vat of boiling water. 
 
 It was all so very businesslike that one watched it 
 fascinated. It was pork-making by machinery, pork¬ 
 making by applied mathematics. And yet somehow the 
 most matter-of-fact person could not help thinking of the 
 hogs ; they were so innocent, they came so very trust¬ 
 ingly ; and they were so very human in their protests — 
 and so perfectly within their rights I Tney had done 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 41 
 
 nothing to deserve it; and it was adding insult to injury, 
 as the thing was done here, swinging them up in this 
 cold-blooded, impersonal way, without a pretence at 
 apology, without the homage of a tear. Now and then a 
 visitor wept, to be sure ; but this slaughtering-machine 
 ran on, visitors or no visitors. It was like some horrible 
 crime committed in a dungeon, all unseen and unheeded, 
 buried out of sight and of memory. 
 
 One could not stand and watch very long without be« 
 coming philosophical, without beginning to deal in symbols 
 and similes, and to hear the hog-squeal of the universe. 
 Was it permitted to believe that there was nowhere upon 
 the earth, or above the earth, a heaven for hogs, where 
 they were requited for all this suffering ? Each one of 
 these hogs was a separate creature. Some were white hogs, 
 some were black ; some were brown, some were spotted ; 
 some were old, some were young; some were long and 
 lean, some were monstrous. And each of them had an 
 individuality of his own, a will of his own, a hope and a 
 heart’s desire ; each was full of self-confidence, of self- 
 importance, and a sense of dignity. And trusting and 
 strong in faith he had gone about his business, the while 
 a black shadow hung over him and a horrid Fate waited 
 in his pathway. Now suddenly it had swooped upon 
 him, and had seized him by the leg. Relentless, remorse¬ 
 less, it was ; all his protests, his screams, were nothing to 
 it — it did its cruel will with him, as if his wishes, his 
 feelings, had simply no existence at all; it cut his throat 
 and watched him gasp out his life. And now was one 
 to believe that there was nowliere a god of hogs, to whom 
 this hog-personaiity was precious, to whom these hog- 
 squeals and agonies had a meaning ? Who would take 
 this hog into his arms and comfort him, reward him 
 for his work well done, and show him the meaning of his 
 sacrifice ? Perhaps some glimpse of all this was in the 
 thoughts of our humble-minded Jurgis, as he turned to go 
 on with the rest of the party, and muttered : “ Dieve — 
 but I’m glad I’m not a hog ! ” 
 
 Che carcass hog was scooped out of the vat by machin* 
 
 4 
 
42 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 ery, and then it fell to the second floor, passing on the 
 way through a wonderful machine with numerous scrapers, 
 which adjusted themselves to the size and shape of the 
 animal, and sent it out at the other end with nearly all of 
 its bristles removed. It was then again strung up by 
 machinery, and sent upon another trolley ride; this time 
 passing between two lines of men, who sat upon a raised 
 platform, each doing a certain single thing to the carcass 
 as it came to him. One scraped the outside of a leg; 
 another scraped the inside of the same leg. One Avith a 
 swift stroke cut the throat; another with two swift strokes 
 severed the head, which fell to the floor and vanished 
 through a hole. Another made a slit down the body; a 
 second opened the body wider; a third with a saw cut the 
 breast-bone ; a fourth loosened the entrails; a fifth pulled 
 them out — and they also slid through a hole in the floor. 
 There were men to scrape each side and men to scrape the 
 back ; there were men to clean the carcass inside, to trim 
 it and wash it. Looking down this room, one saw, creep¬ 
 ing slowly, a line of dangling hogs a hundred yards in 
 length; and for every yard there was a man, working as 
 if a demon were after him. At the end of this hog’s prog¬ 
 ress every inch of the carcass had been gone over several 
 times; and then it was rolled into the chilling-room, where 
 it stajmd for twenty-four hours, and where a stranger 
 might lose himself in a forest of freezing hogs. 
 
 Before the carcass was admitted here, however, it had to 
 pass a government inspector, who sat in the doorway and 
 felt of the glands in the neck for tuberculosis. This 
 government inspector did not have the manner of a man 
 who was worked to death; he was apparently not haunted 
 by a fear that the hog might get by him before he had 
 finished his testing. If you were a sociable person, he was 
 quite willing to enter into conversation with you, and 
 to explain to you the deadly natui-e of the ptomaines which 
 are found in tubercular pork ; and while he was talking , 
 with you you could hardly be so ungrateful as to no- 
 
 I tice that a dozen carcasses were passing him untouched. 
 
 ' This inspector wore an imposing silver badge, and he 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 43 
 
 gave an atmosphere of authority to the scene, and, as it 
 vrere, put the stamp of official approval upon the things 
 v^hich were done in Durham’s. 
 
 Jurgis went down the line with the rest of the visitors, 
 staring open-mouthed, lost in wonder. He had dressed 
 hogs himself in the forest of Lithuania; but he had never 
 expected to live to see one hog dressed by several hundred 
 men. It was like a wonderful poem to him, and he took it 
 all in guilelessly — even to the conspicuous signs demand¬ 
 ing immaculate cleanliness of the employees. Jurgis was 
 vexed when the cynical Jokubas translated these signs 
 with sarcastic comments, offering to take them to the 
 secret-rooms where the spoiled meats went to be doctored. 
 
 The party descended to the next floor, where the various 
 waste materials were treated. Here came the entrails, to 
 be scraped and washed clean for sausage-casings; men 
 and women worked here in the midst of a sickening stench, 
 which caused the visitors to hasten by, gasping. To another 
 room came all the scraps to be “tanked,” which meant 
 boiling and pumping off the grease to make soap and lard; 
 below t ley took out the refuse, and this, too, was a region 
 in which the visiters did not linger. In still other places 
 men were engaged in cutting up the carcasses that had 
 been through the chilling-rooms. First there were the 
 “ splitters,” the most expert workmen in the plant, who 
 earned as high as fifty cents an hour, and did not a thing 
 all da}- except chop hogs down the middle. Then there 
 v/ere “cleaver men,” great giants with muscles of iron; 
 each had two men to attend him — to slide the half car¬ 
 cass in front of him on the table, and hold it while he 
 chopped it, and then turn each piece so that he might chop 
 it once more. His cleaver had a blade about two feet long, 
 and he never made but one cut; he made it so neatly, too, 
 that his implement did not smite through and dull itself — 
 there was just enough force for a perfect cut, and no 
 more. So through various yawning holes there slipped to 
 the floor below — to one room hams, to another fore¬ 
 quarters, to another sides of pork. One might go down 
 to this floor and see the pickling-rooms, where the hams 
 
44 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 ■W'ere put into vats, and the great smoke-rooms, with their 
 air-tight iron doors. In other rooms they prepared salt- 
 pork — there were whole cellars full of it, built up in great 
 towers to the ceiling. In yet other rooms they were put¬ 
 ting up meat in boxes and barrels, and wrapping hams and 
 bacon in oiled paper, sealing and labelling and sewing 
 them. From the doors of these rooms went men with 
 loaded trucks, to the platform where freight-cars were 
 waiting to be filled ; and one went out there and realized 
 with a start that he had come at last to the ground floor 
 of this enormous building. 
 
 Then the party went across the street to where they did 
 the killing of beef — where every hour they turned four 
 or five hundred cattle into meat. Unlike the place they 
 had left, all this work was done on one floor; and instead 
 of there being one line of carcasses which moved to the 
 workmen, there were fifteen or twenty lines, and the men 
 moved from one to another of these. This made a scene 
 of intense activity, a picture of human power wonderful to 
 watch. It was all in one great room, like a circus amphi¬ 
 theatre, with a gallery for visitors running over the '•entre. 
 
 Along one side of the room ran a narrow gallery, a few 
 feet from the floor; into which gallery the cattle were 
 driven by men with goads which gave them electric shocks. 
 Once crowded in here, the creatures were prisoned, each 
 in a separate pen, by gates that shut, leaving them no 
 room to turn around; and while they stood bellowing and 
 plunging, over the top of the pen there leaned one of the 
 “ knockers,'’ armed with a sledge-hammer, and watching 
 for a chance to deal a blow. The room echoed with the 
 thuds in quick succession, and the stamping and kicking 
 of the steers. The instant the animal had fallen, the 
 “knocker” passed on to another; while a second man 
 raised a lever, and the side of the pen was raised, and the 
 animal, still kicking and struggling, slid out to the “ kill¬ 
 ing-bed.” Here a man put shackles about one leg, and 
 pressed another lever, and the body was jerked up into the 
 air. Thei’e were fifteen or twenty such pens, and it was 
 a matter of only a couple of minutes to knock fifteen or 
 
THE jraGLE 
 
 45 
 
 t/vventy cattle and roll them out. Then once more the 
 g;ates were opened, and another lot rushed in; and so out 
 cf each pen there rolled a steady stream of carcasses, 
 V/hich the men upon the killing-beds had to get out of the 
 
 ay. 
 
 The manner in which they did this was something to be 
 seen and never forgotten. They worked with furious in¬ 
 tensity, literally upon the run — at a pace with which 
 there is nothing to be compared except a football game. 
 It was ail highly specialized labor, each man having his 
 task to do; generally this would consist of only two or three 
 specific cuts, and he would pass down the line of fifteen 
 or twenty carcasses, making these cuts upon each. First 
 there came the “ butcher,” to bleed them; this meant one 
 swift stroke, so swift that you could not see it — only the 
 flash of the knife; and before you could realize it, the 
 man had darted on to the next line, and a stream of bright 
 red was pouring out upon the floor. This floor was half 
 an inch deep with blood, in spite of the best efforts of men 
 who kept shovelling it through holes; it must have made 
 the floor slippery, but no one could have guessed this by 
 watching the men at work. 
 
 The carcass hung for a few minutes to bleed ; there was 
 no time lost, however, for there were several hanging in 
 each line, and one was always ready. It was let down to 
 the ground, and there came the “ headsman,” whose task 
 it was to sever the head, with two or three swift strokes. 
 Then came the “floorsman,” to make the first cut in the 
 skin; and then another to finish ripping the skin down 
 the centre; and then half a dozen more in swift succes¬ 
 sion, to finish the skinning. After they were through, the 
 carcass was again swung up ; and while a man with a stick 
 examined the skin, to make sure that it had not been cut, 
 and another rolled it up and tumbled it through one of 
 the inevitable holes in the floor, the beef proceeded on its 
 journey. There were men to cut it, and men to split it, 
 and men to gut it and scrape it clean inside. There were 
 some with hose which threw jets of boiling water upon 
 "t, and others who removed the feet and added the final 
 
46 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 touches. In the end, as with the hogs, the finished hee;f 
 was run into the chilling-room, to hang its appointee,! 
 time. l' 
 
 The visitors were taken there and shown them, all neatlr 
 hung in rows, labelled conspicuously with the tags of thi'^s 
 government inspectors — and some, which, had been killed 
 by a special process, marked with the sign of the “ kosher” 
 rabbi, certifying that it was fit for sale to the orthodox. 
 And then the visitors were taken to the other parts of the 
 building, to see what became of each particle of the waste 
 material that had vanished through the floor; and to the 
 pickling-rooms, and the salting-rooms, the canning-rooms, 
 and the packing-rooms, where choice meat was prepared 
 for shipping in refrigerator-cars, destined to be eaten in 
 all the foiir corners of civilization. Afterward they went 
 outside, wandering about among the mazes of buildings in 
 which was done the work auxiliary to this great industry. 
 There was scarcely a thing needed in the business that 
 Durham and Company did not make for themselves. There 
 was a great steam-power plant and an electricity plant. 
 There was a barrel factory, and a boiler-repair shop. There 
 was a building to which the grease was piped, and made 
 into soap and lard; and then there was a factory for mak¬ 
 ing lard cans, and another for making soap boxes. There 
 was a building in which the bristles were cleaned and dried, 
 for the making of hair cushions and such things; there was 
 a building where the skins were dried and tanned, there 
 was another where heads and feet were made into glue, 
 and another where bones were made into fertilizer. No 
 tiniest particle of organic matter was wasted in Durham’s. 
 Out of the horns of the cattle they made combs, buttons, 
 hair-pins, and imitation ivory; out of the shin bones and 
 other big bones they cut knife and tooth-brush handles, 
 and mouthpieces for pipes; out of the hoofs they cut 
 hair-pins and buttons, before they made the rest into glue. 
 From such things as feet, knuckles, hide clippings, and 
 sinews came such strange and unlikely products as gelatin, 
 isinglass, and phosphorus, bone-black, shoe-blacking, and 
 bone-oil. They had curled-hair works for the cattle tails. 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 47 
 
 and a “ wool-pullery ” for the sheep skins; they made pep¬ 
 sin from the stomachs of the pigs, and albumen from the 
 blood, and violin strings from the ill-smelling entrails. 
 When there was nothing else to be done with a thing, they 
 first put it into a tank and got out of it all the tallow and 
 grease, and then they made it into fertilizer. All these 
 industries were gathered iiito buildings near by, connected 
 by galleries and railroads with the main establishment; 
 and it was estimated that they had handled nearly a. 
 quarter of a billion of animals since the founding of the 
 plant by the elder Durham a generation and more ago. 
 If you counted with it the other big plants — and they 
 were now really all one — it was, so Jokubas informed 
 them, the greatest aggregation of labor and capital evei 
 gathered in one place. It employed thirty thousand men.'* 
 it supported directly tv/o hundred and fifty thousand people i 
 in its neighborhood, and indirectly it supported half a mil- . 
 lion. It sent its products to every country in the civilized 
 world, and it furnished the food for no less than thirty 
 million people I 
 
 To all of these things our friends would listen open 
 mouthed — it seemed to them impossible of belief thav 
 anything so stupendous could have been devised by 
 mortal man. That was why to Jurgis it seemed almost 
 profanity to speak about the place as did Jokubas, scepti¬ 
 cally ; it was a thing as tremendous as the universe — the 
 laws and ways of its working no more than the universe 
 to be questioned or understood. All that a mere man 
 could do, it seemed to Jurgis, was to take a thing like 
 this as he found it, and do as he was told; to be given a 
 place in it and a share in its wonderful activities was a 
 blessing to be grateful for, as one was grateful for the 
 sunshine and the rain. Jurgis was even glad that he had 
 not seen the place before meeting with his triumph, for 
 he felt that the size of it would have overwhelmed him. 
 But now he had been admitted — he was a part of it all ! 
 He had the feeling that this whole huge establishment 
 had taken him under its protection, and had become 
 responsible for his welfare. So guileless was he, and 
 
48 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 ignorant of the nature of business, that he did not even 
 realize that he had become an employee of Brown’s, and 
 that Brown and Durham were supposed by all the world 
 to be deadly rivals — were even required to be deadly 
 rivals by the law of the land, and ordered to try to ruin 
 each other under penalty of fine and imprisonment I 
 
CHAPTER JV 
 
 Promptly at seven the next morning Jurgis reported 
 for work. He came to the door that had been pointed 
 out to him, and there he waited for nearly two hours. 
 The boss had meant for him to enter, but had not said 
 this, and so it was only when on his way out to hire 
 another man that be came upon Jurgis. He gave him a 
 good cursing, but as Jurgis did not understand a v,'ord of 
 it he did not object. He followed the boss, who showed 
 him where to put his street clothes, and waited while he 
 donned the working clothes he had bought in a second¬ 
 hand shop and brought with him in a bundle; then he 
 led him to the “killing-beds.” The work which Jurgis 
 was to do here was very simple, and it took him but a 
 few minutes to learn it. He was provided with a stiff 
 besom, such as is used by street sweepers, and it was his 
 place to follov/ down the line the man who drew out the 
 smoking entrails from the carcass of the steer; this mass 
 was to be swept into a trap, which was then closed, so 
 that no one might slip into it. As Jurgis came in, the 
 first cattle of the morning were just making their appear¬ 
 ance; and so, with scarcely time to look about him, and 
 none to speak to any one, he fell to work. It was a 
 sweltering day in July, and the place ran with steaming 
 hot blood — one waded in it on the floor. The stench 
 was almost overpowering, but to Jurgis it was nothing. 
 His whole soul was dancing with joy — he was at work 
 at last 1 He was at work and earning money I All day 
 long he was figuring to b’mself. He was paid the fabu¬ 
 lous sum of seventeen ana a half cents an hour; and as 
 it proved a rush day and he worked until nearly seven 
 o’clock in the evening, he went home to the family with 
 
60 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 the tidings that he had earned more than a dollar and a 
 half in a single day I 
 
 At home, also, there was more good news ; so much of 
 it at once that there was quite a celebration in Aniele’s 
 hall bedroom. Jonas had been to have an interview with 
 the special policeman to whom Szedvilas had introduced 
 him, and had been taken to see several of the bosses, with 
 the result that one had promised him a job the beginning 
 of the next week. And then there was Marija Bercz- 
 ynskas, who, fired with jealousy by the success of Jurgis, 
 had set out upon her own responsibility to get a place. 
 Marija had nothing to take with her save her two brawny 
 arms and the word “job,” laboriously learned; but with 
 these she had marched about Packingtown all day, enter¬ 
 ing every door where there were signs of activity. Out 
 of some she had been ordered with curses; but Marija 
 was not afraid of man or devil, and asked every one she 
 saw — visitors and strangers, or work-people like herself, 
 and once or twice even high and lofty office personages, 
 who stared at her as if they thought she was crazy. In 
 the end, however, she had reaped her reward. In one of 
 the smaller plants she had stumbled upon a room where 
 scores of women and girls were sitting at long tables pre¬ 
 paring smoked beef in cans; and wandering through room 
 after room, Marija came at last to the place where the 
 sealed cans were being painted and labelled, and here she 
 had the good fortune to encounter the “ forelady.” Marija 
 did not itnderstand then, as she was destined to understand 
 later, what there was attractive to a “ forelady ” about the 
 combination of a face full of boundless good nature and 
 the muscles of a dray horse; but the woman had told her 
 to come the next day and she would perhaps give her a 
 chance to learn the trade of painting cans. The painting 
 of cans being skilled piece work, and paying as much as 
 two dollars a day, Marija burst in upon the family with 
 the yell of a Comanche Indian, and fell to capering about 
 the room so as to frighten the baby almost into convul¬ 
 sions. 
 
 Better luck than all this could hardly have been hoped 
 
I'HE JUNGLE 
 
 51 
 
 for; there was only one of them left to seek a place. 
 Jurgis was determined that Teta Eizbieta should stay at 
 home to keep house, and that Ona should help her. He 
 would not have Ona working — he was not that sort of 
 a man, he said, and she was not that sort of a woman. It 
 would be a strange thing if a man like him could not sup- 
 port the family, with the help of the board of Jonas and 
 Marija. He would not even hear of letting the children 
 go to work — there were schools here in America for 
 children, Jurgis had heard, to which they could go for 
 nothing. That the priest would object to these schools 
 was something of which he had as yet no idea, and for 
 the present his mind was made up that the children of 
 Teta Eizbieta should have as fair a chance as any other chil¬ 
 dren. The oldest of them, little Stanislovas, was but thir¬ 
 teen, and small for his age at that; and while the oldest 
 son of Szedvilas was only twelve, and had worked for 
 over a year at Jones’s, Jurgis would have it that Stani¬ 
 slovas should learn to speak English, and grow up to be a 
 skilled man. 
 
 So there was only old Dede Antanas; Jurgis would 
 have had him rest too, but he was forced to acknowledge 
 that this was not possible, and, besides, the old man would 
 not hear it spoken of — it was his whim to insist that he 
 was as lively as any boy. He had come to America as 
 full of hope as the best of them; and now he was the 
 chief problem that worried his son. For every one that 
 Jurgis spoke to assured him that it was a waste of time 
 to seek emjdoyment for the old man in Packingtown. 
 Szedvilas told him that the packers did not even keep the 
 men who had grown old in their own service — to say 
 nothing of taking on new ones. And not only was it the 
 rule here, it was the rule everywhere in America, so far 
 as he knew. To satisfy Jurgis he had asked the police¬ 
 man, and brought back the message that the thing was 
 not to be thought of. They had not told this to old 
 Anthony, who had consequently spent the two days wan¬ 
 dering about from one part of the 3 "ards to another, and 
 had now come home to hear about the triumph of tht 
 
52 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 others, smiling bravely and saying that it would be his 
 turn another day. 
 
 Their good luck, they felt, had given them the right to 
 think about a home; and sitting out on the doorstep that 
 summer evening, they held consultation about it, and 
 Jurgis took occasion to broach a weighty subject. Pass¬ 
 ing down the avenue to work that morning he had seen 
 two boys leaving an advertisement from house to house; 
 and seeing that there were pictures upon it, Jurgis had 
 asked for one, and had rolled it up and tucked it into his 
 shirt. At noontime a man with whom he had been talk¬ 
 ing had read it to him and told him a little about it, with 
 the result that Jurgis had conceived a wild idea. 
 
 He brought out the placard, which was quite a work of 
 art. It was nearly two feet long, printed on calendered 
 paper, with a selection of colors so bright that they shone 
 even in the moonlight. The centre of the placard was 
 occupied by a house, brilliantly painted, new, and dazzling. 
 The roof of it was of a purple hue, and trimmed with 
 gold; the house itself was silvery, and the doors and 
 windows red. It was a two-story building, with a porch 
 in front, and a very fancy scrollwork around the edges; 
 it was complete in every tiniest detail, even the door¬ 
 knob, and there was a hammock on the porch and white 
 lace curtains in the windows. Dnderneath this, in one 
 corner, was a picture of a husband and wife in loving 
 embrace; in the opposite corner was a cradle, with fluffy 
 curtains drawn over it, and a smiling cherub hovering 
 upon silver-colored wings. For fear that the significance 
 of all this should be lost, there was a label, in Polish, 
 Lithuanian, and German — Dom. Namai. Heim." 
 “ Why pay rent ? ” the linguistic circular went on to 
 demand. “Why not own your own home? Do you 
 know that you can buy one for less than your rent? We 
 have built thousands of homes which are now occupied 
 by happy families.”-—So it became eloquent, picturing 
 the blissfulness of married life in a house with nothing to 
 pay. It even quoted “ Home, Sweet Home,” and made 
 bold to translate it into Polish—though for some re‘!’<son 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 53 
 
 it omitted the Lithuanian of this. Perhaps the translator 
 found it a difficult matter to be sentimental in a language 
 in which a sob is known as a “ gukcziojimas ” and a smile 
 as a “ nusiszypsojimas.” 
 
 Over this document the family pored long, while Ona 
 spelled out its contents. It appeared that this house con¬ 
 tained four rooms, besides a basement, and that it might 
 be bought for fifteen hundred dollars, the lot and all. 
 Of this, only three hundred dollars had to be paid down, 
 the balance being paid at the rate of twelve dollars a 
 month. These were frightful sums, but then they v/ere 
 in America, where people talked about such without fear. 
 They had learned that they would have to pay a rent 
 of nine dollars a month for a flat, and there was no way 
 of doing better, unless the family of twelve was to exist in 
 one or two rooms, as at present. If they paid rent, of 
 course, they might pay forever, and be no better off; 
 whereas, if they could only meet the extra expense in the 
 beginning, there would at last come a time when they 
 would not have any rent to pay for the rest of their lives. 
 
 They figured it up. There was a little left of the 
 money belonging to Teta Elzbieta, and there was a 
 little left to Jurgis. Marija had about fifty dollars 
 pinned up somewhere in her stockings, and Grandfather 
 Anthony had part of the money he had gotten for his 
 farm. If they all combined, they would have enough to 
 make the first payment; and if they had employment, 
 so that they could be sure of the future, it might really 
 prove the best plan. It was, of course, not a thing even 
 to be talked of lightly; it was a thing they would have to 
 sift to the bottom. And yet, on the other hand, if they 
 were going to make the venture, the sooner they did it the 
 better; for were they not paying rent all the time, and 
 living in a most horrible way besides? Jurgis was used 
 to dirt — there was nothing could scare a man who had 
 been with a railroad-gang, where one could gather up 
 the fleas off the floor of the sleeping-room by the hand¬ 
 ful. But that sort of thing would not do for Ona. They 
 must have a better place of some sort very soon — Jurgis 
 
•54 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 N 
 
 said it with all the assurance of a man who had just made 
 a dollar and fifty-seven cents in a single day. Jurgis was 
 at a loss to understand why, with wages as they were, so 
 many of the people of this district should live the way they 
 did. 
 
 The next day Marija went to see her “ forelady,” and 
 was told to report the first of the week, and learn the 
 business of can-painter. Marija went home, singing out 
 loud all the way, and was just in time to join Ona and 
 her stepmother as they were setting out to go and make 
 inquiry concerning the house. That evening the three 
 made their report to the men — the thing was altogether 
 as represented in the circular, or at any rate so the agent 
 had said. The houses lay to the south, about a mile and a 
 half from the yards; they were wonderful bargains, the 
 gentleman had assured them — personally, and for their 
 own good. He could do this, so he explained to them, 
 for the reason that he had himself no interest in their 
 sale — he was merely the agent for a company that had 
 built them. These were the last, and the company was 
 going out of business, so if any one wished to take advan¬ 
 tage of this wonderful no-rent plan, he would have to be 
 very quick. As a matter of fact there was just a little 
 uncertainty as to whether there was a single house left; 
 for the agent had taken so manj'' people to see them, and 
 for all he knew the company might have parted with the 
 last. Seeing Teta Elzbieta’s evident grief at this news, 
 he added, after some hesitation, that if they really in¬ 
 tended to make a purchase, he would send a telephone 
 message at his own expense, and have one of the houses 
 kept. So it had finally been arranged — and they were 
 to go and make an inspection the following Sunday 
 morning. 
 
 That was Thursday; and all the rest of the week the kill¬ 
 ing-gang at Brown’s worked at full pressure, and Jurgis 
 cleared a dollar seventy-five every day. That was at the 
 rate of ten and one-half dollars a week, or forty-five a month; 
 Jurgis was not able to figure, except it was a very simple 
 sum, but Ona was like lightning at such things, and she 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 55 
 
 worked out the problem for the family. Marija and Jonas 
 were each to pay sixteen dollars a month board, and the old 
 man insisted that he could do the same as soon as he got 
 a place — which might be any day now. That would make 
 ninety-three dollars. Then Marija and Jonas were between 
 them to take a third share in the house, which would leave 
 only eight dollars a month for Jurgis to contribute to the 
 payment. So they would have eighty-five dollars a month, 
 — or, supposing that Dede Antanas did not get work at 
 once, seventy dollars a month — which ought surely to be 
 sufficient for the support of a family of twelve. 
 
 An hour before the time on Sunday morning the entire 
 party set out. They had the address written on a piece of 
 paper, which they showed to some one now and then. It 
 proved to be a long mile and a half, but they walked it, 
 and half an hour or so later the agent put in an appearance. 
 He was a smooth and florid personage, elegantly dressed, and 
 he spoke their language freely, which gave him a great 
 advantage in dealing with them. He escorted them to the 
 house, which was one of a long row of the typical frame 
 dwellings of the neighborhood, where architecture is a 
 luxury that is dispensed with. Ona’s heart sank, for the 
 house was not as it was shown in the picture; the color- 
 scheme was different, for one thing, and then it did not 
 seem quite so big. Still, it was freshly painted, and made 
 a considerable show. It was all brand-nev/, so the agent 
 told them, but he talked so incessantly that they were quite 
 confused, and did not have time to ask many questions. 
 There were all sorts of things they had made up their minds 
 to inquire about, but when the time came, tliey either for¬ 
 got them or lacked the courage. The other houses in the 
 row did not seem to be new, and few of them seemed to be 
 occupied. When they ventured to hint at this, the agent’s 
 reply was that the purchasers would be moving in shortly. 
 To press the matter would have seemed to be doubting his 
 word, and never in their lives had any one of them ever 
 spoken to a person of the class called “ gentleman ” except 
 with deference and humility. 
 
 The house had a basement, about two feet below the 
 
56 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 street line, and a single story, about six feet above it, 
 reached by a flight of steps. In addition there was an 
 attic, made by the peak of the roof, and having one small 
 window in each end. The street in front of the house 
 was unpaved and unlighted, and the view from it con¬ 
 sisted of a few exactly similar houses, scattered here and 
 there upon lots grown up with dingy brown weeds. The 
 house inside contained four rooms, plastered white; the 
 basement was but a frame, the walls being unplastered 
 and the floor not laid. The agent explained that the 
 houses were built that way, as the purchasers generally 
 preferred to finish the basements to suit their own taste. 
 The attic was also unfinished — the family had been, figur¬ 
 ing that in case of an emergency they could rent this attic, 
 but they found that there was not even a floor, nothing but 
 joists, and beneath them the lath and plaster of the ceiling 
 below. All of this, however, did not chill their ardor as 
 much as might have been expected, because of the volu¬ 
 bility of the agent. There was no end to the advantages 
 of the house, as he set them forth, and he was not silent 
 for an instant; he showed them everything, down to the 
 locks on the doors and the catches on the windows, and 
 how to work them. He showed them the sink in the 
 kitchen, with running water and a faucet, something 
 which Teta Elzbieta had never in her wildest dreams 
 hoped to possess. After a discovery such as that it 
 would have seemed ungrateful to find any fault, and so 
 they tried to shut their eyes to other defects. 
 
 Still, thej were peasant people, and they hung on to 
 their money by instinct; it was quite in vain that the 
 agent hinted at promptness — they would see, they would 
 see, they told him, they could not decide until they had 
 had more time. And so they went homo again, and 
 all day and evening there was figuring and debating. It 
 was an agony to them to have to make up their minds in 
 a matter such as this. They never could agree all to¬ 
 gether ; there were so many arguments upon each side, 
 and one would be obstinate, and no sooner would the rest 
 have convinced him than it would transpire that his argu- 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 51 
 
 Kents had caused another to waver. Once, in the even* 
 ing, when they were all in harmony, and the house was 
 as good as bought, Szedvilas came in and upset them again. 
 Szedvilas had no use for property-owning, lie told them 
 cruel stories of people who had been done to death in this 
 “ buying a home ” swindle. They would be almost sure 
 to get into a tight place and lose all their money; and 
 there was no end of expense that one could never foresee; 
 and the house might be good-for-nothing from top to bot¬ 
 tom — how was a poor man to know ? Then, too, they 
 would swindle you with the contract — and how was a 
 poor man to understand anything about a contract ? It 
 was all nothing but robbery, and there was no safety but 
 m keeping out of it. And pay rent? asked Jurgis. Ah, 
 yes, to be sure, the other answered, that too was robbery. 
 It was all robbery, for a poor man. After half an hour of 
 such depressing conversation, they had their minds quite 
 made up that they had been saved at the brink of a preci¬ 
 pice; but then Szedvilas went away, and Jonas, who was 
 a sharp little man, reminded them that the delicatessen 
 business was a failure, according to its proprietor, and 
 that this might account for his pessimistic views. Which, 
 of course, reopened the subject I 
 
 The controlling factor was that they could not stay 
 where they were — they had to go somewhere. And when 
 they gave up the house plan and decided to rent, the 
 prospect of paying out nine dollars a month forever they 
 found just as hard to face. All day and all night for 
 nearly a whole week they wrestled with the problem, and 
 then in the end Jurgis took the responsibility. Brother 
 Jonas had gotten his job, and was pushing a truck in 
 Durham’s; and the killing-gang at Brown’s continued to 
 work early and late, so that Jurgis grew more confident 
 every hour, more certain of his mastership. It was the 
 kind of thing the man of the family had to decide and 
 carry through, he told himself. Others might have failed 
 at it, but he was not the failing kind — he would show 
 them how to do it. He would work all day, and all night, 
 too, if need be; he would never rest until the house was 
 
58 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 paid for and his people had a home. So he told them, and 
 so in the end the decision was made. 
 
 They had talked about looking at more houses before 
 they made the purchase ; but then they did not know 
 where any more v/ere, and they did not know any way of 
 finding out. The one they had seen held the sway in their 
 thoughts; whenever they thought of themselves in a 
 house, it was this house that they thought of. And so 
 they went and told the agent that they were ready to 
 make the agreement. They knew, as an abstract proposi¬ 
 tion, that in matters of business all men are to be accounted 
 liars ; but they could not but have been influenced by all 
 they had heard from the eloquent agent, and were quite 
 persuaded that the house was something they had. run a 
 risk of losing by their delay. They drew a deep breath 
 when he told them that they were still in time. 
 
 They were to come on the morrow, and he would have 
 the papers all drawn up. This matter of papers was one 
 in which Jurgis understood to the full the need of cau- 
 tion; yet he could not go himself — every one told him 
 that he could not get a holiday, and that he might lose his 
 job by asking. So there was nothing to be done but to 
 trust it to the women, with Szedvilas, who promised to go 
 with them. Jurgis spent a whole evening impressing 
 upon them the seriousness of the occasion — and then 
 finally, out of innumerable hiding-places about their per¬ 
 sons and in their baggage, came forth the precious wads 
 of money, to be done up tightly in a little bag and sewed 
 fast in the lining of Teta Elzbieta’s dress. 
 
 Early in the morning they sallied forth. Jurgis had 
 given them so many instructions and warned them against 
 so many perils, that the women were quite pale with 
 fright, and even the imperturbable delicatessen vender, 
 who prided himself upon being a business man, was ill at 
 ease. The agent had the deed all ready, and invited them to 
 sit down and read it; this Szedvilas proceeded to do — a 
 painful and laborious process, during whicii the agent 
 drummed upon the desk. Teta Elzbieta was so embar¬ 
 rassed that the perspiration came out upon her forehead in 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 59 . 
 
 beads ; for was not this reading as much as to say plainly 
 to the gentleman’s face that they doubted his honesty ? 
 Yet Jokubas Szedvilas read on and on ; and presently 
 there developed that he had good reason for doing so. 
 For a horrible suspicion had begun dawning in his mind ; 
 he knitted his brows more and more as he read. This was 
 not a deed of sale at all, so far as he could see—it pro¬ 
 vided only for the renting of the property ! It was hard 
 to tell, with all this strange legal jargon, words he had 
 never heard before ; but was not this plain — “ the party 
 of the first part hereby covenants and agrees to rent to 
 the said party of the second part! ” And then again 
 — “a monthly rental of twelve dollars, for a period of 
 eight years and four months I ” Then Szedvilas took off 
 his spectacles, and looked at the agent, and stammered a 
 question. 
 
 The agent was most polite, and explained that that was 
 the usual formula; that it was always arranged that the 
 property should be merely rented. He kept trying to 
 show them something in the next paragraph; but Szed¬ 
 vilas could not get by the word “ rental ” — and when he 
 translated it to Teta Elzbieta, she too was thrown into a 
 fright. They would not own the home at all, then, for 
 nearly nine years I The agent, with infinite patience, 
 began to explain again ; but no explanation would do 
 now. Elzbieta had firmly fixed in her mind the last 
 solemn warn.ng of Jurgis : “If there is anything wrong, 
 do not give him the money, but go out and get a lawyer.’^ 
 
 It was an agonizing moment, but she sat in the chair, her 
 hands clenched like death, and made a fearful effort, sum- 
 moning all her powers, and gasped out her purpose. 
 
 Jokubas translated her words. She expected the agent 
 to fly into a passion, but he was, to her bewilderment, as 
 ever imperturbable ; he even offered to go and get a lawyer 
 for her, but she declined this. They Avent a long way, on 
 purpose to find a man who would not be a confederate. 
 Then let any one imagine their dismay, when, after half an 
 hour, they came in with a lawyer, and heard him greet 
 the agent by his first name I 
 
60 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 They felt that all was lost; they sat like prisoners 
 summoned to hear the reading of their death-warrants 
 There was nothing more that they could do — they were 
 trapped I The lawyer read over the deed, and when he 
 had read it he informed Szedvilas that it was all perfectly 
 regular, that the deed was a blank deed such as was often 
 used in these sales. And was the price as agreed ? the old 
 man asked — three hundred dollars down, and the balance 
 at twelve dollars a month, till the total of fifteen hundred 
 dollars had been paid ? Yes, that was correct. And it 
 was for the sale of such and such a house — the house and 
 lot and everything ? Yes, — and the lawyer showed him 
 where that was all written. And it was all perfectly reg¬ 
 ular— there were no tricks about it of any sort? They 
 were poor people, and this was all they had in the world, 
 and if there was anything wrong they would be ruined. 
 And so Szedvilas went on, asking one trembling question 
 after another, while the eyes of the women folks were 
 fixed upon him in mute agony. They could not under, 
 stand what he was saying, but they knew that upon it 
 their fate depended. And when at last be had questioned 
 until there was no more questioning to be done, and the 
 time came for them to make up their minds, and either 
 close the bargain or reject it, it was all that poor Teta 
 Elzbieta could do to keep from bursting into tears. Joku- 
 bas had asked her if she wished to sign ; he had asked 
 her twice — and what could she say ? How did she know 
 if this lawyer were telling the truth — that he was not in 
 the conspiracy ? And yet, how could she say so — wha\> 
 excuse could she give ? The eyes of every one in the room 
 were upon her, awaiting her decision; and at last, half 
 blind with her tears, she began fumbling in her jacket, 
 where she had pinned the precious money. And she 
 brought it out and unwrapped it before the men. All of 
 this Ona sat watching, from a corner of the room, twisting 
 her hands together, meantime, in a fever of fright. Ona 
 longed to cry out and tell her stepmother to stop, that it 
 was all a trap; but there seemed to be something clutching 
 her by the throat, and she could not make a sound. And 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 61 
 
 80 Teta Elzbieta laid the money on the table, and the 
 agent picked it up and counted it, and then wrote them a 
 receipt for it and passed them the deed. Then he gave a 
 sigh of satisfaction, and rose and shook hands witli them 
 dll, still as smooth and polite as at the beginning. Ona 
 had a dim recollection of the lawyer telling Szedvilas that 
 his charge was a dollar, which occasioned some debate, 
 and more agony ; and then, after they had paid that, too, 
 they went out into the street, her stepmother clutching 
 the deed in her hand. They were so weak from fright 
 that they could not walk, but had to sit down on the way. 
 
 So they went home, with a deadly terror gnawing at their 
 souls; and that evening Jurgis came home and heard 
 their story, and that was the end. Jurgis was sure that 
 they had been swindled, and were ruined ; and he tore his 
 hair and cursed like a madman, swearing that he would 
 kill the agent that very night. In the end he seized the 
 paper and rushed out of the house, and ail the way across 
 the yards to Halsted Street. He dragged Szedvilas out 
 from his supper, and together they rushed to consult 
 another lawyer. When they entered his office the lawyer 
 sprang up, for Jurgis looked like a crazy person, with 
 flying hair and bloodshot eyes. His companion explained 
 the situation, and the lawyer took the paper and began to 
 read it, while Jurgis stood clutching the desk with knotted 
 hands, trembling in every nerve. 
 
 Once or twice the lawyer looked up and asked a question 
 of Szedvilas ; the other did not know a word that he was 
 saying, but his eyes were fixed upon the lawyer’s face, 
 striving in an agony of dread to read his mind. He saw 
 the lawyer look up and laugh, and he gave a gasp ; the 
 man said something to Szedvilas, and Jurgis turned upon 
 his friend, his heart almost stopping. 
 
 “Well?” he panted. 
 
 “ He says it is all right,” said Szedvilas- 
 
 “ All right I ” 
 
 “ Yes, he says it is just as it should be.” And Jurgis, 
 in bis relief, sank down into a chair. 
 
 “Are you sure of it?” he gasped, and made Szedvilas 
 
62 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 translate question after question. He could not hear it 
 often enough; he could not ask with enough variations. 
 Yes, they had bought the house, they had really bought 
 it. It belonged to them, they had only to pay the money 
 and it w'ould be all right. Then Jurgis covered his face 
 with his hands, for there were tears in his eyes, and he 
 felt like a fool. But he had had such a horrible fright; 
 strong man as he was, it left him almost too weak to 
 stand up. 
 
 The lawyer explained that the rental was a form —the 
 property was said to be merely rented until the last pay¬ 
 ment had been made, the purpose being to make it easier 
 to turn the party out if he did not make the payments. 
 So long as they paid, however, they had nothing to fear, 
 the house was all theirs. 
 
 Jurgis was so grateful that he paid the half dollar the 
 lawyer asked without winking an eyelash, and then rushed 
 home to tell the news to the family. He found Ona in a 
 faint and the babies screaming, and the whole house in 
 an uproar — for it had been believed by all that he had 
 gone to murder the agent. It was hours before the ex¬ 
 citement could be calmed; and all through that cruel 
 night Jurgis would wake up now and then and hear Ona 
 and her stepmother in the next room, sobbing softly to 
 themselves. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 They had bought thsir home. It was hard for them to 
 realize that the wonderful house was tiieirs to move into 
 whenever they chose. They spent all their time thinking 
 about it, and what they were going to put into it. As 
 their week with Aniele was up in three days, tliey lost no 
 time in getting ready. They had to make some shift to 
 furnish it, and every instant of their leisure was given to 
 discussing this. 
 
 A person who had such a task before him would not 
 need to look very far in Packingtown—he had only to 
 walk up the avenue and read the signs, or get into a 
 street-car, to obtain full information as to pretty much 
 everything a human creature could need. It was quite 
 touching, the zeal of people to see that his health and 
 happiness were provided for. Did the person wish to 
 smoke ? There was a little discourse about cigars, show¬ 
 ing him exactly why the Thomas Jefferson Five-cent Per- 
 fecto was the only cigar worthy of the name. Had he, 
 on the other hand, smoked too much ? Here was a remedy 
 for the smoking habit, twenty-five doses for a quarter, and 
 a cure absolutely guaranteed in ten doses. In innumerable 
 ways such as this, the traveller found that somebody had 
 been busied to make smooth his paths through the world, 
 and to let him know what had been done for him. In 
 Packingtown the advertisements had a style all of their 
 own, adapted to the peculiar population. One would be 
 tenderly solicitous. “ Is your wife pale ? ” it would in¬ 
 quire. “Is she discouraged, does she drag herself about 
 the house and find fault with everything? Why do you 
 not tell her to try Dr. Lanahan’s Life Preservers?” 
 Another would be jocular in tone, slapping 3'ou on the 
 
 63 
 
64 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 back, so to speak. “ Don’t be a chump 1 ” it would ex 
 claim. “ Go and get the Goliath Bunion Cure.” “ Get 
 a move on you I ” would chime in another. “It’s easy, if 
 you wear the Eureka Two-fifty Shoe.” 
 
 Among these importunate signs was one that had 
 caught the attention of the family by its pictures. It 
 showed two very pretty little birds building themselves 
 a home; and Marija had asked an acquaintance to read it 
 to her, and told them that it related to the furnishing of 
 a house. “Feather j'-onr nest,” it ran — and went on to 
 say that it could furnish all the necessary feathers for a 
 four-room nest for the ludicrously small sum of seventy- 
 five dollars. The particularly important thing about this 
 offer was that only a small part of the mone3^ need be had 
 at once —the rest one might pay a few dollars every 
 month. Our friends had to have some furniture, there 
 was no getting away from that; but their little fund of 
 money had sunk so low that they could hardly get to 
 sleep at night, and so they fled to this as their deliver¬ 
 ance. There was more agony and another paper for Elz- 
 bieta to sign, and then one night when Jurgis came home, 
 he was told the breathless tidings that the furniture had 
 arrived and was safely stowed in the house: a parlor set 
 of four pieces, a bedroom set of three pieces, a dining¬ 
 room table and four chairs, a toilet-set with beautiful pink 
 roses painted all over it, an assortment of crockerjq also 
 with pink roses—and so on. One of the plates in the 
 set had been found broken when they unpacked it, and 
 Ona was going to the store the first thing in the morning 
 to make them change it; also they had promised three 
 sauce-pans, and there had only two come, and did Jurgis 
 think that they were trying to cheat them ? 
 
 The next day they went to the house ; and when the 
 men came from work they ate a few hurried mouthfuls 
 at Aniele’s, and then set to work at the task of carrying 
 their belongings to their new home. The distance was 
 in reality over two miles, but Jurgis made two trips that 
 night, each time with a huge pile of mattresses and bed¬ 
 ding on his head, with bundles of clothing and bags and 
 
THP] JUNGLE 
 
 65 
 
 tilings tied up inside. Anywhere else in Chicago he 
 would have stood a good chance of being arrested; but 
 the policemen in Packingtown were apparently used to 
 these informal rnovings, and contented themselves with a 
 cursory examination now and then. It was quite wonder¬ 
 ful to see how fine the house looked, with all the things in 
 it, even by the dim light of a lamp; it was really home, 
 and almost as exciting as the placard had described it. 
 Ona was fairly dancing, and she and Cousin Marija took 
 Jurgis by the arm and escorted him from room to room, 
 sitting in each chair by turns, and then insisting that he 
 should do the same. One chair squeaked with his great 
 weight, and they screamed with fright, and woke the 
 baby and brought everybody running. Altogether it 
 was a great day ; and tired as they were, Jurgis and Ona 
 sat up late, contented simply to hold each other and gaze 
 in rapture about the room. They were going to be mar¬ 
 ried as soon as they could get everything settled, and a 
 little spare money put by ; and this was to be their home 
 — that little room yonder would be theirs I 
 
 It was in truth a never-ending delight, the fixing up of 
 this house. They had no money to spend for the pleasure 
 of spending, but there were a few absolutely necessary 
 things, and the buying of these v/as a perpetual adventure 
 for Ona. It must always be done at night, so that Jurgis 
 could go along ; and even if it were only a pepper-cruet, 
 or half a dozen glasses for ten cents, that was enough for 
 an expedition. On Saturday night they came home with 
 a great basketful of things, and spread them out on the 
 table, while every one stood round, and the children climbed 
 up on the chairs, or howled to be lifted up to see. There 
 were sugar and salt and tea and crackers, and a can of lard 
 and a milk-pail, and a scrubbing-brush, and a pair of shoes 
 for the second oldest boy, and a can of oil, and a tack-ham¬ 
 mer, and a pound of nails. These last were to be driven 
 into the walls of the kitchen and the bedrooms, to hang 
 things on ; and there was a family discussion as to the 
 place where each one was to be driven. Then Jurgis 
 would trv to hammer, and hit his fingers because ^ 
 
66 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 hammer was too small, and get mad because Ona had 
 refused to let him pay fifteen cents more and get a bigger 
 hammer; and Ona would be invited to try it herself, and 
 hurt her tliumb, and cry out, which necessitated the 
 thumb’s being kissed by Jurgis. Finally, after every one 
 had had a try, the nails would be driven, and something 
 hung up. Jurgis had come home with a big packing-box 
 on his head, and he sent Jonas to get another that he had 
 bought. He meant to take one side out of these to-morrow, 
 and put shelves in them, and make them into bureaus and 
 places to keep things for the bedrooms. The nest which 
 had been advertised had not included feathers for quite 
 so many birds as there were in this family. 
 
 They had, of course, put their dining-table in the 
 kitchen, and the dining-room was used as the bedroom of 
 Teta Elzbieta and five of her children. She and the two 
 youngest slept in the only bed, and the other three had a 
 mattress on the floor. Ona and her cousin dragged a 
 mattress into the parlor and slept at night, and the 
 three men and the oldest boy slept in the other room, 
 having nothing but the very level floor to rest on for 
 the present. Even so, however, they slept soundly-— 
 it was necessary for Teta Elzbieta to pound more than once 
 on the door at a quarter past five every morning. She 
 would have ready a great pot full of steaming black coffee, 
 and oatmeal and bread and smoked sausages; and then 
 she would fix them their dinner pails with more thick 
 slices of bread with lard between them — they could not 
 afford butter — and some onions and a piece of cheese, and 
 so they would tramp away to work. 
 
 This was the first time in his life that he had ever really 
 worked, it seemed to Jurgis ; it was the first time that he 
 had ever had anything to do which took all he had in him. 
 Jurgis had stood with the rest up in the gallery and 
 watched the men on the killing-beds, marvelling at their 
 speed and power as if they had been wonderful machines; 
 it somehow never occurred to one to think of the flesh-and- 
 blood side of it — that is, not until he actually got down 
 into the pit and took off his coat. Then he saw things in a 
 
THE JUKGLE 
 
 67 
 
 different light, he got at the inside of them. The pace 
 they set here, it was one that called for every faculty of a 
 man — from the instant the first steer fell till the sound¬ 
 ing of the noon whistle, and again from half-past twelve 
 till heaven only knew what hour in the late afternoon or 
 evening, there was never one instant’s rest for a man, for 
 his hand or his eye or his brain. Jurgis saw how they 
 managed it; there were portions of the work which deter¬ 
 mined the pace of the rest, and for these they had picked 
 men whom they paid high wages, and whom they changed 
 frequently. You might easily pick out these pace-makers, 
 for they worked under the eye of the bosses, and they 
 worked like men possessed. This was called “speeding 
 up the gang,” and if any man could not keep up with the 
 pace, there were hundreds outside begging to try. 
 
 Yet Jurgis did not mind it; he rather enjoyed it. It 
 saved him the necessity of flinging his arms about and 
 fidgeting as he did in most work. He would laugh to 
 himself as he ran down the line, darting a glance now and 
 then at the man ahead of him. It was not the pleasantest 
 work one could think of, but it was necessary work; and 
 what more had a man the right to ask than a chance 
 to do something useful, and to get good pay for doing 
 it? 
 
 So Jurgis thought, and so he spoke, in his bold, free 
 waj''; very much to his surprise, he found that it had a 
 tendency to get him into trouble. For most of the men 
 here took a fearfully different view of the thing. He was 
 quite dismayed when he first began to find it out — that 
 most of the men hated their work. It seemed strange, 
 it was even terrible, when you came to find out the 
 universality of the sentiment; but it was certainly the 
 fact — they hated their work. They hated the bosses and 
 they hated the owners; they hated the whole place, the 
 whole neighborhood — even the whole city, with an all- 
 inclusive hatred, bitter and fierce. Women and little 
 children would fall to cursing about it; it was rotten, 
 rotten as hell — everything was rotten. When Jurgis 
 would ask them what they meant, they would begin 
 
68 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 to get suspicious, and content themselves with saying, 
 “ Never mind, you stay here and see for yourself,” 
 
 One of the first problems that Jurgis ran upon was that 
 of the unions. He had had no experience with unions, 
 and he had to have it explained to him that the men 
 were banded together for the purpose of fighting for 
 their rights. Jurgis asked them what they meant by 
 their rights, a question in which he was quite sincere, for 
 he had not any idea of any rights that he had, except the 
 right to hunt for a job, and do as he was told when he 
 got it. Generally, however, this harmless question would 
 only make his fellow-workingmen lose their tempers and 
 call him a fool. There was a delegate of the butcher- 
 helpers’ union wb o came to see Jurgis to enroll him; and 
 when Jurgis found that this meant that he would have to 
 part with some of his money, he froze up directly, and the 
 delegate, who was an Irishman and only knew a few words 
 of Lithuanian, lost his temper and began to threaten him. 
 In the end Jurgis got into a fine rage, and made it suffi¬ 
 ciently plain that it would take more than one Irishman 
 to scare him into a union. Little by little he gathered 
 that the main thing the men wanted was to put a stop to 
 the habit of “ speeding-up ”; they were trying their best 
 to force a lessening of the pace, for there were some, they 
 said, who could not keep up with it, whom it was killing. 
 But Jurgis had no sympathy with such ideas as this—-he 
 could do the work lumself, and so could the rest of them, 
 he declared, if they were good for anything. If they 
 couldn’t do it, let them go somewhere else. Jurgis had 
 not studied the books, and he would not have known how 
 to pronounce “laissez-faire”; but he had been round the 
 world enough to know that a man has to shift for himself 
 in it, and that if he gets the worst of it, there is nobody 
 to listen to him holler. 
 
 Let there have been known to be philosophers and plain 
 men who swore by Malthus in the books, and would, never¬ 
 theless, subscribe to a relief fund in time of a famine. It 
 was the same with Jurgis, who consigned the unfit to 
 destruction, while going about 8.11 day sick at heart 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 69 
 
 because of his poor old father, who was wandering some¬ 
 where in the yards begging for a chance to earn his 
 bread. Old Antanas had been a worker ever since he 
 was a child; he had run away from home when he was 
 twelve, because his father beat him for trying to learn to 
 read. And he was a faithful man, too; he was a man you 
 might leave alone for a month, if only you had made him 
 understand what you wanted him to do in the meantime. 
 And now here he was, worn out in soul and body, and 
 with no more place in the world than a sick dog. He 
 had his home, as it happened, and some one who would 
 care for him if he never got a job; but his son could 
 not help thinking, suppose this had not been the case. 
 Antanas Rudkus had been into every building in Pack- 
 ingtown by this time, and into nearly every room; he 
 had stood mornings among the crowd of applicants till 
 the very policemen had come to know his face and to tell 
 him to go home and give it up. He had been likewise to 
 all the stores and saloons for a mile about, begging for 
 some little thing to do; and everywhere they had ordered 
 him out, sometimes wdth curses, and not once even stop¬ 
 ping to ask him. a question. 
 
 So, after all, there was a crack in the fine structure of 
 Jurgis’s faith in things as they are. The crack was wide 
 while Dede Antanas was hunting a job—-and it was yet 
 wider when he finally got it. For one evening the old 
 man came home in a great state of excitement, with the 
 tale that he had been approached by a man in one of 
 the corridors of the pickle-rooms of Durham’s, and asked 
 what he would pay to get a job. He had not kno^vn 
 what to make of this at first; but the man had gone on 
 with matter-of-fact frankness to say that he could get 
 him a job, provided that he were willing to pay one-third 
 of his wages for it. Was he a boss? Antanas had asked; 
 to which the man had replied that that was nobody’s busi¬ 
 ness, but that he could do what he said. 
 
 Jurgis had made some friends by this time, and ho 
 sought one of them and asked what this meant. The 
 friend, who was named Tamoszius Kuszleika, was a sharp 
 
70 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 little man who folded hides on the killing-beds, and he 
 listened to what Jurgis had to say without seeming at all 
 surprised. They were common enough, he said, such 
 cases of petty graft. It was simply some boss who pro¬ 
 posed to add a little to his income. After Jurgis had 
 been there awhile he would know that the plants were 
 simply honeycombed with rottenness of that sort — the 
 bosses grafted off the men, and they grafted off each 
 other; and some day the superintendent would find out 
 about the boss, and then he would graft off the boss. 
 Warming to the subject, Tamoszius went on to explain 
 the situation. Here was Durham’s, for instance, owned by 
 a man who was trying to make as much money out of it 
 as he could, and did not care in the least how he did it; 
 and underneath him, ranged in ranks and grades like an 
 army, were managers and superintendents and foremen, 
 each one driving the man next below him and trying to 
 squeeze out of him as much work as possible. And all 
 the men of the same rank were pitted against each other; 
 the accounts of each were kept separately, and every man 
 lived in terror of losing his job, if another made a better 
 record than he. So from top to bottom the place was 
 simply a seething cauldron of jealousies and hatreds ; 
 there was no loyalty or decency anywhere about it, 
 there was no place in it where a man counted for any¬ 
 thing against a dollar. And worse than there being no 
 decency, there was not even any honesty. The reason 
 for that ? Who could say ? It must have been old 
 Durham in the beginning; it was a heritage which the 
 self-made merchant had left to his son, along with his 
 millions. 
 
 Jurgis would find out these things for himself, if he 
 stayed there long enough ; it was the men who had to do 
 all the dirty jobs, and so there was no deceiving them ; 
 and they caught the spirit of the place, and did like all 
 the rest. Jurgis had come there, and thought he was 
 going to make himself useful, and rise and become a 
 skilled man; but he would soon find out his error — for 
 nobody rose in Packingtown by doing good work. You 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 71 
 
 could lay that down for a rule — if you met a man who 
 was rising in Packingtown, you met a knave. That man 
 who had been sent to Jurgis’s father by the boss, he would 
 rise; the man who told tales and spied upon his fellows 
 would rise; but the man who minded his own business 
 and did his work — why, they would “speed him up” till 
 they had worn him out, and then they would throw him 
 into the gutter. 
 
 Jurgis went home with his head buzzing. Yet he could 
 not bring himself to believe such things—no, it could not 
 be so. Tamoszius was simply another of the grumblers. 
 He was a man who spent all his time fiddling; and he 
 would go to parties at night and not get home till sunrise, 
 and so of course he did not feel like work. Then, too, 
 he was a puny little chap ; and so he had been left behind 
 in the race, and that was why he was sore. And yet so 
 many strange things kept coming to Jurgis’s notice e\ery 
 day I 
 
 He tried to persuade his father to have nothing to do 
 with the offer. But old Antanas had begged until he was 
 worn out, and all his courage was gone; he wanted a job, 
 any sort of a job. So the next day he went and found the 
 man who had spoken to him, and promised to bring him a 
 third of all he earned; and that same day he was put to 
 work in Durham’s cellars. It was a “ pickle-room,” where 
 there was never a dry spot to stand upon, and so he had 
 to take nearly the whole of his first week’s earnings 
 to buy him a pair of heavy-soled boots. He was a 
 “ squeedgie ” man; his job was to go about all day with a 
 long-handled mop, swabbing up the floor. Except that 
 it was damp and dark, it was not an unpleasant job, in 
 summer. 
 
 Now Antanas Rudkus was the meekest man that God 
 ever put on earth; and so Jurgis found it a striking con¬ 
 firmation of what the men all said, that his father had 
 been at work only two days before he came home as bitter 
 as any of them, and cursing Durham’s with all the power 
 of his soul. For they had set him to cleaning out the 
 traps; and the family sat round and listened in wonder 
 
THE junglb; 
 
 while he told them what that meant. It seemed that he 
 was working in the room where the men prepared the beef 
 for canning, and the beef had lain in vats full of chemicals, 
 and men with great forks speared it out and dumped it 
 into trucks, to be taken to the cooking-room. When they 
 had speared out all they could reach, they emptied the vat 
 on the floor, and then with shovels scraped up the balance 
 and dumped it into the truck. This floor was filthy, yet 
 they set Antanas with his mop slopping the “pickle” 
 into a hole that connected with a sink, where it was caught 
 and used over again forever; and if that were not enough, 
 there was a trap in the pipe, where all the scraps of meat 
 and odds and ends of refuse were caught, and every few 
 days it was the old man’s task to clean these out, and 
 shovel their contents into one of the trucks with the rest 
 of the meat I 
 
 This was the experience of Antanas; and then there 
 came also Jonas and Marija with tales to tell. Marija was 
 working for one of the independent packers, and was quite 
 beside herself and outrageous with triumph over the sums 
 of money she was making as a painter of cans. But one 
 day she walked home with a pale-faced little woman who 
 worked opposite to her, .Jadvj^ga Marcinkus by name, and 
 Jadvyga told her how she, Marija, had chanced to get her 
 job. She had taken the place of an Irish woman who had 
 been working in that factory ever since any one could re¬ 
 member, for over fifteen years, so she declared. Mary 
 Dennis was her name, and a long time ago she had been 
 seduced, and had a little boy; he was a cripple, and an 
 epileptic, but still he was all that she had in the world to 
 love, and they had lived in a little room alone somewhere 
 back of Halsted Street, where the Irish were. Mary had 
 had consumption, and all day long you might hear her 
 soughing as she worked; of late she had been going all to 
 pieces, and when Marija came, the “forelady” had sud¬ 
 denly decided to turn her off. The forelady had to come 
 ip to a certain standard herself, and could not stop for 
 dck people, Jadvyga explained. The fact that Mary had 
 Deen there so long had not made any difference to her — 
 
THE JUifGLE 
 
 73 
 
 it was doubtful if she even knew that, for both the forelady 
 and the superintendent were new people, having only been 
 there two or three years themselves. Jadvyga did not 
 know what had become of the poor creature; she would 
 have gone to see her, but had been sick herself. She had 
 pains in her back all the time, Jadvyga explained, and 
 feared that she had womb trouble. It was not fit work for 
 a woman, handling fourteen-pound cans all day. 
 
 It was a striking circumstance that Jonas, too, had 
 gotten his job by the misfortune of some other person. 
 Jonas pushed a truck loaded with hams from the smoke- 
 rooms on to an elevator, and thence to the packing-rooms. 
 The trucks were all of iron, and heavy, and they put 
 about threescore hams on each of them, a load of more 
 than a quarter of a ton. On the uneven floor it was a 
 task for a man to start one of these trucks, unless he was 
 a giant; and when it was once started he naturally tried 
 his best to keep it going. There was always the boss 
 prowling about, and if there was a second’s delay he 
 would fall to cursing; Lithuanians and Slovaks and such, 
 who could not understand what was said to them, the 
 bosses were wont to kick about the place like so many 
 dogs. Therefore these trucks went for the most part on 
 the run ; and the predecessor of Jones had been jammed 
 against the wall by one and crashed in a horrible and 
 nameless manner 
 
 All of these were sinister incidents; but they were 
 trifles compared to what Jurgis saw with his own eyes 
 before long. One curious thing he had noticed, the very 
 first day, in his profession of shoveller of guts; which was 
 the sharp trick of the floor-bosses whenever there chanced 
 to come a slunk” calf. Any man who knows anything 
 about butchering knows that the flesh of a cow that is 
 about to calve, or has just calved, is not fit for food. A 
 good many of these came every day to the packing-houses — 
 and, of course, if they had chosen, it would have been 
 an easy matter for the packers to keep them till they were 
 fit for food. But for the saving of time and fodder, it was 
 the • ^w that cows of that sort came along with the others, 
 
74 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 and whoever noticed it would tell the boss, and the boss 
 would start up a conversation with the government in- 
 spector, and the two would stroll away. So in a trice the 
 carcass of the cow would be cleaned out, and the entrails 
 would have vanished; it was Jurgis’s task to slide them 
 into the trap, calves and all, and on the floor below they 
 took out these “ slunk ” calves, and butchered them for 
 meat, and used even the skins of them. 
 
 One day a man slipped and hurt his leg; and that after« 
 noon, when the last of the cattle had. been disposed of, and 
 the men were leaving, Jurgis was ordered to remain and 
 do some special work which this injured man had usually 
 done. It was late, almost dark, and the government in¬ 
 spectors had all gone, and there were only a dozen or two 
 of men on the floor. That day they had killed about four 
 thousand cattle, and these cattle had come in freight 
 trains from far states, and some of them had got hurt. 
 There were some with broken legs, and some with gored 
 sides; there were some that had died, from what cause no 
 one could say; and they wore/ all to be disposed of, here 
 'x in darkness and silence. the men called 
 
 them ; and the packing-houkc'had a special elevator upon 
 which they were raised to the killing-beds, where the gang 
 proceeded to handle them, with an air of businesslike 
 nonchalance which said plainer than any words that it was 
 a matter of everyday routine. It took a couple of hours 
 to get them out of the way, and in tJae end Jurgis saw 
 them go into the chilling-rooms with the rest of the meat, 
 being carefully scattered here and there so that they could 
 \ not be identified. When he came home that night he was 
 \ in a very sombre mood, having begun to see at last how 
 those might be right, who had laughed at him for his faith 
 in America. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 JuRGis and Ona were very much in love; they had 
 waited a long time — it was now well into the second 
 year, and Jurgis judged everything hy the criterion of its 
 helping or hindering their union. All his thoughts were 
 there ; he accepted the family because it was a part of 
 Ona, and he was interested in the house because it was to 
 be Ona’s home. Even the tricks and cruelties he saw at 
 Durham’s had little meaning for him just then, save as 
 they might happen to affect his future with Ona. 
 
 The marriage would have been at once, if they had had 
 their way; but this would mean that they would have tff 
 do without any wedding-feast, and when they suggested 
 this they came into conflict with the old people. To Teta 
 Elzbieta especially the very suggestion was an affliction. 
 What! she would cry. To be married on the roadside 
 like a parcel of beggars! No! No! — Elzbieta had some 
 traditions behind her; she had been a person of impor¬ 
 tance in her girlhood —had lived on a big estate and had 
 servants, and might have married well and been a lady, 
 but for the fact that there had been nine daughters and 
 no sons in the family. Even so, however, she knew what 
 was decent, and clung to her traditions with desperation. 
 They were not going to lose all caste, even if they bad 
 come to be unskilled laborers in Fackingtown; and that 
 Ona had even talked of omitting a veselija was enough to 
 keep her stepmother lying awake all night. It was in 
 vain for them to say that they had so few friends ; they 
 were bound to have friends in time, and then the friends 
 would talk about it. They must not give up what was 
 right for a little money — if they did, the money would 
 never do them any good, they could depend upon that 
 
 75 
 
76 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 And Eizbieta would call upon Dede Antanas to support 
 her; there was a fear in the souls of these two, lest this 
 journej^ to a new country might somehow undermine the 
 old home virtues of their children. The very first Sunday 
 they had all been taken to mass ; and poor as they were, 
 Eizbieta had felt it advisable to invest a little of her re¬ 
 sources in a representation of the babe of Bethlehem, made 
 in plaster, and painted in brilliant colors. Though it was 
 only a foot high, there was a shrine with four snow-white 
 steeples, and the Virgin standing with her child in her 
 arms, and the kings and shepherds and wise men bowing 
 down before him. It had cost fifty cents; but Eizbieta 
 had a feeling that money spent for such things was not to 
 be counted too closely, it would come back in hidden ways. 
 The piece was beautiful on the parlor mantel, and one 
 could not have a home without some sort of ornament. 
 
 The cost of the wedding-feast would, of course be re¬ 
 turned to them; but the problem was to raise it even 
 temporarily. They had been in the neighborhood so 
 short a time that they could not get much credit, and 
 there was no one except Szedvilas from whom they could 
 borrow even a little. Evening after evening Jurgis and 
 Ona would sit and figure the expenses, calculating the 
 term of their separation. They could not possibly man¬ 
 age it decently for less than two hundred dollars, and 
 even though they were welcome to count in the whole 
 of the earnings of Marija and Jonas, as a loan, they could 
 not hope to raise this sum in less than four or five months. 
 So Ona began thinking of seeking employment herself, say¬ 
 ing that if she had even ordinarily good luck, she might be 
 able to take two months off the time. They were just 
 beginning to adjust themselves to this necessity, when 
 out of the clear sky there fell a thunderbolt upon them 
 —-a calamity that scattered all their hopes to the four 
 winds. 
 
 About a block away from them there lived another 
 Lithuanian family, consisting of an elderly widow and 
 one grown son; their name was Majauszkis, and one 
 friends struck ud an acquaintance with them before long. 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 77 
 
 One evening they came over for a visit, and naturally the 
 first subject upon which the conversation turned was the 
 neighborhood and its history; and then Grandmother 
 Majauszkiene, as the old lady was called, proceeded to 
 recite to them a string of horrors that fairly froze their 
 blood. She was a wrinkled-up and wizened personage—■ 
 she must have been eighty — and as she mumbled the grim 
 story through her toothless gums, she seemed a very old 
 witch to them. Grandmother Majauszkiene had lived in 
 the midst of misfortune so long that it had come to be her 
 element, and she talked about starvation, sickness, and death 
 as other people might about weddings and holidays. 
 
 The thing came gradually. In the first place as to the 
 house they had bought, it was not new at all, as they had 
 supposed; it vras about fifteen years old, and there was 
 nothing new upon it but the paint, which was so bad that 
 it needed to be put on new every year or two. The house 
 was one of a whole row that was built by a company which 
 existed to make money by swindling poor people. The 
 family had paid fifteen hundred dollars for it, and it had 
 not cost the builders five hundred, when it was new — 
 Grandmother Majauszkiene knew that because her son 
 belonged co a political organization with a contractor who 
 put up exactly such houses. They used the very flim¬ 
 siest and cheapest material; they built the houses a dozen 
 at a time, and they cared about nothing at all except the 
 outside shine. The family could take her word as to the 
 trouble they would have, for she had been through it all 
 ■—she and her son had bought their house in exactly the 
 same way. They had fooled the company, however, for 
 her son was a skilled man, who made as high as a hundred 
 dollars a month, and as he had had sense enough nos to 
 marry, they had been able to pay for the house. 
 
 Grandmother Majauszkiene saw that her friends were 
 puzzled at this remark; they did not quite see how pay¬ 
 ing for the house was “fooling the company.” Evidently 
 they were very inexperienced. Cheap as the houses were, 
 they were sold with the idea that the people who bought 
 them would not be able to pay for them. When ' they 
 
78 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 failed — if it were only by a single month—they would 
 lose the house and all that they had paid on it, and then 
 the company would sell it over again. And did they often 
 get a chance to do that? Dieve! (Grandmother Majaus- 
 zkiene raised her hands.) They did it—-how often no 
 one could say, but certainly more than half of the time. 
 They might ask any one who knew anything at all about 
 Packingtown as to that; she had been living here ever 
 since this house was built, and she could tell them all 
 about it. And had it ever been sold before? Susimilkie! 
 Why, since it had been built, no less than four families that 
 their informant could name had tried to buy it and failed. 
 She would tell them a little about it. 
 
 The first family had been Germans. The families had 
 a 11 been of different nationalities—there had been a repre- 
 ,jeutative of several races that had displaced each other in 
 Are stockyards. Grandmother Majauszkiene had come to 
 America with her son at a time when so far as slie knew 
 there was only one other Lithuanian family in the district; 
 the workers had all been Germans then — skilled cattle- 
 butcners that the packers had brought from abroad to 
 start the business. Afterward, as cheaper labor had 
 come, these Germans had moved away. The next were 
 the Irish — there had been six or eight years when 
 Packingtown had been a regular Irish city. There were 
 a few colonies of them still here, enough to run all the 
 unions and the police force and get ail the graft; but 
 the most of those who were working in the packing¬ 
 houses had gone away at the next drop in wages — 
 after the big strike. The Bohemians had come then, and 
 after them the Poles. People said that old man Durham 
 himself was responsible for these immigrations; he had 
 sworn that he would fix the people of Packingtown so 
 that they would never again call a strike on him, and so 
 he had sent his agents into every city and village in 
 Europe to spread the tale of the chances of work and 
 high wages at the stockyards. The people had come ia 
 hordes; and old Durham had squeezed them tighter and 
 tighter, speeding them up and grinding them to pieces 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 79 
 
 ind sending for new ones. The Poles, who had come by 
 tens of thousands, had been driven to the wall by the 
 Lithuanians, and now the Lithuanians were giving way 
 to the Slovaks. Who there was poorer and more miser¬ 
 able than the Slovaks, Grandmother Majauszkiene had 
 no idea, but the packers would find them, never fear. 
 It was easy to bring them, for wages were really much 
 higlier, and it was only when it was too late that the 
 poor people found out that everything else was higher 
 too. They were like rats in a trap, that was the truth; 
 and more of them were piling in every day. By and by 
 they would have their revenge, though, for the thing 
 was getting beyond human endurance, and the people 
 would rise and murder the packers. Grandmother 
 Majauszkiene was a socialist, or some such strange 
 thing; another son of hers was working in the mines 
 of Siberia, and the old lady herself had made speeches 
 in her time — which made her seem all the more terrible 
 to her present auditors. 
 
 They called her back to the story of the house. The 
 German family had been a good sort. To be sure there 
 had been a great many of them, which was a common fail¬ 
 ing in Paekingtown; but they had worked hard, and the 
 father had been a steady man, and they had a good deal 
 more than half paid for the house. But he had been 
 killed in an elevator accident in Durham’s. 
 
 Then there had come the Irish, and there had been lots 
 of them, too; the husband drank and beat the children — 
 the neighbors could hear them shrieking any night. They 
 were behind with their rent all the time, but the company 
 was good to them ; there was some politics back of that. 
 Grandmother Majauszkiene could not say just what, but 
 the Lafi'ertys had belonged to the “War Whoop League,” 
 which was a sort of political club of all the thugs and 
 rowdies in the district; and if you belonged to that, you 
 could never be arrested for anything. Once upon a time 
 old Lafferty had been caught with a gang that had stolen 
 cows from several of the poor people of the neighborhood 
 and butchered them in an old shanty back of the yards 
 
80 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 and sold them. He had been in jail only three days foi 
 it, and had come out laughing, and had not even lost his 
 place in the packing-house. He had gone all to ruin with 
 the drink, however, and lost his power; one of his sons, 
 who was a good man, had kept him and the family up for 
 a year or two, but then he had got siek with consumption. 
 
 I That was another thing. Grandmother Majauzskiene 
 
 I interrupted herself — this house was unlucky. Every 
 'A family that lived in it, some one was sure to get con¬ 
 sumption. Nobody could tell why that was; there must 
 be something about a house, or the way it w'^as built — 
 some folks said it was because the building had been 
 begun in the dark of the moon. There were dozens of 
 houses that way in Packingtown. Sometimes there would 
 be a particular room that you could point out — if any¬ 
 body slept in that room he was just as good as dead. 
 With this house it had been the Irish first*, and then a 
 Bohemian family had lost a child of it — though, to be 
 sure, that was uncertain, since it was hard to tell what 
 was the matter with children who worked in the yards. 
 In those days there had been no law about the age of 
 children — the packers had worked all but the babies. 
 At this remark the family looked puzzled, and Grand¬ 
 mother Majauszkiene again had to make an explanation — 
 that it was against the law for children to work before 
 they were sixteen. What was the sense of that? they 
 asked. They had been thinking of letting little Stani- 
 slovas go to work. Well, there was no need to worry. 
 Grandmother Majauszkiene said— the law made no differ¬ 
 ence except that it forced people to lie about the ages of 
 their children. One would like to know what the law¬ 
 makers expected them to do; there were families that had 
 no possible means of support except the children, and 
 the law provided them no other way of getting a living. 
 Very often a man could get no work in Packingtown for 
 months, while a child could go and get a place easily; 
 there was always some new machine, by which the packers 
 could get as much work out of a child as they had been able 
 to get out of a man, and for a third of the pay. 
 
THE JU]N(iE® 
 
 81 
 
 To come back to the house again, it was the woman of 
 the next family that had died. That was after they had 
 been there nearly four years, and this woman had had 
 twins regularly every year — and there had been more 
 than you could count when they moved in. After she 
 died the man would go to work all day and leave them 
 to shift for themselves — the neighbors would help them 
 now and then, for they would almost freeze to death. At 
 the end there were three days that they were alone, be¬ 
 fore it was found out that the father was dead. He was 
 a “floorsman ” at Jones’s, and a wounded steer had broken 
 loose and mashed him against a pillar. Then the children 
 had been taken away, and the company had sold the house 
 that very same week to a party of emigrants. 
 
 So this grim old woman went on with her tale of hor¬ 
 rors. How much of it was exaggeration — who could 
 tell? It was only too plausible. There was that about 
 consumption, for instance. They knew nothing about 
 consumption whatever, except that it made people cough ; 
 and for two weeks they had been worrying about a cough- 
 ing-spell of Antanas. It seemed to shake him all over, 
 and it never stopped ; you could see a red stain wherever 
 he had spit upon the floor. 
 
 And yet all these things were as nothing to what came 
 a little later. They had begun to question the old lady 
 as to why one family had been unable to pay, trying to 
 show her by figures that it ought to have been possible ; 
 and Grandmother Majauszkiene had disputed their figures 
 — “You say twelve dollars a month; but that does not 
 include the interest.” 
 
 Then they stared at her. “ Interest I ” they cried. 
 
 “ Interest on the money you still owe,” she answered. 
 
 “ But we don’t have to pay any interest! ” they ex¬ 
 claimed, three or four at once. “We only have to pay 
 twelve dollars each month.” 
 
 And for this she laughed at them. “ You are like ail 
 the rest,” she said; “they trick you and eat you alive. 
 They never sell the houses without interest Get youi 
 deed, and see.” 
 
82 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 rhen, with a horrible sinkiug of the heart, Teta Elzbieta 
 uuiocked her bureau end brought out the paper that had 
 already caused them so many agonies. Now they sat 
 round, scarcely breathing, while the old lady, who could 
 
 read English, ran over it. Yes,” she said, finally, “ here 
 it is, of course : ‘ With interest thereon monthly, at the 
 rate of seven per cent per annum.’ ” 
 
 And tiiere followed a dead silence. “ What does that 
 mean ? ” asked Jurgis finally, almost in a whisper. 
 
 “ That means,” replied the other, “ that you have to 
 pay them seven dollars next month, as well as the twelve 
 dollars.” 
 
 Then again there was not a sound. It was sickening, 
 like a nightmare, in which suddenly something gives way 
 beneath you, and you feel yourself sinking, sinking, down 
 into bottomless abysses. As if in a flash of lightning they 
 saw themselvesvictims of a relentless fate, cornered, 
 trapped, in the grip of destruction. All the fair struc¬ 
 ture of their hopes came crashing about their ears.—And 
 all the time the old woman was going on talking. 
 They wished that she would be still; her voice sounded 
 like the croaking of some dismal raven. Jurgis sat with 
 his hands clenched and beads of perspiration on his fore* 
 head, and there was a great lump in Ona’s throat, choking 
 her. Then suddenly Teta Elzbieta broke the silence with 
 a wail, and Marija began to wring her hands and sob, 
 ^'•Ai! Ai! Beda man!'” 
 
 All their outcry did them no good, of course. There 
 sat Grandmother Majauszkiene, unrelenting, typifying 
 fate. ISI o, of course it was not fair, but then fairness had 
 nothing to do with it. And of course they had not known 
 it. They had not been intended to know it. But it was 
 in the deed, and that was all that was necessary, as they 
 would find when the time came. 
 
 Somehow or other they got rid of their guest, and then 
 they passed a night of lamentation. The children woke up 
 and found out that something was wrong, and they wailed 
 and would not be comforted. In the morning, of course, 
 most of them had to go to work, the packing-houses woulJ 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 not stop for their sorrows; but by seven o’clock On a and 
 her stepmother were standing at the door of the office of 
 the agent. Yes, he told them, when he came, it was quite 
 true that they would have to pay interest. And then 
 Teta Elzbieta broke forth into protestations and reproaches, 
 so that the people outside stopped and peered in at the win¬ 
 dow. The agent was as bland as ever. He was deeply 
 pained, he said. He had not told them, simply because 
 he had supposed they would understand that they had to 
 pay interest upon their debt, as a matter of course. 
 
 So they came away, and Ona went down to the yards, 
 and at noon-time saw Jurgis and told him. Jurgis took 
 it stolidly — he had made up his mind to it by this time. 
 It was part of fate ; they would manage it somehow — 
 he made his usual answer, “I will work harder.” It 
 would upset their plans for a time ; and it would perhaps 
 be necessary for Ona to get work after all. Then Ona 
 added that Teta Elzbieta had decided that little Stani- 
 slovas would have to work too. It was not fair to let 
 Jurgis and her support the family — the family would 
 have to help as it could. Previously Jurgis had scouted 
 this idea, but now knit his brows and nodded his bead 
 slowly — yes, perhaps it would be best; they would all 
 have to make some sacrifices now. 
 
 So Ona set out that day to hunt for work ; and at night 
 Marija came home saying that she had met a girl named 
 Jasaityte who had a friend that worked in one of the 
 wrapping-rooms in Browm’s, and might get a place for 
 Ona there; only the forelady was the kind that takes 
 presents — it was no use for any one to ask her for a place 
 unless at the same time they slipped a ten-dollar bill into 
 her hand. Jurgis was not in the least surprised at this 
 now — he merely asked what the wages of the place would 
 be. So negotiations were opened, and after an interview 
 Ona came home and reported that the forelady seemed to 
 like her, and had said that, while she was not sure, she 
 thought she might be able to put her at work sewing covers 
 on hams, a job at which she could earn as rarch as eight 
 or ten dollars a week. That was a bid, so Marija reported, 
 
THE JUNGEE 
 
 after consalting her friend ; and then there was an anxious 
 conference at home. The work was done in one of the 
 collars, and Jurgis did not want Ona to worx in such a 
 place ; but then it was easy work, and one could not haye 
 everything. So in the end Ona, with a ten-dollar bill 
 burning a hole in her palm, had another interview with 
 the forelady. 
 
 Meantime Teta Elzbieta had taken Stanislovas to the 
 priest and gotten a certificate to the effect that he was 
 two years older than he was ; and with it the little boy 
 now sallied forth to make his fortune in the world. It 
 chanced that Durham had just put in a wonderful new 
 lard-machine, and when the special policeman in front of 
 the time-station saw Stanislovas and his document, he 
 smiled to himself and told him to go — “ Czia 1 Czia I ” 
 pointing. And so Stanislovas went down a long stone 
 corridor, and up a flight of stairs, which took him into a 
 room lighted by electricity, with the new machines fo' 
 filling lard-cans at work in it. The lard was finished on 
 the floor above, and it came in little jets, like beautiful, 
 wriggling, snow-white snakes of unpleasant odor. There 
 were several kinds and sizes of jets, and after a certain 
 precise quantity had come out, each stopped automatically, 
 and the wonderful machine made a turn, and took the can 
 under another jet, and so on, until it was filled neatly to 
 the brim, and pressed tightly, and smoothed off. To 
 attend to all this and fill several hundred cans of lard per 
 hour, there were necessary two human creatures, one of 
 whom knew how to place an empty lard-can on a certain 
 spot every few seconds, and the other of whom knew how 
 to take a full lard-can off a certain spot every few seconds 
 and set it upon a tray. 
 
 And so, after little Stanislovas had stood gazing timidly 
 about hiin for a few minutes, a man approached him, and 
 asked what he wanted, to which Stanislovas said, “Job.’* 
 Then the man said “ How old ? ” and Stanislovas answered, 
 “Sixtin.” Once or twice every year a state inspector 
 would come wandering through the packing-plants, ask¬ 
 ing a child here and there how old he was; and so the 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 85 
 
 packers were very careful to comply with the law, which 
 cost them as much trouble as was now involved in the 
 boss’s taking the document from the little boy, and glanc* 
 ing at it, and then sending it to the office to be filed away 
 Then he set some one else at a different job, and showea 
 the lad how to place a lard-can every time the empty arm 
 of the remorseless machine came to him ; and so was de¬ 
 cided the place in the universe of little Stanislovas, and 
 his destiny till the end of his days. Hour after hour, day 
 after day, year after year, it was fated that he should 
 stand upon a certain square foot of floor from seven in the 
 morning until noon, and again from half-past twelve till 
 half-past five, making never a motion and thinking never 
 a thought, save for the setting of lard-cans. In summer 
 the stench of the warm lard would be nauseating, and in 
 winter the cans would all but freeze to his naked little 
 fingers in the unheated cellar. Half the year it would be 
 dark as night when he went in to work, and dark as night 
 again when he came out, and so he would never know what 
 the sun looked like on week-days. And for this, at the end 
 of the week, he would carry home three dollars to his 
 family, being his pay at the rate of five cents per hour— 
 just about his proper share of the total earnings of the 
 million and three-quarters of children who are now en¬ 
 gaged in earning their livings in the United States. 
 
 And meantime, because they were young, and hope is 
 not to be stifled before its time, Jurgis and Ona were 
 again calculating ; for they had discovered that the wages 
 of Stanislovas would a little more than pay the interest, 
 which left them just about as they had been before 1 It 
 woidd be but fair to them to say that the little boy was 
 delighted with his work, and at the idea of earning a lot 
 of money ; and also that the two were very much in love 
 with each other. 
 
CHAPTER Vn 
 
 All summer long the family toiled, and in the fall 
 they had money enough for Jurgis and Ona to be married 
 according to home traditions of decency. In the latter 
 part of November they hired a hall, and invited all their 
 new acquaintances, who came and left them over a hundred 
 dollars in debt. 
 
 It was a bitter and cruel experience, and it plunged 
 them into an agony of despair. Such a time, of all times, 
 for them to have it, when their hearts were made tender I 
 Such a pitiful beginning it was for their married life ; 
 they loved each other so, and they could not have the 
 briefest respite I It was a time when everything cried 
 out to them that they ought to be happy ; when wonder 
 burned in their hearts, and leaped into flame at the slight* 
 est breath. They were shaken to the depths of them, 
 with the awe of love realized — and was it so very weak 
 of them that they cried out for a little peace ? They had 
 opened their hearts, like flowers to the springtime, and 
 '•ibe merciless winter had fallen upon them. They won¬ 
 dered if ever any love that had blossomed in the world 
 had been so crushed and trampled 1 
 
 Over them, relentless and savage, there cracked the 
 lash of want ; the morning after the wedding it sought 
 them as they slept, and drove them out before daybreak to 
 work. Ona was scarcely able to stand with exhaustion } 
 but if she were to lose her place they v/ould be ruined, and 
 she would surely lose it if she were not on time that day. 
 They all had to go, even little Stanislovas, who was ill 
 from overindulgence in sausages and sarsaparilla. All 
 that day he stood at his lard-machine, rocking unsteadily, 
 his eyes closing in spite of him ; and he all but lost hia 
 
 86 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 87 
 
 place even so, for the foreman booted him twice to waken 
 him. 
 
 It was fully a week before they were all normal again, 
 and meantime, with whining children and cross adults, 
 the house was not a pleasant place to live in. Jurgis lost 
 his temper very little, however, all things considered. It 
 was because of Ona; the least glance at her was always 
 enough to make him control himself. She was so sensi¬ 
 tive — she was not fitted for such a life as this ; and a 
 hundred times a day, when he thought of her, he would 
 clench his hands and fling himself again at the task be¬ 
 fore him. She was. too good for him, he told himself, 
 and he was afraid, because she was his. So long he 
 had hungered to possess her, but now that the time had 
 come he knew that he had not earned the right; that 
 she trusted him so was all her own simple goodness, and 
 no virtue of his. Bat he was resolved that she should 
 never find this out, and so was always on the watch to 
 see that he did not betray any of his ugly self; he 
 would take care even in little matters, such as his manners, 
 and his habit of swearing when things went wrong. The 
 tears came so easily into Ona’s eyes, and she would look 
 at him so appealingly — it kept Jurgis quite busy making 
 resolutions, in addition to all the other things he had on 
 his mind. It was true that more things were going on at 
 this time in the mind of Jurgis than ever had in all his 
 life before. 
 
 He had to protect her, to do battle for her against the 
 horror he saw about them. He was all that she had to 
 look to, and if he failed she would be lost; he would wrap 
 his arms about her, and try to hide her from the world. 
 He had learned the ways of things about him nov/. It 
 was a war of each against all, and the devil take the hind¬ 
 most. You did not give feasts to other people, you waited 
 for them to give feasts to you. You went about with 
 your soul full of suspicion and hatred; you understood 
 that you were environed by hostile powers that were trying 
 to get your mone}'’, and who used all the virtues to bait 
 their traps with. The storekeepers plastered up their 
 
88 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 windows with all sorts or lies to entice you ; the very 
 fences by the wayside, the lamp-posts and telegraph-poles, 
 were pasted over Avith lies. The great corporation which 
 employed you lied to you, and lied to the whole country-— 
 from top to bottom it was nothing but one gigantic lie. 
 
 So Jurgis said that he understood it; and yet it was 
 really pitiful, for the struggle was so unfair — some had 
 so much the advantage 1 Here he was, for instance, vow¬ 
 ing upon his knees that he would save Ona from harm, and 
 only a week later she was suffering atrociously, and from 
 the blow of an enemy that he could not possibly have 
 thwarted. There came a day when the rain fell in tor¬ 
 rents ; and it being December, to be wet with it and have 
 to sit all day long in one of the cold cellars of Brown’s was 
 no laughing matter. Ona was a working-girl, and did not 
 own waterproofs and such things, and so Jurgis took her 
 and put her on the street-car. Now it chanced that this 
 car-line was owned by gentlemen who were trying to make 
 money. And the city having passed an ordinance requir¬ 
 ing them to give transfers, they had fallen into a rage; 
 and first they had made a rule that transfers could be had 
 only when the fare was paid; and later, growing still uglier, 
 they had made another — that the passenger must ask for 
 the transfer, the conductor was not allowed to offer it. 
 Now Ona had been told that she was to get a transfer; but 
 it was not her way to speak up, and so she merely waited, 
 following the conductor about with her eyes, wondering 
 when he would think of her. When at last the time came for 
 her to get out, she asked for the transfer, and was refused. 
 Not knowing what to make of this, she began to argue with 
 the conductor, in a language of which he did not under¬ 
 stand a word. After warning her several times, he pulled 
 the bell and the car went on — at which Ona burst into 
 tears. At the next corner she got out, of course; and as 
 she had no mere money, she had to walk the rest of the 
 way to the yards in the pouring rain. And so all day long 
 she sat shivering, and came home at night with her teeth 
 chattering and pains in her head and back. For two weeks 
 afterward she suffered cruelly — and yet every day she 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 89 
 
 had to drag herself to her work. The forewoman was 
 especially severe with Oiia, because she believed that she 
 was obstinate on account of having been refused a holiday 
 the day after her wedding. Ona had an idea that her 
 “ forelady ” did nut like to have her girls marry — perhaps 
 because she was old and ugly and unmarried herself. 
 
 There were many such dangers, in which the odds were 
 all against them. Their children were not as well as they 
 had been at home; but how could they know that there was 
 no sewer to their house, and that the drainage of fifteen 
 years was in a cesspool under it? How could they know 
 that the pale blue milk that they bought around the corner 
 was watered, and doctored with formaldehyde besides? 
 When the children were not well at home, Teta Elzbieta 
 would gather herbs and cure them ; now she was obliged 
 to go to the drug-store and buy extracts — and how was 
 she to know that they were all adulterated? How could 
 they find out that their tea and coffee, their sugar and flour, 
 had been doctored; that their canned peas had been colored 
 with copper salts, and their fruit jams with aniline dyes? 
 And even if they had known it, what good would it have 
 done them, since there was no place within miles of them 
 where any other sort was to be had? The bitter winter 
 was coming, and they had to save money to get more cloth¬ 
 ing and bedding ; but it would not matter in the least how 
 much they saved, they cotdd not get anything to keep 
 them warm. All the clothing that was to be had in the 
 stores was made of cotton and shoddy, which is made by 
 tearing old clothes to pieces and weaving the fibre again. 
 If they paid higher prices, they might get frills and fanci¬ 
 ness, or be cheated; but genuine quality they could not 
 obtain for love nor money. A young friend of Szedvilas’s, 
 recently come from abroad, had become a clerk in a store 
 on Ashland Avenue, and he narrated with glee a trick 
 that had been played upon an unsuspecting countryman 
 by his boss. The customer had desired to purchase an 
 alarm-clock, and the boss had shown him two exactly simi¬ 
 lar, telling him that the price of one was a dollar and of 
 othe>- » dollar seventy-five. Upon being asked whaf 
 
 7 
 
90 
 
 THE JUiNGLE 
 
 the difference was, the man had wound up the first half¬ 
 way and the second all the way, and showed the customer 
 how the latter made twice as much noise ; upon which the 
 customer remarked that he was a sound sleeper, and had 
 better take the more expensive clock I 
 
 There is a poet who sings that 
 
 ‘ Deeper their heart grows and nobler their bearing, 
 
 Whose youth in the hres of anguish hath died.” 
 
 But it is not likely that he had reference to the kind of an¬ 
 guish that comes with destitution, that is so endlessly bitter 
 and cruel, and yet so sordid and petty, so ugly, so humiliat¬ 
 ing-unredeemed by the slightest touch of dignity or even 
 of pathos. It IS a kind of anguish that poets have not 
 commonly dealt with; its very words are not admitted into 
 the vocabulary of poets — the details of it cannot be told 
 in polite society at all. How, for instance, could any one 
 expect to excite sympathy among lovers of good literature 
 by telling how a family found their home alive with ver¬ 
 min, and of all the suffering and inconvenience and hu¬ 
 miliation they were put to, and the hard-earned money 
 they spent, in efforts to get rid of them? After long hesi¬ 
 tation and uncertainty they paid twenty-five cents for a 
 big package of insect-powder—a patent preparation which 
 chanced to'be ninety-five per cent gypsum, a harmless earth 
 which had cost about two cents to prepare. Of course it 
 had not the least effect, except upon a few roaches which 
 had the misfortune to drink water after eating it, and so 
 got their inwards set in a coating of plaster of Paris. The 
 family, having no idea of this, and no more money to throw 
 away, had nothing to do but give up and submit to one 
 more misery for the rest of their days. 
 
 Then there was old Antanas. The winter came, and 
 the place where he worked was a dark, unheated cellar, 
 where you could see your breath all day, and where your 
 fingers sometimes tried to freeze. So the old man’s cough 
 grew every day worse, until there came a time when it 
 hardly ever stopped, and he had become a nuisance about 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 91 
 
 the place. Then, too, a still more dreadful thing hap¬ 
 pened to him; he worked in a place where his feet were 
 soaked in chemicals, and it was not long before they had 
 eaten through his new boots. Then sores began to break 
 out on his feet, and grow worse and worse. Whether it 
 was that his blood was bad, or there had been a cut, he 
 could not say; but he asked the men about it, and learned 
 that it was a regular thing — it was the saltpetre. Every 
 one felt it, sooner or later, and then it was all up with him, 
 at least for that sort of work. The sores would never 
 heal — in the end his toes would drop off, if he did not 
 quit. Yet old Antanas would not quit; he saw the suf¬ 
 fering of his family, and he remembered what it had cost 
 him to get a job. So he tied up his feet, and went on 
 limping about and coughing, until at last he fell to pieces, 
 all at once and in a heap, like the One-Horse Shay. 
 They carried him to a dry place and laid him on the floor, 
 and that night two of the men helped him home. The 
 poor old man was put to bed, and though he tried it every 
 morning until the end, he never could get up again. He 
 would lie there and cough and cough, day and night, 
 wasting away to a mere skeleton. There came a time 
 when there was so little flesh on him that the bones began 
 to poke through — which was a horrible thing to see or 
 even to think of. And one night he had a choking fit, 
 and a little river of blood came out of his mouth. The 
 family, wild with terror, sent for a doctor, and paid half 
 a dollar to be told that there was nothing to be done. 
 Mercifully the doctor did not say this so that the old man 
 could hear, for he was still clinging to the faith that 
 to-morrow or next day he would be better, and could go 
 back to his job. The company had sent word to him that 
 they would keep it for him — or rather Jurgis had bribed 
 one of the men to come one Sunday afternoon and say 
 they had. Dede Antanas continued to believe it, v/hile 
 three more hemorrhages came; and then at last one morn¬ 
 ing they found him stiff and cold. Things were not 
 going well with them then, and though it nearly broke 
 Teta Elzbieta’s heart, they were forced to dispense with 
 
92 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 nearly all the decencies of a funeral; they had only a 
 hearse, and one hack for the women and children; and 
 Jurgis, who was learning things fast, spent all Sunday 
 making a bargain for these, and he made it in the pres¬ 
 ence of witnesses, so that when the man tried to charge 
 him for all sorts of incidentals, he did not have to pay. 
 For twenty-five years old An tanas Rudkus and his son 
 had dwelt in the forest together, and it was hard to part 
 in this way; perhaps it was just as well that Jurgis had 
 to give all his attention to the task of having a funeral 
 without being bankrupted, and so had no time to indulge 
 in memories and grief. 
 
 Now the dreadful winter was come upon them. In the 
 forests, all summer long, the branches of the trees do 
 battle for light, and some of them lose and die; and . 
 then come the raging blasts, and the storms of snow and 
 hail, and strew the ground with these weaker branches. 
 Just so it was in Packingtown ; the whole district braced 
 itself for the struggle that was an agony, and those whose 
 time was come died off in hordes. All the year round 
 they had been serving as cogs in the great packing- 
 machine ; and now was the time for the renovating of 
 it, and the replacing of damaged parts. There came 
 pneumonia and grippe, stalking among them, seeking 
 for weakened constitutions; there was the annual har¬ 
 vest of those whom tuberculosis had been dragging down. 
 There came cruel, cold, and biting winds, and blizzards of 
 snow, all testing relentlessly for failing muscles and im¬ 
 poverished blood. Sooner or later came the day when 
 the unfit one did not report for work ; and then, with no 
 time lost in waiting, and no inquiries or regrets, there 
 was a chance for a new hand. 
 
 The new hands were here by the thousands. All day 
 long the gates of the packing-houses were besieged by 
 starving and penniless men ; they came, literally, by the 
 thousands every single morning, fighting with each other 
 for a chance for life. Blizzards and cold made no differ¬ 
 ence to them, they were always on hand; they were on 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 . 93 
 
 hand two hours before the sun rose, an hour before the 
 work began. Sometimes their faces froze, sometimes their 
 feet and their hands; sometimes they froze all together — 
 but still they came, for they had no other place to go. 
 One day Durham advertised in the paper for two hundred 
 men to cut ice ; and all that day the homeless and starv¬ 
 ing of the city came trudging through the snow from all 
 over its two hundred square miles. That night forty 
 score of them crowded into the station-house of the stock- 
 yards district — they filled the rooms, sleeping in each 
 other’s laps, toboggan-fashion, and they piled on top of 
 each other in the corridors, till the police shut the doors 
 and left some to freeze outside. On the morrow, before 
 daybreak, there were three thousand at Durham’s, and 
 the police-reserves had to be sent for to quell the riot. 
 Then Durham’s bosses picked out twenty of the biggest; 
 the “ two hundred ” proved to have been a printer’s 
 error. 
 
 Four or five miles to the eastward lay the lake, and 
 over this the bitter winds came raging. Sometimes the 
 thermometer would fall to ten or twenty degrees below 
 zero at night, and in the morning the streets would be 
 piled with snowdrifts up to the first-floor windows. The 
 streets through which our friends had to go to their work 
 were all unpaved and full of deep holes and gullies; in 
 summer, when it rained hard, a man might have to wade 
 to his waist to get to his house; and now in winter it 
 was no joke getting through these places, before light 
 in the morning and after dark at night. They would 
 wrap up in all they owned, but they could not wrap up 
 against exhaustion ; and many a man gave out in these 
 battles with the snowdrifts, and lay down and fell 
 asleep. 
 
 And if it was bad for the men, one ma}’' imagine how 
 the women and children fared. Some would ride in the 
 cars, if the cars were running ; but when you are making 
 only five cents an hour, as was little Stanislovas, you do 
 not like to spend that much to ride two miles. The chil¬ 
 dren would come to the yards with great shawls about 
 
94 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 their ears, and so tied up that you could hardly find them 
 — and still there would be accidents. One bitter morn¬ 
 ing in February the little boy who worked at the lard- 
 machine with Stanislovas came about an liour late, and 
 screaming with pain. They unwrapped him, and a man 
 began vigorously rubbing his ears ; and as they were 
 frozen stiff, it took only two or three rubs to break them 
 short off. As a result of this, little Stanislovas conceived 
 a terror of the cold that was almost a mania. Every 
 morning, when it came time to start for the yards, he 
 would begin to cry and protest. Nobody knew quite 
 how to manage him, for threats did no good — it seemed 
 to be something that he could not control, and they feared 
 sometimes that he would go into convulsions. In the end 
 it had to be arranged that he always went with Jurgis, 
 and came home with him again; and often, when the 
 snow was deep, the man would carry him the whole way 
 on his shoulders. Sometimes Jurgis would be working 
 until late at night, and then it was pitiful, for there was 
 no place for the little fellow to wait, save in the doorways 
 or in a corner of the killing-beds, and he would all but 
 fail asleep there, and freeze to death. 
 
 There was no heat upon the killing-beds; the men 
 might exactly as well have worked out of doors all 
 winter. For that matter, there was very little heat 
 anywhere in the building, except in the cooking-rooms 
 and such places — and it was the men who worked in 
 these who ran the most risk of all, because whenever 
 they had to pass to another room they had to go through 
 ice-cold corridors, and sometimes with nothing on above 
 the waist except a sleeveless undershirt. On the killing- 
 beds you were apt to be covered with blood, and it would 
 freeze solid; if you leaned against a pillar, you would 
 freeze to that, and if you put your hand upon the blade 
 of your knife, you would run a chance of leaving your 
 skin on it. The men. would tie up their feet in news¬ 
 papers and old sacks, and these would be soaked in blood 
 and frozen, and then soaked again, and so on, until by 
 night-time a man would be walking on great lumps the 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 95 
 
 size of the feet of an elephant. Now and then, when the 
 bosses were not looking, you would see them plunging 
 their feet and ankles into the steaming hot carcass of the 
 steer, or darting across the room to the hot-water jets. 
 The crudest thing of all was that nearly all of them — all 
 of those who used knives — were unable to wear gloves, 
 and their arms would be white with frost and their hands 
 would grow numb, and then of course there would be 
 accidents. Also the air would be full of steam, from the 
 hot water and the hot blood, so that you could not see 
 five feet before you ; and then, with men rushing about 
 at the speed they kept up on the killing-beds, and all with 
 butcher-knives, like razors, in their hands — well, it was 
 to be counted as a wonder that there were not more men 
 slaughtered than cattle. 
 
 And yet all this inconvenience they might have put up 
 with, if only it had not been for one thing — if only there 
 had been some place where they might eat. Jurgis had 
 either to eat his dinner amid the stench in which he had 
 worked, or else to rush, as did all his companions, to 
 any one of the hundreds of liquor stores which stretched 
 out their arms to him. To the west of the yards ran Ash¬ 
 land Avenue, and here was an unbroken line of saloons — 
 “ Whiskey Row,” they called it; to the north was Forty- 
 seventh Street, where there were half a dozen to the block, 
 and at the angle of the two was “ Whiskey Point,” a space 
 of fifteen or twenty acres, and containing one glue-factory 
 and about two hundred saloons. 
 
 One might walk among these and take his choice ; 
 “ Hot pea-soup and boiled cabbage to-day.” Sauer¬ 
 kraut and hot frankfurters. Walk in.” “ Bean-soup and 
 stewed lamb. Welcome.” All of these things were 
 printed in many languages, as were also the names of the 
 resorts, which were infinite in their variety and appeal, 
 There was the “ Home Circle ” and the “ Cosey Corner ” j 
 there were “ Firesides ” and Hearthstones” and “ Pleas¬ 
 ure Palaces” and “ Wonderlands” and “ Dream Castles ” 
 and “ Love’s Delights.” Whatever else they were called, 
 they were sure to be called “ Union Headquarters,” and to 
 
96 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 hold out a welcome to workingmen ; and there was always 
 a warm stove, and a chair near it, and some friends to laugh 
 and talk with. There was only one condition attached,— 
 you must drink. If you went in not intending to drink, 
 you would be put out in no time, and if you were slow 
 about going, like as not you would get your head split 
 open with a beer-bottle in the bargain. But all of the 
 men understood the convention and drank ; they believed 
 that by it they were getting something for nothing — for 
 they did not need to take more than one drink, and upon the 
 strength of it they might fill themselves up with a good hot 
 dinner. This did not always work out in practice, how¬ 
 ever, for there was pretty sure to be a friend who would 
 treat you, and then you would have to treat him. Then 
 some one else would come in — and, anyhow, a few drinks 
 were good for a man who worked hard. As he went back 
 he did not shiver so, he had more courage for his task; 
 the deadly brutalizing monotony of it did not afflict him 
 so, — he had ideas while he worked, and took a more cheer¬ 
 ful view of his circumstances. On the way home, however, 
 the shivering was apt to come on him again ; and so he 
 would have to stop once or twice to warm up against the 
 cruel cold. As there were hot things to eat in this saloon 
 too, he might get home late to his supper, or he might not 
 get home at all. And then his wife might set out to look 
 for him, and she too Avould feel the cold; and perhaps she 
 would have some of the children with her—and so a 
 whole family would drift into drinking, as the current of 
 a river drifts down-stream. As if to complete the chain, 
 the packers all paid their men in checks, refusing all re¬ 
 quests to pay in coin ; and where in Packingtown could a 
 man go to have his check cashed but to a saloon, where 
 he could pay for the favor by spending a part of the 
 money ? 
 
 From all of these things Jurgis was saved because of 
 Ona. He never would take but the one drink at noon¬ 
 time ; and so he got the reputation of being a surly 
 fellow, and was not quite welcome at the saloons, and had 
 to drift about from one to another. Then at night he 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 97 
 
 would go straight home, helping Ona and Stanislovas, or 
 often putting the former on a car. And when he got 
 home perhaps he would have to trudge several blocks, and 
 come staggering back through the snowdrifts with a bag 
 of coal upon his shoulder. Home was not a very attrac¬ 
 tive place — at least not this winter. They had only been 
 able to buy one stove, and this wr.s a small one, and 
 proved not big enough to warm even the kitchen in the 
 bitterest weather. This made it hard for Teta Elzbieta all 
 day, and for the children when they could not get to 
 school. At night they would sit huddled round this 
 stove, while they ate their supper off their laps ; and then 
 Jurgis and Jonas would smoke a pipe, after which they 
 would all crawl into their beds to get warm, after putting 
 out the fire to save the eoal. Then they would have some 
 frightful experiences with the cold. They would sleep 
 with ail their clothes on, including their overcoats, and 
 put over them all the bedding and spare clotliing they 
 owned ; the children would sleep all crowded into one 
 bed, and yet even so they could not keep warm. The 
 outside ones would be shivering and sobbing, crawling 
 over the others and trying to get down into the centre, 
 and causing a fight. This old house Vfith the leaky 
 weather-boards was a very different thing from their 
 cabins at home, with great thiek walls plastered inside 
 and outside with mud ; and the cold which came upon 
 them was a living thing, a demon-presence in the room. 
 They would waken in the midnight hours, when every¬ 
 thing was black ; perhaps they would hear it yelling out¬ 
 side, or perhaps there would be deathlike stillness — and 
 that would be worse yet. They could feel the cold as it 
 crept in through the cracks, reaching out for them with its 
 icy, death-dealing fingers; and they would crouch and 
 cower, and try to hide from it, all in vain. It would come, 
 and it would come ; a grisly thing, a spectre born in the 
 black caverns of terror ; a power primeval, cosmic, shadow¬ 
 ing the tortures of the lost souls flung out to chaos 
 and destruction. It was cruel, iron-hard ; and hour after 
 hour they would cringe in its grasp, alone, alone. There 
 
9S 
 
 THE JUXGLE 
 
 wotild be no one to hear them if they cried out; there 
 would be no help, no mercy. And so on until morning — 
 when they would go out to another day of toil, a little 
 weaker, a little nearer to the time when it would be their 
 turn to be shaken from the tree. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Yet even bj’’ this deadly winter tbe germ of hope was 
 not to be kept from sproiiting in their hearts. It was just 
 at this time that the great adventure befell Marija. 
 
 The \’ictim was Tamoszius Kuszleika, who played the 
 violin. Everybody laughed at them, for Tamoszius was 
 petite and frail, and Marija could have picked him up and 
 carried liim off under one arm. But perhaps that was 
 why she fascinated him; the sheer volume of Marija’s 
 energy was overwhelming. That first night at the wed¬ 
 ding Tomoszius had hardly taken his eyes off her; and 
 later on, when he came to find that she had reaUy the 
 heart of a baby, her voice and her \’iolence ceased to ter¬ 
 rify him, and he got the habit of coming to pay her visits 
 on Sunday afternoons. There was no place to entertain 
 company creep t in the kitchen, in the midst of the family, 
 and Tamoszius woidd sit there with his hat between his 
 knees, never sajdng more than half a dozen words at a 
 time, and turning red in the face before he managed to 
 say those; until finally Jurgis would clap him upon the 
 back, in his hearty way, erj-iug, “Come now, brother, give 
 us a tune.” And then Tamoszius’s face woxdd fight up 
 and he woidd get out his fiddle, tuck it under his dun, and 
 play. And forthwith the soul of him would flame up and 
 become eloquent—it was almost an impropriety, for all the 
 while his gaze woidd be fixed upon Marija’s face until she 
 would begin to turn red and lower her eyes. There was no 
 resisting the music of Tamoszius, however; even the chil¬ 
 dren woidd sit awed and wondering, and the tears would 
 run down Teta Elzbieta’s cheeks. A wonderfid privilege 
 it was to be thus admitted into the soul of a man of genius, 
 
 99 
 
100 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 to be allowed to share the ecstasies and the agonies of his 
 inmost life. 
 
 Then there were other benefits accruing to Marija from 
 this friendship — benefits of a more substantial nature. 
 People paid Tamoszius big money to come and make 
 music on state occasions ; and also they would invite him 
 to parties and festivals, knowing well that he was too 
 good-natured to come without his fiddle, and that having 
 brought it, he could be made to play while others danced. 
 Once he made bold to ask Marija to accompany him to 
 such a party, and Marija accepted, to his great delight —- 
 after which he never went anywhere without her, while if 
 the celebration were given by friends of bis, he would 
 invite the rest of the family also. In any case Marija 
 would bring back a huge pocketful of cakes and sandwiches 
 for the children, and stories of all the good things she 
 herself had managed to consume. She was compelled, at 
 these parties, to spend most of her time at the refreshment 
 table, for she could not dance with anybody except other 
 women and very old men ; Tamoszius was of an excitable 
 temperament, and afflicted with a frantic jealousy, and any 
 unmarried man who ventured to put his arm about the 
 ample waist of Marija would be certain to throw the 
 orchestra out of tune. 
 
 It was a great help to a person who had to toil all the 
 week to be able to look forward to some such relaxation as 
 this on Saturday nights. The family were too poor and too 
 hard worked to make many acquaintances; in Packing- 
 town, as a rule, people know only their near neighbors and 
 shopmates, and so the place is like a myriad of little country 
 villages. But now there was a member of the family who 
 was permitted to travel and widen her horizon ; and so 
 each week there would be new personalities to talk about, 
 -—how so-and-so was dressed, and where she worked, and 
 what she got, and whom she was in love with ; and how 
 this man had jilted his girl, and how she had quarrelled 
 with the other girl, and what had passed between them; 
 and how another man beat his wife, and spent all her 
 earnings upon drink, and pawned her very clothes- Some 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 101 
 
 people would have scorned this talk as gossip ; but then 
 one has to talk about what one knows. 
 
 It was one Saturday night, as they were coming home 
 from a wedding, that Tamoszius found courage, and set 
 down his violin-case in the street and spoke his heart; and 
 then Marija clasped him in her arms. She told them all 
 about it the next day, and fairly cried with happiness, 
 for she said that Tamoszius was a lovely man. After 
 that he no longer made love to her with his fiddle, but 
 they would sit for hours in the kitchen, blissfully happy 
 in' each other’s arms ; it was the tacit convention of the 
 family to know nothing of what was going on in that 
 corner. 
 
 They were planning to be married in the spring, and 
 have the garret of the house fixed up, and live there. 
 Tamoszius made good wages; and little by little the 
 family were paying back their debt to Marija, so she 
 ought soon to have enough to start life upon — only, with 
 her preposterous soft-hearted ness, she would insist upon 
 spending a good part of her money every week for things 
 which she saw they needed. Marija was really the capi¬ 
 talist of the party, for she had become an expert can- 
 painter by this time — she was getting fourteen cents for 
 every hundred and ten cans, and she could paint more 
 than two cans every minute. Marija felt, so to speak, that 
 she had her hand on the throttle, and the neighborhood 
 was vocal with her rejoicings. 
 
 Yet her friends would shake their heads and tell her to 
 go slow ; one could not count upon such good fortune for¬ 
 ever— there were accidents that always happened. But 
 Marija was not to be prevailed upon, and went on planning 
 and dreaming of all the treasures she was going to have 
 for her home; and so, when the crash did come, her grief 
 was painful to see. 
 
 For her canning-factory shut down I Marija would 
 about as soon have expected to see the sun shut down —■ 
 the huge establishment had been to her a thing akin to 
 *he planets and the seasons. But now it was shut I And 
 -^bey had not given her any explanation, they had not even 
 
102 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 given her a da 3 ^’s warning; they had simpty posted a 
 notice one Saturday tha.t all hands would be paid off that 
 afternoon, and would not resume v/ork for at least a 
 month 1 And that was all that there was to it — her job 
 was gone ! 
 
 It was the holiday rush that was over, the girls said in 
 answer to Marija’s inquiries ; after that there was always 
 a slack. Sometimes the factory would start up on half¬ 
 time after a while, but there was no telling —it had been 
 known to stay closed until way into the summer. The 
 prospects were bad at present, for truckmen who worked 
 in the store-rooms said that these were piled up to the ceil¬ 
 ings, so that the firm could not have found room for an¬ 
 other week’s output of cans. And they had turned off 
 three-quarters of these men, which was a still worse sign, 
 since it meant that there were no orders to be filled. It 
 was all a swindle, can-painting, said the girls — you were 
 crazy with delight because you were making twelve or 
 fourteen dollars a week, and saving half of it; but you 
 had to spend it all keeping alive while you were out, and 
 so your pay was really only half what you thought. 
 
 Marija came home, and because she was a person who 
 could not rest without danger of explosion, they first had 
 a great house-cleaning, and then she set out to search 
 Packingtown for a job to fill up the gap. As nearly all 
 the canning-establishments were shut down, and all the 
 girls hunting work, it will be readily understood that 
 Marija did not find any. Then she took to trying the« 
 stores and saloons, and when this failed she even travelled 
 over into the far-distant regions near the lake front, where 
 lived the riclv people in great palaces, and begged there 
 for some sort of work that could be done by a person who 
 did not know English. 
 
 The men upon the killing-beds felt also the effects of 
 the slump which had turned Marija out; but they felt it in 
 a different way, and a way which made Jurgis understand 
 at last all their bitterness. The big packers did not turn 
 their hands off and close down, like the canning-factories,- 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 103 
 
 but they began to run for shorter and shorter hours. 
 They had always required the men to be on the killing- 
 beds and ready for work at seven o’clock, although there 
 was almost never any work to be done till the buyers 
 out in the yards had gotten to work, and some cattle had 
 come over the chutes. That would often be ten or eleven 
 o’clock, which was bad enough, in all conscience ; but now, 
 in the slack season, they would perhaps not have a thing 
 for their men to do till late in the afternoon. And so 
 they would have to loaf around, in a place where the 
 thermometer might be twenty degrees below zero! At 
 first one would see them running about, or skylarking 
 with each other, trying to keep warm ; but before the day 
 was over they would become quite chilled through and 
 exhausted, and, when the cattle finally came, so near frozen 
 that to move was an agony. And then suddenly the place 
 would spring into activity, and the merciless “speeding- 
 up ” would begin I 
 
 There were weeks at a time when Jurgis went home 
 after such a day as this with not more than two hours’ 
 work to his credit — which meant about thirty-five cents. 
 There were many days when the total was less than half 
 an hour, and others when there was none at all. The 
 general average was six hours a day, which meant for 
 Jurgis about six dollars a week ; and this six hours of 
 work would be done after standing on the killing-bed till 
 one o’clock, or perhaps even three or four o’clock, in the 
 afternoon. Like as not there would come a rush of cattle 
 at the very end of the day, which the men would have to 
 dispose of before they went home, often working by 
 electric light till nine or ten, or even twelve or one o’clock, 
 and without a single instant for a bite of supper. The 
 men were at the mercy of the cattle. Perhaps the buyers 
 would be holding off for better prices — if they could scare 
 the shippers into thinking that they meant to buy nothing 
 chat day, they could get their own terms. For some 
 reason the cost of fodder for cattle in the yards was much 
 above the market price — and you were not allowed to 
 bring your own fodder I Then, too, a number of cars were 
 
104 
 
 XHB JUNGUa 
 
 apt to arrive late in the day, now that the roads were 
 blocked with snow, and the packers would buy their 
 cattle that night, to get them cheaper, and then would 
 come into play their iron-clad rule, that all cattle must be 
 killed the same day they were bought. There was no use 
 kicking about this — there had been one delegation after 
 another to see the packers about it, only to be told that it was 
 the rule, and that there was not the slightest chance of 
 its e^-^er being altered. And so on Christmas Eve J urgis 
 worked till nearly one o’clock in the morning, and on 
 Christmas Day he was on the killing-bed at seven o’clock. 
 
 Ail this was bad; and yet it was not the worst. For 
 after all the hard work a man did, he was paid for only 
 part of it. Jurgis had once been among those who scolfed 
 at the idea of these huge concerns cheating; and so now he 
 could appreciate the bitter irony of the fact that it was 
 precisely their size which enabled them to do it with 
 impunity. One of the rules on the killing-beds was that a 
 man who was one minute late ' is docked an hour; and 
 this was economical, for he w" aade to work the balance 
 of the hour—he was not a^-ywed to stand round and 
 wait. And on the other hand if he came ahead of time he 
 got no pay for that — though often the bosses would start 
 up the gang ten or fifteen minutes before the whistle. 
 And this same custom they carried over to the end of the 
 day; they did not pay for any fraction of an hour — for 
 “broken time.” A man might work full fifty minutes, 
 but if there was no work to fill out the hour, there was no 
 pay for him. Thus the end of every day was a sort ol 
 lottery — a struggle, all but breaking into open war 
 between the bosses and the men, the former trying to 
 rush a job through and the latter trying to stretch it out. 
 Jurgis blamed the bosses for this, though the truth to be 
 told it was not always their fault; for the packers kept 
 them frightened for their lives — and when one was in 
 danger of falling behind the standard, what was easier 
 than to catch up by making the gang work awhile “for 
 the church ” ? This was a savage witticism the men 
 had, which Jurgis had to have explained to him. Old 
 
THE 
 
 105 
 
 <nan Jones was great on missions and such things, and so 
 whenever they were doing some particularly disreputable 
 job, the men would wink at each other and say, “ Now 
 we’re working for the church ! ” 
 
 One of the consequences of all these things was that 
 Jurgis was no longer pernlexed when he heard men talk 
 of fighting for their rights. He felt like fighting now 
 himself; and when the Irish delegate of the butcher- 
 helpers’ union came to him a second time, he received him 
 in a far different spirit. A wonderful idea it now seemed 
 to* Jurgis, this of the men — that by combining they 
 might be able to make a stand and conquer the packers I 
 Jurgis wondered who had first thought of it; and Avhen 
 he was told that it was a common thing for men to do in 
 America, he got the first inkling of a meaning in the 
 phrase “a free country.” The delegate explained to him 
 how it depended upon their being able to get every man 
 to join and stand by the organization, and so Jurgis sig¬ 
 nified that he was willing 0 do his share. Before another 
 month was by, all the wo,, ,r'iig members of his family had 
 union cards, and wore the, j,’ anion buttons conspicuously 
 and with pride. For fully a week they were quite bliss¬ 
 fully happy, thinking that belonging to a union meant an 
 end of all their troubles. 
 
 But only ten days after she had joined, Marija’s canning- 
 factory closed down, and that blow quite staggered them. 
 They could not understand why the union had not pre¬ 
 vented it, and tlie very first time she attended a meeting 
 Marija got up and made a speech about it. It was a 
 business meeting, and was transacted in English, but 
 that made no difference to Marija; she said what was in 
 her, and all the pounding of the cliairman’s gavel and all 
 the uproar and confusion in the room could not prevail. 
 Quite apart from her own troubles she was boiling over 
 with a general sense of the injustice of it, and she told 
 what she tiionght of the packers, and what she thought 
 of a world where such things were allowed to happen ; 
 and then, while the echoes of the hall rang with the shock 
 of her terrible voice, she sat down again and fanned her- 
 
106 
 
 THE jmfGliEi 
 
 self, and the meeting gathered itself together and pro 
 ceeded to discuss the election of a recording secretary. 
 
 Jurgis too had an adventure the first time he attended 
 a union meeting, but it was not of his own seeking. 
 J urgis had gone with the desire to get into an inconspic¬ 
 uous corner and see what was done ; but this attitude of 
 silent and open-eyed attention hc.d marked him out for a 
 victim. Tommy Finnegan was a little Irishman, with 
 big staring eyes and a wild aspect, a “ bolster ” by trade, 
 and badly cracked. Somewhere back in the far-distant 
 past Tommy Finnegan had had a strange experience, and 
 the burden of it rested upon him. All the balance of his 
 life he had done nothing but try to make it understood. 
 When he talked ho caught his victim by the buttonhole, 
 and his face kept coming closer and closer — which was 
 trying, because his teeth were so bad. Jurgis did not 
 mind that, only he was frightened. The method of opera¬ 
 tion of the higher intelligences was Toju Finnegan’s theme, 
 and he desired to find out if Jurgis had ever considered 
 that the representation of things in their present similar¬ 
 ity might be altogether unintelligible upon a more elevated 
 plane. There were assuredly wonderful mysteries about 
 the developing of these things ; and then, becoming con¬ 
 fidential, Mr. Finnegan proceeded to tell of some discov¬ 
 eries of his own. “■ If ye have iver had onything to do 
 wid shperrits,” said he, and looked inquiringly at Jurgis, 
 who kept shaking his head. “ Niver mind, niver mind,” 
 continued the other, “but their influences may be oper¬ 
 atin’ upon ye ; it’s shure as I’m tollin’ ye, it’s them that 
 has the reference to the immejit surroundin’s that has the 
 most of power. It was vouchsafed to me in me youthful 
 days to be acquainted with shperrits” — and so Tommy 
 Finnegan went on, expounding a system of p’ailosophy, 
 while the perspiration came out on Jurgis’s forehead, so 
 great was his agitation and embarrassment. In the end 
 one of the men, seeing his plight, came over and rescued 
 him;, but it was some time before he was a’ole to find any 
 one to explain things to him, and meanwhile his fear lest 
 the strange little Irishman should get him cornered again 
 
THE JU^TGLE 
 
 107 
 
 v^as enough to keep Mm dodging about the room the 
 whole evening. 
 
 He never missed a meeting, however. He had picked 
 up a few words of English by this time, and friends would 
 help him to understand. They were often very turbulent 
 meetings, with half a dozen men declaiming at once, in 
 as many dialects of English ; but the speakers were al] 
 desperately in earnest, and Jurgis was in earnest too, for 
 he understood that a fight was on, and that it was his 
 fight. Since the time of his disillusionment, Jurgis had 
 sworn to trust no man, except in his own family; but 
 here he discovered that he had brothers in aflliction, and 
 allies. Their one chance for life was in union, and so 
 the struggle became a kind of crusade. Jurgis had al¬ 
 ways been a member of the church, because it was the 
 right thing to be, but the church had never touched him, 
 he left all that for the women. Here, however, was a 
 new religion — one that did touch him, that took hold of 
 every fibre of him ; and with all the zeal and fury of a 
 convert he went out as a missionary. There were many 
 non-union men among the Lithuanians, and with these 
 he would labor and wrestle in prayer, trying to show 
 them the right. Sometimes they would be obstinate and 
 refuse to see it, and Jurgis, alas, was not always patient I 
 He forgot how he himself had been blind, a short time 
 ago — after the fashion of all crusaders since the original 
 ones, who set out to spread the gospel of Brotherhood by 
 force of arms. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 One of the first consequences of the discovery of the 
 union was that Jurgis became desirous of learning English. 
 He wanted to know what was going on at the meetings, 
 and to be able to take part in them; and so he began to 
 look about him, and to try to pick up words. The chil¬ 
 dren, who were at school, and learning fast, would teach 
 him a few; and a friend loaned him a little book that had 
 some in it, and Ona would read them to him. Then Jurgis 
 became sorry that he could not read himself; and later on 
 in the winter, when some one told him that there was a 
 night-school that was free, he went and enrolled. After 
 that, every evening that he got home from the yards in 
 time, he would go to the school; he would go even if he 
 were in time for only half an hour. They were teaching 
 him both to read and to speak English — and they would 
 have taught him other things, if only he had had a little 
 time. 
 
 Also the union made another great difference with him 
 — it made him begin to pay attention to the country. It 
 was the beginning of democracy with him. It was a Kttle 
 state, the union, a miniature republic; its affairs were every 
 man's affairs, and every man had a real say about them. 
 In other words, in the union Jurgis learned to talk politics. 
 In the place where he had come from there had not been 
 any politics in Russia one thought of the government 
 as an affliction like the lightning and the hail- “ Duck, 
 little brother, duck,” the wise old peasants would whisper; 
 “everything passes away.” And when Jurgis had first 
 come to America he had supposed that it was the same. 
 He had heard people say that it was a free country — but 
 what did that meat*'* He found that here, precisely as in 
 
 108 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 109 
 
 Russia, there were rich men who owned everything; and 
 if one could not find any work, was not the hunger he 
 began to feel the same sort of hunger? 
 
 When Jurgis had been working about three weeks at 
 Brown’s, there had come to him one noon-time a man who 
 was employed as a night-watchman, and who asked him if 
 he would not like to take out naturalization papers and be¬ 
 come a citizen. Jurgis did not know what that meant, 
 but the man explained the advantages. In the first place, 
 it would not cost him anything, and it would get him half 
 a day off, with his pay just the same; and then when elec¬ 
 tion time came he would be able to vote — and there was 
 something in that. Jurgis was naturally glad to accept, 
 and so the night-watchman said a few words to the boss, 
 and he was excused for the rest of the day. When, later 
 on, he wanted a holiday to get married he could not get 
 it; and as for a holiday with pay just the same — what 
 power had wrought that miracle heaven only knew I How¬ 
 ever, he went with the man, who picked up several other 
 newly landed immigrants, Poles, Lithuanians, and Slovaks, 
 and took them all outside, where stood a great four-horsa 
 tally-ho coach, with fifteen or twenty men already in it. 
 It was a fine chance to see the sights of the city, and the 
 party had a merry time, with plenty of beer handed up 
 from inside. So they drove down-town and stopped before 
 an imposing granite building, in which they interviewed 
 an official, who had the papers all ready, with only the 
 names to be filled in. So each man in turn took an oath 
 of which he did not understand a woid, and then was pre¬ 
 sented with a handsome ornamented document with a big 
 red seal and the shield of the United States upon it, and 
 was told that he had become a citizen of the Republic and 
 the equal of the President himself. 
 
 A month or two later Jurgis had another interview with 
 this same man, who told him where to go to “ register.” 
 And then finally, when election day came, the packing¬ 
 houses posted a notice that men who desired to vote might 
 remain away until nine that morning, and the same night- 
 watchman took Jurgis and the rest of his flock into the 
 
110 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 back room of a saloon, and showed each of them where 
 and how to mark a ballot, and then gave each two dollars, 
 and took them to the polling place, where there was a 
 policeman on duty especially to see that they got through 
 all right. Jurgis felt quite proud of this good luck till 
 he got home and met Jonas, who had taken the leader 
 aside and whispered to him, offering to vote three times 
 for four dollars, which offer had been accepted. 
 
 And now in the union Jurgis met men who explained 
 all this mystery to him; and he learned that America 
 differed from Russia in that its government existed under 
 the form of a democracy. The officials who ruled it, and 
 got all the graft, had to be elected first; and so there were 
 two rival sets of grafters, known as political parties, and 
 the one got the office which bought the most votes. Now 
 and then the election was very close, and that was the 
 time the poor man came in. In the stockyards this was 
 only in national and state elections, for in local elections 
 the democratic party always carried everything. The 
 ruler of the district was therefore the democratic boss, 
 a little Irishman named Mike Scully. Scully held an 
 important party office in the state, and bossed even the 
 mayor of the city, it was said; it was his boast that he 
 carried the stockyards in his pocket. He was an enor* 
 mously rich man — he had a hand in all the big graft in 
 the neighborhood. It was Scully, for instance, who owned 
 that dump which Jurgis and Ona had seen the first day 
 of their arrival. Not only did he own the dump, but he 
 owned the brick-factory as well; and first he took out the 
 clay and made it into bricks, and then he had the city 
 bring garbage to fill up the hole, so that he could build 
 houses to sell to the people. Then, too, he sold the bricks 
 to the city, at his own price, and the city came and got 
 them in its own wagons. And also he owned the other 
 hole near by, where the stagnant water was; and it was 
 he who cut the ice and sold it; and what was more, if the 
 men told truth, he had not had to pay any taxes for the 
 water, and he had built the ice-house cut of city lumber, 
 and had not had to pay anything for that. The news- 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 ill 
 
 papers had got hold of that story, and there had been a 
 scandal; but Scully had hired somebody to confess and 
 take all the blame, and then skip the country. It was 
 said, too, that he had built his brick-kiln in the same way, 
 and that the workmen were on the city pay-roll while they 
 did it; however, one had to press closely to get these 
 things out of the men, for it was not their business, and 
 Mike Scully was a good man to stand in with. A note 
 signed by him was equal to a job any time at the packing¬ 
 houses ; and also he employed a good many men himself, and 
 worked them only eight hours a day, and paid them the 
 highest wages. This gave him many friends—all of whom 
 he had gotten together into the “War-Whoop League,” 
 whose club-house you might see just outside of the yards. 
 It was the biggest club-house, and the biggest club, in all 
 Chicago; and they had prize-fights every now and then, 
 and cock-fights and even dog-fights. The policemen in 
 the district all belonged to the league, and instead of sup¬ 
 pressing the fights, they sold tickets for them. The man 
 that had taken Jurgis to be naturalized was one of these 
 “ Indians,” as they were called; and on election day there 
 would be hundreds of them out, and all with big W’ads of 
 money in their pockets and free drinks at every saloon in 
 the district. That was another thing, the men said — all 
 the saloon-keepers had to be “ Indians,” and to put up on 
 demand, otherwise they could not do business on Sundays, 
 nor have any gambling at all. In the same way Scully 
 had all the jobs in the fire department at his disposal, and 
 all the rest of the city graft in the stockyards district; he 
 was building a block of flats somewhere up on Ashland 
 Avenue, and the man who was overseeing it for him was 
 drawing pay as a city inspector of sewers. The city in¬ 
 spector of water-pipes had been dead and buried for over 
 a year, but somebody was still drawing his pay. The city 
 inspector of sidewalks was a bar-keeper at the War-Whoop 
 cafe — and maybe he could not make it uncomfortable for 
 any tradesman who did not stand in with Scully! 
 
 Ijven the packers were in awe of him, so the men said. 
 It gave them pleasure to believe this, for Scully stood as 
 
112 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 the people’s man, and boasted of it boldly when election 
 day came. The packers had wanted a bridge at Ashland 
 Avenue, but they had not been able to get it till they had 
 seen Scully ; and it was the same with “ Bubbly Creek,” 
 which the city had threatened to make the packers cover 
 over, till Scully had come to their aid. “Bubbly Creek” 
 is an arm of the Chicago River, and forms the southern 
 boundary of the yards; all the drainage of the square mile 
 of packing-houses empties into it, so that it is really a great 
 open sewer a hundred or two feet wide. One long arm of 
 it is blind, and the filth stays there forever and a day. 
 The grease and chemicals that are poured into it undergo 
 all sorts of strange transformations, which are the cause 
 of its name ; it is constantly in motion, as if huge fish were 
 feeding in it, or great leviathans disporting themselves in 
 its depths. Bubbles of carbonic acid gas will rise to the 
 surface and burst, and make rings two or three feet wide. 
 Here and there the grease and filth have caked solid, and 
 the creek looks like a bed of lava; chickens v/alk about on 
 it, feeding, and many times an unwary stranger has started 
 to stroll across, and vanished temporarily. The packers 
 used to leave the creek that way, till every now and then 
 the surface would catch on fire and burn furiously, and 
 the fire department would have to come and put it out. 
 Once, however, an ingenious stranger came and started to 
 gather this filth in scows, to make lard out of; then the 
 packers took the cue, and got out an injunction to stop 
 him, and afterwards gathered it themselves. The banks 
 of “Bubbly Creek” are plastered thick with hairs, and 
 this also the packers gather and clean. 
 
 And there were things even stranger than this, accord¬ 
 ing to the gossip of the men. The packers bad secret 
 mains, through which they stole billions of gallons of 
 the city’s water. The newspapers had been full of this 
 scandal—once there had even been an investigation, and 
 an actual uncovering of the pipes; but nobod’* had been 
 punished, and the thing went right on. / .;hen there 
 was the condemned meat industry, with . endless hor¬ 
 rors. The people of Chicago saw the government in- 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 US 
 
 spectors in Packingtown, and they all took that to mean 
 that they were protected from diseased meat; they did 
 not understand that these hundred and sixty-three in¬ 
 spectors had been appointed at the request of the packers, 
 and that they were paid by the United States government 
 to certify that all the diseased meat was kept in the stateo 
 They liad no authority beyond that; for the inspection 
 of meat to be sold in the city and state the whole force 
 in Packingtown consisted of three henchmen of the local 
 political machine I* And shortly afterward one of these, 
 a physician, made the discovery that the carcasses of 
 steers which had been condemned as tubercular by the 
 government inspectors, and which therefore contained 
 ptomaines, which are deadly poisons, were left upon an 
 open platform and carted away to be sold in the city; 
 and so he insisted that these carcasses be treated with 
 an injection of kerosene — and was ordered to resign 
 the same week I So indignant were the packers that 
 they went farther, and compelled the mayor to abolish the 
 whole bureau of inspection; so that since then there has 
 not been even a pretence of any interference with the graf^ 
 There was said to be two thousand dollars a week hush^ 
 money from the tubercular steers alone ; and as much 
 
 * •• Rules and Regulations for the Inspection of Live Stock and thei^ 
 Products.” United States Department ot'Agriculture, Bureau of Animal 
 Industries, Order No. 125: — , ; 
 
 Section 1. Proprietors of slaughterhouses, canning, salting, packing, 
 or rendering establishments engaged m the slaughtering of cattle, sheep, 
 or swine, or the packing of any of their products, the carcasses or prod¬ 
 ucts of which are to become subjects of interstate or foreign commerce, 
 shall make application to the Secretary of Agriculture for inspection of 
 said animals and tiieir products. „ . . 
 
 Section 15. Such rejected or condemned animals shall at once be 
 removed by the owners from the pens containing animals which have 
 been inspected and found to be free from disease and fit for human food, 
 and shall be disposed of in accordance with the taros, ordinances, and 
 regulations of the state and municipality in which said rejected or con- 
 demned animals are located. , 
 
 Section 25. A microscopic examination for trichinae shall be made of 
 all swine product '-'ported to countries requirfiig such examination, Afo 
 microscopic exam^ .‘^,1 loill be made of hogs slaughtered for interstate 
 trade, but this exanunation shall be confined to those intended for the 
 export trade. 
 
114 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 again from the hogs which had died of cholera on the 
 trains, and which you might see any day being loaded into 
 box-cars and hauled away to a place called Globe, in Indiana, 
 where they made a fancy grade of lard. 
 
 Jurgis heard of these things little by little, in the gossip 
 of those who were obliged to perpetrate them. It seemed 
 as if every time you met a person from a uew department, 
 you heard of new swindles and new crimes. There was, 
 for instance, a Lithuanian who was a cattle-butcher for the 
 plant where Marija had woi-ked, which killed meat for can¬ 
 ning only; and to hear this man describe the animals which 
 came to his place would have been worth while for a Dante 
 or a Zola. It seemed that they must have agencies all over 
 the country, to hunt out old and crippled and diseased 
 cattle to be canned. There were cattle which had 
 been fed on “ whiskey-malt,’’ the refuse of the brew¬ 
 eries, and had become what the men. called “ steerly ” —. 
 which means covered with boils. It was a nasty job kill¬ 
 ing these, for when you plunged 5''our knife into them they 
 would burst and splash foul-smelling stuff into your face ; 
 and when a man’s sleeves were smeared with blood, and his 
 hands steeped in it, how was he ever to wipe his face, or to 
 clear his eyes so that he could see? It was stuff such as 
 this that made the “embalmed beef” that had killed sev¬ 
 eral times as many United States soldiers as all the bullets 
 of the Spaniards; only the army beef, besides, was not 
 fresh canned, it was old stuff that had been lying for 
 years in the cellars. 
 
 Then one Sunday evening, Jurgis sat puffing his pipe by 
 the kitchen stove, and talking with an old fellow whom 
 Jonas had introduced, and who worked in the canning- 
 rooms at Durham’s; and so Jurgis learned a few things 
 about the great and only Durham canned goods, which 
 had become a national institution. They were regular 
 alchemists at Durham’s; they advertised a mushroom.- 
 catsup, and the men who made it did not know what a 
 mushroom looked like. They advertised “ potted chicken,’’ 
 -—and it was like the boarding-house soup of the comio 
 papers, through which a chicken had walked with rub 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 115 
 
 bers on. Perhaps they had a secret pro cess for makiog 
 chickens chemically — who knows? said Jurgis’s friend; 
 the things that went into the mixture were tripe, and 
 the fat of pork, and beef suet, and hearts of beef, and 
 finally the waste ends of veal, when they had any. They 
 put these up in several grades, and sold them at several 
 prices; but the contents of the cans all came out of the 
 same hopper. And then there was “potted game” and 
 “ potted grouse,” “ potted ham,” and “ devilled ham ” — 
 de-vyled, as the men called it. “ De-vyled ” ham was 
 made out of the waste ends of smoked beef that were 
 too small to be sliced by the machines; and also tripe, 
 dyed with chemicals so that it would not show white; 
 and trimmings of hams and corned beef; and potatoes, 
 skins and all; and finally the hard cartilaginous gullets 
 of beef, after the tongues had been cut out. All this 
 ingenious mixture was ground up and flavored with 
 spices to make it taste like something. Anybody who 
 could invent a new imitation had been sure of a fortune 
 from old Durham, said Jurgis’s informant; but it was 
 hard to think of anything new in a place where so many 
 sharp wits had been at work for so long: where men wel¬ 
 comed tuberculosis in the cattle they were feeding, because 
 it made them fatten more quickly; and where they bought 
 up all the old rancid butter left over in the grocery-stores of 
 a continent, and “ oxidized ” it by a forced-air process, to 
 take away the odor, rechurned it with skim-milk, and sold 
 it in bricks in the cities 1 Up to a year or two ago it had 
 been the custom to kill horses in the yards — ostensibly 
 for fertilizer; but after long agitation the newspapers had 
 been able to make the public realize tliat the horses were 
 being canned. Now it was against the law to kill horses in 
 Packingtown, and the law was really complied with — for 
 the present, at any rate. Any day, however, one might 
 see sharp-horned and shaggy-haired creatures running 
 with the sheep — and yet what a job you would have to 
 get the public to believe that a good part of what it buys 
 for lamb and mutton is really goat’s flesh I 
 
 There was another interesting set of statistics that a 
 
116 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 persou might have gathered in Packingtown — those ot the 
 various alHictions of the workers. When Jurgis had first 
 inspected the packing-plants vvith Szedvilas, he had mar- 
 *reiled while he listened to the tale of all the things that 
 were made out of the carcasses of animals, and of all the 
 lesser industries that were maintained there; now he 
 found that each one of these lesser industries was a 
 separate little inferno, in its way as horrible as the 
 killing-beds, the source and fountain of them all. The 
 workers in each of them had their own peculiar diseases. 
 And the wandering visitor might be sceptical about all 
 the swindles, but he could not be sceptical about these, 
 for the worker bore the evidence of them about on his 
 own person — generally he had only to hold out his 
 hand. 
 
 There were the men in the pickle-rooms, for instance, 
 where old Antanas had gotten his death; scarce a one of 
 these that had not some spot of horror on his person. 
 Let a man so much as scrape his finger pushing a truck 
 in the pickle-rooms, and he might have a sore that would 
 put him out of the world; all the joints in his fingers 
 might be eaten by the acid, one by one. Of the butchers 
 and floorsmeu, the beef-boners and trimmers, ana all those 
 who used knives, you could scarcely find a person who 
 had the use of his thumb; time and time again the base 
 of it had been slashed, till it was a mere lump of flesh 
 against which the man pressed the knife to hold it. The 
 hands of these men would be criss-crossed with cuts, until 
 you could no longer pretend to count them or to trace 
 them. They would have no nails, —they had worn them 
 off pulling hides ; their knuckles were swollen so that 
 their fingers spread out like a fan. There were men who 
 worked in the cooking-rooms, in the midst of steam and 
 sickening odors, by artificial light; in these rooms the 
 germs of tuberculosis might live for two years, but the 
 supply was renewed every hour. There were the beef- 
 luggers, who carried two-hundred-pound quarters into 
 the refrigerator-cars ; a fearful kind of v'ork, that began 
 at four o’clock in the morning, and that wore out the 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 117 
 
 most powerful men in a few years. There were those 
 who worked in the chilling-rooms, and whose special 
 disease was rheumatism; the time-limit that a man could 
 work in the chilling-rooms was said to be five years. 
 iThere were the wool-pluckers, whose hands went to 
 pieces even sooner than the hands of the pickle-men; 
 for the pelts of the sheep had to be painted ^vith acid 
 to loosen the wool, and then the piuckers had to pull 
 out this wool with their bare hands, till the acid had 
 eaten their fingers off. There were those who made the 
 tins for the canned-meat; and their hands, too, were a 
 maze of cuts, and each cut represented a chance for blood- 
 poisoning. Some worked at the stamping-machines, and 
 it was very seldom that one could work long there at the 
 pace that was set, and not give out and forget himself, 
 and have a part of his hand chopped off. There were the 
 “ holsters,” as they were called, whose task it was to press 
 the lever which lifted the dead cattle off the floor. They 
 ran along upon a rafter, peering down through the damp 
 and the steam ; and as old Durham’s architects had not 
 built the killing-room for the convenience of the hoisters, 
 at every few feet they would have to stoop under a beam, 
 say four feet above the one they ran on ; which got them 
 into the habit of stooping', so that in a few years they 
 wo'uld be walking like chimpanzees. Worst of any, how¬ 
 ever, were the fertilizer-men, and those who served in the 
 cooking-rooms. These people could not be shown to 
 the visitor, — for the odor of a fertilizer-man would scare 
 any ordinary visitor at a hundred yards, and as for the 
 other men, who worked in tank-rooms full of steam, and 
 in some of which there were open vats near the level of the 
 floor, their peculiar trouble was that they fell into the vats; 
 and when they were fished out, there was never enough 
 of them left to be worth exhibiting, — sometimes they 
 would be overlooked for days, till all but the bones of 
 them had gone out to the world as Durham’s Pure Leaf 
 Lard I 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 During the early part of the winter the family had had 
 money enough to live and a little over to pay their debts 
 with; but when the earnings of Jurgis fell from nine or 
 ten dollars a week to five or six, there was no longer any¬ 
 thing to spare. The winter went, and the spring came, 
 and found them still living thus from hand to mouth, 
 hanging on day by day, with literally not a month’s 
 wages between them and starvation. Marija was in 
 despair, for there was still no word about the reopen¬ 
 ing of the canning-factory, and her savings were al¬ 
 most entirely gone. She had had to give up all idea of 
 marrying then ; the family could not get along without 
 her—though for that matter she was likely soon to 
 become a fiurden even upon them, for when her money 
 was all gone, they would have to pay back what they 
 owed her in board. So Jurgis and Ona and Teta 
 Elzbieta would hold anxious conferences until late at 
 night, trying to figure how they could manage this too 
 without starving. 
 
 Such were the cruel terms upon which their life was 
 possible, that they might never have nor expect a single 
 instant’s respite from worry, a single instant in which they 
 were not haunted by the thought of money. They would 
 no sooner escape, as by a miracle, from one difficulty, than 
 a new one would come into view. In addition to all their 
 physical hardships, there was thus a constant strain upon 
 their minds ; they were harried all day and nearly all night 
 by worry and fear. This was in truth not living ; it was 
 scarcely even existing, and they felt that it was too little 
 for the price they paid. They were willing to work all 
 
 118 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 119 
 
 the time; and when people did their best, ought they not 
 to be able to keep alive ? 
 
 There seemed never to be an end to the things they had 
 to buy and to the unforeseen contingencies. Once their 
 water-pipes froze and burst; and when, in their ignorance, 
 they thawed them out, they had a terrifying flood in their 
 house. It happened while the men were away, and poor 
 Elzbieta rushed out into the street screaming for help, for 
 she did not even know whether the flood could be stopped, 
 or whether they were ruined for life. It was nearly as bad 
 as the latter, they found in the end, for the plumber charged 
 them seventy-five cents an hour, and seventy-five cents for 
 another man who had stood and watched him, and included 
 all the time the two had been going and coming, and also 
 a charge for all sorts of material and extras. And then 
 again, when they went to pay their .January’s instalment 
 on the house, the agent terrified them by asking them if 
 they had had the insurance attended to yet. In answer to 
 their inquiry he showed them a clause in the deed which 
 provided that they were to keep the house insured for one 
 thousand dollars, as soon as the present policy ran out, 
 which would happen in a few days. Poor Elzbieta, upon 
 whom again fell the blow, demanded how much it would 
 cost them. Seven dollars, the man said; and that night 
 came Jurgis, grim and determined, requesting that the 
 agent would be good enough to inform him, once for all, 
 as to all the expenses they were liable for. The deed was 
 signed now, he said, with sarcasm proper to the new way 
 of life he had learned — the deed was signed, and so the 
 agent had no longer anything to gain by keeping quiet. 
 And Jurgis looked the fellow squarely in the eye, and so 
 he did not waste any time in conventional protests, but 
 read him the deed. They would have to renew the insur¬ 
 ance every year; they would have to pay the taxes, about 
 ten dollars a year; they would have to pay the water-tax, 
 about six dollars a year— (Jurgis silently resolved to shut 
 off the hydrant). This, besides the interest and the 
 monthly instalments, would be all — unless by chance the 
 city should happen to decide to put in a sewer or to lay a 
 
120 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 sidewalk. Yes, said the agent, they would have to Ime 
 these, whether they wanted them or not, if the city said 
 so. The sewer would cost them about twenty-two dol¬ 
 lars, and the sidewalk fifteen if it were wood, twenty-five 
 if it were cement. 
 
 So Jurgis went home again ; it was a relief to know the 
 worst, at any rate, so that he could no more be surprised 
 by fresh demands. He saw now how they had been plun¬ 
 dered ; but they were in for it, there was no turning back. 
 They could onlj^- go on and make the fight and win — for 
 defeat was a thing that could not even be thought of. 
 
 When the springtime came, they were delivered from 
 the dreadful cold, and that was a great deal; but in addi¬ 
 tion they had counted on the money they would not have 
 to pay for coal — and it was just at this time that Marija’s 
 board began to fail. Then, too, the warm weather brought 
 trials of its own ; each season had its trials, as they found. 
 In the spring there were cold rains, that turned the streets 
 into canals and bogs ; the mud would bo so deep that 
 wagons would sink up to the hubs, so that half a dozen 
 horses could not move them. Then, of course, it was im¬ 
 possible for any one to get to work with dry feet; and this 
 was bad for men that were poorly clad and shod, and still 
 worse for women and children. Later came midsummer, 
 with the stifling heat, when the dingy killing-beds of 
 Durham’s became a very purgatory; one time, in a 
 single day, three men feU dead from sunstroke. All day 
 long the rivers of hot blood poured forth, until, with the 
 sun beating down, and the air motionless, the stench was 
 enough to knock a man over; all the old smells of a genera¬ 
 tion would be drawn out by this heat — for there was never 
 any washing of the walls and rafters and pillars, and they 
 were caked with the filth of a lifetime. The men who 
 worked on the killing-beds would come to reek with foul¬ 
 ness, so that you could smell one of them fifty feet away; 
 there was simply no such thing as keeping decent, the 
 most careful man gave it up in the end, and wallowed in 
 uncleanness. There was not even a place where a man 
 could wash his hands, and the men ate as much raw blood 
 
THE 
 
 121 
 
 as food at dinner-time. When they were at work they 
 could not even wipe off their faces — they were as helpless 
 as newly born babes in that respect; and it may seem like 
 a small matter, but when the sweat began to run down their 
 necks and tickle them, or a fly to bother them, it was a tor¬ 
 ture like being burned alive. Whether it was the slaugh¬ 
 ter-houses or the dumps that were responsible, one could 
 not say, but with the hot weather there descended upon 
 Packingtown a veritable Egyptian plague of flies ; there 
 could be no describing this — the houses would be black 
 with them. There was no escaping ; you might provide 
 all your doors and windows with screens, but their buzzing 
 outside would be like the swarming of bees, and whenever 
 you opened the door they would rush in as if a storm of 
 wind were driving them. 
 
 Perhaps the summer-time suggests to you thoughts of 
 the country, visions of green tields and mountains and 
 sparkling lakes. It had no such suggestion for the people 
 in the yards. The great packing-machine ground on 
 remorselessly, without thinking of green fields , and the 
 men and women and children who were part of it never 
 saw any green thing, not even a flower. Four or five miles 
 to the east of them lay the blue waters of Lake Michigan ; 
 but for all the good it did Shem it might have been as far 
 away as the Pacific Ocean. They had only Sundays, and 
 then they were too tired to walk. They were tied to the 
 great packing-machine, and tied to it for life. The man¬ 
 agers and superintendents and clerks of Packingtown were 
 all recruited from another class, and never from the 
 workers ; they scorned the workers, the very meanest of 
 them. A poor devil of a bookkeeper who had been work¬ 
 ing in Durham’s for twenty years at a salary of six dollars 
 a week, and might work there for twenty more and do no 
 better, would yet consider himself a gentleman, as far 
 removed as the poles from the most skilled worker on the 
 killing-beds; he would dress differently, and live in 
 another part of the town, and come to work at a different 
 hour of the day, and in every way make sure that he never 
 rubbed elbows with a laboring-man. Perhaps this waf 
 
 9 
 
122 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 due to the repulsiveness of the work ; at any rate, the 
 people who worked with their hands were a class apart, 
 and were made to feel it. 
 
 In the late spring the canning-factory started up again, and 
 so once more Marija was heard to sing, and the love-music 
 of Tamoszius took on a less melancholy tone. It was not 
 for long, however; for a month or two later a dreadful 
 calamity fell upon Marija. Just one year and three days 
 after she had begun work as a can-painter, she lost her 
 job. 
 
 It was a long story. Marija insisted that it was because 
 of her activity in the union. The packers, of course, had 
 spies in all the unions, and in addition they made a prac¬ 
 tice of buying up a certain number of the union officials, as 
 many as they thought they needed. So every week they 
 received reports as to what was going on, and often they 
 knew things before the members of the union knew them. 
 Any one who was considered to be dangerous by them 
 would find that he was not a favorite with his boss ; and 
 Marija had been a great hand for going after the foreign 
 people and preaching to them. However that might be, 
 the known facts were that a few weeks before the factory 
 closed, Marija had been cheated out of her pay for three 
 hundred cans. The girls v/orked at a long table, and 
 behind them walked a woman with pencil and notebook, 
 keeping count of the number they finished. This woman 
 was, of course, only human, and sometimes made mistakes; 
 when this happened, there v/as no redress—if on Saturday 
 you got less money than you had earned, you had to make 
 the best of it. But Marija did not understand this, and 
 made a disturbance. Marija’s disturbances did not mean 
 anything, and while she had known only Lithuanian and 
 Polish, they had done no harm, for people only laughed 
 at her and made her cry. But now Marija was able to call 
 names in English, and so she got the woman who made 
 the mistake to disliking her. Probably, as Marija claimed, 
 she made mistakes on purpose after that; at any rate, she 
 made them, and the third time it happened Marija went 
 on the war-path and took the matter first to the forelady. 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 123 
 
 and when she got no satisfaction there, to the superin¬ 
 tendent. This was unheard-of presumption, but the super¬ 
 intendent said he would see about it, whicii Marija took to 
 mean that she was going to get her money ; after waiting 
 three days, she went to see the superintendent again. 
 This time the man frowned, and said that he had not hac. 
 time to attend to it ; and when Marija, against the advice 
 and warning of every one, tried it once more, he ordered 
 her back to her work in a passion. Just how things hap¬ 
 pened after tliat Marija was not sure, but that afternoon 
 the forelady told her that her services would not be any 
 longer required. Poor Marija could not have been more 
 dumfounded had the wom_an knocked her over the head ; 
 at first she could not believe what she heard, and then 
 she grew furious and swore that she would come anyway, 
 that her place belonged to her. In the end she sat down 
 in the middle of the floor and wept and wailed. 
 
 It was a cruel lesson ; but then Marija was headstrong— ' 
 she should have listened to those who had had experience. 
 The next time she would know her place, as the forelady 
 expressed it; and so Marija went out, and the family 
 raced the problem of an existence again. 
 
 It was especially hard this time, for Ona was to be con¬ 
 fined before long, and Jurgis was trying hard to save up 
 money for this. He had heard dreadful stories of the mid¬ 
 wives, who grow as thick as fleas in Packingtown ; and he 
 had made up his mind that Ona must have a man-doctor. 
 Jurgis could be very obstinate when he wanted to, and 
 he was in this case, much to the dismay of the women, 
 who felt that a man-doctor was an impropriety, and that 
 the matter really belonged to them. The cheapest doctor 
 they could find would charge them fifteen dollars, and 
 perhaps more when the bill came in ; and here was Jurgis, 
 declaring that he would pay it, even if he had to stop eat¬ 
 ing in the meantime! 
 
 Marija had only about twenty-five dollars left. Day 
 after day she wand'' red about the yards begging a job, but 
 this time without hope of finding it. Marija could do the 
 work of an able-bo(^ed man, when she was cheerful, but 
 
124 
 
 i:HE JUNGLE 
 
 discouragement wore her out easily, and she would come 
 home at night a pitiable object. She learned her lesson 
 this time, poor creature; she learned it ten times over. 
 All the family learned it along with her — that when you 
 have once got a job in Packingtown, you hang on to it, 
 come what will. 
 
 Four weeks Marija hunted, and half of a fifth week. 
 Of course she stopped paying her dues to the union. 
 She lost all interest in the union, and cursed herself for a 
 fool that she had. ever been dragged into one. She had 
 about made up her mind that she was a lost soul, when 
 somebody told her of an opening, and she went and got 
 a place as a “beef-trimmer.” She got this because the 
 boss saw that she had the muscles of a man, and so he 
 discharged a man and put Marija to do his work, paying 
 her a little more than half what he had been paying 
 before. 
 
 When she first came to Packingtown, Marija would 
 Lave scorned such work as this. She was in another 
 canning-factory, and her work was to trim the meat of 
 those diseased cattle that Jurgis had been told about not 
 long before. She was shut up in one of the rooms where 
 the people seldom saw the daylight; beneath her were the 
 chilling-rooms, where the meat w^as frozen, and above her 
 were the cooking-rooms; and so she stood on an ice-cold 
 floor, while her head v/as often so hot that she could 
 scarcely breathe. Trimming beef off the bones by the 
 hundred-weight, while standing up from early morning 
 till late at night, with heavy boots on and the floor always 
 damp and full of puddles, liable to be thrown out of work 
 '"definitely because of a slackening in the trade, liable 
 again to be kept overtime in rush seasons, and be worked 
 till she trembled in every nerve and lost her grip on her 
 slimy knife, and gave herself a poisoned wound — that 
 was the new life that unfolded itself before Marija. But 
 because Marija was a human horse she merely laughed 
 and went at it; it would enable her to pay her board 
 again, and keep the family going. And as for Tamoszius 
 — well, they had waited a long time, and they could v/ait 
 
THE flXJNHUfi 
 
 125 
 
 a little longer. They could not possibly get along apon 
 his wages alone, and the family could not live yithoui 
 hers. He could come and visil. her, and sit in the kitchen 
 and hold her hand, and he must manage to be content 
 with that. But day by day the music of Tamoszius's 
 violin became more passionate and heart-breaking; and 
 Marija would sit with her hands clasped and her cheeks 
 v/et and all ner body a-tremble, hearing in the wailing 
 melodies the voices of the unborn generations which 
 cried out in her for life. 
 
 Marija’s lesson came just in time to save Ona from a 
 similar fate. Ona, too, was dissatisfied v/ith hei place, and 
 had far more reason than Marija. She did noii tell half 
 of her stoiy at home, because she saw it was a torment 
 to Jurgis, and she was afraid of what he might do. For 
 a long time Ona had seen that Miss Henderson, the fore- 
 lady in her department, did not like her. At first she 
 thought it was the old-time mistake she had made in ask¬ 
 ing for a holiday to get married. Then she concluded 
 it must be because she did not give the forelady a present 
 occasionally — she was the kind that took presents from 
 the girls, Ona learned, and made all sorts of discrimina¬ 
 tions ill favor of those who gave them. In the end, how¬ 
 ever, Ona discovered that it was even worse than that. 
 Miss Henderson was a. newcomer, and it was some time 
 before rumor made her out; but finally it transpired that 
 she was a kept-woman, the former mistress of the superin¬ 
 tendent of a department in the same building. He had 
 put her there to keep her quiet, it seemed — and that not 
 altogether with success, for once or twice they had been 
 heard quarrelling. She had the temper of i hyena, and 
 soon the place she ran was a witch’s cahlron. There 
 were some of the girls who were of her o ,vn sort, who 
 were willing to toady to her and flatter her; and these 
 would carry tales about the rest, and so the furies were 
 unchained in the place. Worse than this, the woman 
 lived in a bawdy-house down-town, with a coarse, red-faced 
 'rishman named Connor, who was the boas of the loading- 
 
126 
 
 THE 
 
 gang outside, and would make free with the gdris as they 
 went to and from their work. In the slack seasons some 
 of them would go with Miss Henderson to this house 
 down-town — in fact, it would not be too much to say that 
 she managed her department at Brown’s in conjunction 
 with it. Sometimes women from the house would be 
 given places alongside of decent girls, and after other 
 decent girls had been turned off to make room for them. 
 When you worked in this woman’s department the house 
 down-town was never out of your thoughts all day — there 
 were always whiffs of it to be caught, like the odor of the 
 Packingtown rendering-plants at night, w'hen the wind 
 shifted suddenly. There would be stories about it going 
 the rounds ; the girls opposite you would be telling them 
 and winking at you. In such a place Ona would not 
 have stayed a clay, but for starvation ; and, as it was, she 
 was never sure that she could stay the next day. She 
 understood now that the real reason that Miss Henderson 
 hated her was that she was a decent married girl; and 
 she knew that the talebearers and the toadies hated her 
 for the same reason, and were doing their best to make 
 her life miserable. 
 
 But there was no place a girl could go in Packingtown, 
 if she was particular about things of this sort; there was 
 no place in it where a prostitute could not get along better 
 than a decent girl. Here was a population, low-class and 
 mostly foreign, hanging always on the verge of starvation, 
 and dependent for its opportunities of life upon the whim 
 of men every bit as brutal and unscrupulous as the old- 
 time slave-drivers; under such circumstances immorality 
 was exactly, as inevitable, and as prevalent, as it was under 
 the system of chattel slavery. Things that were quite 
 unspeakable went on there in the packing-houses all the 
 time, and v/ere taken for granted by everybody ; only 
 they did not show, as in the old slavery times, because 
 ihere was no difference in color between master and slave. 
 
 One mors dug Ona stayed home, and Jurgis had the 
 tofian-doctor, according to his whim, and she was safely 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 127 
 
 delivered of a fine baby. It was an enormous big boy, 
 and Ona was such a tinj creature herself, that it seemed 
 quite incredible. Jurgis would stand and gaze at the 
 stranger by the hour, unable to believe that it had really 
 happened. 
 
 The coming of this boy was a decisive event wich Jurgis. 
 It made him irrevocably a family man; it killed the last 
 lingering impulse that he might have had to go out in the 
 evenings and sit and talk with the men in the saloons. 
 There was nothing he cared for now so much as to sit and 
 look at the baby. This was very curious, for Jurgis had 
 never been interested in babies before. But then, this 
 was a very unusual sort of a baby. He had the brightest 
 little black eyes, and little black ringlets all over his head; 
 he was the living image of his father, everybody said — 
 and Jurgis found this a fascinating circumstance. It was 
 sufficiently perplexing that this tiny mite of life should 
 have come into the world at all in the manner that it had; 
 that it should have come with a comical imitation of its 
 father’s nose was simply uncanny. 
 
 Perhaps, Jurgis thought, this was intended to signify 
 that it was his baby; that it was his and Ona’s, to care for 
 all its life. Jurgis had never possessed anything nearly 
 so interesting — a baby v/as, when you came to think about 
 it, assuredly a marvellous possession. It would grow up 
 to be a man, a human soul, with a personality all its own, 
 a will of its own I Such thoughts would keep haunting 
 Jurgis, filling him with all sorts of strange and almost 
 painful excitements. He was wonderfully proud of little 
 A.ntanas ; he was curious about all the details of him — the 
 washing and the dressing and the eating and the sleeping 
 of him, and asked all sorts of absurd questions. It took 
 him quite a while to get over his alarm at the incredible 
 shortness of the little creature’s legs. 
 
 Jurgis had, alas, very little time to see his baby; he 
 never felt the chains about him more than just then. 
 When he came home at night, the baby would be asleep, 
 and it would be the merest chance if he awoke before 
 Jurgis had to go to sleep himself. Then in the morning 
 
128 
 
 raic JtTNGl*® 
 
 there was no time to look at hira, so really the only chance 
 the father had was on Sundays. This was more cruel yet 
 for Ona, who ought to have stayed home and nursed Mm, 
 the doctor said, for her own health as well as the baby's - 
 but Ona had to go to work, and leave him for Teta 
 Elzbieta to feed upon the pale blue poison that was called 
 milk at the corner-grocery. Ona’s confinement lost her 
 only a week’s wages—she would go to the factory the 
 second Monday, and the best that J urgis could persuade 
 her was to ride in the car, and let him run along behind 
 and help her to Brown’s when she alighted. After that 
 it would be all right, said Ona, it was no strain sitting 
 still sewing hams all day; and if she waited longer she 
 might find that her dreadful forelady had put some one 
 else in her place. That would be a greater calamity than 
 ever now, Ona continued, on account of the baby. They 
 would all have to work harder now on his account. It 
 was such a responsibilitj'’ — they must not have the baby 
 grow up to sufer as they had. And this indeed had been 
 the first thing that Jurgis had thought of himself — he 
 had clenched his hands and braced himself anew for the 
 struggle, for the sake of that tiny mite of human possibility. 
 
 And so Ona went back to Brown’s and saved her place 
 and a week’s wages; and so she gave herself some one of 
 the thousand ailments that women group under the title 
 of “ womb-trouble,” and was never again a v/ell person as 
 long as she lived. It is difficult to convey in words all 
 that this meant to Ona; it seemed such a slight offence, 
 and the punishment was so out of all proportion, that 
 neither she nor any one else ever connected the two. 
 “ Wornb-troable” to Ona did not mean a specialist’s 
 diagnosis, and a course of treatment, and perhaps an opera¬ 
 tion or two; it meant simply headaches and pains in the 
 bacit, and depression and heartsickness, and neuralgia 
 when she had to go to work in the rain. The great 
 majority of the women who worked in Packingtown 
 suffered in the same way, and from the same cause, so it 
 was not deemed a thing to see the doctor about . instead 
 Ona would try patent medicines, one attei another, as 
 
Tfflfi TO NG-O; 
 
 128 
 
 ber friends told her about them. As these all contaiiied 
 alcohol, or some other stimulant, she found that they all 
 did her good while she took them ; and so she was always 
 chasing the phantom of good health, and losing it because 
 she was too poor to continue. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 During the summer the packing-houses were in fuli 
 activity again, and Jurgis made more money. He did 
 not make so much, however, as he had the previous sum¬ 
 mer, 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 every one 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 cun¬ 
 ning a trick was that I 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 I 
 
 But let no one suppose that this superfluity of employees 
 meant easier work for any one! 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 was for all the wmrld like the 
 thumb-screw of the mediseval torture-chamber. They 
 would get new pace-makers 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 little every day. In piece-work they would 
 reduce the time, requiring the same work in a shorter 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 reduc¬ 
 tion in time I 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. 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 131 
 
 and a storm of discontent was brewing that was likely to 
 break any day. Only a month after Marija had become e 
 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 wiUiout 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 yardrf, 
 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 a great department store, at a salary of 
 two dollars and a half a week. 
 
 Jurgis and 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 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 
 Packingtowa was really not a number of firms at all, but 
 one great Arm, the Beef Trust. And every week the 
 managers of it got together and compared notes, and 
 there was one scale for all the woi’kers in the yards and 
 one standard of 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. 
 
 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 sum¬ 
 mer 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. Tamoszius had a bank account also, and they ran 
 a race, and began to figure upon household expenses once 
 more. 
 
132 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 The possession of vast wealth entails cares and respon¬ 
 sibilities, 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 pos¬ 
 sible chance has a poor foreign working-girl to understand 
 the banking business, as it is conducted 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 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 v/here 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 toward 
 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 every¬ 
 thing in their way. In the midst of the meMe Marija 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 133 
 
 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. 
 
 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, and so 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 began to pay the waiting throng; but 
 then, what good did that do Marija, who saw three thou¬ 
 sand people before her — enough to take out the last penny 
 of a dozen banks? 
 
 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 after¬ 
 noon 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 receive 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 
 
134 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 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 fear, this time to see 
 if she had lost her place; but fortunately about ten per 
 cent of the working-people of Fackingtown had been 
 depositors in that bank, and it was not convenient to dis¬ 
 charge 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 ha'ving 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 Fackingtown. The 
 two rival sets of grafters hired halls and set ofi’ fireworks 
 and made speeches, to try to get the people interested ia 
 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, as every 
 one did it, and his refusal to join would nob have made 
 the slightest difference in the results, the idea of refusing 
 would have seemed absurd, had it ever come into iiis 
 head. 
 
 Now chill winds and shortening days began to warn 
 them that the winter was coming again. It seemed as if 
 the respite had been too short—they had not had time 
 enough to get ready for it; but still it came, inexorably, 
 and the hunted look began to come back into the eyes of 
 little Stanisiovas. The prospect struck fear to the heart 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 135 
 
 of Jurgis also, for he knew that Ona was not fit to face 
 the cold arad 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 strug¬ 
 gle, and ail tlie furies were unchained within 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 v'f 
 sight, hanging by his coat-tails. There was a raging blast 
 beating in his face, and the thermometer stood below zero; 
 the snow was never short of his knees, and in some of the 
 drifts it was nearly up to his armpits. 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 Durham’s he was stagger¬ 
 ing and almost blind, and leaned against a pillar, gasping, 
 and thanking God that the cattle came late to the killing- 
 beds 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 got 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. 
 
 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 any one. 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 hi!> 
 
136 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 fate. — So it might be with some monarch of the forest 
 that has vanquished his foes in fair fight, and then falls 
 into some cowardly trap in the night-time. 
 
 A time of peril on the killing-beds was when a steer 
 broke loose. Sometimes, in the haste of speeding-up. 
 they would dump one of the animals out on the floor 
 before it was fully stunned, and it would get upon its feet 
 and run arnucJi. 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 floor, and 
 tumbling 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 make anything out 
 five feet in front of you. To be sure, the steer was gen¬ 
 erally blind and frantic, and not especially bent on hurting 
 any one ; but think of the chances of running upon a 
 knife, while nearly every man had one in his hand I 
 And then, to cap the climax, the floor-boss would come 
 rushing up with a rifle and begin blazing away I 
 
 It was in one of these melees that J urgis fell into his 
 trap. That is toe only 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. StiU, even then, he did nothing more than 
 swear a little, and wrapped his foot in old rags, and hob¬ 
 bled out to take the car. It chanced to be a rush day at 
 Durham’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 after¬ 
 noon he was fairly beaten, and had to tell the boss. 
 They sent for the company doctor, and he examined the 
 toot and told Jurgis to go home to bed, adding that he 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 . 13 ^- 
 
 had probably laid himself up for months by his folly. 
 The injury was not one that Durham and Company could 
 be held responsible for, and so that was all there was tc 
 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 ha^'d 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, say¬ 
 ing it would only bo for a week or two, and that they 
 would pull him through. 
 
 When they had gotten him to sleep, how'ever, they sat 
 by the kitchen fire and talked it over in frightened whis- 
 pers. 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. I3oth Jonas and 
 Marija might soon be earning no more than enough to 
 pay their board, and besides that there were only the 
 wages of Ona and the pittance of the little boy. There 
 was the rent to pay, and still some on the furniture ; then 
 was the insurance just due, and every month there w'as 
 sack after sack of coal. It was January, midwinter, 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 lose 
 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, should have meant such suffering. The 
 bitterness of it was the daily food and drink of Jurgis. 
 It was of no use for them to try to deceive him; be 
 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 lock hag¬ 
 gard 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 ail the 
 world the old story of Prometheus bound. As Jurgis lay 
 
 10 
 
158 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 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 to curl and his hair to bristle up. It was like seeing 
 the world fall away from underneath his feet; like plung¬ 
 ing 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 I It might be true that, strive as he would, 
 toil as he would, he might fail, and go dovm and be 
 destroyed I The thought of this was like an icj' hand at 
 his heart; the thought that here, in this ghastly home of 
 aU horror, he and all those who were dear 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 I It was 
 true, it was true, — that here in this huge city, with its 
 stores of heaped-up wealth, human creatures might be 
 hunted down and destroyed by the wild-beast powers of 
 nature, just as truly as ever they were in the days of the 
 cave-men I 
 
 Ona was now making about thirty dollars a month, and 
 Stanislovas about thirteen. To add to this there was the 
 board of Jonas and Marija, about forty-five dollars. De¬ 
 ducting from this the rent, interest, and instalments on 
 the furniture, they had left sixty dollars, and deducting 
 the coal, they had fifty. 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, and when the children’s shoes wore out, they tied 
 them up with string. 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 literallj'- nothing but 
 food — and still they could not keep alive on fifty dollars 
 a month. They might have done it, if only they could 
 have gotten pure food, and at fair prices; or if only they 
 had known what to get —if they had not been so pitifully 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 139 
 
 ignorant! But they had come to a new country, where 
 everything was different, including the food. They had 
 always been accustomed to eat a great deal of smoked 
 sausage, and how could they know that what they bought 
 in America was not the same — that its color was made 
 by chemicals, and its smoky flavor by more chemicals, 
 and that it was full of “ potato-flour ” besides ? Potato- 
 flour is the waste of potato after the starch and alcohol 
 have been extracted ; it has no more food value than so 
 much wood, and as its use as a food adulterant is a penal 
 offence in Europe, thousands of tons of it are shipped to 
 America every year. It was amazing what quantities of 
 food such as this were needed every day, by eleven 
 hungry persons. A dollar sixty-five 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; all he could do was to lie 
 there and toss about from side to side. Now and then he 
 v/ould 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 v/ould 
 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, v/here Jurgis was, because it was the only 
 room that was 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. 
 
 Klzbieta’s only resource in those times was little Antanas 
 
140 
 
 THE JUHGUE 
 
 indeed, it would be bard 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 begin¬ 
 ning to take notice of things now; and he would smile — 
 how he would smile I 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 but be good at the heart 
 of it. He looked more like his father every hour, 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 daj'’ and all night to soothe the 
 prisoned giant who was intrusted 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 M^ay and that, and 
 laugh with glee to see the baby follow it. There is 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 ; ^'•Palaukt Look, Muma, he knows 
 his papa I He does, he does I Tv, mano szirdele^ the little 
 ras(^ I ” 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 For three weeks after his injury Jurgis never got up 
 from bed. It was a very obstinate sprain; the swelling 
 would not go down, and the pain still continued. At the 
 end of that time, however, he could contain himself no 
 longer, and began trying to walk a little every day, labor¬ 
 ing to persuade himself that he was better. No arguments 
 could stop him, and three or four days later he declared 
 that he was going back to work. He limped to the cars 
 and got to Brown’s, where he found that the boss had kept 
 his place — that is, was willing to turn out into the snow 
 the poor devil he had hired in the meantime. Every now 
 and then the pain would force J urgis to stop work, but he 
 stuck it out till nearly an hour before closing. Then he 
 was forced to acknowledge that he could not go on with¬ 
 out fainting ; it almost broke his heart to do it, and he 
 stood leaning against a pillar and weeping like a child. 
 Two of the men had to help him to the car, and when he 
 got out he had to sit down and wait in the snow till some 
 one came along. 
 
 So they put him to bed again, and sent for the doctor, as 
 they ought to have done in the beginning. It transpired 
 that he had twisted a tendon out of place, and could never 
 have gotten well without attention. Then he gripped the 
 sides of the bed, and shut his teeth together, and turned 
 white with agony, while the doctor pulled and wrenched 
 away at his swollen ankle. When finally the doctor left, 
 he told him that he would ha ve to lie quiet for two months, 
 and that if he went to work before that time he might lame 
 himself for life. 
 
 Three days later there came another heavy snow-storm, 
 and .Jonas and Marija and Ona and little Stanislovas all set 
 
 141 
 
142 
 
 THE JUJ^GLE 
 
 out together, an hour before daybreak, to try to get to the 
 5'’ards. About noon the last two came back, the boy scream¬ 
 ing with pain. His fingers were all frosted, it seemed. 
 They had had to give up trying to get to the yards, and 
 had nearly perished in a drift. All that they knew how 
 to do was to hold the frozen fingers near the fire, and 
 so little St'anislovas spent most of the day dancing about 
 in horrible agony, till Jurgis flew into a passion of nervous 
 rage and swore like a madman, declaring that he would 
 kill him if he did not stop. All that day and night the 
 family was half-crazed with fear that Ona and the boy had 
 lost their places ; and in the morning they set out earlier 
 than ever, after the little fellow had been beaten with a 
 stick by Jurgis. There could be no trifling in a case like 
 this, it was a matter of life and death; little Stanislovas 
 could not be expected to realise that he might a great deal 
 better freeze in the snow-drift than lose his job at the lard- 
 machine. Ona was quite certain that she would find her 
 place gone, and was all unnerved when she finally got to 
 Brown’s, and found that the forelady herself had failed to 
 come, and was therefore compelled to be lenient. 
 
 One of the consequences of this episode was that the 
 first joints of three of the little boy’s fingers were perma¬ 
 nently disabled, and another that thereafter he always had 
 to be beaten before he set out to work, whenever there 
 was fresh snow on the ground. Jurgis was called upon to 
 do the beating, and as it hurt his foot he did it with a 
 vengeance ; but it did not tend to add to the sweetness of 
 his temper. They say that the best dog will turn cross 
 if he be kept chained all the time, and it was the same 
 with the man; he had not a thing to do all day but lie and 
 curse his fate, and the time came when he wanted to curse 
 everything. 
 
 This was never for very long, however, for when Ona 
 began to cry, Jurgis could not stay angry. The poor fel¬ 
 low looked like a homeless ghost, with his cheeks sunken 
 in and his long black hair straggling into his eyes; he was 
 too discouraged to cut it, or to think about his appearance. 
 His muscles were wasting away, and what were left were 
 
THE JtTNGHE 
 
 143 
 
 soft and flabby. He bad no appetite, and they could not 
 afford to tempt him with delicacies. It was better, he said, 
 that he should not eat, it was a saving. About the end of 
 March he had got hold of Ona’s bank-book, and learned 
 that there was only three dollars left to them in the 
 world. 
 
 But perhaps the worst of the consequences of this long 
 siege was that they lost another member of their family; 
 Brother Jonas disappeared. One Saturday night he did 
 not come home, arid thereafter all their efforts to get trace 
 of him were futile. It was said by the boss at Durham’s 
 that he had gotten his week’s money and left there. That 
 might not be true, of course, for sometimes they would say 
 that when a man had been killed; it was the easiest way 
 out of it for all concerned. When, for instance, a man had 
 fallen into one of the rendering tanks and had been made 
 into pure leaf lard and peerless fertilizer, there was no use 
 letting the fact out and making his family unhappy. 
 More probable, however, was the theory that Jonas had 
 deserted them, and gone on the road, seeking happiness. 
 He had been discontented for a long time, and not with¬ 
 out some cause. He paid good board, and was yet obliged 
 to live in a family where nobody had enough to eat. And 
 Marija would keep giving them all her money, and of 
 course he could not but feel that he was called upon to do 
 the same. Then there were crying brats, and all sorts of 
 misery ; a man would have had to be a good deal of a hero 
 to stand it all without grumbling, and Jonas was not in 
 the least a hero — he was simply a weather-beaten old 
 fellow who liked to have a good supper and sit in the 
 corner by the fire and smoke his pipe in peace before he 
 went to bed. Here there was not room by the fire, and 
 through the winter the kitchen had seldom been warm 
 enough for comfort. So, v/ith the springtime, what was 
 more likely than that the wild idea of escaping had come 
 to him ? Two years he had been yoked like a horse to a 
 half-ton truck in Durham’s dark cellars, with never a rest, 
 save on Sundays and four holidays in the year, and \^th 
 never a word of thanks —■ only kicks and blows and curses. 
 
144 
 
 THE JTJNGlJfi 
 
 such as no decent dog’ would have stood. And now the 
 winter was over, and the spring winds were blowing — 
 and with a day’s walk a man might put the smoke of Pack- 
 ingtown behind him forever, and be where the grass was 
 green and the flowers all the colors of the rainbow 1 
 
 But now the income of the family was cut down more 
 than one-third, and the food-demand was cut only one« 
 eleventh, so that they were worse off than ever. Also 
 they were borrowing money from Marija, and eating up 
 her bank-account, and spoiling once again her hopes of 
 marriage and happiness. And they were even going into 
 debt to Tamoszius Kuszleika and letting him impoverish 
 himself. Poor Tamoszius was a man without any rela¬ 
 tives, and with a wonderful talent besides, and he ought 
 to have made money and prospered ; but he had fallen in 
 love, and so given hostages to fortune, and was doomed 
 to be dragged down too. 
 
 So it was finally decided that two more of the children 
 would have to leave school. Next to Stanislovas, whc 
 ■was now fifteen, there was a girl, little Kotrina, who was 
 two years younger, and then two boys, Vilimas, who was 
 eleven, and Nikalojus, who was ten. Both of these last 
 were bright boys, and there was no reason why their family 
 should starve when tens of thousands of children no older 
 were earning their owni livings. So one morning they 
 were given a quarter apiec-e and a roll with a sausage in it. 
 and, with their minds top-heavy with good advice, w'^ere 
 sent out to make their way to the city and learn to sell 
 newspapers. They came back late at night in cears, hav¬ 
 ing walked the five or six miles to report that a man had 
 offered to take them to a place where they sold newspapers, 
 and had taken their money and gone into a store to get 
 them, and nevermore been seen. So they both received a 
 whipping, and the next morning set out again. This 
 time they found the newspaper place, and procured their 
 stock; and after wandering about till nearly noontime, 
 saying ‘''Paper?” to every one they saw, they had all 
 their stock taken away and received a thrashing besides 
 from a big newsman upon whose territory they bad tres- 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 148 
 
 passed. Fortunately, however, they had already sold 
 some papers, and came back with nearly as much as they 
 started with. 
 
 After a week of mishaps such as these, the two little 
 fellov/s began to learn the ways of the trade, —the names 
 of the different papers, and how many of each to get, and 
 what sort of people to offer them to, and where to go and 
 where to stay away from. After this, leaving home at 
 four o’clock in the morning, and running about the streets, 
 first with morning papers and then with evening, they 
 might come home late at night with twenty or thirty cents 
 apiece — possibly as much as forty cents. From this they 
 had to deduct their car-fare, since the distance was so 
 great; but after a while they made friends, and learned 
 still more, and then they' would save their car-fare. They 
 would get bn a car when the conductor was not looking, 
 and hide in the crowd; and three times out of four he 
 would not ask for their fares, eitlier not seeing them, or 
 thinking they had already paid ; or if he did ask, they 
 would hunt through their pockets, and then begin to cry, 
 and either have their fares paid by some kind old lady, or 
 else try the trick again on a new car. All this was fair 
 play, they felt. Whose fault was it that at the hours 
 when workingmen were going to their work and back, tbe 
 cars were so crowded that the conductors could not collect 
 all the fares ? And besides, the companies were thieves, 
 people said—had stolen all their franchises with the help 
 of scoundrelly politicians I 
 
 Now that the winter was by, and there was no more 
 danger of snow, and no more coal to buy, and another 
 room warm enough to put the children into when they 
 cried, and enough money to get along from week to week 
 with, Jurgis was less terrible than he had been. A man 
 can get used to anything in the course of time, and Jurgis 
 had gotten used to lying about the house. Ona saw this, 
 and was very careful not to destroy his peace of mind, by 
 letting him know how very' much pain she was suffering, 
 it was now the time of the spring rains, and Ona had 
 
146 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 often to ride to her work, in spite of the expense ; she was 
 getting paler every day, and sometimes, in spite of her 
 good resolutions, it pained her that Jurgis did not notice 
 it. She wondered if he cared for her as much as ever, if 
 all this misery was not wearing out his love. She had 
 to be away from him all the time, and bear her own 
 troubles while he was bearing his ; and then, when she 
 came home, she was so worn out ; and whenever they 
 talked they had only their worries to talk of — truly it 
 was hard, in such a life, to keep any sentiment alive. The 
 woe of this would flame up in Ona sometimes — at night 
 she would suddenly clasp her big husband in her arms and 
 break into passionate weeping, demanding to know if he 
 really loved her. Poor Jurgis, who had in truth grown 
 more matter-of-fact, under the endless pressure of penury, 
 would not know what to make of these things, and could 
 only try to recollect when he had last been cross ; and so 
 Ona would have to forgive him and sob herself to sleep. 
 
 The latter part of April Jurgis went to see the doctor, 
 and was given a bandage to lace about his ankle, and told 
 that he might go back to work. It needed more than the 
 permission of the doctoi’, however, for when he showed up 
 on the killing-floor of Brown’s, he was told by the foreman 
 that it had not been possible to keep his job for him. 
 Jurgis knew that this meant simply that the foreman had 
 found some one else to do the work as well and did not want 
 to bother to make a change. He stood in the doorway, 
 looking mournfully on, seeing his friends and companions 
 at work, and feeling like an outcast. Then he went out 
 and took his place with the mob of the unemployed. 
 
 This time, however, Jurgis did not have the same fine con* 
 fidence, nor the same reason for it. He was no longer the 
 finest-looking man in the throng, and the bosses no longer 
 made for him; he was thin and haggard, and his clothes 
 were seedy, and he looked miserable. And there were 
 hundreds who looked and felt just like him, and who had 
 been wandering about Packingtown for months begging 
 for work. This was a critical time in Jurgis’s life, and if 
 he bad been a weaker man he would have gone the way 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 147 
 
 the rest did. Those out-of-work wretches would stand 
 about the packing-houses every morning till the police 
 drove them iiway, and then they would scatter among the 
 saloons. Very few of them had the nerve to face the re¬ 
 buffs that they would encounter by trying to get into tne 
 buildings to interview the bosses; if they did not get a 
 chance in the morning, there would be nothing to do but 
 hang about the saloons the rest of the day and night. 
 Jurgis was saved from all this—partly, to be sure, be¬ 
 cause it was pleasant weather, and there was no need to be 
 indoors ; but mainlj'’ because he carried with him always 
 the pitiful little face of his wife. He must get work, he 
 told himself, fighting the battle with despair every hour of 
 the day. He must get work I He must have a place 
 again and some money saved up, before the next winter 
 came. 
 
 But there was no work for him. He sought out all the 
 members of his union — Jurgis liad stuck to the union 
 through all this — and begged them to speak a word for 
 him. He went to every one he knew, asking for a chance, 
 there or anywhere. He wandered all day through tlie 
 buildings; and in a week or two, when he had been all 
 over the yards, and into every room to which he had 
 access, and learned that there was not a job anywhere, he 
 persuaded himself that there might have been a change 
 in the places he had first visited, and began the round all 
 over; till finally the watchmen and the “spotters” of the 
 companies came to know him by sight and to order him 
 out with threats. Then there was nothing more for him 
 to do but go with the crowd in the morning, and keep 
 in the front row and look eager, and when he failed, go 
 back home, and play with little Kotrina and the baby. 
 
 The peculiar bitterness of all this was that Jurgis saw 
 so plainly the meaning of it. In the beginning he had 
 been fresh and strong, and he had gotten a job the first 
 day; but now he was second-hand, a damaged article, so to 
 speak, and they did not want him. They had got the be'jt 
 out of him, — they had worn him out, with their speeding- 
 up and their carelessness, and now they had thrown him 
 
148 
 
 TMJii JUJNULJfi 
 
 awayl And Jurgis would make the acquaintance of others 
 of these unemployed men and find that they had all had 
 the same experience. There were some, of course, who 
 had wandered in from other places, who had been ground 
 up in other mills ; there were others who were out from 
 their own fault — some, for instance, who had not been 
 able to stand the awful grind without drink. The vast 
 majority, however, were simply the worn-out parts of the 
 great merciless packing-machine; they had toiled there, 
 and kept up with the pace, some of them for ten or twenty 
 years, until finally the time had come when they could not 
 keep up with it any more. Some had been frankly told 
 that they were too old, that a sprier man was needed; 
 others had given occasion, by some act of carelessness or 
 incompetence ; with most, however, the occasion had been 
 the same as with Jurgis. They had been over worked and 
 underfed so long, and finally some disease had laid them on 
 their backs; or they had cut themselves, and had blood- 
 poisoning, or met with some other accident. When a man 
 came back after that, he would get his place back only by 
 the courtesy of the boss. To this there was no exception, 
 save when the accident was one for which the firm was 
 liable; in that case they would send a slippery lawyer to 
 see him, first to try to get him to sign away his claims, but 
 if he was too smart for that, to promise him that he and 
 his should always be provided with work. This promise 
 they would keep, strictly and to the letter—-for two years. 
 Two years was the “statute of limitations,” and after that 
 the victim could not sue. 
 
 What happened to a man after any of these things, all 
 depended upon the circumstances. If he were of the highly 
 skilled workers, he would probably have enough saved up 
 to tide him over. The best-paid men, the “ splitters,” 
 made fifty cents an hour, which would be five or six dollars 
 a day in the rush seasons, and one or two in the dullest. 
 A man could live and save on that; but then there were 
 only half a dozen splitters in. each place, and one of them 
 that Jurgis knew had a family of twenty-two children, all 
 hoping to grow up to be splitters like their father. For 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 149 
 
 an nnskilled man wlio made ten dollars a week in the 
 rush seasons and five in the dull, it all depended upon his 
 age and the number he had dependent upon him. An un¬ 
 married man could save, if he did not drink, and if he was 
 absolutely selfish—that is, if he paid no heed to the 
 demands of his old parents, or of his little brothers and 
 sisters, or of any other relatives he might have-, as well as 
 of the members of his union, and bis chums, and the 
 people who might be starving to death next door. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 During this time that Jurgis was looking for work 0C“ 
 curred the death of little Kristoforas, one of the children 
 of Teta Elzbieta. Both Kristoforas and his brother, 
 Juozapas, were cripples, the latter having lost one leg by 
 having it run over, and Kristoforas having congenital dis¬ 
 location of the hip, which made it impossible for him ever 
 to walk. He was the last of Teta Elzbieta’s children, and 
 perhaps he had been intended by nature to let her know 
 that she had had enough. At any rate he was wretchedly 
 sick and undersized; he had the rickets, and though he 
 was over three years old, he was no bigger than an ordi¬ 
 nary child of one. All day long he would crawl around the 
 floor in a filthy little dress, whining and fretting: because 
 the floor was full of draughts he was always catching cold, 
 and snuffling because his nose ran. This made him a 
 nuisance, and a source of endless trouble in the family. 
 For his mother, with unnatural perversity, loved him best 
 of all her children, and made a perpetual fuss over him — 
 'Vould let him do anything undisturbed, and would burst 
 into tears when his fretting drove Jurgis wild. 
 
 And now he died. Perhaps it was the smoked sausage 
 he had eaten that morning — which may have been made 
 out of some of the tubercular pork that was condemned as 
 unfit for export. At any rate, an hour after eating it, the 
 child had begun to cry with pain, and in another hour he 
 was rolling about on the floor in convulsions. Little 
 Kotrina, who was all alone with him, ran out screaming 
 for help, and after a while a doctor came, but not until 
 Kristoforas had howled his last howl. No one was really 
 sorry about this except poor Elzbieta, who was inconsol¬ 
 able. Jurgis announced that so far as he was concerned 
 
 160 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 151 
 
 the child would have to be buried by the city, since they 
 had no money for a funeral; and at this the poor woman 
 almost went out of her senses, wringing her bauds and 
 screaming with grief and despair. Her child to be buried 
 in a pauper’s grave ! And her stepdaughter to stand by 
 and hear it said without protesting I It was enough to 
 make Ona’s father rise up cut of his grave to rebuke her I 
 If it had come to this, they might as well give up at once, 
 and be buried all of them together! . . , In the end 
 Marija said that she would help with ten dollars; and 
 Jurgis being still obdurate, Elzbieta went in tears and 
 begged the money from the neighbors, and so little Kristo- 
 foras had a mass and a hearse with white plumes on it, 
 and a tiny plot in a graveyard with a wooden cross to 
 mark the place. The poor mother was not the same for 
 months after that; the mere sight of the floor where little 
 Kristoforas had crawled about would make her weep. 
 He had never had a fair chance, poor little fellow, she 
 would say. He had been Iiandicapped from his birth. If 
 only she had heard about it in time, so that she might 
 have had that great doctor to cure him of his lameness! 
 . . , Some time ago, Elzbieta was told, a Chicago billion- 
 naire had paid a fortune to bring a great European surgeon 
 over to cure his little daughter of the same disease 
 from which Kristoforas had suffered. And because this 
 surgeon had to have bodies to demonstrate upon, he an¬ 
 nounced that he would treat the children of the poor, a 
 piece of magnanimity over which the papers became quite 
 eloquent. Elzbieta, alas, did not read the papers, and no 
 one had told her ; but perhaps it was as well, for just then 
 they would not have had the car-fare to spare to go every 
 day to wait upon the surgeon, nor for that matter any¬ 
 body with the time to take the child. 
 
 All this while that he was seeking for work, there was a 
 dark shadow hanging over Jurgis; as if a savage beast were 
 lurking somewhere in the pathway of his life, and he knew 
 it, and yet could not help approaching the place. There 
 are all stages of being out of work in Packiugtown, and 
 
152 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 he faced in dread the prospect of reaching" the lowest. 
 There is a place that waits for the lowest man--the fer¬ 
 tilizer-plant ! 
 
 The men would talk about it in awe-stricken whispers. 
 Not more than one in ten had ever really tried it; the 
 other nine had contented themselves with hearsay evi¬ 
 dence and a peep through the door. There were some 
 things worse than even starving to death. They would 
 ask Jurgis if he had worked there 3'-et, and if he meant to ; 
 and Jurgis would debate the matter with himself. As 
 poor as they were, and making ail the sacrifices that they 
 were, would he dare to refuse any sort of work that was 
 offered to him, be it as horrible as ever it could? Would 
 he dare to go home and eat bread that had been earned 
 by Ona, weak and complaining as she was, knowing that 
 he had been given a chance, and had not had the nerve 
 to take it ? —And yet he might argue that way with him¬ 
 self all day, and one glimpse into the fertilizer-works would 
 send him away again shuddering. He was a man, and he 
 would do his duty ; he went and made application — but 
 surely he was not also required to hope for success ! 
 
 The fertilizer-works of Durham’s lay away from the rest 
 of the plant. Few visitors ever saw them, and the few 
 who did would come out looking like Dante, of whom the 
 peasants declared that he had been into hell. To this part 
 of the yards came all the “ tankage,” and the waste prod¬ 
 ucts of all sorts; here they dried out the bones, — and in 
 suffocating cellars where the daylight never came you 
 might see men and women and children bending over 
 whirling machines and sawing bits of bone into all sorts of 
 shapes, breathing their lungs full of the fine dust, and 
 doomed to die, every one of them, within a certain defi¬ 
 nite time. Here they made the blood into albumen, and 
 made other foul-smelling things into things still more 
 foul-smelling In the corridors and caverns where it was 
 done you might lose yoarself as in the great caves of 
 Keutuckyo In the dust and the steam the electric lights 
 would shine like far-off twinkling stars —red and blue- 
 green and purple stars, according to the color of the mist 
 
THE JUI^GLE 
 
 153 
 
 and the brew from which it came. For the odors in these 
 ghastly charnel-houses there may be words in Lithuanian, 
 but there are none in English. The person entering 
 would have to summon his courage as for a cold-water 
 plunge. He would go on like a man swimming under 
 water; he would put his handkerchief over his face, and 
 begin to cough and choke; and then, if he were still obsti¬ 
 nate, he would find his head beginning to ring, and the 
 veins in his forehead to throb, until finally he would be 
 assailed by an overpowering blast of ammonia fumes, 
 and would turn and run for his life, and come out 
 half-dazed. 
 
 On top of this were the rooms where they dried the 
 “ tankage,"’ the mass of brown stringy stuff that was left 
 after the waste portions of the carcasses liad had the lard 
 and tallow tried out of them. This dried material they 
 would then grind to a fine powder, and after they had 
 mixed it up well with a mysterious but inoffensive 
 brown rock which they brought in and ground up by the 
 hundreds of carloads for that purpose, the substance was 
 ready to be put into bags and sent out to the world as any 
 one of a hundred different brands of standard bone-phos¬ 
 phate. And then the farmer in Maine or California or 
 Texas would buy this, at say twenty-five dolla>-s a ton, 
 and plant it with his corn ; and for several days after the 
 operation the fields would have a strong odor, and the 
 farmer and his wcgon and the very horses that had 
 hauled it would ail have it too. In Packingtown the 
 fertilizer is pure, instead of being a flavoring, and instead 
 of a ton or so spread out on several acres under the open 
 sky, there are hundreds and thousands of tons of it in one 
 building, heaped here and there in haystack piles, cover¬ 
 ing the floor several inches deep, and filling the air with a 
 choking dust that becomes a blinding sand-storm when the 
 wind stirs. 
 
 It was to this building that Jurgis came daily, as if 
 dragged by an unseen hand. The month of May was an 
 exceptionally cool one, and his secret prayers were granted • 
 but early in June there came a record-breaking hot spelL 
 11 
 
154 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 and after that there were men wanted in the fertilizer- 
 mill. 
 
 The boss of the grinding room had come to know Jurgis 
 by this time, and had marked him for a likely man; and 
 so when he came to the door about two o’clock this breath¬ 
 less hot day, he felt a sudden spasm of pain shoot through 
 him — the boss beckoned to him ! In ten minutes more 
 Jurgis had pulled off his coat and overshirt, and set his 
 teeth together and gone to work. Here was one more 
 diflSculty for him to meet and conquer I 
 
 His labor took him about one minute to learn. Before 
 him was one of the vents of the mill in which the fertilizer 
 was being ground — rushing forth in a great brown river, 
 with a spray of the finest dust flung forth in clouds. Jurgis 
 was given a shovel, and along with half a dozen others it 
 was his task to shovel this fertilizer into carts. That 
 others were at work he knew by the sound, and by the 
 fact that he sometimes collided with them; otherwise 
 they might as well not have been there, for in the blind¬ 
 ing dust-storm a man could not see six feet in front of his 
 face. When he had filled one cart he had to grope around 
 him until another came, and if there was none on hand he 
 continued to grope till one arrived. In five minutes he 
 was, of course, a mass of fertilizer from head to feet; they 
 gave him a sponge to tie over his mouth, so that he could 
 breathe, but the sponge did not prevent his lips and eye¬ 
 lids from caking up with it and his ears from filling solid. 
 He looked like a brown ghost at twilight — from hair to 
 shoes he became the color of the building and of every¬ 
 thing in it, and for that matter a hundred yards outside 
 it. The building had to be left open, and when the 
 wind blew Durham and Company lost a great deal of 
 fertilizer. 
 
 Working in his shirt-sleeves, and with the thermometer 
 at over a hundred, the phosphates soaked in through every 
 pore of Jurgis’s skin, and in five minutes he had a head¬ 
 ache, and in fifteen was almost dazed. The blood was 
 pounding in his brain like an engine’s tnrobbing; there 
 was a frightful pain in the top of his skull, and he could 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 155 
 
 hardly control his hands. Still, with the memory of his 
 four months’ siege behind him, he fought on, in a frenzy 
 of determination ; and half an hour later he began to 
 vomit — he vomited until it seemed as if his inwards must 
 be toi’n into shreds. A man could get used to the ferti¬ 
 lizer-mill, the boss had said, if he would only make up his 
 mind to it; but Jurgis now began to see that it was a 
 question of making up his stomach. 
 
 At the end of that day o^ horror, he could scarcely 
 stand. He had to catch himself now and then, and lean 
 against a building and get his bearings. Most of the 
 men, when they came out, made straight for a saloon — 
 they seemed to place fertilizer and rattlesnake poison in 
 one class. But Jurgis was too ill to think of drinking — 
 he could only make his way to the street and stagger on to 
 a car. He had a sense of humor, and later on, when ha 
 became an old hand, he used to think it fun to board a 
 street-car and see what happened. Now, however, he was 
 too ill to notice it — how the people in the car began to 
 gasp and sputter, to put their handkerchiefs to their noses, 
 and transfix him with furious glances. Jurgis only knew 
 that a man in front of him immediately got up and gave 
 him a seat; and that half a minute later the two people on 
 each side of him got up ; and that in a full minute the 
 crowded car was nearly empty — those passengers who 
 could not get room on the platform having gotten out 
 to walk. 
 
 Of course Jurgis had made his home a miniature ferti¬ 
 lizer-mill a minute after entering. The stuff was half an 
 in(!h deep in his skin — his whole system was full of it, 
 and it would have taken a week not merely of scrubbing, 
 but of vigorous exercise, to get it out of him. As it was, 
 he could be compared with nothing known to men, save 
 that newest discovery of the savants, a siibstance which 
 emits energy for an unlimited time, without being itself 
 in the least diminished in power. He smelt so that he 
 made all the food at the table taste, and set the whole 
 family to vomiting ; for himself it was three days before 
 he could keep anything upon his stomach—he might 
 
156 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 wash his hands, a.nd use a l^uife and fork, but were not his 
 mouth and throat filled with the poison ? 
 
 And still J urgis stuck it out I In spite of splitting 
 headaches he would stagger down to the plant and take 
 up his stand once more, and begin to shovel in the blinding 
 clouds of dust. And so at the end of the week he was a 
 fertilizer-rnan for life — he was able to eat again, and 
 though his head never stopped aching, it ceased to be so 
 bad that he could not work. 
 
 So there passed another summer. It was a summer of 
 prosperity, ail over the country, and the country ate gen¬ 
 erously of packing-house products, and there was plenty 
 of work for all the family, in spite of the packers' efforts 
 to keep a superfluity of labor. They were again able to 
 pay their debts and to begin to save a little sum ; but 
 there were one or two sacrifices they considered too heavy 
 to be made for long — it was too bad that the boys 
 should have to sell papers at their age. It was utterly 
 useless to caution them and plead with them; quite with¬ 
 out knowing it, they were taking on the tone of their new 
 environment. They were learning to swear in voluble 
 English; they were learning to pick up cigar-stumps and 
 smoke them, to pass hours of their time gambling with 
 pennies and dice and cigarette-cards; they were learning 
 the location of all the houses of prostitution on the 
 “Levee,” and the names of the “madames” who kept 
 them, and the days when they gave their state banquets, 
 which the police captains and the big politicians all 
 attended. If a visiting “country-customer” were to ask 
 them, they could show him which was “ Hinkydink’s’* 
 famous saloon, and could even point out to him by name 
 the different gamblers and thugs and “hold-up men” who 
 made the place their headquarters. And wmrse yet, the 
 boys were getting out of the habit of coming home at 
 night. What was the use, they would ask, of Avasting 
 time and energy and a possible car-fare riding out to the 
 stockyards every night when the weather was pleasant 
 and they could crawl under a truck or into an empty door 
 
THE JUGGLE 
 
 157 
 
 way and sleep exactly as well ? So long as they brought 
 home a half dollar for each day, what mattered it wlien 
 they brought it ? But Jurgis declared that from this to 
 ceasing to come at all would not be a very long step, and 
 so it was decided that Vilimas and Nikalojus should 
 return to school in the fall, and that instead Elzbieta 
 should go out and get some work, her place at home being 
 taken by her younger daughter. 
 
 Little Kotrina was like most children of the poor, pre¬ 
 maturely made old ; she had to take care of her little 
 brother, who was a cripple, and also of the baby ; she 
 had to cook the meals and wash the dishes and clean 
 house, and have supper ready when tlie workers came 
 home in the evening. She was only thirteen, and small 
 for her age, but she did all this without a murmur; and 
 her mother went out, and after trudging a couple of days 
 about the yards, settled down as a servant of a. “ sausage- 
 machine.” 
 
 Elzbieta was used to working, but she found this change 
 a hard one, for the reason that she liad to stand motionless 
 upon her feet from seven o’clock in the morning till half¬ 
 past twelve, and again from one till half-past five. For 
 the first few days it seemed to her tliat she could not stand 
 it — she suffered almost as much as Jurgis had from the 
 fertilizer, and would come out at sundown with her head 
 fairly reeling. Besides this, she Avas working in one of 
 the dark holes, by electric light, and the dampness, too, 
 was deadly — there were always puddles of water on the 
 floor, and a sickening odor of moist flesh in the room. 
 The people who worked here followed the ancient custom 
 of nature, whereby the ptarmigan is tlie color of dead 
 leaves in the fall and of snow in the winter, and the cha¬ 
 meleon, who is black when he lies upon a stump and turns 
 green when he moves to a leaf. The men and women who 
 worked in this department were precisely the color of the 
 fresh country sausage ” they made. 
 
 The sausage-room was an interesting place to visit, for 
 two or three minutes, and provided that you did not look 
 at tbe people; the machines were perhaps the most wonder 
 
158 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 ful things in the entire plant. Presumably sausages were 
 once chopped and stuffed by hand, and if so it would be 
 interesting to know how many workers had been displaced 
 by these inventions. On one side of the room were the 
 hoppers, into which men shovelled loads of meat and 
 wheelbarrows full of spices; in these great bowls were 
 whirling knives that made two thousand revolutions a 
 minute, and when the meat was ground fine and adulter¬ 
 ated with potato-flour, and well mixed with water, it was 
 forced to the stuffing-machines on the other side of the 
 room. The latter were tended by women; there was a 
 sort of spout, like the nozzle of a hose, and one of the 
 women would take a long string of “casing” and put the 
 end over the nozzle and then work the whole thing on, as 
 one works on the finger of a tight glove. This string 
 would be twenty or thirty feet long, but the woman 
 would have it all on in a jiffy; and when she had several 
 on, she would press a lever, and a stream of sausage-meat 
 would be shot out, taking the casing with it as it came. 
 Thus one might stand and see appear, miraculously born 
 from the machine, a wriggling snake of sausage of incred¬ 
 ible length. In front was a big pan which caught these 
 creatures, and two more women who seized them as fast 
 as they appeared and twisted them into links. This was 
 for the uninitiated the most perplexing work of all; for 
 all that the woman had to give was a single turn of the 
 wrist; and in some way she contrived to give it so that 
 instead of an endless chain of sausages, one after another, 
 there grew under her hands a bunch of strings, aU dan¬ 
 gling from a single centre. It was quite like the feat of a 
 prestidigitator — for the woman worked so fast that the 
 eye could literally not follow her, and there was only a 
 mist of motion, and tangle after tangle of sausages appear¬ 
 ing. In the midst of the mist, however, the visitor would 
 suddenly notice the tense set face, with the two wrinkles 
 graven in the forehead, and the ghastly pallor of the 
 cheeks; and then he would suddenly recollect that it 
 was time he was going on. The woman did not go on; 
 she stayed right there — hour after hour, day after day. 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 159 
 
 year after year, twisting sausage-links and racing with 
 death. It was piece-work, and she was apt to have a 
 family to keep alive; and stern and ruthless economic 
 laws had arranged it that she could only do this by work¬ 
 ing just as she did, with all her soul upon her work, and 
 with never an instant for a glance at the well-dressed 
 ladies and gentlemen who came to stare at her, as at some 
 wild beast in a menagerie. 
 
CHAPTER XJY 
 
 With one member trimming beef in a cannery, and 
 another working in a sausage factory, the family had a 
 first-hand knowledge of the great majority of Packing 
 town swindles. For it was the custom, as they found, 
 whenever meat was so spoiled that it could not be used 
 for anjfthing else, either to can it or else to chop it up 
 into sausage. With what had been told them by Jonas, 
 who had worked in the pickle-rooms, they could now 
 study the whole of the spoiled-meat industry on the 
 inside, and read a new and grim meaning into that old 
 Packingtown jest, — thajLihey-4nie--©veryhhing--©f--4^ 
 except _th e sque aL— 
 
 ""T^as had told them how the meat that was taken out 
 of pickle would often be found sour, and how they would 
 rub it up with soda to take away the smell, and sell it to 
 be eaten on free-lunch counters ; also of all the miracles 
 of chemistry which they performed, giving to any sort of 
 meat, fresh or salted, whole or chopped, any color and 
 any flavor and any odor they chose. In the pickling of 
 hams they had an ingenious apparatus, by which they 
 saved time and increased the capacity of the plant — a 
 machine consisting of a hollow needle attached to a 
 pump ; by plunging this needle into the meat and work¬ 
 ing with his foot, a man could fill a ham with pickle in a 
 few seconds. And yet, in spite of this, there would be 
 hams found spoiled, some of them with an odcr so bad 
 that a man could hardly bear to be in the room with them. 
 To pump into these the packers had a second and much 
 stronger pickle which destroyed the odor — a process 
 known to the workers as “giving them thirty per cent.” 
 Also, after the hams had been smoked, there would be 
 
 160 
 
THE 
 
 16i 
 
 found some tliat had e;one to the bad. Formerly these 
 had been sold as “Number Three Grade, but later on 
 some ingenious person had hit upon a new device, and 
 now they would extract the bone, about which the bad 
 part generally lay, and insert in the hole a white-hot iron. 
 After this invention there was no longer Number One, Two, 
 and Three Grade — there was only Number One Grade. 
 The packers were always originating such schemes — they 
 had what they called “ boneless hams,” which were all the 
 odds and ends of pork stuffed into casings j and “ Cali¬ 
 fornia hams,” which were the shoulders, with big knuckle- 
 joints, and nearly all the meat cut out, and fancy “ skinned 
 hams,” which were made of the oldest hogs, whose skins 
 were so heavy and coarse that no one would buy them — 
 that is, until they had been cooked and chopped line and 
 labelled “ head cheese ” 1 
 
 It was only wdien the whole ham was spoiled that it came 
 into the department of Elzbieta. Cut up by the two- 
 thousand-revolutions-a-minute flyers, and mixed with half 
 a ton of other meat, no odor that ever was in a ham could 
 make any difference. There was never the least attention 
 paid to what was cut up for sausage ; there would come 
 all the way back from Europe old sausage that bad been 
 rejected, and that was mouldy and white — it would be 
 dosed with borax and glyeerine, and dumped into the 
 hoppers, and made over again fcr home consumption. 
 There would be meat that had tumbled out on the floor, 
 in the dirt and sawdust, where the workers had tramped 
 and spit uncounted billions of consumption genus. There 
 would be meat stored in great piles in rooms ; and the 
 water from leaky roofs would drip over it, and thousands 
 of rats would race about on it. It was too dark in these 
 storage places to see w ell, but a man could run his hand 
 over these piles of meat and sweep off handfuls of the 
 dried dung of rats. These rats were nuisances, and the 
 packers would put poisoned bread out for them ; they 
 would die, and then rats, bread, and meat would go into 
 the hoppers together. This is no fairy story and no joke , 
 the meat would be shovelled into carts, and the man who 
 
162 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 did the shovelling would not trouble to lift out a rat even 
 when he saw one — there were things that went into the 
 sausage in comparison with which a poisoned rat was a 
 tidbito There was no place for the men to wash their 
 hands before they ate their dinner, and so they made a 
 practice of washing them in the water that was to be ladled 
 into the sausage. There were the butt-ends of smoked 
 meat, and the scraps of corned beef, and all the odds and 
 ends of the waste of the plants, that would be dumped 
 into old barrels in the cellar and left there. Under the 
 system of rigid economy which the packers enforced, 
 there were some jobs that it only paid to do once in a 
 long time, and among these was the cleaning out of the 
 waste-barrels. Every spring they did it; and in the 
 barrels would be dirt and rust and old nails and stale 
 water — and cart load after cart load of it would be taken 
 up and dumped into the hoppers with fresh meat, and sent 
 out to the public’s breakfast. Some of it they would 
 make into “ smoked ” sausage — but as the smoking took 
 time, and was therefore expensive, they would call upon 
 their chemistry department, and preserve it with borax 
 and color it with gelatine to make it brown. All of their 
 sausage came out of the same bowl, but when they came 
 to wrap it they would stamp some of it “ special,” and for 
 this they would charge two cents more a pound. 
 
 Such were the new surroundings in which Elzbieta was 
 placed, and such was the work she was compelled to do. 
 It was stupefying, brutalizing work ; it left her no time 
 to think, no strength for anything. She was part of the 
 machine she tended, and every faculty that was not 
 needed for the machine was doomed to be crushed out of 
 existence. There was only one mercy about the cruel 
 grind — that it gave her the gift of insensibility. Little 
 by little she sank into a torpor — she fell silent. She 
 would meet Jurgis and Ona in the evening, and the three 
 would walk home together, often without saying a word. 
 Ona, too, was falling into a habit of silence — Ona, who 
 had once gone about singing like a bird. She was sick 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 163 
 
 and miserable, and often she Vt^ould barely have strength 
 enough to drag herself home. And there they would eat 
 what they had to eat, and afterwards, because there was 
 only their misery to talk of, they would crawl into bed 
 and fall into a stupor and never stir until it was time to 
 get up again, and dress by candle-light, and go back to 
 the machines. They were so numbed that they did not 
 even suffer much from hunger, now; only the children 
 continued to fret when the food ran short. 
 
 Yet the soul of Ona was not dead — the souls of none 
 of them were dead, but only sleeping ; and now and then 
 they would waken, and these were cruel times. The 
 gates of memory would roll open — old joys would stretch 
 out their arms to them, old hopes and dreams would call 
 to them, and they would stir beneath the burden that lay 
 upon them, and feel its forever immeasurable weight. 
 They could not even cry out beneath it; but anguish 
 would seize them, more dreadful than the agony of death. 
 It was a thing scarcely to be spoken—a thing never spoken 
 by all the world, that will iot know its own defeat. 
 
 They were beaten; they bad lost the game, they were 
 swept aside. It was not less tragic because it was so 
 sordid, because that it had to do with wages and grocery 
 bills and rents. They had dreamed of freedom ; of a 
 chance to look about them and learn something; to be 
 decent and clean, to see their child grow up to be strong. 
 And nowit was ail gone — it wmuld never be I They 
 had played the game and they had lost. Six years more 
 of toil they had to face before they could expect the 
 least respite, the cessation of the payments upon the 
 house ; and how cruellj'’ certain it was that they could 
 never stand six years of such a life as they were living! 
 They were lost, they were going down — and there was 
 no deliverance for them, no hope ; for all the help it gave 
 them the vast city in which they lived might have been 
 an ocean waste, a wilderness, a desert, a tomb. So often 
 this mood would come to Ona, in the night-time, when 
 something wakened her; she would lie, atraid of the beat 
 ing of her own heart, fronting the blocd-red eyes of the 
 
1G4 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 old primeval terror of life. Once slie cried aloud, and -woke 
 Jurgis, who was tired and cross. After that she learned to 
 weep silently—their moods so seldom came together now! 
 It was as if their hopes were buried in separate graves. 
 
 Jurgis, being a man, had troubles of his own. There 
 was another spectre following him. He had never spoken 
 of it, nor would he allow any one else to speak of it—he 
 had never acknowledged its existence to himself. Yet the 
 battle with it took all the manhood that he had—and once 
 or twice, alas, a little more. Jurgis had discovered drink. 
 
 He was working in the steaming pit of hell; day after 
 day, week after week—until now there was not an organ 
 of his body that did its work without pain, until the sound 
 of ocean breakers echoed in his head day and night, and 
 the buildings swayed and danced before him as he went 
 down the street. And from all tire unending horror of 
 this there was a respite, a deliverance—he could drink! 
 He could forget the pain, he could slip off the burden ; he 
 would see clearly again, he would be master of his brain, 
 of his thoughts, of his will. His dead self would stir in 
 Mm, and he would find himself laughing and cracking 
 jokes with his companions—he would be a man again, 
 and master of his life. 
 
 It was not an easy thing for Jurgis to take more than 
 two or three drinks. With the first drink he could eat a 
 meal, and he could persuade himself that that was econ¬ 
 omy; with the second he could eat another meal—but 
 there would come a time when he could eat no more, and 
 then to pay for a drink was an unthinkable extravagance, 
 a defiance of the age-long instincts of his hunger-haunted 
 class. One daj'^, however, he took the plunge, anddrauK 
 up all that he had in his pockets, and went home half 
 “ piped,” as the men phrase it. He was happier than he 
 had been in a year; and yet, because he knew that the 
 happiness would not last, he was savage, too—with those 
 who would wreck it, and with the world, and with his 
 life; and then again, beneath this, he was sick with the 
 shame of himself. Afterward, when he saw the despair of 
 his family, and reckoned up the money he had spent, the 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 165 
 
 tears came into his eyes, and he began the long battle 
 with the spectre. 
 
 It was a battle that had no end, that never could have 
 one. But Jurgis did not realize that very clearly; he was 
 not given much time for reflection. He simply knew that 
 he was always fighting. Steeped in misery and despair 
 as he was, merely to walk down the street was to be put 
 upon the rack. There was surely a saloon on the corner— 
 perhaps on all four corners, and some in the middle of the 
 block as well; and each one stretched out a hand to him— 
 each one had a personality of its own, allurementsunlike 
 any other. Going and coming—before sunrise and after 
 dark—there was warmth and a glow of light, and the 
 steam of hot food, and perhaps music, or a friendly face, 
 and a word of good cheer. Jurgis developed a foudrtess 
 for having Ona on his arm whenever he went out on the 
 street, and he would hold her tightly, and walk fast. It 
 was pitiful to have Ona know of this—it drove him wild 
 to think of it; the thing was not fair, for Ona had never 
 tasted drink, and so could not understand. Sometimes, in 
 desperate hours, he would find himself wishing that she 
 might learn what it was, so that he need not be ashamed 
 in her presence. They might drink together, and escape 
 from the horror—escape for a while, come what would. 
 
 So there came a time when nearly all the conscious life 
 of Jurgis consisted of a struggle with the craving for 
 liquor. He would have ugly moods, when he hated Ona 
 and the wdiole family', because they stood in his way. He 
 was a fool to have married; he had tied himself down, 
 had made himself a slave. It was all because he was a 
 married man that he was compelled to stay in the yards; 
 if it had not been for that he might have gone olf like 
 Jonas, and to hell with the packers. There were few 
 single men in the fertilizer-mill—and those few were 
 working only for a chance to escape. Meantime, too, they 
 had something to think about while they worked,—they 
 had the memory of the last time they had been drunk, and 
 the hope of the time w'hen they would be drunk again. As 
 for Jurgis, he was expected to bring home every penny; 
 
166 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 he could not even go with the men at noon-time —he was 
 supposed to sit down and eat his dinner on a pile of ferti¬ 
 lizer dust. 
 
 This was not always his mood, of cou rse; he still loved 
 his familyc, But just now was a time of trial. Poor little 
 Antanas, for instance—who had never failed to win him 
 with a smile-—little Antanas was not smiling just now, 
 being a mass of fiery red pimples. He had had all the dis¬ 
 eases that babies are heir to, in quick succession, scarlet 
 fever, mumps, and whooping-cough in the first year, and 
 now he was down with the measles. There was no one 
 to attend him but Kotrina; there was no doctor to help 
 him, because they were too poor, and children did not 
 die of the measles—at least not often. Now and then 
 Kotrina would find time to sob over his woes, but for the 
 greater part of the time he had to be left alone, barricaded 
 upon the bed. The floor was full of draughts, and if he 
 caught cold he would die. At night he was tied down, 
 lest he should kick the covers off him, while the family 
 lay in their stupor of exhaustion. He would lie and scream 
 for hours, almost in convulsions; and then, when he was 
 worn out, he would lie whimpering and wailing in his tor¬ 
 ment. He was burning up with fever, and his eyes were 
 running sores; in the daytime he was a thing uncanny 
 and impish to behold, a plaster of pimples and sweat, a 
 great purple lump of misery. 
 
 Yet all this was not really as cruel as it sounds, for, sick 
 as he was, little Antanas was the least unfortunate member 
 of that family. He was quite able to bear his sufferings — 
 it was as if he had all these complaints to show what a 
 prodigy of health he was. He was the child of his parents’ 
 youth and joy ; he grew up like the conjurer’s rose bush, 
 and all the world was his oyster. In general, he toddled 
 around the kitchen all day with a lean and hungry look — 
 the portion of the family’s allowance that fell to him was 
 not enough, and he was unrestrainable in his demand for 
 more. Antanas was but little over a year old, and already 
 00 one but his father could manage him. 
 
 It seemed as if he had taken all of his mother’s strength 
 
THJi. JUNGLE 
 
 • 167 
 
 ^ had left nothing for those that might come after him. 
 Ona was with child again now, and it was a dreadful thing 
 to contemplate; even Jurgis, dumb and despairing as he 
 was, could not but understand that yet other agonies were 
 on the way, and shudder at the thought of them. 
 
 For Ona was visibly going to pieces. In the first place 
 she was developing a cough, like the one that had killed 
 old Dede Antanas. She had had a trace of it ever since that 
 fatal morning when the greedy street-car corporation had 
 turned her out into the rain ; but now it was beginning to 
 grow serious, and to wake her up at night. Even worse 
 than that was the fearful nervousness from which she suf¬ 
 fered ; she would have frightful headaches and fits of 
 aimless weeping; and sometimes she would come home at 
 night shuddering and moaning, and would fling herself 
 down upon the bed and burst into tears. Several times 
 she was quite beside herself and hysterical; and then 
 Jurgis would go half mad with fright. Elzbieta would 
 explain to him that it could not be helped, that a woman 
 was subject to such things when she was pregnant; but 
 he was hardly to be persuaded, and would beg and plead to 
 know what had happened. She had never been like this 
 before, he would argue — it was monstrous and unthink¬ 
 able. It was the lif^e she had to live, the accursed work 
 she had to do, that was killing her by inches. She was 
 not fitted for it — no woman was fitted for it, no 
 woman ought to be allowed to do such work; if the 
 world could not keep them alive any other way it 
 ought to kill them at once and be done with it. They 
 ought not to marry, to have children; no working¬ 
 man ought to marry — if he, Jurgis, had known what a 
 woman was like, he would have had his eyes torn out first. 
 So he would carry on, becoming half hysterical himself, 
 which was an unbearable thing to see in a big man ; Ona 
 would pull herself together and fling herself into his arms, 
 begging him to stop, to be still, that she would be better, 
 it would be all right. So she would lie and sob out her 
 grief upon his shoulder, while he gazed at her, as helpless 
 as a wounded animal, the target of unseen enemies. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 The beginning of these peiplexing things was in the 
 summer ; and each time Ona would promise him with 
 terror in her voice that it would not happen again — but 
 in vain. Each crisis would leave Jurgis more and more 
 frightened, more disposed to distrust Elzbieta’s consola.- 
 tions, and to believe that there was some terrible thing 
 about all this that he was not allowed to know. Once or 
 twice in these outbreaks he caught Ona’s eye, and it 
 seemed to him like the eye of a hunted animal; there 
 were broken phrases of anguish and despair now and then, 
 amid her frantic weeping. It was only because he was 
 so numb and beaten himself that Jurgis did not worry 
 more about this. But he never thought of it, except when 
 he was dragged to it — he lived like a dumb beast of bur¬ 
 den, knowing only the moment in which he was. 
 
 The winter was coming on again, more menacing and 
 cruel than ever. It v/as October, and the holiday rush 
 had begun. It was necessary for the packing-machines 
 to grind till late at night to provide food that would be 
 eaten at Christmas breakfasts; and Marija and Elzbieta and 
 Ona, as part of the machine, began working fifteen or six¬ 
 teen hours a day. There was no choice about this —what¬ 
 ever work there was to be done they had to do, if they wished 
 to keep their places ; besides that, it added another pittance 
 to their inooraes, so they staggered on with the awful load. 
 They would start v/ork every morning at seven, and eat 
 their dinners at noon, and then work until ten or eleven 
 at night without another mouthful of food. Jurgis wanted 
 to wait for them, to help them home at night, but they 
 would not think of this ; the fertilizer-mill was not run¬ 
 ning overtime, and there was no place for him to wait save 
 
 168 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 169 
 
 in a saloon. Each would stagger out into the darkness, 
 and make her wa,y to the corner, where they met; or if 
 the others had already gone, would get into a car, and 
 begin a painful struggle to keep awake. When they got 
 home they v/ere always too tired either to eat or to undress ; 
 they would crawl into bed with their shoes on, and lie like 
 logs. If thej'" should fail, they would certainly be lost ; 
 if they held out, they might have enough coal for the 
 winter. 
 
 A day or two before Thanksgiving Day there came a 
 snow-storm. It began in the afternoon, and by evening 
 two inches had fallen. Jurgis tried to wait for the women, 
 but went into a saloon to get warm, and took two drinks, 
 and came cut and ran home to escape from the demon ; 
 there he lay down to wait for them, and instantly fell 
 asleep. When lie opened his eyes again he was in the 
 midst of a nightmare, and found Elzbieta shaking him and 
 crying out. At first he could not realize what she was 
 saying— Qua had not come home. What time was it, he 
 asked. It was morning — time to be up. Ona had not 
 been home that night I And it was bitter cold, and a foot 
 of snow on the ground. 
 
 Jurgis sat up with a start, Marija was crying with 
 fright and the children were wailing in sympathy — little 
 Stanislovas in addition, because the terror of the snow was 
 upon him. Jurgis had nothing to put on but his shoes and 
 his coat, and in half a minute he was out of the door. 
 Then, however, he realized that there was no need of 
 haste, that he had no idea where to go. It was still dark 
 as midnight, and the thick snowflakes were sifting 
 down — everything was so silent that he could hear the 
 rustle of them as they fell. In the few seconds that he 
 stood there hesitating he was covered w'hite. 
 
 He sec off at a run for the yards, stopping by the way 
 to inquire in the saloons that were open. Ona might have 
 been overcome on the way ; or else she might have met 
 wnth an accident in the machines. When he got to the 
 place whe^'e she worked he inquired of one of the watch¬ 
 men — there had not been any accident, sc far as the man 
 
 12 
 
170 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 had heard. At the time-olBce, which he found already 
 open, the clerk told him that Ona’s check had been turned 
 in the night before, showing that she had left her work. 
 
 After that there was nothing for him to do but wait, 
 pacing back and forth in the snow, mteantime, to keep from 
 freezing. Already the yards were full of activity ; cattle 
 were being unloaded from the cars in the distance, and 
 across the way the “beef-luggers” were toiling in the 
 darkness, carrying two-hundred-pound quarters of bullocks 
 into the refrigerator-cars. Before the first streaks of day¬ 
 light there came the crowding throx..gs of workingmen, 
 shivering, and swinging their dinner pails as they hurried 
 by. Jurgis took up his stand by the time-office window, 
 where alone there was light enougii for him to see j the 
 snow fell so thick that it was only by peering closely that 
 he could make sure that Ona did not pass him. 
 
 Seven o’clock came, the hour when the great packing- 
 machine began to move. Jurgis ought to have been at 
 his place in the fertilizer-mill; but instead he was waiting, 
 in an agony of fear, for Ona. It was fifteen minutes after 
 the hour when he saw a form emerge from the snow-mist, 
 and sprang toward it with a cry. It was she. running 
 swiftly; as she saw him, she staggered forward, and half 
 fell into his outstretched arms. 
 
 “ What has been the matter ‘f ** he cried, anxiously. 
 “ Where have you been ? ” 
 
 It was several seconds before she could get breath to 
 answer him. “I couldn’t get home,” she exclaimed, “The 
 snow—-the cars had stopped.” 
 
 “But where were you then he demanded. 
 
 “I bad to go home with a friend,” she panted — “with 
 Jadvyga.*' 
 
 Jurgis drew a deep breath | but then he noticed that she 
 was sobbing and trembling — as if in one of those nervous 
 crises that he dreaded so. “ But wh^’s the matter ? ” he 
 cried. “ What has happened ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, Jurgis, I wms so frightened I ” she said, clinging 
 to him wildly. “ I have been so worried I ” 
 
 They were near the time-station window, and people 
 
THE JUKGLE 
 
 171 
 
 were staring at them. Jurgis led her away. **• How do 
 you mean ? ” he asked, in perplexity. 
 
 “I was afraid — 1 was just afraid I ** sobbed Ona. “1 
 knew you wouldn’t know where I was, and I didn’t know 
 what you might do. I tried to get home, but I was so 
 tired. Oh, Jurgis, Jurgis I ” 
 
 He was so glad to get her back that he could not think 
 clearly about anything else. It did not seem strange to 
 him that she should be so very much upset; all her fright 
 and incoherent protestations did not matter since he had 
 her back. He let her cry away her fears ; and then, be¬ 
 cause it was nearly eight o’clock, and they would lose 
 another hour if they delayed, he left her at the packing¬ 
 house door, with her ghastly white face and her haunted 
 eyes of terror. 
 
 There was another brief interval. Christmas was al¬ 
 most come 5 and because the snow still held, and the 
 searching cold, morning after morning Jurgis half carried 
 his wife to her post, staggering with her through the dark¬ 
 ness ; until at last, one night, came the end. 
 
 It lacked but three days of the holidays. About mid¬ 
 night Marija and Eizbieta came home, exclaiming in alarm 
 when they found that Ona had not come. The two had 
 agreed to meet her; and, after waiting, had gone to the 
 room where she worked, only to find that the ham-wrap¬ 
 ping girls had quit work an hour before, and left. There 
 was no snow that night, nor was it especially cold ; and 
 still Ona had not come 1 Something more serious must 
 be wrong this time. 
 
 They aroused Jurgis, and he sat up and listened crossly 
 to the story. She must have gone home again with Jad- 
 vyga, he saiJ ; Jadvyga. lived only two blocks from the 
 yards, and perhaps she had been tired. Nothing could 
 have happened to her — and even if there had, there was 
 nothing could be done about it until morning. Jurgis 
 turned over in his bed, and was snoring again before the 
 two had closed the door. 
 
 In the morning, however, he was up and out nearly ar 
 
172 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 hour before the usual time. Jadvyga Marcinkus lived on 
 the other side of the yards, beyond Halsted Street, with 
 her mother and sisters, in a single basement room — for 
 Mikolas had recently lost one hand from blood-poisoning, 
 and their marriage had been put off forever. The door of 
 the room was in the rear, reached by a narrow court, and 
 Jurgis saw a light in the window and heard something 
 frying as he passed ; he knocked, half expecting that Ona 
 would answer. 
 
 Instead there was one of Jadvyga^s little sisters, who 
 gazed at him through a crack in the door. “ Where's 
 Ona ? ” he demanded ; and the child looked at him in 
 perplexity. “ Ona ? ” she said. 
 
 “Yes,*’ said Jurgis, “isn’t she here ?” 
 
 “No,” said the child, and Jurgis gave a start. A mo¬ 
 ment later came Jadvyga, peering over the child’s head. 
 When she saw who it was, she slid around out of sight, 
 for she was not c[uite dressed. Jurgis must excuse her, 
 she began, her mother was very ill- 
 
 “Ona isn’t here?” Jurgis demanded, too alarmed to 
 wait for her to finish. 
 
 “ W hy, no,” said Jadvyga. “ What made you think 
 she would be here ? Had she said she was coming ? ” 
 
 “No,” he answered. “But she hasn’t come home — 
 and I thought she would be here the same as before.” 
 
 “ As before ? ” echoed Jadvyga, in perplexity. 
 
 “I'he time she spent the night here,” said Jurgis. 
 
 “ There must be some mistake,” she answered, quickly. 
 “ Ona has never spent the night here.” 
 
 He was only half able to realize her words. “ W'hy—why 
 — ”he exclaimed. “Two weeks ago, Jadvyga! She told 
 me so—the night it snowed, and she could not get home,” 
 
 “ There must be some mistake,” declared the girl, again; 
 “she didn't come here.” 
 
 He steadied himself by the door-sill; and Jadvyga in 
 her anxiety — for she was fond of Ona — opened the door 
 wide, holding her jacket across her throat. “Are you 
 Bute you didn’t misunderstand her?” she cried. “She 
 must have meant soinewhere else. She ——” 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 173 
 
 “^She said here,** insisted Jurgis. ^Sbetoid me ali 
 about you, and how you were, and what you said. Are 
 you sure ? You haven’t forgotten ? You weren't away?" 
 
 “No, no I” she exclaimed — and then came a peevish 
 voice — “ Jadvyga^ you are giving the baby a cold. Shut 
 the door I ” Jurgis stood for half a minute more, stam¬ 
 mering his perplexity through an eighth of an inch of 
 crack ; and then, as there was really nothing more to be 
 said, he excused himself and went away. 
 
 He walked on half dazed, without knowing where he 
 went. Ona had deceived him I She had lied to him I 
 And what could it mean — where had she been? Where 
 was she now? He could hardly grasp the thing — much 
 less try to solve it; but a hundred wild surmises came to 
 him, a sense of impending calamity overwhelmed him. 
 
 Because there was nothing else to do, he went back to 
 the time-office to watch again. He waited until nearly an 
 hour after seven, and then went to the room where Ona 
 worked to make inquiries of Oua’s “ forelady.” The “ fore¬ 
 lady,” he found, had not yet come ; all the lines of cars that 
 came from down-town were stalled—there had been an acci¬ 
 dent in the power-house, and no cars had been running 
 since last night. Meantime, however, the ham-wrappers 
 were working away, with some one else in charge of 
 them. The girl who answered Jurgis was busy, and 
 as she talked she looked to see if she were being watched. 
 Then a man came up, wheeling a truck; he knew Jurgis 
 for Ona’s husband, and was curious about the mystery. 
 
 “ Maybe the cars had something to do with it,” he sug¬ 
 gested— “maybe she had gone down-town.” 
 
 “No,” said Jurgis, “she never went down-town.” 
 
 “ Perhaps not,” said the man. 
 
 Jurgis thought he saw him exchange a swift glance with 
 the girl as he spoke, and he demanded quickly, “ What do 
 you know about it ? ” 
 
 But the man had seen that the boss was watching him ? 
 he started on again, pushing his truck. “ I don’t know 
 anything about it,” he said, over his shouldbr. “How 
 should I know wWe your wife goes?” 
 
174 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 Then Jurgis went out again, and paced up and dowB 
 before the building. All the morning he stayed there, 
 with no thought of his work. About noon he went to 
 the police station to make inquiries, and then came back 
 again for another anxious vigil. Finally, toward the 
 middle of the afternoon, he set out for home once more. 
 
 He was v'^alking out Ashland Avenue. The street-cars 
 had begun running again, and several passed him, packed 
 to the steps with people. The sight of them set Jurgis 
 to thinking again of the man’s sarcastic remark; and half 
 involuntarily he found himself watching the cars — with 
 the result that he gave a sudden startled exclamation, 
 and stopped short in his tracks. 
 
 Then he broke into a run. For a whole block he tore 
 after the car, only a little ways behind. That rusty black 
 hat with the drooping red flower, it might not be Ona’s, 
 but there was very little likelihood of it. He would know 
 for certain very soon, for she would get out two blocks 
 ahead. He slowed down, and let the car go on. 
 
 She got out $ and as soon as she was out of sight on the 
 side street Jurgis broke into a run. Suspicion was rife in 
 him now, and he was not ashamed to shadow her; he saw 
 her turn the corner near their home, and then he ran again, 
 and saw her as she went up the porch-steps of the house. 
 After that he turned back, and for five minutes paced up 
 and down, his hands clenched tightly and his lips set, his 
 mind in a turmoil. Then he went home and entered. 
 
 As he opened the door, he saw Elzbieta, who had also 
 been looking for Ona, and had come home again. She 
 was now on tiptoe, and had a finger on her lips. Jurgis 
 waited untU she was close to him. 
 
 “ Don't make any noise,” she whispered, hurriedly. 
 
 What’s the matter? ” he asked. 
 
 “Ona is asleep,” she panted. “She’s been very ilL 
 Pm afraid her mind’s been wandering, Jurgis. She was 
 lost on the street aU night, and I’ve only just succeeded 
 in getting her quiet.” 
 
 “ When did she come in?” he asked. 
 
 “Soon after you left this morning,” said Elzbieta. 
 
THE JtmGLE 
 
 175 
 
 And has she been ont since ? ** 
 
 “No, of course not. She’s so weak, Jurgis, she-” 
 
 And he set his teeth hard together. “ You are lying tc 
 018 ,” he said. 
 
 Elzbieta started, and turned pale. “ Why I ’* she gasped 
 “ What do you mean? ” 
 
 But Jurgis did not answer. He pushed her aside, and 
 strode to the bedroom door and opened it. 
 
 Ona was sitting on the bed. She turned a startled look 
 upon him as he entered. He closed the door in Elzbieta’s 
 face, and went toward his wife. “ Where have you been? ” 
 he demanded. 
 
 She had her hands cla sped tightly in her lap, and he saw 
 ihat her face was as white as paper, and drawn with pain. 
 She gasped once or twice as she tried to answer him, and 
 then began, speaking low, and swiftly, “ Jurgis, I — I think 
 I have been out cf my mind. I started to come last night, 
 and I could not find the way. I walked — I walked all 
 night, I think, and — and I only got home — this morning.” 
 
 '‘You needed a rest,” he said, in a hard tone. “Why 
 did you go out again?” 
 
 He was looking her fairly in the face, and he could read 
 the sudden fear and wild uncertainty that leaped into her 
 eyes. “I — I had to go to — to the store,” she gasped, 
 almost in a whisper, “ I had to go ■ - »■ ” 
 
 “ You are lying to me,” said Jurgis. 
 
 Then he clenched his hands and took a step toward her. 
 “Why do you lie to me?” he cried, fiercely. “What are 
 you doing that you ha»re to lie to me?” 
 
 “ Jurgis 1 ” she exclaimed, starting up in fright. “ Oh, 
 Jurgis, how can you?” 
 
 “ You have lied to me, I say I ” he cried. “ You told me 
 you had been to Jadvyga’s house that other night, and you 
 hadn’t. You had been where you were last night —some- 
 wheres down-town, for I saw you get off the car. Where 
 were you?” 
 
 It was as if he had struck a knife into her. She seemed 
 to go all to pieces. For half a second she stood, reeling 
 end swaying, staring at him with horror in her eyes; then. 
 
176 
 
 THE JTOGLE 
 
 with a cry of angtiishs she tottered forward, stretching onii 
 her arms to him. 
 
 But he stepped aside, deliberately, and let her fall. She 
 caught herself at the side of the bed, and then sank down, 
 burying her face in her hands and bursting into frantio 
 weeping. 
 
 There came one of those hysterical crises that had so 
 often dismayed him. Ona sobbed and wept, her fear and 
 anguish building themselves up into long climaxes. Furi¬ 
 ous gusts of emotion would come sweeping over her, shak¬ 
 ing her as the tempest shakes the trees upon the hills ; all 
 her frame would quiver and throb with them — it was as 
 if some dreadful thing rose up within her and took pos¬ 
 session of her, torturing her, tearing her. This thing had 
 been wont to set Jurgis quite beside himself ; but now 
 he stood with his lips set tightly and his hands clenched 
 — she might weep till she killed herself, but she should 
 not move him this time — nor an inch, not an inch. Be¬ 
 cause the sounds she made set his blood to running cold 
 and his lips to quivering in spite of himself, he was glad 
 of the diversion when Teta Elzbieta, pale 'with fright, 
 opened the door and rushed in ; yet he turned upon her 
 with an oath. “ Go out I ” he cried, “ go out 1 ’* And 
 then, as she stood hesitating, about to speak, he seized 
 her by the a,rm, and half flung her from the room, slam¬ 
 ming the door and barring it with a table. Then he 
 turned again and faced Ona, crying — “Now, answer 
 me 1 
 
 Yet she did not hear him — she was still in the grip of 
 the fiend. Jurgis could see her outstretched hands, shak¬ 
 ing and twitching, roaming here and there over the bed 
 at will, like living things j he could see convulsive shud- 
 derings start in her body and run through her limbs. 
 She was sobbing and choking — it was as if there were 
 too many sounds for one throat, they came chasing each 
 other, like waves upon the sea. Then her voice would be¬ 
 gin to rise into screams, louder and loader until it broke 
 in wild, horrible peals of laughter, .lurgis bore it until 
 he could bear it no longer, and then he sprang at her. 
 
THE JIGCNGLE 
 
 177 
 
 seizing her by the shoulders and shaking her, shouting 
 mto ner ear : “ Stop it, I say I Stop it 1 ■“ 
 
 She looked up at him, out of her agony ; then she fell 
 forward at his feet. She caught them in her hands, in 
 spite of his efforts to step aside, and with her face upon 
 the floor lay writhing.. It made a choking in Jurgis^s 
 throat to hear her, and he cried again, more savagely than 
 before : “ Stop it, 1 say 1 ” 
 
 This time she heeded him, and caught her bx-eath and 
 lay silent, save for the gasping sobs that wrenched all her 
 frame. For a long minute she lay there, perfectly motion¬ 
 less, until a coJH fear seized her husband, thinking that 
 she was dying. Suddenly, however, he heard her voice, 
 faintly: “JurgisI Jurgis ! ” 
 
 What is it ? he said. 
 
 He had to bend down to her, she was so weak. She 
 was pleading with him, in broken phrases, painfully ut¬ 
 tered : “ Have faith in me I Believe me I ” 
 
 “ Believe what ? ” he cried. 
 
 “ Believe that I — that I know best — that 1 love you 1 
 And do not ask me —what you did. Oh, Jurgis, please, 
 
 please I It is for the best — it is-” 
 
 He started to speak again, but she rushed on frantically, 
 heading him off. “ If you will only do it I If you will 
 only — only believe me 1 It wasn’t my fault — I couldn’t 
 help it — it will be all right — it is nothmg — it is no 
 harm. Oh, Jurgis — please, please I ” 
 
 She had hold of him, and was trying to raise herself to 
 look at him ; he could feel the palsied shaking of her 
 hands and the heaving of the bosom she pressed against 
 him. She managed to catch one of his hands and gripped 
 it convulsively, drawing it to her face, and bathing it in 
 her tears. “ Oh, believe me, believe me 1 ” she wailed 
 again ; and he shouted in fury, I will not I ” 
 
 Bat still she clung to him, wailing aloud in her despair: 
 “Oh, Jurgis, think what you are doing i It will ruin us 
 — it will ruin us! Oh, no, you must not do it I No, 
 don’t, don’t do it. Y ou must not do it ! It will drive me 
 mad—it will kill me —no, no, Jurgis, I am crazy —it is 
 
178 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 nothing. You do not really need to know. We can be 
 happy — we can love each other just the same. Oh, 
 please, please, believe me I ” 
 
 Her words fairly drove him wild. He tore his hands 
 loose, and flung her off. “ Answer me,” he cr ed. “ God 
 damn it, I say — answer me 1 ” 
 
 She sank down upon the floor, beginning to cry again. 
 It was like listening to the moan of a damned soul, and 
 Jurgis could not stand it. He smote his fist upon the 
 table by his side, and shouted again at her, “Answer 
 me I ” 
 
 She began to scream aloud, her voice like the voice 
 of some wild beast; “ Ah I Ah I I can’t! I can’t do 
 it I” 
 
 “ Why can’t you do it ? ” he shouted. 
 
 “ I don’t know how I ” 
 
 He sprang and caught her by the arm, lifting her up, 
 and glaring into her face. “ Tell me where you were last 
 night I ” he panted. “ Quick, out with it I ” 
 
 Then she began to whisper, one word at a time : “ I -— 
 was in — a house — down-town-” 
 
 “ What house ? What do you mean ? ” 
 
 She tried to hide her eyes away, but he held her. “ Miss 
 Henderson’s house,” she gasped. 
 
 He did not understand at first. “Miss Henderson’s 
 house,” he echoed. And then suddenly, as in an explo¬ 
 sion, the horrible truth burst over him, and he reeled 
 and staggered back with a scream. He caught himself 
 against the wall, and put his hand to his forehead, star¬ 
 ing about him, and whispering, “Jesus I Jesus!” 
 
 An instant later he leaped at her, as she lay grovelling 
 at his feet. He seized her by the throat. “ Tell me I ” 
 he gasped, hoarsely. “ Quick I Who took you to that 
 place ?” 
 
 She tried to get away, making him furious ; he thought 
 it was fear, or the pain of his clutch — he did not under¬ 
 stand that it was the agony of her shame. Still she an- 
 swered him, “ Connor.” 
 
 “ Connor,” he gasped. “ Who is Connor ? ” 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 179 
 
 '“The boss," she answered. “ The man-- 
 
 He tightened his grip, in his frenzy, and only when he 
 saw her eyes closing did he realize that he was choking 
 her. Then he relaxed his fingers, and crouched, waiting, 
 until she opened her lids again. His breath beat hot into 
 her face. 
 
 “Tell me,” he whispered, at last, “ tell me about it.” 
 
 She lay perfectly motionless, and he had to hold his 
 breath to catch her words. “I did not want—to do it,” 
 she said ; “ I tried — I tried not to do it. I only did it 
 ■—to save us. It was our only chance.” 
 
 Again, for a space, there was no sound but his panting. 
 Ona’s eyes closed and when she spoke again she did not 
 open them. “He told me — he would have me turned 
 off. He told me he would — we would all of us lose our 
 places. We could never get anything to do — here — 
 again. He — he meant it — he would have ruined us.” 
 
 Jurgis’s arms were shaking so that he could scarcely 
 hold himself up, and lurched forward now and then 
 as he listened. “When — when did this begin?” he 
 gasped. 
 
 “ At the very first,” she said. She spoke as if in a 
 trance. “It was all — it was their plot — Miss Hender¬ 
 son’s plot. She hated me. And he — he wanted me. 
 He used to speak to me — out on the platform. Then he 
 began to — to make love to me. He offered me money. 
 He begged me — he said he loved me. Then he threat¬ 
 ened me. He knew all about us, he knew we would 
 starve. He knew your boss — he knew Marija’s. He 
 would hound us to death, he said — then he said if I 
 would — if I — we would all of us be sure of v/ork — 
 always. Then one day he caught hold of me —he would 
 not let go — he — he ” 
 
 “ Where was this ? ” 
 
 “ In the hallway — at night — after every one had gone. 
 I could not help it. I thought of you — of the baby — of 
 mother and the children. I was afraid of him — afraid to 
 cry out.” 
 
 A moment ago her face had been ashen gray, now it waa 
 
180 
 
 THJfi JUlfGLB 
 
 scarlet. She was beginning to breathe hard again, jurgis 
 made not a sound. 
 
 “ That was two months ago. Then ne wanted me to 
 come — to that house. He wanted me to stay there. He 
 said all of uo — that we would not have to work. He 
 made me come there — in the evenings. I told you — 
 thought I was at the factory. Then. — one night 
 it snowed, and I couldn’t get back. And last night — 
 the cars were stopped. It was such a little thing — to 
 min us all. I tried to walk, but 1 couldn’t. I didn’t 
 waut you to know. It would have — it would have been 
 all right. Wd could have gone on — just the same—you 
 need never have known about it- He was getting tired 
 of me—he V'oiild have let me alone soon. 1 am going to 
 have a baby—-I am getting ugly. He told me that — 
 twice, he told me, last night. He kicked me — last night 
 — too. And now you will kill him — you — you will kill 
 him— and we shall die.” 
 
 All this she had said without a quiver ; she lay still as 
 death, not an ej^^eiid moving. And Jurgis, too, said not 
 a word. He lif ted himself by the bed, and stood up. He 
 did not stop for another glance at her, but went to the 
 door and opened it. He did not see Elzbieta, cioucuing 
 terrified in the corner. He went out, hatless, leaving the 
 street door open behind him. The instant his feet were 
 on the sidewalk he broke into a run. 
 
 He ran like one possessed, blindly, furiously, looking 
 neither to the right nor left. He was on Ashland Avenue 
 before exhaustion compelled him to slow down, and then, 
 noticing a car, he made a dart for it and drew himself 
 aboard. His eyes were wild and his hair flying, and he 
 was breathing hoarsely, like a wounded bull; but the 
 people on the car did not notice this particularly — per¬ 
 haps it seemed natural to them that a man who smelt as 
 Jurgis smelt should exhibit an aspect to correspond. 
 They began to give way before him as usual. The con¬ 
 ductor took his nickel gingerly, with the tips of his fingers, 
 and then left him with the platform to himself, Jui’gia 
 
THE JUNGiiB 
 
 181 
 
 did not even notice it — his thoughts were far away. 
 Within his soul it was like a roaring furnace ; he stood 
 waiting, waiting, crouching as if for a spring. 
 
 He had some of his breath back when the car came to 
 the entrance of the yards, and so he leaped off and started 
 again, racing at full speed. People turned and stared at 
 him, bat he saw no one — there was the factor 3 % and he 
 bounded through the doorway and down the corridoro 
 He knew the room where Ona worked, and he knew 
 Connor, the boss of the loading-gang outside. He looked 
 for the man as he sprang into the room. 
 
 The truckmen were hard at work, loading the freshly 
 packed boxes and barrels upon the cars. Jurgis shot one 
 swift glance up and down the platform — the man was not 
 on it- But then suddenly he heard a voice in the corridor, 
 and started for it with a bound. In an instant more he 
 fronted the boss. 
 
 He was a big, red-faced Irishman, coarse-featured, and 
 smelling of liquor. He saw Jurgis as he crossed the 
 threshold, and turned white. He hesitated one second, 
 as if meaning to run ; and in the next his assailant was 
 upon him. He put up his hands to protect his face, but 
 Jurgis, lunging with all the power of his arm and body, 
 struck him fairly between the ej’^es and knocked him back 
 ward. The next moment he was on top of him, burying 
 his fingers in his throat. 
 
 To Jurgis this man’s whole presence reeked of the crime 
 he had committed; the touch of his body was madness to 
 him—it set every nerve of him a-tremble, it aroused all 
 the demon in his soul. It had worked its will upon Ona, 
 this great beast — and now he had it, he had it I It was 
 his turn now! Things swam blood before him, and he 
 screamed aloud in his fury, lifting his victim and smashing 
 his head upon the flocr. 
 
 The place, of course, was in an uproar ; women fainting 
 and shrieking, and men rushing in. Jurgis was so bent 
 upon his task that he knew nothing of this, and scarcely 
 realized that people were trying to interfere with him j it 
 was only when half a dozen men had seized him by the 
 
182 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 legs and shoulders and were pulling at him, that he under¬ 
 stood that he was losing his prey. In a flash he had bent 
 down and sunk his teeth into the man’s cheek ; and when 
 they tore him away he was dripping with blood, and little 
 ribbons of skin were hanging in his mouth. 
 
 They got him down upon the floor, clinging to him by 
 his arms and legs, and still they could hardly hold him. 
 He fought like a tiger, writhing and twisting, half flinging 
 them off, and starting toward his unconscious enemy.' 
 But yet others rushed in, until there was a little mountain 
 of twisted limbs and bodies, heaving and tossing, and 
 working its way about the room. In the end, by their 
 sheer weight, they choked the breath out of him, and then 
 they carried him to the company police-station, where ho 
 lay still until they had summoned a patrol v/agon to tak« 
 him away. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 When Jurgis got up again he went quietly enoughc 
 He was exhausted and half dazed, and besides he saw the 
 blue uniforms of the policemen. He drove in a patrol 
 wagon with half a dozen of them watching him ; keeping 
 as far away as possible, however, on account of the fertil¬ 
 izer. Then he stood before the sergeant’s desk and gave 
 his name and address, and saw a charge of assault and 
 battery entered against him. On his way to his cell 
 a burly policeman cursed him because he started down the 
 wrong corridor, and then added a kick when he was not 
 quick enough; nevertheless, Jurgis did not even lift 
 his eyes — he had lived two years and a half in Pack- 
 ingtown, and he knew what the police were. It was as 
 much as a man’s very life was worth to anger them, 
 here in their inmost lair; like as not a dozen would pile 
 on to him at once, and pound his face into a pulp. It 
 would be nothing unusual if he got his skull cracked in 
 the melee — in which case they would report that he had 
 been drunk and had fallen down, and there would be no 
 one to know the difference or to care. 
 
 So a barred door clanged upon Jurgis and he sat down 
 upon a bench and buried his face in his hands. He was 
 alone; he had the afternoon and all of the night to him¬ 
 self. 
 
 At first he was like a wild beast that has glutted itself; 
 he was in a dull stupor of satisfaction. He had done up 
 the scoundrel pretty well — not as well as he would have 
 if they had given him a minute more, but pretty well, all 
 the same; the ends of his fingers were still tingling from 
 their contact with the fellow’s throat. But then, little by 
 
 183 
 
184 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 little, as his strength came back and his senses cleared, he 
 began to see beyond bis momentary gratification; that he 
 had nearly killed the boss would not help Ona — not the 
 horrors that she had borne, nor the memory that would 
 haunt her all her days. It would not help to feed her and 
 her child ; she would certainly lose her place, while he — 
 what was to happen to him God only knew. 
 
 Half the night he paced the floor, wrestling with this 
 nightmare; and when he was exhausted he lay down, try¬ 
 ing to sleep, but finding instead, for the first time in his 
 life, that his brain was too much for him. In the cell next 
 to him was a drunken wife-beater and in the one beyond a 
 yelling maniac. At midnight they opened the station- 
 house to the homeless wanderers who were crowded about 
 the door, shivering in the winter blast, and they thronged 
 into the corridor outside of the cells. Some of them 
 stretched themselves out on the bare stone floor and fell to 
 snoring; others sat up, laughing and talking, cursing and 
 quarrelling. The air was fetid with their breath, yet in 
 spite of this some of them smelt Jurgis and called down the 
 torments of hell upon him, while he lay in a far corner 
 of his cell, counting the throbbings of the blood in his 
 forehead. 
 
 They bad brought him his supper, which was “ duffers 
 and dope ” ■— being hunks of dry bread on a tin plate, 
 and cofee, called “ dope ” because it was drugged to 
 keep the prisoners quiet. Jurgis had not known this, or 
 he would have swallowed the stuff in desperation; as it 
 was, every nerve of him was a-quiver with shame and rage. 
 Toward morning the place fell silent, and he got up and 
 began to pace his cell; and then within the soul of him 
 there rose up a fiend, red-eyed and cruel, and tore out 
 the strings of his heart. 
 
 It was not for himself that he suffered— what did a 
 man who worked in Durham’s fertilizer-mill care about 
 anything that the world might do to him I What was 
 any tyranny of prison compared with the tyranny of the 
 past, of the thing that had happened and could not be 
 recalled, of the memory that could never be effaced I The 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 185 
 
 horror of it drove him mad; he stretched out his arms to 
 heaven, crying out for deliverance from it—and there was 
 no deliverance, there was no power even in heaven that 
 could undo the past. It was a ghost that would not down; 
 it followed him, it seized upon him and beat him to the 
 ground. Ah, if only he could have foreseen it — but then, 
 he would have foreseen it, if he had not been a fool! He 
 smote his hands upon his forehead, cursing himself because 
 he had ever allowed Ona to work where she had, because 
 he had not stood between her and a fate which every one 
 knew to be so common. He should have taken her away, 
 even if it were to lie down and die of starvation in the 
 gutters of Chicago’s streets! And now—oh, it could not 
 be true; it was too monstrous, too horrible. 
 
 It was a thing that could not be faced; a new shudder¬ 
 ing seized him every time he tried to think of it. No, 
 there was no bearing the load of it, there was no living 
 under it. There would be none for her — he knew that 
 he might pardon her, might plead with her on his knees, 
 but she would never look him in the face again, she 
 would never be his wife again. The shame of it would 
 kill her—there could be no other deliverance, and it was 
 best that she should die. 
 
 This was simple and clear, and yet, with cruel inconsist¬ 
 ency, whenever he escaped from this nightmare it was to 
 suffer and cry out at the vision of Ona starving. They 
 had put him in jail, and they would keep him here a long 
 time, years maybe. And Ona would surely Jiot go to 
 work again, broken and crushed as she was. And Elzbieta 
 and Marija, too, might lose their places—if that hell- 
 fiend Connor chose to set to work to ruin them, they 
 would all be turned out. And even if he did not, they 
 could not live — even if the boys left school again, 
 they could surely not pay all the bills without him and 
 Ona. They had only a few dollars now — they had just 
 paid the rent of the house a week ago, and that after it was 
 two weeks over-due. So it would be due again in a 
 week! They would have no money to pa}' it then — and 
 they would lose the house, after all their long, heart-break* 
 
 13 
 
186 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 ing struggle. Three times now the agent had warned him 
 that he would not tolerate another delay. Perhaps it was 
 very base of Jurgis to be thinking about the house when 
 he had the other unspeakable thing to fill his mind; yet, 
 how much he had suffered for this house, how much'th^ 
 had all of them suffered I It was their one hope of res^\ 
 pite, as long as they lived; they had put all their money 
 into it—and they were working-people, poor people, whose 
 money was their strength, the very substance of them, body 
 and soul, the thing by which they lived and for lack of 
 which they died. 
 
 And they would lose it all; they would be turned out 
 into the streets, and have to hide in some icy garret, and 
 live or die as best they could I Jurgis had all the night 
 — and all of many more nights — to think about this, and 
 he saw the thing in its details; he lived it all, as if he 
 were there. They would sell their furniture, and then 
 run intc' debt at the stores, and then be refused credit; 
 they wosild borrow a little from the Szedvilases, whose deli¬ 
 catessen store was tottering on the brink of ruin; the 
 neighbors would come and help them a little — poor, sick 
 Jadvyga would bring a few spare pennies, as she always 
 did when people were starving, and Tamoszius Kusleika 
 would bring them the proceeds of a night’s fiddling. 
 
 So they would struggle to hang on until he got out of 
 
 jail — or would they know that he was in jail, would they 
 be able to find out anything about him? Would they be 
 allowed to see him — or was it to be part of his punish¬ 
 ment to be kept in ignorance about their fate? 
 
 His mind would hang upon the worst possibilities; he 
 saw Ona ill and tortured, Marija out of her place, little 
 Stanislovas unable to get to Avork for the snow, the whole 
 family turned out on the street. God Almighty I would 
 they actually let them lie down in the street and die? 
 Would there be no help even then—would they wander 
 about in the snow till they froze? Jurgis had never seen 
 any dead bodies in the streets, but he had seen people 
 evicted and disappear, no one knew where; and though 
 the city had a reUef-bureau, though there was a charity 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 187 
 
 organization society in the stockyards district, in all his life 
 there he had never heard of either of them. They did i*)t 
 advertise their activities, having more calls than they could 
 attend to without that. 
 
 —So on until morning. Then he had another ride in the 
 patrol wagon, along with the drunken wife-beater and the 
 maniac, several “ plain drunks ” and ‘‘ saloon fighters,” a 
 burglar, and two men who had been arrested for stealing 
 meat from the packing-houses. Along with them he was 
 driven into a large, white-walled room, stale-smelling and 
 crowded. In front, upon a raised platform behind a rail, 
 sat a stout, florid-faced personage, with a nose broken out 
 in purple blotches. 
 
 Our friend realized vaguely that he was about to be 
 tried. He wondered what for — whether or not his vic¬ 
 tim might be dead, and if so, what they would do with 
 him. Hang him, perhaps, or beat him to death — nothing 
 'would have surprised Jurgis, who knew little of the laws. 
 Yet he had picked up gossip enough to have it occur to 
 him that the loud-voiced man upon the bench might be 
 the notorious Justice Callahan, about whom the people 
 of Packingtown spoke with bated breath. 
 
 “Pat” Callahan — “Growler” Pat, as he had been 
 known before he ascended the bench — had begun life 
 as a butcher-boy and a bruiser of local reputation ; he had 
 gone into politics almost as soon as he had learned to talk, 
 and had held two offices at once before he was old enough 
 to vote. If Scully was the thumb, Pat Callahan was the 
 first finger of the unseen hand whereby the packers held 
 down the people of the district. No politician in Chicago 
 ranked higher in their confidence; he had been at it a 
 long time — had been the business agent in the city coun¬ 
 cil of old Durham, the self-made merchant, way back in 
 the early days, when the whole city of Chicago had been 
 up at auction. “Growler” Pat had given up holding 
 city offices veiy early in his career — caring only for party 
 power, and giving the rest of his time to superintending 
 his dives and brothels. Of late years, however, since 
 his children were growing up, he had begun to value 
 
188 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 respectability, and had had himself made a magistrate ^ 
 a position for which he was admirably fitted, because of 
 his strong conservatism and his contempt for “ foreigners.” 
 
 Jurgis sat gazing about the room for an hour or two| 
 he was in hopes that some one of the family would come, 
 but in this he was disappointed. Finally, he was led 
 before the bar, and a lawyer for the company appeared 
 against him. Connor was under the doctor s care, the 
 lawyer explained briefly, and if his Honor would hold the 
 prisoner for a week — “ Three hundred dollars,” said his 
 Honor, promptly. 
 
 Jurgis was staring from the judge to the lawyer in per¬ 
 plexity. “Have you any one to go on your bond?” 
 demanded the judge, and then a clerk who stood at 
 Jurgis's elbow explained to him what this meant.. The 
 latter shook his head, and before he realized what had 
 happened the policemen were leading him away again. 
 They took him to a room where other prisoners were 
 waiting, and here he stayed until court adjourned, when 
 he had another long and bitterlj'’ cold ride in a patrol 
 wagon to the county jail, which is on the north side of 
 the city, and nine or ten miles from the stockyards. 
 
 Here they searched Jurgis, leaving him only his money, 
 which consisted of fifteen cents. Then they led him to 
 a room and told him to strip for a bath; after which he 
 had to walk down a long gallery, past the grated cell- 
 doors of the inmates of the jail. This was a great event 
 to the latter — the daily review of the new arrivals, aU 
 stark naked, and many and diverting were the comments. 
 Jurgis was required to stay in the bath longer than any 
 one, in the vain hope of getting out of him a few of his 
 phosphates and acids. The prisoners roomed two in a 
 cell, but that day there was one left over, and he was the 
 one. 
 
 The cells were in tiers, opening upon galleries. His 
 cell was about five feet by seven in size, with a stone floor 
 and a heavy wooden bench built into it. There was no 
 window—the only light came from windows near the 
 roof at one end of the court outside. There were twc 
 
THE JimGLE 
 
 189 
 
 Dunks, one above the other, each with a straw mattress 
 and a pair of gray blankets — the latter stiff as boards 
 with filth, and alive with fleas, bed-bugs, and lice. When 
 Jurgis lifted up the mattress he discovered beneath it a 
 layer of scurrying roaches, almost as badly frightened as 
 himself. 
 
 Here they brought him more “ duffers and dope,” with 
 the addition of a bowl of soup. Many of the prisoners 
 had their meals brought in from a restaurant, but Jurgis 
 had no money for that. Some had books to read and cards 
 to play, with candles to burn by night, but Jurgis was all 
 alone in darkness and silence. He could not sleep again; 
 there was the same maddening procession of thoughts that 
 lashed him like whips upon his naked back. When night 
 fell he was pacing up and down his cell like a wild beast 
 that breaks its teeth upon the bars of its cage. Now and 
 then in his frenzy lie would fling himself against the walls 
 of the place, beating his hands upon them. They cut him 
 and bruised him—they were cold and merciless as the meii 
 who had built them. 
 
 In the distance there was a church-tower bell that tolled 
 the hours one by one. When it came to midnight Jurgis 
 was lying upon the fioor with his head in his arms, listen¬ 
 ing. Instead of falling silent at the end, the bell broke 
 into a sudden clangor. Jurgis raised his head; what 
 could that mean — a fire? God I suppose there were to 
 be a fire in this jail I But then he made out a melody in 
 the ringing; there were chimes. And they seemed to 
 waken the city — all around, far and near, there were bells, 
 ringing wild music; for fully a minute Jurgis lay lost in 
 wonder, before, all at once, the meaning of it broke o^“r 
 him — that this was Christmas Eve ! 
 
 Christmas Eve — he had forgotten it entirely I There 
 was a breaking of flood-gates, a whirl of new memories and 
 new griefs rushing into his mind. In far Lithuania they 
 had celebrated Christmas ; and it came to him as if it had 
 been yesterday — himself a little child, with his lost 
 brother a nd his dead father in the cabin in the deep black 
 forest, where the snow fell all day and all night and buried 
 
190 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 them from the 'world. It -was too far off for Santa ClaTsu 
 in Lithuania, but it 'was not too far for peace and good 
 will to men, for the wonder-bearing vision of the Christ- 
 child. And even in Packingtown they had not forgotten 
 it— some gleam of it had never failed to break their dark 
 ness. Last Christmas Eve and all Christmas Day Jurgis 
 had toiled on the killing-beds, and Ona at wrapping hams, 
 and still they had found strength enough to take the 
 children for a walk upon the avenue, to see the store 
 windows all decorated with Christmas trees and ablaze 
 with electric lights. In one window there would be live 
 geese, in another marvels in sugar— pink and white canes 
 big enough for ogres, and cakes with cherubs upon them i 
 in a third there would be rows of fat yellow turkeys, deco¬ 
 rated with rosettes, and rabbits and squirrels hanging ; in 
 a fourth would be a fairy-land of toys — lovely dolls with 
 pink dresses, and woolly sheep and drums and soldier 
 hats. Nor did they have to go without their share of all 
 this, either. The last time they had had a big basket with 
 them and all their Christmas marketing to do — a roast of 
 pork and a cabbage and some rye-bread, and a pair of 
 mittens for Ona, and a rubber doll that squeaked, and a 
 little green cornucopia full of candy to be hung from the 
 gas jet and gazed at by half a dozen pairs of longing eyes. 
 
 Even half a year of the sausage-machines and the fer¬ 
 tilizer-mill had not been able to kill the thought of Christ¬ 
 mas in them ; there was a choking in Jurgis’s throat as 
 he recalled that the very night Ona had not come home 
 Teta Elzbieta had taken him aside and shown him an old 
 valentine that she had picked up in a paper store for three 
 cents—dingy and shop-worn, but with bright colors, and 
 figures of angels and doves. She had wiped all the specks 
 off this, and was going to set it on the mantel, where the 
 children could see it. Great sobs shook Jurgis at this 
 memory — they would spend their Christmas in misery 
 and despair, with him in prison and Ona ill and their 
 home in desolation. Ah, it was too cruel I Why at 
 least had they not left him alone — why, after they had 
 shut him in jaiL must they be ringing Christmas chimes 
 *n his ears I 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 191 
 
 But no, their bells were not ringing for him—thei? 
 Christmas was not meant for him, they were simply not 
 counting him at all. He was of no consequence—he was 
 flung aside, like a bit of trash, the carcass of some animal. 
 It was horrible, horrible 1 His wife might be dying, his 
 baby might be starving, his whole family might be perish¬ 
 ing in the cold — and all the while they were ringing their 
 Christmas chimes I And the bitter mockery of it — all 
 this was punishment for him ! They put him in a place 
 where the snow could not beat in, where the cold could 
 not eat through his bones ; they brought him food and 
 drink — why, in the name of heaven, if they must punish 
 him, did they not put his family i^j jail and leave him out¬ 
 side— why could they find no better way to punish him 
 than to leave three vveak women and six helpless children 
 to starve and freeze? 
 
 That was their law, that was their justice I Jurgis 
 stood upright, trembling with passion, his hands clenched 
 and his arms upraised, his whole soul ablaze with hatred 
 and defiance. Ten thousand curses upon them and their 
 law I Their justice — it wa,s a lie, it was a lie, a hideous, 
 brutal lie, a thing too black and hateful for any world 
 but a world of nightmares. It Avas a sham and a loath¬ 
 some mockery. There was no justice, there was no right, 
 anywhere in it — it was only force, it was tyranny, the 
 will and the power, reckless and unrestrained I They had 
 ground him beneath their heel, they had devoured all his 
 substance ; they had murdered his old father, they had 
 broken and wrecked his wife, they had crushed and cowed 
 his whole family ; and now they v;ere through with him, 
 they had no further use for him — and because he had 
 interfered with them, had gotten in their way, this was 
 what they had done* to him I They had put him behind 
 bars, as if he had been a rvild beast, a thing ivithout sense 
 or reason, rvithout rights, without affections, without 
 feelings. Nay, they would not even have treated a beast 
 as they had treated him I Would any man in his senses 
 have trapped a wild thing in its lair, and left its young 
 behind to die ? 
 
192 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 Thene midniglit hours were fateful ones to Jurgis; in 
 them was the beginning of his rebellion, of his outlawry 
 an3“his-unbelief"He had ho wit to trace baclT’fhe'gDcial 
 crime to its far sources — he coul d not s ay that-it-was the 
 thing men have called “the system” that was crushing 
 him to the earth; that it was the packers, his inastersv 
 who had bought up the law of the land, and had dealt out 
 their brutal will to him from the seat of justice. He 
 only knew that he was wronged, and that the world had 
 wronged him ; that the law, that society, with all its 
 powers, had declared itself his foe. And every hour his 
 soul grew blacker, every hour he dreamed new dreams of 
 vengeance, of defiance, of raging, frenzied hate, 
 
 “ The vilest deeds, like poison weeds. 
 
 Bloom well in prison air; 
 
 It is only what is good in Man 
 That v'^astes and withers there; 
 
 Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate. 
 
 And the Warder is Despair.” 
 
 So wrote a poet, to whom the world had dealt its 
 justice — 
 
 “ I know not whether Laws be right, 
 
 Or whether Laws be wrong; 
 
 All that we know who lie in gaol 
 Is that the wall is strong. 
 
 And they do well to hide their hell, 
 
 I'or in it things are done • ^ 
 
 That Son of God nor son of Man 
 Ever should look upon 1 ” 
 
 
 
 
 
 * rs 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 At seven o'clock the next morning Jurgis was let out 
 to get water to wash his cell — a duty which he performed 
 faithfully, but which most of the prisoners were accus¬ 
 tomed to shirk, until their cells became so filthy that the 
 guards interposed. Then he had more “ duffers and dope,” 
 and afterward was allowed three hours for exercise, in a 
 long, cement-walled court roofed with glass. Here were 
 all the inmates of the jail crowded together. At one side 
 of the court was a place for visitors, cut off by two heavy 
 wire screens, a foot apart, so that nothing could be passed 
 in to the prisoners; here Jurgis watch^'’ but 
 
 there came no one to see him. 
 
 Soon after he went back to his cell, a keeper opened the 
 door to let in another prisoner. He was a dapper young 
 fellow, with a light brown mustache and blue eyes, and a 
 graceful figure. He nodded to Jurgis, and then, as the 
 keeper closed the door upon him, began gazing c ritically 
 about him. 
 
 “ Well, pal,” he said, as his glance encountered Jurgis 
 again, “good morning.” 
 
 “ Good morning,” said Jurgis. 
 
 “A rum go for Christmas, eh?” added the other. 
 
 Jurgis nodded. 
 
 The new-comer went to the bunks and inspected the 
 blankets; he lifted up the mattress, and then dropped it 
 with an exclamation. “ My God I ” he said, “ that’s the 
 worst yet.” 
 
 He glanced at Jurgis again, “ Looks as if it hadn’t 
 been slept in last night. Couldn’t stand it, eh?” 
 
 “ I didn't want to sleep last night,” said Jurgis. 
 
 193 
 
194 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 “ When did you come in?” 
 
 “Yesterday.” 
 
 The other had another look round, and then wrinkled 
 up his nose. “There’s the devil of a stink in here,” he 
 said, suddenly. “ What is it? ” 
 
 “ It’s me,” said Jurgis. 
 
 “You?” 
 
 “Yes, me.” 
 
 “Didn’t they make you wash?**’ 
 
 “ Yes, but this don’t wash,” 
 
 “ What is it ? ” 
 
 “ Fertilizer. ” 
 
 “ Fertilizer i The deuce I What are you? 
 
 “I work in the stockyards — at least I did until the 
 other day. It’s in my clothes.” 
 
 “That’s a new one on me,” said the new-comer. “1 
 thought I’d been up against ’em ail. What are you in 
 for? ” 
 
 “ I hit my boss.” 
 
 “ Oh—that’s it. What did he do? ” 
 
 “He — he treated me mean.” 
 
 “ I see. You’re what’s called an honest worMng-nian f ’’ 
 
 “What are you?” Jurgis asked. 
 
 “ I ? ” The other laughed. “ They say I’m a cracks- 
 man,” he said. 
 
 “ What’s that? ” asked Jurgis. 
 
 “ Safes, and such things,” answered the other. 
 
 “Oh,” said Jurgis, wonderingly, and stared at the 
 speaker in awe, “You mean you break into them—you 
 — you — ” 
 
 “Yes,” laughed the other, “that’s what they say.” 
 
 He did not look to be over twenty-two or three, though, 
 as Jurgis found afterward, he was thirty. He spoke like 
 a man of education, like what the world calls a “gentleman.” 
 
 “Is that what you’re here for?” Jurgis inquired. 
 
 “No,” was the answer. “I’m here for disorderly con 
 duct. They were mad because they couldn’t get anj 
 evidence,” 
 
 “ Whdiia your name?” the young fellow continued afte/ 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 195 
 
 a pause. “My name’s Duane—Jack Duane. I’ve more 
 than a dozen, but that’s my company one.” He seated him¬ 
 self on the floor with his back to the wall and his legs 
 crossed, and went on talking easily; he soon put Jurgis 
 on a friendly footing—he was evidently a man of the 
 world, used to getting on, and not too proud to hold con¬ 
 versation with a mere laboring man. He drew Jurgis 
 out, and heard all about his life—all but the one un¬ 
 mentionable thing; and tnen he told stories about his 
 own life. He was a great one for stories, not always of 
 the choicest. Being sent to jail had a])parently not dis¬ 
 turbed his cheerfulness ; he had “ done time ” twice before, 
 It seemed, and he took it all with a frolic welcome. What 
 with women and wine and the excitement of his vocation, 
 a man could afford to rest now and then. 
 
 Naturally, the aspect of prison life was changed for 
 Jurgis by tlie arrival of a cell-mate. He could not turn 
 his face to the wall and sulk, he had to s])eak when he 
 was spoken to; nor could he help being interested 
 In the conversation of Duane — the first educated man 
 with whom he had ever talked. How could he help lis¬ 
 tening with wonder while the other told of mid¬ 
 night ventures and perilous escapes, of feastings and 
 orgies, of fortunes squandered in a night? The young 
 fellow had an amused contempt tor Jurgis, as a sort ot 
 working mule; he, too, had felt the woi'id’s injustice, but 
 uistead of bearing it patiently, he had struck back, and 
 struck hard. He was striking all the time — there was 
 war between him and society. He was a genial free¬ 
 booter, living oft' the enemy, without fear or shame. He 
 was not always victorious, but then defeat did not mean 
 annihilation, and need not break his spirit- 
 
 Withal he was a good-hearted fellow — too much so, it 
 appeared. His story came out, not in the first day, nor the 
 second, but in the long hours that dragged by, in which 
 they had nothing to do but talk, and nothing to talk of 
 but themselves. Jack Duane was from the East; he w'as 
 a college-bred man — had been studying electrical engi¬ 
 neering- Then his father had met with misfortune in busi 
 
196 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 ness and killed liimself; and there had been his mother 
 and a younger brother and sister. Also, there was an in¬ 
 vention of Duane’s; Jurgis could not understand it clearly, 
 but it had to do with telegraphing, and it was a very im¬ 
 portant thing—there were fortunes in it, millions upon 
 millions of dollars. And Duane had been robbed of it by 
 a great company, and got tangled up in lawsuits and lost 
 all his money. Then somebody had given him a tip 
 on a horse-race, and he had tried to retrieve his fortune 
 with another person’s money, and had to run away, and 
 all the rest had come from that. The other asked him 
 what had led him to safe-breaking—to Jurgis a wild and 
 appalling occupation to think about. A man he had met, 
 his cell-mate had replied—one thing leads to another. 
 Didn’t he ever wonder about his family, Jurgis asked. 
 Sometimes, the other answered, but not often—he didn’t 
 allow it. Thinking about it would make it no better. 
 This wasn’t a world in which a man had any business 
 with a family; sooner or later Jurgis would find that out 
 also, and give up the fight and shift for himself. 
 
 Jurgis was so transparently what he preteneded to be 
 that his cell-mate was as open with him as a child; 
 it was pleasant to tell him adventures, he was so full 
 of wonder and admiration, he was so new to the ways 
 of the country. Duane did not even bother to keep 
 back names and places—he told all his triumphs and his 
 failures, his loves and his griefs. Also he introduced 
 Jurgis to many of the other prisoners, nearly half of whom 
 he knew by name. The crowd had already given Jurgis 
 a name—they called him “ the stinker.” This was cruel, 
 but they meant no harm by it, and he took it with a good- 
 natured grin. 
 
 Our friend had caught now and then a whiff from the 
 sewers over which he lived, but this was the first time 
 that he had ever been splashed by their filth. This jail 
 was a Noah’s ark of the city’s crime—there were 
 murderers, “ hold-up men ” and burglars, embezzlers, 
 counterfeiters and forgers, bigamists, “shoplifters,” “con¬ 
 fidence-men,” petty thieves and pickpockets, gamblers and 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 197 
 
 procurers, brawlers,beggars, tramps and drunkards, they 
 (vere black and white, old and young, Americans and 
 aatives of every nation under the sun. There were 
 hardened criminals and innocent men too poor to give 
 bail; old men, and boys literally not yet in their teens. 
 They were the drainage of the great festering ulcer of 
 society; they were hideous to look upon, sickening to 
 talk to. All life had turned to rottenness and stench in 
 them—love was a beastliness, joy was a snare, and God 
 was an imprecation. They strolled here and there about 
 the courtyard, and Jurgis listened to them. He was 
 ignorant and they were wise ; they had been everywhere 
 and tried everything. They could tell the whole hateful 
 story of it, set forth the inner soul of a city in which 
 justice and honor, women’s bodies and men’s souls, were 
 for sale in the market-place, and human beings writhed 
 and fought and fell upon each other like wolves in a pit; 
 in which lusts were raging fires, and men were fuel, and 
 humanity was festering and stewing and wallowing in its 
 own corruption. Into this wild-beast tangle these men 
 had been born without their consent,they had taken part 
 in it because they could not help it; that they were in 
 jail was no disgrace to them, for the game had never 
 been fair, the dice were loaded. They were swindlers 
 and thieves of pennies and dimes, and they had been 
 trapped and put out of the way by the swindlers and 
 thieves of millions of dollars. 
 
 To most of this Jurgis tried not to listen. They 
 frightened him with their savage mockery; and all the 
 while his heart was far away, where his loved ones were 
 calling. Now and then in the midst of it his thoughts 
 would take flight; and then the tears would come into his 
 eyes—and he would be called back by the jeering laugh¬ 
 ter of his companions. 
 
 He spent a week in this company, and during all that 
 time he had no word from his home. He paid one of his 
 fifteen cents for a postal card, and his companion wrote a 
 note to the family, telling them where he was and when he 
 
198 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 would be tried. There came no answer to it, however, 
 and at last, the day before JSIew Year’s, Jurgis bade good- 
 by to Jack Duane. The latter gave him his address, 
 or rather the address of his mistress, and made Jurgis 
 promise to look him up. “ Maybe I could help you out of 
 a hole some day,” he said, and added that he was sorry to 
 have him go. Jurgis rode in the patrol wagon back to 
 Justice Callahan’s court for trial. 
 
 One of the first things he madr. out as he entered the 
 room was Teta Elzbieta and little Kotrina, looking pale 
 and frightened, seated far in the rear. His heart began 
 to pound, but he did not dare to try to signal to them, 
 and neither did Elzbieta. He took his seat in the prisoners’ 
 pen and sat gazing at them in helpless agony. He saw 
 that Ona was not with them, and was full of foreboding 
 as to what that might mean. He spent half an hour 
 brooding over this — and then suddenly he straightened 
 up and the blood rushed into his face. A man had come 
 m — Jurgis could not see his features for the bandages 
 that swathed him, but he knew the burly figure. It was 
 Connor 1 A trembling seized him, and his limbs bent as 
 if for a spring. Then suddenly he felt a hand on his 
 collar, and heard a voice behind him : “ Sit down, you son 
 of a-I ” 
 
 He subsided, but he never took his eyes off his enemy. 
 The fellow was still alive, which was a disappointment, in 
 one way ; and yet it was pleasant to see him, all in peni¬ 
 tential plasters. He and the company lawyer, who was 
 with him, came and took seats within the judge’s railing i 
 and a minute later the clerk called Jurgis’s name, and the 
 policeman jerked him to his feet and led him before the 
 bar, gripping him tightly by the arm, lest he should spring 
 upon the boss. 
 
 Jurgis listened while the man entered the witness chair, 
 took the oath, and told his story. The wife of the prisoner 
 had been employed in a department near him, and had 
 been discharged for impudence to him. Half an hour 
 later he bad been violently attacked, knocked down, and 
 ahnost choked to death. He had brought witnesses — 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 199 
 
 “They will probably not be necessary,*’ observed the 
 judge, and he turned to Jurgis. “You admit attacking 
 the plaintiff ? ” he asked. 
 
 “ Him ? ” inquired Jurgis, pointing at the boss. 
 
 “Yes,” said the judge. 
 
 “I hit him, sir,” said Jurgis. 
 
 “ Say ‘ your Honor,’ ” said the officer, pinching his arm 
 hard. 
 
 “ Your Honor,” said Jurgis, obediently. 
 
 “You tried to choke him ?” 
 
 “Yes, sir, your Honor.” 
 
 “ Ever been arrested before ? ” 
 
 “No, sir, your Honor.” 
 
 “ What have you to say for yourself?” 
 
 Jurgis hesitated. What had he to say ? In two years 
 and a half he had learned to speak English tor practical 
 purposes, but these had never included the statement that 
 some one had intimidated and seduced his wife. He tried 
 once or twice, stammering and balking, to the annoyance of 
 the judge, who was gasping from the odor of fertilizer. 
 Finally, the prisoner made it understood that his vocabu¬ 
 lary was inadequate, and there stepped up a dapper young 
 man with waxed mustaches, bidding him speak in any 
 language he knew. 
 
 Jurgis began ; supposing that he would be given time, 
 he explained how the boss had taken advantage of his 
 wife’s position to make advances to her and had threatened 
 her with the loss of her place. When the interpreter had 
 translated this, the judge, whose calendar was crowded, 
 and whose automobile was ordered for a certain hour, 
 interrupted with the remark : “ Oh, I see. Well, if he 
 made love to your wife, why didn’t she complain to the 
 superintendent or leave the place ? ” 
 
 Jurgis hesitated, somewhat taken aback; he began to 
 explain that they were very poor — that work was hard 
 to get — 
 
 “ I see,” said Justice Callahan; “ so instead you thought 
 you would knock him down.” He turned to the plaintiff, 
 inquiring, “ Is there any truth in this story, Mr, Connor? ” 
 
200 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 “Not a particle, your Honor,” said the boss. “It is 
 very unpleasant — they tell some such tale every time you 
 have to discharge a woman — ” 
 
 “ Tes, I know,” said the judge. “ I hear it often enough. 
 The fellow seems to have handled you pretty roughly. 
 Thirty days and costs. Next case.” 
 
 Jurgis had been listening in perplexity. It was only 
 when the policeman who had him by the arm turned and 
 started to lead him away that he realized that sentence 
 had been passed. He gazed round him wildly. “ Thirty 
 days! ” he panted — and then he whirled upon the judge. 
 “What will my family do?” he cried, frantically. “I 
 have a wife and baby, sir, and they have no money — my 
 God, they will starve to death I ” 
 
 “You would have done well to think about them before 
 you committed tl i assault,” said the judge, dryly, as he 
 turned to look at the next prisoner. 
 
 Jurgis would have spoken again, but the policeman had 
 seized him by the collar and was twisting it, and a second 
 policeman was making for him with evidently hostile 
 intentions. So he let them lead him away. Far down 
 the room he saw Elzbieta and Kotrina, risen from their 
 seats, staring in fright; he made one effort to go to them, 
 and then, brought back by another twist at his throat, he 
 bowed his head and gave up the struggle. They thrust 
 him into a cell-room, where other prisoners were waiting; 
 and as soon as court had adjourned they led him down 
 with them into the “ Black Maria,” and drove him away. 
 
 This time Jurgis was bound for the “ Bridewell,” a petty 
 jail where Cook County prisoners serve their time. It 
 was even filthier and more crowded than the county jail; 
 all the smaller fry out of the latter had been sifted into 
 it — the petty thieves and swindlers, the brawlers and 
 vagrants. For his cell-mate Jurgis had an Italian fruit- 
 seller who had refused to pay his graft to the policeman, 
 and been arrested for carrying a large pocket-knife; as 
 he did not understand a word of English our friend was 
 glad when he left. He gave place to a Norwegian sailor. 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 201 
 
 who had lost half an ear in a drunken brawl, and who 
 proved to be quarrelsome, cursing Jurgis because he moved 
 in his bunk and caused the roaches to drop upon the lower 
 one. It would have been quite intolerable, staying in a 
 cell with this wild beast, but for the fact that all day long 
 the prisoners were put at work breaking stone. 
 
 Ten days of his thirty Jurgis spent thus, without hear¬ 
 ing a word from his family; then one day a keeper came 
 and informed him that there was a visitor to see him. 
 Jurgis turned white, and so weak at the knees that he 
 could hardly leave his cell. 
 
 The man led him dov.'n the corridor and a flight of 
 steps to the visitors’ room, which was barred like a cell. 
 Through the grating Jurgis could see some one sitting in 
 a chair; and as he came into the room the person started 
 up, and he saw that it was little Stanislovas. At the sight 
 of some one from home the big fellow nearly went to pieces 
 — he had to steady himself by a chair, and he put his 
 other hand to his forehead, as if to clear away a mist. 
 “Well?” he said, weakly. 
 
 Little S<-^’^’°iovas was also trembling, and aU but too 
 frightened to speak. “They — they sent me to teU 
 you — ” he said, with a gulp. 
 
 “ Well?” Jurgis repeated. 
 
 He followed the boy’s glance to where the keeper was 
 standing watching them. “Never mind that,” Jurgis 
 cried, wildly. “How are they?” 
 
 “Ona is very sick,” Stanislovas said; “and we are 
 almos starving. We can’t get along; we thought you 
 might be able to help us.” 
 
 Jurgis gripped the chair tighter; there were beads of 
 perspiration on his forehead, and his hand shook. “I — 
 can’t — help you,” he said. 
 
 “ Ona lies in her room all day,” the boy went on, breath¬ 
 lessly. “She won’t eat anything, and she cries all the 
 time. She won’t tell what is the matter and she won^t go 
 to work at all. Then a long time ago the man came for 
 the rent. He was very cross. He came again last week. He 
 said he would turn us out of the house. And then Marija 
 
 14 
 
202 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 A sob choked Stanislovas, and he stopped. “What’s 
 the matter with Marija ? ” cried Jurgis. 
 
 “She’s cut her hand!” said the boy. “ She’s cut it bad^ 
 this time, worse than before. She can’t -work and it’s all 
 turning green, and the company doctor says she may— 
 she may have to have it cut otf. And Marija cries all'the 
 tim.e—her money is nearly all gone, too, and we can’t 
 pay the rent and the interest on the house; and we have 
 no coal and nothing more to eat, and the man at the store, 
 he says—” 
 
 The little fellow stopped again, beginning to vLiraper. 
 
 “ Go on! ” the other panted in frenzy—“ Go on! ” 
 
 “I — I will,” sobbed Stanislovas. “It’s so — so cold 
 all the time. And last Sunday it snowed again — a deep, 
 deep snow — and I couldn’t—couldn’t get to work.” 
 
 “God!” Jurgis half shouted, and he took a step to¬ 
 ward the child. There was an old hatred between tdem 
 because of the snow — ever since that dreadful morning 
 when the boy had had his fingers frozen and Jurgis bad 
 had to beat him to send him to work. Now be clenched 
 his hands, looking as if he would try to break through the 
 grating. “ You little villain,” he cried, “ you didn’t try!” 
 
 “I did — I did!” wailed StaniJovas, shrinking from 
 him in terror. “ I tried all day —- two days. Elzbieta 
 was with me, and she couldn’t either. We couldn’t walk 
 at all, it was so deep. And we had nothing to eat. and 
 oh, it was so cold! I tried, and then the third day Ona 
 went with me — ” 
 
 “ Ona! ” 
 
 “Yes. She tried to go to work, too. She had to. We 
 were all starving. But she had lost her place — ” 
 
 J urgis reeled, and gave a gasp. “ She went back to 
 that place ? ” he screamed. 
 
 “ She tried to,” said Stanislovas, gazing at him in per- ■ 
 plexity. “ Why not, J urgis ? ” 
 
 The man breathed hard, three or four times. “ Go — 
 <on,” he panted, finally. 
 
 “ I went with her,” said Stanislovas, “ but Miss Hen¬ 
 derson wouldn’t take her back. And Connor saw her and 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 203 
 
 3 ursed her. He was still bandaged up—why did you hit 
 him, Jurgis?” (There was some tascinating mystery 
 about this, the little fellow knew; but he could get no 
 satisfaction.) 
 
 Jurgis could not speak; he could only stare, his eyes 
 starting out. “ She has been trying to get other work,” 
 the boy went on ; “ but she’s so weak she can’t keep up. 
 And my boss would not take me back, either—Ona says 
 he knows Connor, and that’s the reason; they’ve all got 
 a grudge against i;s now. So I’ve got to go down-town 
 and sell papers with the rest of the boys and Kotrina—” 
 
 “Kotrina! ” 
 
 “ Y es, she’s been selling papers, too. She does best, be¬ 
 cause she’s a girl. Only the cold is so bad—its terrible 
 coming home at night, Jurgis. Sometimes they can’t 
 come home at all—I’m going to try to lind them to-night 
 and sleep where they do, it’s so late and it’s such a long 
 ways home. I’ve had to walk, and I didn’t know where 
 it was—I don’t know how to get back, either. Only 
 mother said I must come, because you would want to 
 know, and maybe somebody would help your family when 
 they had put you in jail so you couldn’t work. And I 
 walked all day to get here—and I only had a piece of 
 bread for breakfast, Jurgis. Mother hasn’t any work 
 either, because the sausage department is shut down; and 
 she goes and begs at houses with a basket, and people give 
 her food. Only she didn’t get much yesterday; It was 
 too cold for her fingers, and to-day she was crying—” 
 
 So little Stanislovas went on, sobbing as he talked ; and 
 Jurgis stood, gripping the rable tightly, saying not a word, 
 but feeling that his head would burst; it was like having 
 weights piled upon him, one after another, crushing the 
 life out of him. He struggled and fought within himself 
 —as if in some terrible nightmare, in which a man suffers 
 an agony, and cannot lift his hand, nor cry out, but feels 
 that he is going mad, that his brain is on fire— 
 
 Just when it seemed to him that another turn of the 
 screw would kill him, little Stanislovas stopped. “ 
 cannot heip us ? ” he said weakly. 
 
204 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 Jurgis shook his head. 
 
 They won’t give you anything here ? ** 
 
 He shook it again. 
 
 When are you coming out? ” 
 
 “Three weeks yet,” Jurgis answered. 
 
 And the boy gazed around him uncertainly. “ Then I 
 might as well go,” he said. 
 
 Jurgis nodded. Then, suddenly recollecting, he put 
 his hand into his pocket and drew it out, shaking. 
 “Here,” he said, holding out the fourteen cents. “Take 
 this to them.” 
 
 And Stanislovas took it, and after a little more hesita¬ 
 tion, started for the door. “ Good-by, Jurgis,” he said, 
 and the other noticed that he walked unsteadily as he 
 passed out of sight. 
 
 For a minute or so Jurgis stood clinging to the chair, 
 reeling and swaying; then the keeper touched him on the 
 arm, and he turned and went back to breaking stone. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Jtjrgis did not get out of the Bridewell quite as soon 
 as he had expected. To his sentence there were added 
 “ court costs ” of a dollar and a half — he was supposed to 
 pay for the trouble of putting him in jail, and not having 
 the money, was obliged to work it off by three days more of 
 toil. Nobody had taken the trouble to tell him this — only 
 after counting the days and looking forward to the end in 
 an agony of impatience, when the hour came that he ex¬ 
 pected to be free he found himself still set at the stone- 
 heap, and laughed at when he ventured to protest. Then 
 he concluded he must have counted wrong; but as another 
 day passed, he gave up all hope — and was sunk in the 
 depths of despair, when one morning after breakfast a 
 keeper came to him with the word that his time was up at 
 last. So he doffed his prison garb, and put on his old 
 fertilizer clothing, and heard the door of the prison clang 
 behind him. 
 
 He stood upon the steps, bewildered; he could hardly 
 believe that it was true, — that the sky was above him 
 again and the open street before him ; that he was a free 
 man. But then the cold began to strike through his 
 clothes, and he started quickly away. 
 
 There had been a heavy snow, and now a thaw had set 
 in ; a fine sleety rain was falling, driven by a wind that 
 pierced Jurgis to the bone. He had not stopped for his 
 overcoat when he set out to “ do up ” Connor, and so his 
 rides in the patrol wagons had been cruel experiences; 
 his clothing was old and worn thin, and it never had been 
 very warm. Now as he trudged on the rain soon wet it 
 through; there were six inches of watery slush on the 
 
 205 
 
206 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 sidewalks, so that his feet would soon have been soaked, 
 even had there been no holes in his shoes. 
 
 Jurgis had had enough to eat in the jail, and the work 
 had been the least trying of any that he had done since he 
 came to Chicago ; but even so, he had not grown strong 
 -— the fear and grief that had preyed upon his mind had 
 worn him thin. Now he shivered and shrunk from the 
 rain, hiding his hands in his pockets and hunching hia 
 shoulders together. The Bridewell grounds were on the 
 outskirts of the city and the country around them was 
 unsettled and wild —- on one side was the big drainage 
 canal, and on the other a maze of railroad tracks, and so 
 the wind had full sweep. 
 
 After walking a ways, Jurgis met a little ragamuffin 
 whom he hailed : “ Hey, sonny 1 ” 
 
 The boy cocked one eye at him — he knew that Jurgis 
 was a “ jail bird by his shaven head. “ Wot yer want?’* 
 he queried. 
 
 “ How do you go to the stocnyards ? ” J urgis de 
 manded. 
 
 “ 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.” 
 
 “ Hovf far is it ?” Jurgis asked. 
 
 “ I dunno ” said the other. “ Mebby 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, fol¬ 
 lowing his flying desire, almost at a run. Ona—-the 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 207 
 
 baby —the family — the house—he would know the 
 truth about them all! And he was coming to the rescue 
 — he was free again 1 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 alto¬ 
 gether. The street was turning into a country road, lead¬ 
 ing 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 
 jrays an’ I’m loaded heavy. Git up! ” 
 
 So Jurgis turned and follov/ed, and toward the end of 
 the morning he began to see Chicago ag'^in. Past endless 
 blocks of two-story shanties he walkeu, 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 death-trap 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 street-cars 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, 
 jaking his life into his hands. 
 
 He crossed a long bridge over a river frozen solid and 
 
208 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 covered with slush. Not even on the river bank was the 
 snow white — the rain which fell was a diluted solution 
 of smoke, and J urgis’s 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 slipping and plunging, and women and children 
 flying across in panic-stricken droves. These streets 
 were huge canons 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 tramp- 
 ish-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-dis¬ 
 tricts, to avenues of saloons and cheap stores, with long 
 dingy red factory buildings, and coal-yards 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 vol¬ 
 canoes 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 cornerr 
 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 
 bouse next door and at the one beyond — then at the sa¬ 
 loon 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! 
 
THE JUNGLj:. 
 
 209 
 
 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 flood-, 
 ing the attic and loosening the plaster. And now it was 
 fixed! And the broken window-pane replaced! And 
 curtains in the windows! New, white curtains, stiff and 
 shiny I 
 
 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 snow-ball. 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 sus¬ 
 picions of the snow-ball. When Jurgis started slowly 
 across the street toward him, he ga ve 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 ? ” 
 
210 
 
 THE JHHGLE 
 
 “ Me ? answered tlie boj, angrily. “ I live here.’® 
 
 “ You live here 1 ” Jurgis panted. He turned white, and 
 clung more tightly to the railing. “You live We* 
 Then where’s my family ? ” 
 
 The boy looked surprised. “Your family ! ” he echoed. 
 
 And Jurgis started toward him. “I~this is my 
 house I ” he cried. 
 
 “ Come oflfl ” said the boy; then suddenly the door up¬ 
 stairs opened, and he called; “Hey, mal Here’s a fellow 
 says he owns this house.” 
 
 A stout Irish woman came to the top of the steps. 
 “What’s that?” she demanded. 
 
 Jurgis turned toward her. “Where is my family?” 
 tie cried, wildly. “I left them here! This is my home 1 
 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 I ” he half shrieked. “ I lived here, I tell 
 you.” 
 
 “ You must be mistaken,” she answered him. “ Ho 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. “ 1 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 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’s 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 w’ere proving to be dream people, who 
 never had existed at all. He was quite lost—but then 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 211 
 
 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 — 
 
 .A.nd so Jurgis turned rnd 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 I They had lost it ! Grief, 
 despair, rage, overwhelmed him — what was any imagina¬ 
 tion of the thing to this heart-breaking, crushing reality 
 of it—to the sight of strange people living in his house, 
 hanging their curtains in his windoAvs, staring at him with 
 hostile eyes ! It was monstrous, it was unthinkable — 
 they could not do it— it could not be true I Only think 
 what he had suffered for that house — what miseries they 
 had all suffered for it — the price tney had paid for it! 
 
 The whole long agony came back to him. Their sacri¬ 
 fices in the beginning, their three hundred dollars that 
 they had scraped together, all they owned in the world, all 
 that stood between tneiu uiiu sLarvationi And then tneii 
 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, tliey had paid for it with their sweat and tears—yes, 
 more, with their very life-blood. Dede Antanas had died 
 of the struggle to earn that money—he would have been 
 alive and strong to-day if he had not had to work m 
 
212 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 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 I All that they had paid was gone—■ 
 every cent of it. And their house was gone — they were 
 back where thej'' had started from, flung out into the cold 
 to starve and freeze I 
 
 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 de¬ 
 voured 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, demo¬ 
 niacal wickedness of it I He and his family, helpless 
 women and children, struggling to live, ignorant and 
 defenceless and forlorn as they were — and the enemie 
 that had been lurking for them, crouching upon their trai 
 and thirsting for their blood ! That first lying circular 
 that smooth-tongued slippery agent ! That trap of thi 
 extra payments, the interest, and all the other charges tha 
 they had not the means to pay, and would never havi 
 attempted to pay ! And then all the tricks of the packers 
 their masters, the tyrants who ruled them,—the shut 
 downs and the scarcity of work, the irregular hours an( 
 the cruel speeding-up, the lowering of wages, the raising o , 
 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 I 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 3 gaiBetH:hem, 
 the whole machinery of society "was aT'their oppressors’ 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 213 
 
 nom niand t If Jurgis so much as raised, a hand against 
 he would ^6' ihTo'Tiiat mid-beast pen from 
 — "whlchhe had just escaped ! 
 
 get up and go away was to give up, to acknowledge 
 defeat, to lea/e 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 ham¬ 
 mer upon the door. 
 
 The old woman herself came to open it. She had shrunk 
 all up with her rheumatism since J urgis had seen her last, 
 and her yellow parchment face stared up at him from a 
 little above the level of the door-knob. She gave a start 
 when she saw him. “ Is Ona here ? ” he cried, breath¬ 
 lessly. 
 
 “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 hag¬ 
 gard and frightfully thin, with one arm tied up in band¬ 
 ages— he hardly realized that it Avas 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 
 
214 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 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 Mari ja at his heels. She seized 
 him by the sleeve with her good hand, panting wildly, 
 ‘^No, no, Jurgis I Stop I ” 
 
 “ 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 sob¬ 
 bing and moaning above, and he fought to get away and 
 climb up, without v^aiting for her reply. “No, no,” she 
 rushed on. “ Jurgis I You mustn’t go up I It’s — it’s 
 the child I ” 
 
 “ 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 I ” 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 
 flung her arms about him, crying : “ Come out 1 Come 
 away I ’" 
 
 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 plainl}’- 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 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 215 
 
 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 I ” he panted. “ Some one who knows I” 
 
 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 1 Ah, if you only had 
 waited I ” 
 
 Above h^r 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 inco 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 quar¬ 
 ter of an hour he rushed up the steps again, and for fear 
 that he would bi’eak 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 t 
 Listen to her — listen 1 Why, it was monstrous — it 
 could not be allowed — there must be some help for it 3 
 Had they tried to get a doctor? They might pay him 
 afterwards —they could promise — 
 
 “We couldn’t promise, Jurgis,” protested Marija, “ We 
 bad no money — we have scarcely been able to keep alive 
 
216 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 “But 1 oan work/* Jurgis exclaimed. “1 can earn 
 money 1 ’* 
 
 “ 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 mid¬ 
 wife, 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 beg¬ 
 ging 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 hands ; his head sank and his arms shook — it 
 looked as if he were going to collapse. Then suddenly 
 Amele got up and came hobbling toward him, fumbling 
 in her skirt pocket. She drew out a dirty rag, in one 
 '•■orae‘- of which she bad something tied. 
 
 Here, Jurgis I ” she said, “ I have some money. 
 talauk f See ! ” 
 
 She unwrapped it and counted it out—thirty-four 
 cents. “ You go, now,” she said, “ and try and get some¬ 
 body yourself. And maybe the rest can help — give 
 him somt! 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 
 pocket-books ; most of them had only pennies and nickels, 
 but they gave him all. Mrs. Olszewski, who lived next 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 217 
 
 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. 
 
 15 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 ‘'Madame Hatjpt, Hebamme,” ran a iign, 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 steps. 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 t«I. 
 her lips. Then he knocked louder, and she started and put 
 it away. She was a Dutch woman, 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 disordered 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 I ” cried he. 
 
 “ Veil, 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, 
 
 218 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 219 
 
 The woman was watching him narrowly.. How much 
 do you pay ? ” she demanded. 
 
 “ Must I pay now—right away 2 ” 
 
 “Yes; all my customers do.” 
 
 “ I—I haven’t much money,” J urgis 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 und a quarter,” 
 she said. 
 
 “ Its all I’ve got,” he pleaded, his voice breaking. “ I 
 must get some one—my wife will die. I can’t help it— 
 
 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!” J urgis 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.” 
 
 “ Yere 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, 
 liantically. 
 
 “Can’t you borrow it, den 2 Don’t your store people 
 trust you?” Then, as he shook his head, she went on; 
 “Listen to me—if you git me vou vill be glad of it 
 
220 
 
 THE JITNGM 
 
 I vill save your wife und baby for you, und 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 
 Dusiness — I could send you to people in dis block, und 
 dey vould tell you — ” 
 
 Madame Haupt was pointing her cooking-fork at J urgis 
 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 to 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 I 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 I vill go mit you 1 Come back I ” 
 
 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 veil go mit you for 
 nottinsr 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 I Und so I shall get soaked I Gott in 
 Himmel, it ought to be vorth more I Vun dollar und a 
 quarter, und a day like dis I 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! 
 Hurrv up t ” 
 
THE JUNGIlE 
 
 221 
 
 ** 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 a way. Then she wiped her 
 greasy hands again and proceeded to get ready, complain* 
 ing 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 mean¬ 
 time 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 some¬ 
 times even for years. 
 
 Then they escorted her to the ladder, and Jurgis heard 
 her give an exclamation of dismay. “ Gott in Himrael, 
 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 
 1 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 I ” Jurgis stood in the door, 
 way and listened to her scolding, half drowning out the 
 horrible moans and screams of Ona. 
 
222 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 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 disap¬ 
 pearing through the trap-door, and felt the house shake as 
 Madam 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 cloth¬ 
 ing, 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 saloon-keeper, 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 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 223 
 
 morning. And I’ve lost my Lome, and my wife’s ill, and 
 I’m done iip.” 
 
 The saloon-keeper gazed at him, witL Lis Laggard wLite 
 face and Lis blue trembling lips. Then Le pushed a big 
 bottle toward him. “ Fill her up !” Le said. 
 
 Jurgis could hardly hold the bottle, Lis hands shook so. 
 “Don’t be afraid,” said the saloon-keeper; “ Lll her up!’ 
 
 So Jurgis drank a Luge glass of whiskey, and theii 
 turned to the lunch-counter, in obedience to the other’s 
 suggestion. He ate all Le dared, stuffing it in as fast as 
 Le could; and then, after trying to speak Lis gratitude, 
 Le 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 
 Lard world. His soaked clothing began to steam, and the 
 horrible stench of fertilizer to fill the room. In an Lour 
 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 Lours 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 Lave to quit.” 
 
 He was used to the sight of human wrecks, this saloon¬ 
 keeper; he “ fired ” dozens of them every night, just as 
 haggard and cold and foi'lorn 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. Ther^ 
 was a door above and another below, both safely padlock¬ 
 ed,making the stairs an admirable place to stow away a cus¬ 
 tomer who might still chance to have money, or a political 
 light whom it was not advisable to kick out of doorr 
 
224 
 
 THE JtJNGLE 
 
 So Jurgis spent the night. The whiskey 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 wonder- 
 ing 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 cus¬ 
 tomers. 
 
 “ I want to go home,” Jurgis said. “ I’m worried about 
 my wife—■! 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 morn¬ 
 ing, 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 new-comers, 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 ? ” 
 
THE JUJSGLE 
 
 226 
 
 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 1 ” 
 
 Several of the women ran into the next room, while 
 Marija sprang toward Jurgis. “Wait here 1” 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 dene my best,” she began suddenly. “ I can do 
 Dotting 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 someting to drink, hey? ” she queried. “ Some 
 brandy? ” 
 
 Aniele shook her head. 
 
 “ Herr Gott I ” exclaimed Madame Haupt. “ Such peo¬ 
 ple I Perhaps you vill give me someting to eat den — 1 
 haf had netting 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 
 
226 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 me,” she said, “you pays me dot money yust de same! Ift 
 is not my fault dat you send for me so late 1 can’t help 
 you 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 ? 1 
 
 told dem dot ven they send for de priest. She is young, 
 und she might haf got over it, und been veil und strong, 
 if she 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 fiuor; 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 cf 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 J 
 It is Jurgis come back—don’t you hear me?” 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 227 
 
 There was the faintest quivering of the eyelids, and he 
 called again in frenzy; “ Ona 1 Ona 1 ” 
 
 Then suddenly her eyes opened — one instant. One 
 instant she looked at him—-there was a flash or recog-' 
 nition 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, tear¬ 
 ing 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 I 
 
 The word rang through him like the sound of a bell, 
 echoing in the far dejiths of him, making forgotten chords 
 to vibrate, old shadowy fears to stir — fears of the dark, 
 fears of the void, fears of annihilation. ?’ie was deadl 
 She was dead I He would never see her again, never hear 
 her again I 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 down-stairs draw nearer to each other in fear. He 
 was inconsolable, beside himself — the priest came and laid 
 his hand up^^u his shoulder and whispered to him, but he 
 heard not a ..ound. He was gone away lumself, stum¬ 
 bling 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 wiilte 
 
228 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 mask before him, then hide his eyes, because he could not 
 bear it. Dead I dead f And she was only a girl, she was 
 barely eighteen I Her Jife had hardly begun — and here 
 she lay murdered — mangled, tortured to death I 
 
 It was morning when he rose xtp 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 I” she exclaimed. “ I could hardly — ” 
 
 And then, seeing Jurgis, she stopped with an exclama¬ 
 tion. Looking from one to another she saw that some¬ 
 thing had happened, and she asked, in a lower voice» 
 “What’s the matter?” 
 
 Before any one 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 I ” 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. “ Whiskey,” 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 XX 
 
 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 noti¬ 
 fied, 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. 
 
 229 
 
230 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 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 — nevei 
 all the days of his life. His old love, which had been 
 starved to death, beaten to death, awoke in him aga^l^f 
 the flood-gates of memory were lifted—r'lie saw all their 
 life together, saw her as lie had seen her in Lithuania, the 
 first day at the fair, beautiful as the flowers, sing^ing^Ji^e 
 a bird. He saw her as he had married her, with all lier ten¬ 
 derness, 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 I Every angry word that he had ever spoken 
 came back to him and cut him like a knife; every selfish 
 act that he jiad done — with what torments he paid for 
 them now 1 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 I He could have screamed aloud 
 with the horror and despair of it; a swmat 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 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 231 
 
 ior 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 Elz- 
 bieta 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 worthwhileness 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 Anta- 
 oas, 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 iiad 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 
 
232 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 children working they could get along, if only he would 
 not go to pieces. So Elzbieta went on, with feverish in¬ 
 tensity. 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 
 bad done. 
 
 Bat 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, 
 to-morrow, 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 Gra¬ 
 ham’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 
 liim. 
 
 “ 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 hun¬ 
 gry 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 saloon-keepers who would 
 trust him for a drink and a sandwich, and members of his 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 233 
 
 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 hang- 
 ing 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 an¬ 
 swered, “Yes, sirl” 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, Pll give you a trial. Come early to¬ 
 morrow 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 rem¬ 
 nants 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." 
 
 Jurgis stared, dumfounded, “What’s the matter?” he 
 gasped. 
 
 IG 
 
234 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 4 
 
 Nothing,” said the man, “ only I can’t use you.” 
 
 There was the same cold, hostile stare that he had had 
 from the boss of the fertilizer-mill. He knew that there 
 was no use in saying a word, and he turned and went 
 away. 
 
 Out in the saloons the men could tell him all about the 
 meaning of it; they gazed at him with pitying eyes — 
 poor devil, he was blacklisted 1 What had he done ? 
 they asked — knocked down his boss? Good heavens, 
 then he might have known I Why, he siood as much 
 chance of getting a job in Packingtown as of being chosen 
 mayor of Chicago. Why had he wasted his time hunt¬ 
 ing ? They had him on a secret list in every office, big 
 and little, in the place. They had his name by this time 
 in St. Louis and New York, in Omaha and Boston, in 
 Kansas City and St. Joseph. He was condemned and 
 sentenced, without trial and without appeal; he could 
 never work for the packers again — he could not even 
 clean cattle-pens or drive a truck in any place where they 
 controlled. He might try it, if he chose, as hundreds had 
 tried it, and found out for themselves. He would never 
 be told anything about it; he would never get any more 
 satisfaction than he had gotten just now ; but he would 
 always find when the time came that he was not needed. 
 It would not do for him to give any other name, either — 
 they had company “spotters” for just that purpose, and 
 he wci'idn’t keep a job in Packingtown three daj's. It 
 was worth a fortune to the packers to keep their black¬ 
 list effective, as a warning to the men and a means of 
 keeping down union agitation and political discontent. 
 
 Jurgis went home, carrying these new tidings to the 
 family council. It was a most cruel thing ; here ii? this 
 district was his home, such as it was, the place he was used 
 to and the friends he knew-—and now every possibility of 
 employment in it was closed to him. There was nothing 
 in Packingtown but packing-houses ; and so it was the 
 same thing as evicting him from his home. 
 
 He and the two women spent all day and half the night 
 discussing it. It would be convenient, down-town, to the 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 235 
 
 children’s place ot work; but then Marija was on the 
 road to recovery, and had hopes of getting a job in 
 the yards; and though she did not see her old-time lover 
 once a month, because of the misery of their state, yet she 
 could not make up her mind to go away and give him up 
 forever. Then, too, Elzbieta had heard ?'omething about 
 ft chance to scrub floors in Durham’s offices, and was 
 waiting every day for word. In the end it was decided 
 that Jurgis should go down-town to strike out for himself, 
 and they would decide after he got a job. As there was 
 uo one from whom he could borrow there, and he dared 
 not beg for fear of being arrested, it was arranged that 
 every day he should meet one of the children and be given 
 fifteen cents of their earnings, upon which he could keep 
 going. Then all day he was to pace the streets with 
 hundreds and thousands of other homeless wretches, inquir¬ 
 ing at stores, warehouses, and factories for a chance ; and 
 at night he was to crawl into some doorway or underneath 
 a truck, and hide there until midnight, w'hen he might get 
 into one of the station-houses, and spread a newspaper 
 upon the floor, and lie down in the midst of a throng of 
 bums ” and beggars, reeking with alcohol and tobacco, 
 and filthy with vermin and disease. 
 
 So for two weeks more Jurgis fought with the demon 
 of despair. Once he got a chance to load a truck for half 
 a day, and again he carried an old w'oman’s valise and was 
 given a quarter. This let him into a lodging-house on 
 several nights when he might otherwise have frozen to 
 death ; and it also gave him a chance now and then to 
 buy a newspaper in the morning and hunt up jobs while 
 his rivals were watching and waiting for a paper to be 
 thrown away. This, however, was really not the advau- 
 tage it seemed, for the newspaper advertisements were a 
 cause of much loss of precious time and of many weary 
 joiirneys A full half of these were “ fakes,” put in by 
 the endless variety of establishments which preyed upon 
 the helpless ignorance of the unemployed. If Jurgis lost 
 onlv his time, it was because he had nothing else to lose 
 
236 
 
 THE JHNGLJS 
 
 whenever a smooth-tongued agent would tell him of the 
 wonderful positions he had on hand, he could only shake 
 his head sorrowfully and say that he had not the necessary 
 dollar to deposit; when it was explained to him what 
 “ big money ” he and aU his family could make by color¬ 
 ing photographs, he could only promise to come in again 
 when he had two dollars to invest in the outfit. 
 
 In the end Jurgis got a chance through an accidental 
 meeting with an old-time acquaintance of his union days. 
 He met this man on his way to work in the giant factories 
 of the Harvester Trust; and his friend told him to come 
 along and he would speak a good word for him to his 
 boss, whom he knew well. So Jurgis trudged four or five 
 miles, and passed through a waiting throng of unemployed 
 at the gate under the escort of his friend. His knees 
 nearly gave way beneath him when the foreman, after 
 looking him over and questioning him, told him that he 
 could find an opening for him. 
 
 How much this accident meant to Jurgis he realized 
 only by stages ; for he found that the harvester-works 
 were the sort of place to which philanthropists and 
 reformers pointed with pride. It had some thought for 
 its employees; its workshops were big and roomy, it pro¬ 
 vided a restaurant where the workmen could buy good 
 food at cost, it had even a reading-room, and decent places 
 where its girl-hands could rest; also the work was free 
 from many of the elements of filth and repulsiveness that 
 prevailed at the stockyards. Day after day Jurgis dis¬ 
 covered these things — things never expected nor dreamed 
 of by him — until this new place came to seem a kind of a 
 heaven to him. 
 
 It was an enormous establishment, covering a hundred 
 and sixty acres of ground, employing five thousand people, 
 and turning out over three hundred thousand machines 
 every year—a good part of all the harvesting and mow¬ 
 ing machines used in the country. Jurgis saw very little 
 of it, of course — it was all specialized work, the same as 
 at the stockyards ; each one of the hundreds of parts of 
 a mowing-machine was made separately, and sometimes 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 237 
 
 bandied by hundreds of men. Where Jurgis worked there 
 was a machine which cut and stamped a certain piece of 
 steel about two square inches in size; the pieces came 
 tumbling out upon a tray, and all that human hands had 
 to do was to pile them in regular rows, and change the 
 trays at intervals. This was done by a single boy, who 
 stood with eyes and thought centred upon it, and fingers 
 flying so fast that the sounds of the bits of steel striking 
 upon each other was like the music of an express train as 
 one hears it in a sleeping-car at night. Tliis was “piece¬ 
 work,” of course ; and besides it was made certain that 
 the boy did not idle, by setting the machine to match the 
 highest possible speed of human hands. Thirty thousand 
 of these pieces he handled every day, nine or ten mil¬ 
 lions every year — how many in a lifetime it rested with 
 the gods to say. N ear by him men sat bending over whirl¬ 
 ing grindstones, putting the finishing touches to the steel 
 knives of the reaper; picking them out of a basket with 
 the right hand, pressing first one side and then the other 
 against the stone and finally dropping them with the left 
 hand into another basket. One of these men told Jurgis 
 that he had sharpened three thousand pieces of steel a day 
 for thirteen years. In the next room were wonderful ma¬ 
 chines that ate up long steel rods by slow stages, cutting 
 them off, seizing the pieces, stamping heads upon them, 
 grinding them and polishing them, tiireading them, and 
 finally dropping them into a basket, all ready to bolt the 
 harvesters together. From yet another machine came 
 tens of thousands of steel burs to fit upon these bolts. 
 In other places all these various parts were dipped into 
 troughs of paint and hung up to dry, and then slid along 
 on trolleys to a room where men streaked them with red 
 and yellow, so that they might look cheerful in the har¬ 
 vest-fields. 
 
 Jurgis’s friend worked upstairs in the casting-rooms, 
 and his task was to make the moulds of a certain part. 
 He shovelled black sand into an iron receptacle and 
 
 E ounded it tight and set it aside to harden; then it would 
 e taken out, and molten iron poured into it. This man, 
 
238 
 
 THE JUl^GLE 
 
 tooj was paid oy the mould — or rather for perfect cast 
 ings, nearly half his work going for naught. You might 
 see him, along with dozens of others, toiling like one pos¬ 
 sessed by a whole community of demons | his arras work¬ 
 ing like the driving rods of an engine, his long, black hair 
 flying wild, his eyes starting out, the sweat rolling in 
 rivers down his face. When he had shovelled the mould 
 full of sand, and reached for the pounder to pound it with, 
 it was after the manner of a canoeist running rapids and 
 seizing a pole at sight of a submerged rock. All day long 
 this man would toil thus, his whole being centred upon 
 the purpose of making twenty-three instead of twenty- 
 two and a half cents an hour; and then his product 
 would be reckoned up by the census-taker, and jubilant 
 captains of industry would boast of it in their banquet- 
 halls, telling how our vorkers are nearly twice as efficient 
 as those of any other country. If we are the greatest 
 nation the sun ever shone upon, it would seem to be 
 mainly because we have been able to goad our wage- 
 earners to this pitch of frenzy; though there are a few 
 other things that are great among us, including our drink 
 bill, which is a billion and a quarter of dollars a year, and 
 doubling itself every decade. 
 
 There was a machine which stamped out the iron plates, 
 and then another which, with a mighty thud, mashed them 
 to the shape of the sitting-down portion of the American 
 farmer. Then they were piled upon a truck, and it was 
 Jurgis's task to wheel them to the room where the 
 machines were “assembled.” This was child’s play for 
 him, and he got a dollar and seventy rive cents a day for 
 it; on Saturday he paid Aniele the seventy-five cents a 
 week he owed her for the use of her garret, and also re¬ 
 deemed his overcoat, which Elzbieta had put in pawn 
 when he was in jail. 
 
 This last was a gi’eat blessing, A man csnnoiD go about 
 in midwinter in Chicago with no overcoat and not pay 
 for it, and Jurgis bad to walk or ride five or six miles 
 hack and forth to his work. It so happened that hall 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 239 
 
 of this was in one direction and half in another, neces¬ 
 sitating a change of cars; the law required that transfers 
 be given at all intersecting points, but the railway corpo¬ 
 ration had gotten round this by arranging a pretence at 
 separate ownership. So whenever he wished to ride, ho 
 had to pay ten cents each way, or over ten per cent of his 
 income to this power, which had gotten its franchises long 
 ago by buying up the city council, in the face of popular 
 clamor amounting almost to a rebellion. Tiiod as he 
 felt at night, and dark and bitter cold as it was in the 
 morning, Jurgis generally chose to walk; at the hours 
 other workmen were travelling, the street-car monopoly 
 saw fit to put on so few cars that there would be men 
 hanging to every foot of the backs of them and often 
 crouching upon the snow-covered roof. Of course the 
 doors could never be closed, and so the cars were as cold 
 as outdoors; Jurgis, like many others, found it better to 
 spend his fare for a drink and a free lunch, to give him 
 strength to Avalk. 
 
 These, however, were all slight matters to a man who 
 had escaped from Durham’s fertilizer-mill. Jurgis be- 
 gan to pick up heart again and to make plans. He had 
 lost his house, but then the awful load of the rent and 
 interest was oif his shoulders, and when Marija was well 
 again they could start over and save. In the shop where 
 he worked was a man, a Lithuanian like himself, whom 
 the others spoke of in admiring whispers, because of the 
 mighty feats he was performing. All day lie sat at a 
 machine turning bolts; and then in the evening he went 
 to the public school to study English and learn to read. 
 In addition, because he had a family of eight children to 
 support and his earnings were not enough, on Saturdays 
 and Sundays he served as a watchman; he was required 
 to press two buttons at opposite ends of a building every 
 five minutes, and as the walk only took him two minutes, 
 he had three minutes to study between each trip. Jurgis 
 felt jealous of this fellow; for that was the sort of thing 
 he himself had dreamed of, two or three years ago. Ha 
 auffht do it even yet. if he had a fair chance— he might 
 
240 
 
 THE OUNGLE 
 
 attract attention and become a skilled man or a boss, as 
 some had done in this place. Suppose that Marija could 
 get a job in the big mill where they made binder-twine -- 
 then they would move into this neighborhood, and he 
 would really have a chance. With a hope like that, 
 there was some use in living; to find a place vt^here you 
 were treated like a human being — by God ! he would 
 show them how he could appreciate it. He laughed to 
 himself as he thought how he would hang on to this 
 job I 
 
 And then one afternoon, the ninth of his work in the 
 place, when he went to get his overcoat he saw a group 
 of men crowded before a placard on the door, and when 
 he went over and asked what it was, they told him that 
 beginning with the morrow his department of the harvester 
 works would be closed until further notice I 
 
 11 ? 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 That was the way they did it! There was not half an 
 tiour's warning — the works were closed! It had hap¬ 
 pened that way before, said the men, and it would happen 
 that way forever. They had made all the harvesting-ma¬ 
 chines that the world needed, and now they had to wait 
 till some wore out! It was nobody’s fault—-that was the 
 way of it; and thousands of men and women were turned 
 out in the dead of winter, to live upon their savings if they 
 had any, and otherwise to die. So many tens of thousands 
 already in the city, homeless and begging for work, and 
 now several thousand more added to them 1 
 
 Jurgis walked home with his pittance of pay in his 
 pocket, heartbroken, overwhelmed. One more bandage 
 had been torn from his eyes, one more pitfall was revealed 
 to him! Of what help was kindness and decency on the 
 part of employers — when they could not keep a job for 
 him, when there were more harvesting-machines made 
 than the world "^as able to buy 1 What a hellish mockery 
 it was, anyway, that a man should slave to make harvest¬ 
 ing-machines for the country, only to be turned out to 
 starve for doing his duty too well! 
 
 It took him two days to get over this heart-sickening 
 disappointment. He did not drink anything, because 
 Elzbieta got his money for safekeeping, and knew him too 
 well to be in the least frightened by his angry demands. 
 He stayed up in the garret, however, and sulked — what 
 was the use of a man’s hunting a job when it was taken 
 from him before he had time to learn the work? But 
 then their money was going again, and little Antanas was 
 hungry, and crying with the bitter cold of the garret 
 
 241 
 
242 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 Also Madame Haupt, the midwife, was after him for some 
 money. So he went out once more. 
 
 For another ten days he roamed the streets and alleys 
 of the liuge city, sick and hungry, begging for any work. 
 He tried in stores and offices, in restaurants and hotels, 
 along the docks and in the railroad-yards, in warehouses 
 and mills and factories where they made products that 
 went to every corner of the world. There were often 
 one or two chances — but there were always a hundred 
 men for every chance, and his turn would not come. At 
 night he crept into sheds and cellars and doorways — until 
 there came a spell of belated winter weather, with a raging 
 gale, and the thermometer five degrees below zero at sun¬ 
 down and falling all night. Then Jurgis fought like 
 a wild beast to get into the big Harrison Street police-sta¬ 
 tion, and slept down in a corridor, crowded with two other 
 men upon a single step. 
 
 He had to fight often in these days — to fight for a place 
 near the factory gates, and now and again with gangs on 
 the street. He found, for instance, that the business of 
 carrying satchels for railroad-passengers was a preempted 
 one — whenever he essayed it, eight or ten men and boys 
 would fall upon him and force him to run for his life 
 They always had the policeman “ squared,” and so there 
 was no use in expecting protection. 
 
 That Jurgis did not starve to death was due solely to 
 the pittance the children brought him. And even this was 
 never certain. For one thing the cold was almost more 
 than the children could bear ; and then they, too, were in 
 perpetual peril from rivals who plundered and beat them. 
 The law was against them, too — little Vilimas, who was 
 really eleven, but did not look to be eight, was stopped on 
 the streets by a severe old lady in spectacles, who told him 
 that he was too young to be working and that if he did 
 not stop selling papers she would send a truant-officer after 
 him. Also one night a strange man caught little Kotrina 
 by the arm and tried to persuade her into a dark cellar¬ 
 way, an experience which filled her with such terror that 
 she was hardly to be kept at work. 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 
 At last, on a Sunday, as there v?as no use looking lor 
 work, Jurgis went home by stealing rides on the cars. 
 He found that they had been waiting for him for three 
 days — there was a chance of a job for him. 
 
 It was quite a story. I/ittle Jnozapas, who was near 
 crazy with hunger these days, had gone out on the street 
 to beg for himself. Juozapas had only one leg, having 
 been run over by a wagon when a little child, but ho had 
 got himself a broomstick, which he put under his arm for a 
 crutch. He had fallen in with some other children and 
 found the way to Mike Scully’s dump, which lay three 
 or four blocks away. To this place there came every day 
 many hundreds of wagon-loads of garbage and trash from 
 the lake-front, where the rich people lived; and in the 
 heaps the children raked for food — there were hunks of 
 bread and potato peelings and apple-cores and meat- 
 bones, all of it half frozen and quite unspoiled. Little 
 Juozapas gorged himself, and came home with a newspaper 
 full, which he was feeding to Antanas when his mother 
 came in. Elzbieta was horrified, for she did not believe 
 that the food out of the dumps was fit to eat. The next 
 dajq however, when no harm came of it and Juozapas be¬ 
 gan to cry with hunger, she gave in and said that he might 
 go again. And that afternoon he came home witli a story 
 of liow while he had been digging away with a stick, a 
 lady upon the street had called him. A real fine lady, the 
 little boy explained, a beautiful lady; and she wanted to 
 know all about him, and whether he got the garbage for 
 chickens, and why he v’alked with a broomstick, and why 
 Ona had died, and how Jurgis had come to go to jail, and 
 what was the matter with Marija, and everything. In 
 the end she had asked where he lived, and said that she 
 was coming to see him, and bring him a new crutch to 
 walk with. She had on a hat with a bird upon it, 
 Juozapas added, and a long fur snake around her neck. 
 
 She really came, the very next morning, and climbed the 
 ladder to the garret, and stood and stared about her, turn ■ 
 ing pale at the sight of the blood stains on the floor where 
 Ona had died. She was a “ settlement-worker,” she ex 
 
244 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 plained to Elzbieta—she lived around on Ashland Avenue. 
 Elzbieta knew the place, over a feed-store; somebody had 
 wanted her to go there, but she had not cared to, for she 
 thought that it must have something to do with religion, 
 and the priest did not like her to have anything to do with 
 strange religions. They were rich people who came to 
 live there to find out about the poor people; but what 
 good they expected it would do them to know, one could 
 not imagine. So spoke Elzbieta, naively, and the young 
 lady laughed and was rather at a loss for an answer — she 
 stood and gazed about her, and thought of a cynical 
 remark that had been made to her, that she was standing 
 upon the brink of the pit of hell and throwing in snow¬ 
 balls to lower the temperature. 
 
 Elzbieta was glad to have somebody to listen, and she 
 told all their woes, — what had happened to Ona, and the 
 jail, and the loss of their home, and Marija’s accident, and 
 how Ona bad died, and how Jurgis could get no work. 
 As she listened the pretty young lady’s eyes filled with 
 tears, and in the midst of it she burst into weeping and 
 hid her face on Elzbieta’s shoulder, quite regardless of the 
 fact that the woman had on a dirty old wrapper and that 
 the garret was full of fleas. Poor Elzbieta was ashamed 
 of herself for having told so woful a tale, and the other 
 had to beg and plead with her to get her to go on. The 
 end of it was that the young lady sent them a basket of 
 things to eat, and left a letter that Jurgis was to take to a 
 gentleman who was superintendent in one of the mills of 
 the great steel-works in South Chicago. “ He will get 
 Jurgis something to do,” the young lady had said, and 
 added, smiling through her tears—“ If he doesn’t, he will 
 never marry me.” 
 
 The steel-works were fifteen miles away, and as usual it 
 was so contrived that one had to pay two fares to get there. 
 Far and wide the sky was flaring with the red glare that 
 leaped from rows of towering chimneys — for it was pitch 
 dark when Jurgis arrived. The vast works, a city in 
 themselves, were surrounded by a stockade ; and already 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 24d 
 
 a full hundred men were waiting at the gate where new 
 hands were taken on. Soon after daybreak whistles began 
 to blow, and then suddenly thousands of men appeared, 
 streaming from saloons and boarding-houses across the 
 way, leaping from trolley-cars that passed — it seemed as 
 if they rose out of the ground, in the dim gray light. A 
 river of them poured in through the gate — and then 
 gradually ebbed away again, until there were only a few 
 late ones running, and the watchman pacing up and down, 
 and the hungry strangers stamping and shivering. 
 
 Jurgis presented his precious letter. The gatekeeper 
 was surly, and put him through a catechism, but he in¬ 
 sisted that he knew nothing, and as he had taken the 
 precaution to seal his letter, there was nothing for the 
 gatekeeper to do but send it to the person to whom it was 
 addressed. A messenger came back to say that Jurgis 
 should wait, and so he came inside of the gate, perhaps 
 not sorry enough that there were others less fortunate 
 watching him with greedy eyes. 
 
 The great mills were getting under way — one could 
 hear a vast stirring, a rolling and rumbling and hammer¬ 
 ing. Little by little the scene grew plain: towering, 
 black buildings here and there, long rows of shops and 
 sheds, little railways branching ever3'^where, bare gray 
 cinders under foot and oceans of billowing black smoke 
 above. On one side of the grounds ran a railroad with a 
 dozen tracks, and on the other side lay the lake, where 
 steamers came to load. 
 
 Jurgis had time enough to stare and speculate, for it 
 was two hours before he was summoned. He went into 
 the office-building, where a company time-keeper inter¬ 
 viewed him. The superintendent was busy, he said, but 
 he (the time-keeper) would try to find Jurgis a job. He 
 had never worked in a steel-mill before ? But he was 
 ready for anything ? Well, then, they would go and see. 
 
 So they began a tour, among sights that made Jurgis 
 stare amazed. He wondered if ever he could get used to 
 working in a place like this, where the air shook Avith 
 deafening thunder, and whistles shrieked warnings on all 
 
246 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 sides of him at once ; where miniature steam-engines camo 
 rushing upon him, and sizzling, quivering, white-hot 
 masses of metal sped past him, and explosions of fire and 
 flaming sparks dazzled him and scorched his face. The 
 men in these mills were all black with soot, and hollow- 
 eyed and gaunt; they worked with fierce intensity, rush¬ 
 ing here and there, and never lifting their eyes from 
 their tasks. Jurgis clung to his guide like a scared child 
 to its nurse, and while the latter hailed one foreman after 
 another to ask if they could use another unskilled man, 
 he stared about him and marvelled. 
 
 He was taken to the Bessemer furnace, where they 
 made billets of steel — a dome-like building the size of a 
 big theatre. Jurgis stood where the balcony of the theatre 
 would have been, and opposite, by the stage, he saw three 
 giant caldrons, big enough for all the devils of hell to 
 brew their broth in, full of something white and blinding, 
 bubbling and splashing, roaring as if volcanoes were blow¬ 
 ing through it — one had to sliout to be heard in the place. 
 Liquid fire would leap from these caldrons and scatter 
 like bombs below — and men were working there, seem¬ 
 ing careless, so that Jurgis caught his breath with fright. 
 Then a whistle would toot, and across the curtain of the 
 theatre would come a little engine with a car-load of some¬ 
 thing to be dumped into one of the receptacles; and then 
 another whistle would toot, down by the stage, and an¬ 
 other train would back up — and suddenly, without an 
 instant's warning, one of the giant kettles began to tilt 
 and topple, flinging out a jet of hissing, roaring flame. 
 Jurgis shrank back appalled, for he thought it was an 
 accident; there fell a pillar of white flame, dazzling as the 
 sun, swishing like a huge tree falling in the forest. A 
 torrent of sparks swept all the way across the building, 
 overwhelming everything, hiding it from sight; and then 
 Jurgis looked through the fingers of his hands, and saw 
 pouring out of the caldron a cascade of living, leaping tire, 
 white with a whiteness not of earth, scorching the eyeballs. 
 Incandescent rainbows shone above it, blue, red, and golden 
 iights played about it; but the stream itself was white 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 247 
 
 ineffable. Out of regions of wonder it streamed, the very 
 river of life ; and the soul leaped up at the sight of it, 
 fled back upon it, swift and resistless, back into far-off 
 lands, where beauty and terror dwell.—Then the great 
 caldron tilted back again, empty, and Jurgis saw to his 
 relief that no one was hurt, and turned and followed his 
 guide out into the sunlight. 
 
 They went through the blast-furnaces, through rolling- 
 mills where bars of steel were tossed about and chopped 
 like bits of cheese. All around and above giant machine- 
 arms were flying, giant wheels were turning, giant ham¬ 
 mers crashing; travelling cranes creaked and groaned 
 overhead, reaching down iron hands and seizing iron prey 
 — it was like standing in the centre of the earth, where 
 the machinery of time was revolving. 
 
 By and by they came to the place where steel rails were 
 made ; and Jurgis heard a toot behind him, and jumped 
 out of the way of a car with a white-hot ingot upon it, 
 the size of a man’s body. There was a sudden crash and 
 the car came to a halt, and the ingot toppled out upon a 
 moving platform, where steel fingers and arms seized hold 
 of it, punching it and prodding it into place, and hurrying 
 it into the grip of huge rollers. Then it came out upon 
 the other side, and there were more crashings and clatter- 
 ings, and over it was flopped, like a pancake on a gridiron, 
 and seized again and rushed back at you through another 
 squeezer. So amid deafening uproar it clattered to and 
 fro, growing thinner and flatter and longer. The in got 
 seemed almost a living thing ; it did not want to run this 
 mad course, but it was in the grip of fate, it was tumbled 
 on, screeching and clanking and shivering in protest. By 
 and by it was long and thin, a great red snake escaped 
 from purgatory ; and then, as it slid through the rollers, 
 you v/ould have sworn that it was alive — it writhed and 
 squirmed, and wriggles and shudders passed out through 
 its tail, all but flinging it off by their violence. .There 
 was no re st for it until it was cold and black — and then 
 it needed only to be cut and straightened to be ready for 
 a railroad. 
 
248 
 
 a?B[a 
 
 It was at the end of this rail’s progress that J urgis got 
 his chance. They had to be moved by men with crowbars, 
 and the boss here could use another man. So he took off 
 his coat and set to work on the spot. 
 
 It took him two hours to get to this place every day 
 and cost him a dollar and twenty cents a week. As this 
 was out of the question, he wrapped his bedding in a 
 bundle and took it with him, and one of his fellow-work¬ 
 ing-men introduced him to a Polish lodging-house, where 
 he might have the privilege of sleeping upon the floor for 
 ten cents a night. He got his meals at free-lunch counters, 
 and every Saturday night he went home — bedding and 
 all—and took the greater part of his money to the family. 
 Elzbieta was sorry for this arrangement, for she feared 
 that it would get him into the habit of living without 
 them, and once a week was not very often for him to see 
 his baby; but there was no other way of arranging it. 
 There was no chance for a woman at the steel-works, and 
 Marija was now ready for work again, and lured on from 
 day to day by the hope of finding it at the yards. 
 
 In a week Jurgis got over his sense of helplessness and 
 bewilderment in the rail-mill. He learned to find his way 
 about and to take all the miracles and terrors for granted, 
 to work without hearing the rumbling and crashing. From 
 blind fear he went to the other extreme ; he became reck¬ 
 less and indifferent, like all the rest of the men, who took 
 but little thought of themselves in the ardor of their work. 
 It was wonderful, when one came to think of it, that these 
 men should have taken an interest in the work they did; 
 they had no share in it — they were paid by the hour, and 
 paid no more for being interested. Also they knew that 
 if they were hurt they would be flung aside and forgotten 
 — and still they would hurry to their task by dangerous 
 short-cuts, would use methods that were quicker and more 
 effective in spite of the fact that they were also risky. 
 His fourth day at his work Jurgis saw a man stumble while 
 running in front of a car, and have his foot mashed off 5 
 and before be had been there three weeks he was witness 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 249 
 
 of a yet more dr-eadful accident. There was a row ot 
 brick-furnaces, shining white through every crack with 
 the molten steel inside. Some of these were bulging dan¬ 
 gerously, yet men worked before them, wearing blue 
 glasses when they opened and shut the doors. One morn¬ 
 ing as Jurgis was passing, a furnace blew out, spraying 
 two men with a shower of liquid fire. As they lay scream¬ 
 ing and roiling upon the ground in agony, Jurgis rushed 
 to help them, and as a result he lost a good part of the 
 skin from the inside of one of his hands. The company 
 doctor bandaged it up, but he got no other thanks from 
 any one, and was laid up for eight working days without 
 any pay. 
 
 Most fortunately, at this juncture, Elzbieta got the 
 long-awaited chance to go at five o’clock in the morning 
 and help scrub the office-floors of one of the packers. 
 Jurgis came home and covered himself with blankets to 
 keep warm, and divided his time between sleeping and 
 playing with little An tanas. Juozapas was away raking 
 in the dump a good part of the time, and Elzbieta and 
 Marija were hunting for more work. 
 
 Antanas was now over a year and a half old, and was a 
 perfect talking-machine. He learned so fast that every 
 week when Jurgis came home it seemed to him as if 
 he had a new child. He would sit down and listen and 
 stare at him, and give vent to delighted exclamations,— 
 “ Palauk ! Muma ! Tu mano szirdele ! ” The little fellow 
 was now really the one delight that Jurgis had in the 
 world — his one hope, his one victory. Thank God, An¬ 
 tanas was a boy I And he was as tough as a pine-knot, 
 and with the appetite of a wolf. Notliing had hurt him, 
 and nothing could hurt him ; he had come through ai! 
 the suffering and deprivation unscathed — only shriller 
 voiced and more determined in his grip upon life. He 
 was a terrible child to manage, was Antanas, but his 
 father did not mind that — he would watch him and smile 
 to himself with satisfaction. The more of a fighter he 
 was the better—he would need to fight before he got 
 fchrougfh 
 
 17 
 
250 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 Jurgis liad got tlie habit of buying the Sunday papes 
 whenever he had the money ; a most wonderful paper 
 could be had for only five cents, a whole armful, with a]J 
 the news of the world set forth in big headlines, that 
 Jurgis could spell out slowly, with the children to help 
 him at the long words. There was battle and murder 
 and sudden death — it was marvellous how they ever heard 
 about so many entertaining and thrilling happenings ; the 
 stories must be all true, for surely no man could have made 
 such things up, and besides, there were pictures of them 
 all, as real as life. One of these papers was as good as a 
 circus, and nearly as good as a spree — certainly a most 
 wonderful treat for a working-man, who was tired out and 
 stupefied, and had never had any education, and whose 
 work was one dull, sordid grind, day after day, and year 
 after year, with never a sight of a green field nor an hour’s 
 entertainment, nor anything but liquor to stimulate his 
 imagination. Among other things, these papers had pages 
 full of comical pictures, and these were the main joy in 
 life to little Antanas. He treasured them up, and would 
 drag them out and make his father tell him about them ; 
 there were all sorts of animals among them, and Antanas 
 could tell the names of all of them, lying upon the floor for 
 hours and pointing them out with his chubby little fingers. 
 Whenever the story was plain enough for Jurgis to make 
 out, Antanas would have it repeated to him, and then he 
 would remember it, prattling funny little sentences and 
 mixing it up with other stories in an irresistible fashion. 
 Also his quaint pronunciation of words was such a delight 
 — and the phrases he would pick up and remember, the 
 most outlandish and impossible things I The first time 
 that the little rascal burst out with “ God-damn,” his 
 father nearly rolled off the chair with glee ; but in the 
 end he wa.s sorry for this, for Antanas was soon “ God- 
 damning ” everything and everybody. 
 
 And then, when he was able to use his hands, Jurgif 
 took his bedding again and went back to his task of shift¬ 
 ing rails. It was now April, and the snow had given 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 251 
 
 place to cold rains, and the unpaved street m front of 
 Aniele’s house was turned into a canal. Jurgis would 
 have to wade through it to get home, and if it 'vas late 
 he might easily get stuck to his waist in tiie mire. But lie 
 did not mind this much — it was a promise that summer 
 was coming. Marija had now gotten a place a.s beef- 
 trimmer in one of the smaller packing-plants; and he told 
 himself that he had learned his lesson now, and would meet 
 with no more accidents — so that at last there was pros¬ 
 pect of an end to their long agony. They could save 
 money again, and when another winter came they would 
 have a comfortable place; and the children would be off 
 the streets and in school again, and they might set to work 
 to nurse back into life their habits of decency and kind¬ 
 ness. So once more Jurgis began to make plans and 
 dream dreams. 
 
 And then one Saturday night he jumped off the car 
 and started home, with the sun shining low under the 
 edge of a bank of clouds that had been pouring floods of 
 water into the mud-soaked street. There was a rainbow 
 in the sky, and another in his breast — for he had thirty- 
 six hours’ rest before him, and a chance to see his family. 
 Then suddenly he came in sight of the house, and noticed 
 that there was a crowd before the door. He ran up the 
 steps and pushed his way in, and saw Aniele’s kitchen 
 crowded with excited women. It reminded him so vividly 
 of the time when he had come home from jail and found 
 Ona dying, that his heart almost stood still. “What’s 
 the matter? ” he cried. 
 
 A dead silence had fallen in the room, and he saw that 
 every one was staring at him. “ What’s the matter?” he 
 exclaimed again. 
 
 And then, up in the garret, he heard sounds of wailing, 
 in Marija’s voice. He started for the ladder — and Aniele 
 seized him by the arm. “No, no I” she exclaimed, 
 “ Don’t go up there I " 
 
 “ What is it ? ” he shouted. 
 
 And the old woman answered him weakly: “It’s An- 
 tanas. He’s dead. He was drowned out in the street! 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 JuRGis took the news in a peculiar way. He turned 
 deadly pale, but he caught himself, and for half a minute 
 stood in the middle of the room, clenching his hands tightly 
 and setting his teeth. Then he pushed Aniele aside and 
 strode into the next room and climbed the ladder. 
 
 In the corner was a blanket, with a form half showing 
 beneath it; and beside it lay Elzbieta, whether crying or 
 in a faint, Jurgis could not tell. Marija was pacing the 
 room, screaming and wringing her hands. He clenched 
 his hands tighter yet, and his voice was hard as he spoke. 
 
 “ How did it happen? ” he asked. 
 
 Marija scarcely heard him in her agony. He repeated 
 the question, louder and yet more harshly. “He fell off the 
 sidewalk I ” she wailed. The sidewalk in front of the 
 house was a platform made of half-rotten boards, about 
 five feet above the level of the sunken street. 
 
 “ How did he come to be there?” he demanded. 
 
 “ He went — he went out to play,” Marija sobbed, her 
 voice choking her. “We couldn’t make him stay in. He 
 must have got caught in the mud 1 ” 
 
 “ Are you sure that he is dead?” he demanded. 
 
 “ Ail aiI ” she wailed. “ Yes; we had the doctor.” 
 
 Then Jurgis stood a few seconds, wavering. He did 
 not shed a tear. He took one glance more at the blanket 
 with the little form beneath it, and then turned suddenly 
 to the ladder and climbed down again. A silence fell 
 once more in the room as he entered. He went straight 
 to the door, passed out, and started down the street. 
 
 When his wife had died, Jurgis made for the nearest 
 saloon, but he did not do that now, though he had his 
 
 252 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 253 
 
 week’s wages in his pocket. He walked and walked, see¬ 
 ing nothing, splashing through mud and water. Later on 
 he sat down upon a step and hid his face in his hands and 
 for half an hour or so he did not move. Now and then he 
 would whisper to himself: “ Dead I Dead!’’' 
 
 Finally, he got up and walked on again. It was about 
 sunset, and he went on and on until it was dark, when he 
 was stopped by a railroad-crossing. The gates were down, 
 and a long train of freight-cars was thundering by. He 
 stood and watched it; and all at once a wild impulse seized 
 him, a thought that had been lurking within him, un¬ 
 spoken, unrecognized, leaped into sudden life. He started 
 down the track, and when he was past the gate-keeper’s 
 shanty he sprang forward and swung himself on to one of 
 the cars. 
 
 By and by the train stopped again, and Jurgis sprang 
 down and ran under the car, and hid himself upon the 
 truck. Here he sat, and when the train started again, he 
 fought a battle with his soul. He gripped his hands and 
 set his teeth together—he had not wept, and he would 
 not — not a tear! It was past and over, and he was 
 done with it — he would fling it off his shoulders, be free 
 of it, the whole business, that night. It should go like a 
 black, hateful nightmare, and in the morning he would be 
 a new man. And every time, that a thought of it assailed 
 him — a tender memory, a ’ 'ace of a tear — he rose up, 
 cursing with rage, and poi. ided it down. 
 
 He was fighting for his life; he gnashed his teeth 
 together in his desperation. He had been a fool, a foolT 
 He had wasted his life, he had wrecked himself, with his 
 accursed weakness; and now he was done with it — he 
 would tear it out of him, root and branch 1 There should 
 be no more tears and no more tenderness; he had had 
 enough of them — they had sold him into slavery I Now 
 he was going to be free, to tear off his shackles, to rise up 
 and fight. He was glad that the end had come — it had 
 to come some time, and it was just as well now. This was 
 no world for women and children, and the sooner they got 
 out of it the better for them. Whatever Antanas might 
 
254 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 suffer where he was, he could suffer no more than he 
 would have had he stayed upon earth. And meantime 
 his father had thought the last thought about him that 
 he meant to; he was going to think of himself, he was 
 going to fight for himself, against the world that had baffled 
 him and tortured him I 
 
 So he went on, tearing up all the flowers from the gar¬ 
 den of his soul, and setting his heel upon them. The train 
 thundered deafeningly, and a storm of dust blew in his 
 face; but though it stopped now and then through the 
 night, he clung where he was — he would cling there until 
 he was driven off, for every mile that he got from Pack- 
 ingtown meant another load from his mind. 
 
 Whenever the cars stopped a warm breeze blew upon 
 him, a breeze laden with the perfume of fresh fields, oi 
 honeysuckle and clover. He snuffed it, and it made his 
 heart beat wildly — he was out in the country again I He 
 was going to live in the country I When the dawn came 
 he was peering out with hungry eyes, getting glimpses of 
 meadows and woods and rivers. At last he could stand it 
 no longer, and when the train stopped again he crawled 
 out. Upon the top of the car was a brakeman, who shook 
 his fist and swore; Jurgis waved his hand derisively, and 
 started across the country. 
 
 Only think that he had been a countryman all his life; 
 and for three long years he had never seen a country sight 
 nor heard a country sound I Excepting for that one walk 
 when he left jail, when he was too much worried to notice 
 anything, and for a few times that he had rested in the 
 city parks in the winter time when he was out of work, 
 he had literally never seen a tree I And now he felt like 
 a bird lifted up and borne away upon a gale; he stopped and 
 stared at each new sight of wonder, — at a herd of cows, 
 and a meadow full of daisies, at hedgerows set thick with 
 June roses, at little birds singing in the trees. 
 
 Then he came to a farm-house, and after getting himself 
 a stick for protection, he approached it. The farmer was 
 greasing a wagon in front of the barn, and Jurgis went 
 to him. “I would like to eet some breakfast, please,’ 
 he said. 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 
 “ Do you want to work? ” said the farmer. 
 
 **No,” said Jurgis, “I don’t.” 
 
 “ Then you can’t get anything here," snapped tha 
 other. 
 
 “I meant to pay for it,” said Jurgis. 
 
 •‘Oh,” said the farmer; and then added sarcastically, 
 “ We don’t serve breakfast after 7 a.m.” 
 
 “ I am very hungry,” said J urgis, gravely ; “ I would 
 like to buy some food.” 
 
 “Ask the woman,” said the farmer, nodding over hia 
 shoulder. The “ woman ” was more tractable, and for a 
 dime Jurgis secured two thick sandwiches and a piece of 
 pie and two apples. He walked off eating the pie, as the 
 least convenient thing to carry. In a few minutes he 
 came to a stream, and he climbed a fence and walked 
 down the bank, along a woodland path. By and by he 
 found a comfortable spot, and there he devoured his meal, 
 slaking his thirst at the stream. Then he lay for hours, 
 just gazing and drinking in joy; until at last he felt 
 sleepy, and lay down in the shade of a bush. 
 
 When he awoke the sun was shining hot in his face. 
 He sat up and stretched his arms, and then gazed at the 
 water sliding by. There was a deep pool, sheltered and 
 silent, below him, and a sudden wonderful idea rushed 
 upon him. He might have a bath 1 The water was free, 
 and he might get into it — ail the way into it 1 It would 
 be the first time that he had been all the way into the water 
 since he left Lithuania 1 
 
 When Jurgis had first come to the stockyards he had 
 been as clean as any working-man could well be. But 
 later on, what with sickness and cold and hunger and 
 discouragement, and the filthiness of his work, and the 
 vermin in his home, he had given up washing in winter, 
 and in summer only as much of him as would go into a 
 basin. He had had a shower-bath in jail, but nothing 
 since —and now he would have a swim 1 
 
 The water was M^arm, and he splashed about like a very 
 boy in his glee. Afterward he sat down in the water near 
 che bank, and proceeded to scrub himself — soberly and 
 
256 
 
 THE jungle; 
 
 methodically, scouring every inch of him with sandu 
 While he was doing it he would do it thoroughly, and see 
 how it felt to be clean. He even scrubbed his head with 
 sand, and combed what the men called “crumbs” out of 
 his long, black hair, holding his head under water as long 
 as he could, to see if he could not kill them all. Then, 
 seeing that the sun was still hot, he took his clothes from 
 the bank and proceeded to wash them, piece by piece ; as 
 the dirt and grease went floating off down-stream he 
 grunted with satisfaction and soused the clothes again, 
 venturing even to dream that he might get rid of the 
 fertilizer. 
 
 He hung them all up, and while they were drying he 
 lay down in the sun and had another long sleep. They 
 were hot and stiff as boards on top, and a little damp on 
 the under-side, when he awakened; but being hungry, he 
 put them on and set out again. He had no knife, but 
 with some labor he broke himself a good stout club, and, 
 armed with this, he marched down the road again. 
 
 Before long he came to a big farm-house, and turned up 
 the lane that led to it. It was just supper-time, and the 
 farmer was washing his hands at the kitchen-door. 
 “Please, sir,” said Jurgis, “can I have something to eat? 
 I can pay.” To which the farmer responded promptly, 
 “We don’t feed tramps here. Get outl ” 
 
 Jurgis went without a word ; but as he passed round 
 the bam he came to a freshly ploughed and harrov/ed field, 
 in which the farmer had set out some 5 mung peach-trees; 
 and as he walked he jerked up a row of them by the roots, 
 more than a hundred trees in all, before he reached the 
 end of the field. That was his answer, and it showed his 
 mood ; from now on he was fighting, and the man who hit 
 him would get all that he gave, every time. 
 
 Beyond the orchard Jurgis struck through a patch of 
 woods, and then a field of winter-grain, and came at last 
 to another road. Before long he saw another farm-house, 
 and, as it was beginning to cloud over a little, he asked 
 here for shelter as well as food. Seeing the farmer eying 
 him dubiously, he added, “ I’ll be glad to sleep in the barn.” 
 
THJto 
 
 257 
 
 Well, I dunno,'* said the other. “ Do you smoke ? ** 
 
 “Sometimes,” said Jurgis, “but I’ll do it out of 
 doors.” When the man had assented, he inquired, 
 “ How much will it cost me ? 1 haven’t very much 
 money.” 
 
 “ I reckon about twenty cents for supper,” replied the 
 farmer. “ I won’t charge ye for the barn.” 
 
 So J urgis went in, and sat down at the table with the 
 farmer’s wife and half a dozen children. It was a bounti¬ 
 ful meal — there were baked beans and mashed potatoes 
 and asparagus chopped and stewed, and a dish of straw¬ 
 berries, and great, thick slices of bread, and a pitcher of 
 milk. Jurgis had not had such a feast since his wedding 
 day, and ho made a mighty effort to put in his twenty 
 cents’ worth. 
 
 They were all of them too hungry to talk; but after¬ 
 ward they sat upon the steps and smoked, and the farmer 
 questioned his guest. When Jurgis had explained that 
 he was a working-man from Chicago, and that he did not 
 know just whither he was bound, the other said, “ Why 
 don’t you stay here and work for me ? ” 
 
 “I’m not looking for work just now,” Jurgis answered. 
 
 “ I’ll pay ye good,” said the other, eying his big form 
 — “a dollar a day and board ye. Help’s terrible scarce 
 round here.” 
 
 “ Is that winter as well as summer?” Jurgis demanded 
 quickly. 
 
 “ N — no,” said the farmer; “ I couldn’t keep ye after 
 November— I ain’t got a big enough place for that.” 
 
 “ I see,” said the other, “that’s what I thought. When 
 you get through working your horses this fall, will jmu 
 turn them out in the snow?” (Jurgis was beginning to 
 think for himself nowadays.) 
 
 “ It ain’t quite the same,” the farmer answered, seeing 
 the point. “ There ought to be work a strong fellow like 
 you can find to do, in the cities, or some place, in the winter 
 time.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Jurgis, “ that’s what they aU think; and so 
 they crowd into the cities, and when they have to beg or 
 
258 
 
 THE (jtEE 
 
 ksteal to live, then people ask ’em why they don*t go into 
 the country, where help is scarce.” 
 
 The farmer meditated awhile. 
 
 “ How about when your money’s gone ? ” he inquired, 
 finally. “ You’!! have to, then, won’t you ? ” 
 
 “Wait till she’s gone,” said Jurgis; “then I’ll see.” 
 
 He had a long sleep in the barn and then a big break¬ 
 fast of coffee and bread and oatmeal and stewed cherries, 
 for which the man charged him only fifteen cents, perhaps 
 having been influenced by his arguments. Then Jurgis 
 bade farewell, and went on his way. 
 
 Such was the beginning of his life as a tramp. It was 
 seldom he got as fair treatment as from this last farmer, 
 and so as time went on he learned to shun the houses and 
 to prefer sleeping in the fields. When it rained he would 
 find a deserted building, if he could, and if not, he would 
 wait until after dark and then, with his stick ready, begin 
 a stealthy approach upon a barn. Generally he could get 
 in before the dog got scent of him, and then he would 
 hide in the hay and be safe until morning ; if not, and the 
 dog attacked him, he would rise up and make a retreat in 
 battle order. J urgis was not the mighty man he had once 
 been, but his arms were still good, and there were few 
 farm dogs he needed to hit more than once. 
 
 Before long there came raspberries, and then black¬ 
 berries, to help him save his money; and there were apples 
 in the orchards and potatoes in the ground — he learned 
 to note the places and fill his pockets after dark. Twice 
 he even managed to capture a chicken, and had a feast, 
 once in a deserted barn and the other time in a lonely 
 spot alongside of a stream. When all of these things 
 failed him he used his money earefullj'-, but without worry 
 — for he saw that he could earn more whenever he chose. 
 Half an hour’s chopping wood in his lively fashion was 
 enough to bring him a meal, and when the farmer had 
 seen him working he would sometimes try to bribe him to 
 stay. 
 
 But Jurgis was not staying. He-was a free man now. 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 259 
 
 a ouccaneer. The old Wanderlust had got mto. his b lood, 
 the joy of the liB^TCftfnd life, the joy of seeking, of hoping 
 without limit. There were mishaps and discomforts — 
 but at least there was always something new ; and only 
 think what it meant to a man who for years had been 
 penned up in one place, seeing nothing but one dreary 
 prospect of shanties and factories, to be suddenly set 
 loose beneath the open sky, to behold new landscapes, 
 new places, and new people every hourl To a man 
 whose whole life had consisted of doing one certain 
 thing all day, until he was so exhausted that he could 
 only lie down and sleep until the next day — and to be 
 cow his own master, working as he pleased and when he 
 pleased, and facing a new adventure every hourl 
 
 Then, too, his health came back to him, all his lost youth¬ 
 ful vigor, his joy and [lower that he had mourned and forgot¬ 
 ten I It came with a sudden rush, bewildering him, startling 
 him; it was as if his dead childhood had come back to 
 him, laughing and calling I What with plenty to eat and 
 fresh air and exercise that was taken as it pleased him, he 
 would waken from his sleep and start off not knowing what 
 to do with his energy, stretching his arms, laughing, sing¬ 
 ing old songs of home that came back to him. Now and 
 then, of course, he could not help but think of little An- 
 tanas, wliom he should never see again, whose little voice 
 he should never hear; and then he would have to battle 
 with himself. Sometimes at night he would waken dream¬ 
 ing of Ona, and stretch out his arms to her, and wet the 
 ground with his tears. But in the morning lie would get 
 up and shake himself, and stride away again to battle with 
 the world. 
 
 He never asked where he was nor where he was going; 
 the country was big enough, he knew, and there was no 
 danger of his coming to the end of it. And of course he 
 could always have company for the asking — everywhere 
 he went there were men living just as he lived, and whom 
 he was welcome to join. He was a stranger at the busi¬ 
 ness, but they were not clannish, and they taught him aU 
 their tricks, — what towns and villages it was best to keep 
 
260 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 away from, and how to read the secret signs upon the 
 fences, and when to beg and when to steal, and just how 
 to do both. They laughed at his ideas of paying for any¬ 
 thing with money or with work — for they got all they 
 wanted without either. Now and then Jurgis camped out 
 with a gang of them in some woodland haunt, and foraged 
 with them in the neighborhood at night. And then among 
 them some one would “ take a shine ” to him, and they 
 would go off together and travel for a week, exchanging 
 reminiscences. 
 
 Of these professional tramps a great many had, of course, 
 been shiftless and vicious all their lives. But the vast 
 majority of them had been working-men, had fought the 
 long fight as Jurgis had, and found that it was a losing 
 fight, and given up. Later on he encountered yet another 
 sort of men, those from whose ranks the tramps were 
 recruited, men who were homeless and wandering, but 
 still seeking work — seeking it in the harvest-fields. Of 
 these there was an army, the huge surplus labor army of 
 society; called into being under the stern system of nature, 
 to do the casual work of the world, the tasks which were 
 transient and irregular, and yet which had to be done. 
 They did not know that they were such, of course; they 
 only knew that they sought the job, and that the job was 
 fleeting. In the early summer they would be in Texas, 
 and as the crops were ready they would follow north with 
 the season, ending with the fall in Manitoba, Then they 
 would seek out the big lumber-camps, where there was 
 winter work; or failing in this, would drift to the cities, 
 and live upon what they had managed to save, with the 
 help of such transient work as was there,— the loading and 
 unloading of steamships and drays, the digging of ditches 
 and the shovelling of snow. If there were more of them 
 on hand than chanced to be needed, the weaker ones died 
 off of cold and hunger, again according to thfe stern svs- 
 tem of nature. 
 
 It was in the latter part of July, when Jurgis was ib. 
 Missouri, that he came upon the harvest-work. Here were 
 crops that men had worked for three or four months to 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 261 
 
 prepare, and of which they would lose nearly aU unless 
 they could find others to help them for a week or two. 
 So all over the land there was a cry for labor — agencies 
 were set up and all the cities were drained of men, even 
 college boys were brought by the car-load, and hordes of 
 frantic farmers would hold up trains and carry off wagon¬ 
 loads of men by main force. Not that they did not pay 
 them well — any man could get two dollars a day and his 
 board, and the best men could get two dollars and a half 
 or three. 
 
 The harvest-fever was in the very air, and no man with 
 any spirit in him could be in that region and not catch it. 
 Jurgis joined a gang and worked from dawn till dark, 
 eighteen hours a day, for two weeks without a break. 
 Then he had a sum of money that would have been a for¬ 
 tune to him in the old days of misery — but what could 
 he do with it now? To be sure he might have put it in a 
 bank, and, if he were fortunate, get it back again when he 
 wanted it. But Jurgis was now a homeless man, wander¬ 
 ing over a continent; and what did he know about bank¬ 
 ing and drafts and letters of credit? If he carried the 
 money about with him, he would surely be robbed in the 
 end; and so what was there for him to do but enjoy it 
 while he could? On a Saturday night he drifted into a 
 town with his fellows; and because it was raining, and 
 there was no other place provided for him, he went to a 
 saloon. And there were some who treated him and whom 
 he had to treat, and there was laughter and singing and 
 good cheer; and then out of the rear part of the saloon- a 
 girl’s face, red-cheeked and merry, smiled at Jurgis, and 
 his heart thumped suddenly in his throat. He nodded to 
 her, and she came and sat by him, and they had more 
 drink, and then he went upstairs into a room with her, and 
 the wild beast rose up withan him and screamed, as it has 
 screamed in the jungle from the dawn of time. And then 
 becauc? of his memories and his shame, he was glad when 
 others joined them, men and women; and they had more 
 drink and spent the night in wild rioting and debauchery. 
 In the van of the surplus-labor army, there followed 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 another, an army of women, they also struggling- for life 
 under the stern system of nature. Because there were 
 rich men who sought pleasure, there had been ease and 
 plenty for them so long as they were young and beautiful; 
 and later on, when they were crowded out by others 
 younger and more beautiful, they went out to follow upon 
 the trail of the working-men. Sometimes they came of 
 themselves, and the saloon-keepers shared with them x or 
 sometimes they were handled by agencies, the same as the 
 labor army. They were in the towns in harvest-time, 
 near the lumber-camps in the winter, in the cities when 
 the men came there; if a regiment were encamped, or a 
 railroad or canal being made, or a great exposition getting 
 ready, the crowd of women were on hand, living in shanties 
 or saloons or tenement-rooms, sometimes eight or ten of 
 them together. 
 
 In the morning Jurgis had not a cent, and he went out 
 upon the road again. He was sick and disgusted, but 
 after the new plan of his life, he crushed his feelings 
 down. He had made a fool of himself, but he could not 
 help it now — all he could do was to see that it did not 
 happen again. So he tramped on until exercise and fresh 
 air banished his headache, and his strength and joy re¬ 
 turned. This happened to him every time, for Jurgis 
 was still a creature of impulse, and his pleasures had not 
 yet become business. It would be a long time before he 
 could be like the majority of these men of the road, who 
 roamed until the hunger for drink and for women mas¬ 
 tered them, and then went to work with a purpose in 
 mind, and stopped when they had the price of a spree. 
 
 On the contrary, try as he would, Jurgis could not help 
 being made miserable by his conscience. It was the ghost 
 ^hat would not down. It would come upon him in the 
 most unexpected places—sometimes it fairly drove him 
 to drink. 
 
 One night he was caught by a thunder-storm, and he 
 sought shelter in a little house just outside of a town. _ It 
 was a working-man’s home, and the owner was a Slav like 
 himself, a new emigrant from White Russia; he bade 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 263 
 
 Jurgis welcome in his home language, and told him to 
 come to the kitchen-fire and dry himself. He had no bed 
 for him, but there was straw in the garret, and he could 
 make out. The man’s wife was cooking tiie supper, and 
 their children were playing about on the floor. Jurgia 
 sat and exchanged thoughts with him about the old coun¬ 
 try, and the places where they had been and the work they 
 had done. Then they ate, and afterward sat and smoked 
 and talked more about America, and how they found it. 
 In the middle of a sentence, however, Jurgis stopped, 
 seeing that the woman had brought a big basin of water 
 and was proceeding to undress her youngest baby. The 
 rest had crawled into the closet wliere they slept, but 
 the baby was to have a bath, the working-man explained., 
 The nights had begun to be chilly, and his mother, igno¬ 
 rant as to the climate in America, had sewed him up for 
 the winter; then it had turned warm again, and some 
 kind of a rash had broken out on the child. The doctor 
 had said she must bathe him every night, and she, foolish 
 woman, believed him. 
 
 Jurgis scarcely heard the explanation; he was watch¬ 
 ing the baby. Ha was about a year old, and a sturdy 
 little fellow, with soft fat legs, and a round ball of a stom¬ 
 ach, and eyes as black as coals. His pimples did not seem 
 to bother him much, and he was wild with glee over the 
 bath, kicking and squirming and chuckling with delight, 
 pulling at his mother’s face and then at his own little toes. 
 When she put him into the basin he sat in the midst of it 
 and grinned, splashing the water over himself and squeal¬ 
 ing like a little pig. He spoke in Russian, of which Jui’gis 
 knew some ; he spoke it with the quaintest of baby accents 
 — and every word of it brought back to Jurgis some word 
 of his own dead little one, and stabbed him like a knife. 
 He ,sat perfectly motionless, silent, but gripping his hands 
 tightly, while a storm gathered in his bosom and a flood 
 heaped itself up behind his eyes. And in the end he 
 could bear it no more, but buried his tace in his hands 
 and burst into tears, to the alarm and amazemeni. of his 
 hosts. Between the shame of this and his woe 
 
264 
 
 IHE JUNGLE 
 
 could not stand it^ and got up and rushed out mto the 
 rain. 
 
 He went on and on down the road, finally coming to a black 
 woods, where he hid and wept as if his heart would break. 
 Ah, what agony was that, what despair, when the tomb of 
 memory was rent open and the ghosts of his old life came 
 forth to scourge him! What terror to see what he had 
 been and now could never be — to see Ona and his child 
 and his own dead self stretching out their arms to him, 
 calling to him across a bottomless abyss—and to know 
 that they were gone from him forever, and he writhing 
 and suffocating in the mire of his own vileness I 
 
CHAPTER XXIIl 
 
 Early ia the fall Jurgis set out for Chicago again. All 
 bhe joy went out of tramping as soon as a man could not 
 keep warm in the hay; and, like many thousands of others, he 
 deluded himself with the hope that by coming early he could 
 avoid the rush. He brought fifteen dollars with him, 
 hidden away in one of his shoes, a sum which had been saved 
 from the saloon-keepers, not so much by his conscience, 
 as by the fear which filled him at the thought of being 
 out of work in the city iu the winter-time. 
 
 He travelled upon the railroad with several other men, 
 hiding in freight-cars at night, and liable to be thrown off 
 at any time, regardless of the speed of the train. When 
 he reached the city he left the rest, for he had money and 
 they did not, and he meant to save himself in this fight. 
 He would bring to it all the skill that practice had 
 brought him, and he would stand, whoever fell. On 
 fair nights he would sleep in the park or on a truck or an 
 empty barrel or box, and when it was rainy or cold he 
 would stow himself upon a shelf in a ten-cent lodging- 
 house, or pay three cents for the privileges of a “ squatter ” 
 in a tenement hallway. He would eat at free lunches, five 
 cents a meal, and never a cent more — so he might keep 
 alive for two months and more, and in that time he would 
 surely find a job. He would have to bid farewell to his 
 summer cleanliness, of course, for he would come out of 
 the first night’s lodging with his clothes alive with vermin. 
 There was no place in the city where he could wash even 
 his face, unless he went down to the lake-fr^n* — and 
 there it would soon be all ice. 
 
 265 
 
 18 
 
266 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 First he went to the steehmill and the harvester-works, 
 and found that his places there had been filled long ago. 
 He was careful to keep away from the stockyards —he 
 was a single man now, he told himself, and he meant to 
 stay one, to have his wages for his own when he got a job. 
 He began the long, weary round of factories and ware* 
 houses, tramping all day, from one end of the city to the 
 other, finding everywhere from ten to a hundred men 
 ahead of him. He watched the newspapers, too — but no 
 longer was he to be taken in by smooth-spoken agents. 
 He had been told of all those tricks while “on the road.” 
 
 In the end it was through a newspaper that he got a job, 
 after nearly a month of seeking. It was a call for a hun¬ 
 dred laborers, and though he thought it was a “ fake,” he 
 went because the place was near by. He found a line of 
 men a block long, but as a wagon chanced to come out of 
 an alley and break the line, he saw his chance and sprang 
 to seize a place. Men threatened him and tried to throw 
 him out, but he cursed and made a disturbance to attract a 
 policeman, upon which they subsided, knowing that if the 
 latter interfered it would be to “ fire ” them all. 
 
 An hour or two later he entered a room and confronted 
 a big Irishman behind a desk, 
 
 “ Ever worked in Chicago before ? ” the man inquired; 
 and whether it was a good angel that put it into Jurgis’s 
 mind, or an intuition of his sharpened wits, he was moved 
 to answer, “No, sir.” 
 
 “ Where do you come from 
 
 “ Kansas City, sir.” 
 
 “ Any references ? ” 
 
 “No, sir. I’m just an unskilled man. I’ve got good 
 arms.” 
 
 “ I want men for hard work — it’s all underground, 
 digging tunnels for telephones. Maybe it won’t suit 
 you.” 
 
 “ I’m willing, sir — anything for me. What’s th/w 
 pay ? ” 
 
 “ Fifteen cents an hour,” 
 
 “ I’m willing, sir.” 
 
THE JUXGLE. 
 
 267 
 
 “All right; go back there and give your name.*^ 
 
 So within half an hour he was at work, far underneath 
 the streets of the city. The tunnel was a peculiar one for 
 telephone-wires; it was about eight feet high, and with 
 a level floor nearly as wide. It had innumerable branches 
 — a perfect spider-web beneath the city ; J urgis walked 
 over half a mile with his gang to the place where they were 
 to work. Stranger yet, the tunnel was lighted by elec¬ 
 tricity, and upon it was laid a double-tracked, narrow- 
 gauge railroad 1 
 
 But Jurgis was not there to ask questions, and he did 
 not give the matter a thought. It was nearly a year after¬ 
 ward that he finally learned the meaning of this whole 
 affair. The City Council had passed a quiet and innocent 
 little bill allowing a company to construct telephone con¬ 
 duits under the city streets; and upon the strength of this, a 
 great corporation had proceeded to tunnel all Chicago with 
 a system of railway freight-subways. In the city there 
 was a combination of employers, representing hundreds of 
 millions of capital, and formed for the purpose of crushing 
 the labor unions. The chief union which troubled it was 
 the teamsters’ ; and when these freight tunnels were com¬ 
 pleted, connecting all the big factories and stores with the 
 railroad depots, they would have the teamsters’ union by 
 the throat. Now and then there were rumors and mur¬ 
 murs in the Board of Aldermen, and once there was a com¬ 
 mittee to investigate — but each time another small fortune 
 was paid over, and the rumors died away ; until at last the 
 city woke up with a start to find the work completed. 
 There was a tremendous scandal, of course ; it was found 
 that the city records had been falsified and other crimes 
 committed, and some of Chicago’s big capitalists got into 
 jail — figuratively speaking. The aldermen declared that 
 they had had no idea of it all, in spite of the fact that the 
 main entrance to the work had been in the rear of the 
 saloon of one of them. 
 
 It was in a newly opened cut that Jurgis worked, and so 
 he knew that he had an all-winter job. lie was so rejoiced 
 that he treated himself to a spree that night, and with the 
 
268 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 balance of his money he hired himself a place in a tene* 
 ment-room, where he slept upon a big home-made straw 
 mattress along with four other working-men. This was 
 one dollar a week, and for four more he got his food in a 
 boarding-house near his work. This would leave him four 
 dollars extra each week, an unthinkable sum for him. 
 At the outset he had to pay for his digging tools, and also 
 to buy a pair of heavy boots, since his shoes were falling 
 to pieces, and a flannel shirt, since the one he had worn all 
 summer was in shreds. He spent a week meditating 
 whether or not he should also buy an overcoat. There 
 was one belonging to a Hebrew collar-button pedler, who 
 had died in the room next to him, and which the landlady 
 was holding for her rent; in the end, however, Jurgis 
 decided to do without it, as he was to be underground by 
 day and in bed at night. 
 
 This was an unfortunate decision, however, for it drove 
 him more quickly than ever into the saloons. From now 
 on Jurgis worked from seven o’clock until half-past flve, 
 with half an hour for dinner ; which meant that he never 
 saw the sunlight on week-days. In the evenings there 
 was no place for him to go except a bar-room ; no place 
 where there was light and warmth, where he could hear a 
 little music or sit with a companion and talk. He had 
 now no home to go to ; he had no affection left in his life 
 — only the pitiful mockery of it in the camaraderie of 
 vice. On Sundays the churches were open—but where was 
 there a church in which an ill-sro.elling working-man, with 
 vermin crawling upon his neck, could sit without seeing 
 people edge away and look annoyed ? He had, of course, 
 his corner in a close though unheated room, with a window 
 opening upon a blank wall two feet away ; and also he had 
 the bare streets, with the winter gales sweeping through 
 them ; besides this he had only the saloons — and, of 
 course, he had to drink to stay in them. If he drank now 
 and then he was free to make himself at home, to gamble 
 with dice or a pack of greasy cards, to play at a dingy 
 pool-table for money, or to look at a beer-stained pink 
 ^sporting paner,” with pictures of murderers and half 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 269 
 
 naked women. Ifc was for such pleasures as these that he 
 spent his money ; and such was his life during the six 
 weeks and a half that he toiled for the merchants of 
 Chicago, to enable them to break the grip of their 
 teamsters' union. 
 
 In a work thus carried out, not much thought was given 
 to the welfare of the laborers. On an average, the tunnel¬ 
 ling cost a life a day and several manglings; it was seldom, 
 however, that more than a dozen or two men heard of any 
 one accident. The work was all done by the new boring- 
 machinex’y, with as little blasting as possible; but there 
 would be falling rocks and crushed supports and pre¬ 
 mature explosions — and in addition all the dangers of 
 railroading. So it was that one night, as Jurgis was on 
 his way out with his gang, an engine and a loaded car 
 dashed round one of the innumerable right-angle branches 
 and struck him upon the shoulder, hurling him against 
 the concrete wall and knocking him senseless. 
 
 When he opened his eyes again it was to the clanging 
 of the bell of an ambulance. He was lying in it, covered 
 by a blanket, and it was threading its way slowly through 
 the holiday-shopping crowds. They took him to the county 
 hospital, where a young surgeon set his arm; then he was 
 washed and laid upon a bed in a ward with a score or two 
 more of maimed and mangled men. 
 
 Jurgis spent his Christmas in this hospital, and it was 
 the pleasantest Christmas he had had in America. Every 
 year there were scandals and investigations in this institu¬ 
 tion, the newspapers charging that doctors were allowed 
 to try fantastic experiments upon the patients; but Jurgis 
 knew nothing of this — his only complaint was that they 
 used to feed him upon tinned meat, which no man who 
 had ever worked in Packingtown would feed to his dog. 
 Jurgis had often wondered just who ate the canned corned 
 beef and “roast beef” of the stockyards; now he began 
 to understand — that it was what you might call “ graft- 
 meat,” put up to be sold to public officials and contractors, 
 and eaten by soldiers and sailors, prisoners and inmates of 
 institutions, “ shanty-men ” and gangs of railroad laborers- 
 
270 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 Jurgis was ready to leave the hospital at the end of two 
 weeks. This did not mean that his arm was strong and 
 that he was able to go back to work, but simply that he 
 could get along without further attention, and that his 
 place was needed for some one worse off than he. That 
 he was utterly helpless, and had no means of keeping him¬ 
 self alive'ih the meantime, was something which dm not 
 concern the hospital authorities, nor any one else in the 
 
 city . ; 
 
 As it chanced, he had been hufp on a Monday, and had 
 just paid for his last week’s board and his room rent, and 
 spent nearly all the balance of his Saturday’s pay. He 
 had less than seventy-five cents in his pockets, and a 
 dollar and a lialf due him for the day’s work he had done 
 before he was hurt. He might possibly have sued the 
 company, and got some damages for- his injuries, but he 
 did not know this, and it was not the company’s business 
 to tell him. He Avent and got his pay and his tools, which 
 he left in a pawnshop for fifty cents. Then he went to 
 his landlady, who had rented his place and had no other 
 for him ; and then to his boarding-house keeper, who 
 looked him over and questioned him. As he must cer¬ 
 tainly be helpless for a couple of months, and had boarded 
 there only six weeks, she decided very quickly that .it 
 would not be worth the risk to keep him on trust. ju. 
 
 So Jurgis went out into the streets, in a most dreadflC! 
 plight. It was bitterly cold, and a heavy snow was fall 
 ing, beating into his face. He had no overcoat, and no 
 place to go, and two dollars and sixty-five cents in his 
 pocket, with the certainty that he could not earn another 
 cent for months. The snow meant no chance to him now j 
 he must walk along and see others shovelling, vigorous 
 and active — and he with his left arm bound to his side I 
 He could not hope to tide himself over by odd jobs of 
 loading trucks; he could not even sell newspapers or carry 
 satchels, because he was now at the mercy of any rival. 
 Words could not paint the terror that came over him 
 as he realized all this. He was like a wounded animal in 
 the forest j he was forced to compete with his enemies 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 271 
 
 upon unequal terms. There would be no considera¬ 
 tion for him because of his weakness — it was no one’s 
 business to help him in such distress, to make the fight 
 the least bit easier for him. Even if he took to begging, 
 he would be at a disadvantage, for reasons which he was 
 to discover in good time. 
 
 In the beginning he could not think of anything except 
 getting out of the awful cold. He went into one of the 
 saloons he had been wont to frequent and bouglit a drink, 
 and then stood by the fire shivering and waiting to be 
 ordered out. According to an unwritten law, the buying 
 a drink included the privilege of loafing for just so 
 long ; then one had to buy another drink or move on. 
 That Jurgis was an old customer entitled him to a some- 
 v/hat longei’ stop ; but then he had been away two weeks, 
 and was evidently “ on the bum.” He might plead and 
 tell his “hard-luck story,” but that would not help him 
 much ; a saloon-keeper who was to be moved by such 
 means would soon have his place jammed to the doors with 
 “ hoboes ” on a day like this. 
 
 So Jurgis went out into another place, and paid another 
 nickel. He was so hungry this time that he could not 
 resist the hot beef-stew, an indulgence which cut short his 
 stay by a considerable time. When he was again told to 
 ’•■'ove on, he made his way to a “tough” place in the 
 •nitvee” district, where now and then he had gone with a 
 certain rat-eyed Bohemian working-man of his acquaint¬ 
 ance, seeking a woman. It Avas Jurgis’s vain hope that 
 here the proprietor would let him remain as a “sitter.” 
 In low-class places, in the dead of winter, saloon-keepers 
 would often allow one or two forlorn-looking bums who 
 came in covered with snow or soaked with rain to sit by 
 the fire and look miserable to attract custom. A working- 
 man would come in, feeling cheerful after his day’s work 
 was over, and it would trouble him to have to take his 
 glass with such a sight under his nose; and so he would 
 call out: “Hello, Bub, what’s the rnattei? You look as 
 if you’d been up against it ! ” And then the other would 
 begin to pour out some tale of misery, and the man would 
 
272 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 say, “ Come have a glass, and maybe thatll brace you up,^ 
 And so they would drink together, and if the tramp was 
 sufficiently wretched-looking, or good enough at the “gab,” 
 they might have two ; and if they were to discover that 
 they were from the same country, or had lived in the same 
 city or worked at the same trade, they might sit down at 
 a table and spend an hour or two in talk — and before 
 they got through the saloon-keeper would have taken in 
 a dollar. All of this might seem diabolical, but the saloon¬ 
 keeper was in no wise to blame for it. He was in the same 
 plight as the manufacturer who has to adulterate and 
 misrepresent his product. If he does not, some one else 
 will; and the saloon-keeper, unless he is also an alderman, 
 is apt to be in debt to the big brewers, and on the verge 
 of being sold out. 
 
 The market for “sitters” was glutted that afternoon, 
 however, and there was no place for Jurgis. In all he 
 had to spend six nickels in keeping a shelter over him 
 that frightful day, and then it was just dark, and the 
 station-houses would not open until midnight I At the 
 last place, however, there was a bartender who knew him 
 and liked him, and let him doze at one of the tables until 
 the boss came back ; and also, as he was going out, the 
 man gave him a tip, — on the next block there was a 
 religious revival of some sort, with preaching and singing, 
 and hundreds of hoboes would go there for the shelter 
 and warmth. 
 
 Jurgis went straightway, and saw a sign hung out, 
 saying that the door would open at seven-thirty ; then he 
 walked, or half ran, a block, and hid awhile in a doorway 
 and then ran again, and so on until the hour. At the end 
 he was all but frozen, and fought his way in with the rest 
 of the throng (at the risk of having his arm broken again), 
 and got close to the big stove. 
 
 By eight o'clock the place was so crowded that the 
 speakers ought to have been flattered; the aisles were 
 filled halfway up, and at the door men were packed 
 tight enough to walk upon. There were three elderly 
 gentlemen in black upon the platform, and a young lady 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 273 
 
 who played the piano in front. First they sang a hymn, 
 and then one of the three, a tall, smooth-shaven man, very 
 thin, and wearing black spectacles, began an address. 
 Jurgis heard smatterings of it, for the reason that terror 
 kept him awake — he knew that he snored abominably, 
 and to have been put out just then would have been like 
 a sentence of death to him. 
 
 The evangelist was preaching “ sin and redemption,’* 
 the infinite grace of God and His pardon for human 
 frailtj'. He was very much in earnest, and he meant 
 well, but Jurgis, as he listened, found his soul filled with 
 hatred. What did he know about sin and sulferhig — 
 with his smooth, black coat and his neatly starched collar, 
 his body warm, and his belly full, and money in his pocket 
 — and lecturing men who were struggling for their lives, 
 men at the death-grapple with the demon powers of hun¬ 
 ger and cold I — This, of course, was unfair ; but Jurgis 
 felt that these men were out of touch with the life they 
 discussed, that they were unfitted to solve its problems ; 
 nay, they themselves were part of the problem — they 
 were part of the order established that was crushing men 
 down and beating them 1 They were of the triumphant 
 and insolent possessors; they had a hall, and a fire, and 
 food and clothing and money, and so they might preach 
 to hungry men, and the hungry men must be humble and 
 listen 1 They were trying to save their souls — and who 
 but a fool could fail to see that all that was the matter 
 with their souls was that they had not been able to get a 
 decent existence for their bodies ? 
 
 At eleven the meeting closed, and the desolate audience 
 filed out into the snow, muttering curses up on the few 
 traitors who had got repentance and gone upon the plat¬ 
 form. It was yet an hour before the station-house would 
 open, and Jurgis had no overcoat — and was weak from a 
 long illness. During that hour he nearly perished. Ha 
 was obliged to run hard to keep his blood moving at all 
 
 and then he came back to the station-house and found 
 a crowd blocking the street before the door 1 This wa? 
 
274 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 in the month of January, 1904, when the country was on 
 the verge of “ hard times,” and the newspapers were re> 
 porting the shutting down of factories every day — it was 
 estimated that a million and a half of men were thrown 
 out of work before the spring. So all the hiding-places 
 of the city were crowded, and before that station-house 
 door men fought and tore each other like savage beasts. 
 When at last the place was jammed and they shut the 
 doors, half the crowd was still outside ; and Jurgis, with 
 his helpless arm, was among them. There was no choice 
 then but to go to a lodging-house and spend another dime. 
 It really broke his heart to do this, at half-past twelve 
 o’clock, after he had wasted the night at the meeting 
 and on the street. He would be turned out of the lodg¬ 
 ing-house promptly at seven — they had the shelves which 
 served as bunks so contrived that they could be dropped, 
 and any man who was slow about obeying orders could be 
 tumbled to the floor. 
 
 This was one day, and the cold spell lasted for fourteen 
 of them. At the end of six days every cent of Jurgis's 
 money was gone ; and then he went out on the streets 
 to beg for his life. 
 
 He would begin as soon as the business of the city was 
 moving. He would sally forth from a saloon, and, after 
 making sure there was no policeman in sight, would ap¬ 
 proach every likely-looking person who passed him, telling 
 his woful story and pleading for a nickel or a dims. Then 
 when he got one, he would dart round the corner and re¬ 
 turn to his base to get warm; and his victim, seeing him 
 do this, would go away, vowing that he would never give 
 a cent to a beggar again. The victim never paused to 
 ask where else Jurgis could have gone under the circum¬ 
 stanceswhere he, the victim, would have gone. At 
 the saloon Jurgis could not only get more food and better 
 food than he could buy in any restaurant for the same 
 ■ money, but a drink in the bargain to warm him up. Also 
 j j he could find a comfortable seat by a fire, and could chat 
 1 i with a companion until he was as warm as toast. At the 
 ' ^aloon, too, he felt at home. Part of the saloon-keeper’s 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 275 
 
 business was to offer a home and refreshments to beggars 
 in exchange for the proceeds of their foragings; and was 
 there any one else in the whole city who would do this — 
 would the victim have done it himself ? 
 
 Poor Jurgis might have been expected to m.ah;e a suc¬ 
 cessful beggar. He was just out of the hospital, and des¬ 
 perately sick-loohing, and with a helpless arm ; also ne 
 had no overcoat, and shivered pitifully. But, alas, it 
 was again the case of the honest merchant, who finds that 
 the genuine and unadulterated article is driven to the 
 wall by the artistic counterfeit. Jurgis, as a beggar, 
 was simply a blundering amateur in competition with 
 organized and scientific professionalism. He was just out 
 of the hospital — but the story was worn threadbare, and 
 how could he prove it ? He had his arm in a sling — and 
 it was a device a regular beggar’s little boy would have 
 scorned. He was pale and shivering — but they were 
 made up with cosmetics, and had studied the art of chat¬ 
 tering their teeth. As to his being v/ithout an overcoat, 
 among them you would meet men you could swear had on 
 nothing but a ragged linen, duster and a pair of cotton 
 trousers — so cleverly had they concealed the several suits 
 of all-wool underwear beneath. Mao}^ of these profes¬ 
 sional mendicants had comfortable homes, and families, 
 and thousands of dollars in the bank ; some of them had 
 retired upon their earnings, and gone into the business of 
 fitting out and doctoring others, or working children at 
 the trade. There were some who had both their arms 
 bound tightlj'’ to their sides, and padded stumps in theii 
 sleeves, and a sick child hired to carry a cup for them. 
 There were some who had no legs, and pushed themselves 
 upon a wheeled platform — some who had been favored 
 with blindness, and were led by pretty little dogs Soms 
 less fortunate had mutilated themselves or burned them¬ 
 selves, or had brought horrible sores upon themselves with 
 chemicals; you might suddenly encounter upon the stieel 
 a man holding out to you a finger rotting and discolored 
 with gangrene — or one with livid scarlet wounds half 
 escaped from their filthy bandages. These desperate onee 
 
276 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 were the dregs of the city’s cesspools, wretches who hid at 
 night in the rain-soaked cellars of old ramshackle tene- 
 ments, in “ stale-beer dives ” and opium joints, with aban¬ 
 doned women in the last stages of the harlot’s progress — 
 women who had been kept by Chinamen and turned away 
 at last to die. Every day the police net would drag hun¬ 
 dreds of them off the streets, and in the Detention Hospi¬ 
 tal you might see them, herded together in a miniature 
 inferno, with hideous, beastly faces, bloated and leprous 
 with disease, laughing, shouting, screaming in all stages 
 of drunkenness, barking like dogs, gibbering like apes, 
 raving and tearing themselves in delirium^ 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 In’ the face of all his handicaps, Jurgis was obliged to 
 make the price of a lodging, and of a drink every hour or 
 two, under penalty of freezing to death. Day after day 
 he roamed about in the arctic cold, his soul filled full of 
 bitterness and despair. He saw the world of civilization 
 then more plainly than ever he had seen it before; a world 
 in which nothing counted but brutal might, an order de¬ 
 vised by those who possessed it for the subjugation of 
 those who did not. He was one of the latter; and all 
 outdoors, all life, was to him one colossal prison, which 
 he paced like a pent-up tiger, trying one bar after another, 
 and finding them all beyond his power. He had lost in 
 the fierce battle of greed, and so was doomed to be exter¬ 
 minated ; and all society was busied to see that he did not 
 escape the sentence. Everywhere that he turned were 
 prison-bars, and hostile eyes following him; the well-fed, 
 sleek policemen, from whose glances he shrank, and who 
 seemed to grip their clubs more tightly when they saw 
 him; the saloon-keepers, who never ceased to watch him 
 while he was in their places, who were jealous of every 
 moment he lingered after he had paid his money; the 
 hurrying throngs upon the streets, who were deaf to his 
 entreaties, oblivious of his very existence — and savage 
 and contemptuous when he forced himself upon them. 
 They had their own affairs, and there was no place for him 
 among them. There was no place for him anywhere — 
 every direction he turned his gaze, this fact was forced 
 upon him. Everything was built to express it to him: 
 the residences, with their heavy walls and bolted doors, 
 and basement-windows barred with iron ; the great ware 
 
 277 
 
278 
 
 THE JU]SfGLE 
 
 houses filled with the products of the whole world, and 
 guarded by iron shutters and heavy gates ; the banks with 
 their unthinkable billions of wealth, all buried in safes 
 and vaults of steel. 
 
 And then one day there befell Jurgis the one adventure 
 of his life. It was late at night, and he had failed to get 
 the price of a lodging. Snow was failing, and he had been 
 out so long that he was covered vrith it, and was chilled 
 to the bone. He was working among the theatre crowds, 
 flitting here and there, taking large chances with the 
 police, in his desperation half hoping to be arrested. 
 When he saw a blue-coat start toward him, however, his 
 heart failed him, and he dashed down a side street and 
 fled a couple of blocks. When he stopped again he saw 
 a man coming toward him, and placed himself in his 
 path. 
 
 “ Please, sir,” he began, in the usual formula, “ will you 
 give me the price of a lodging ? I’ve had a broken arm, 
 and I can’t work, and I’ve not a cent in my pocket. I’m an 
 honest working-man, sir, and I never begged before. It’s 
 not my fault, sir ” 
 
 Jurgis usually went on until he was interrupted, but 
 this man did not interrupt, and so at last he came to a 
 breathless stop. The other had halted, and Jurgis sud¬ 
 denly noticed that he stood a little unsteadily. “ Whuzzat 
 you say ? ” he queried suddenly, in a thick voice. 
 
 Jurgis began again, speaking more slowly and dis¬ 
 tinctly ; before he was half through the other put out his 
 hand and rested it upon his shoulder. “ Poor ole chappie I ” 
 he said. “ Been up — hie — up —against it, hey ? ” 
 
 Then he lurched toward Jurgis, and the hand upon his 
 shoulder became an arm about his neck. “Up against it 
 myself, ole sport,” he said. “She’s a hard ole world.” 
 
 They were close to a lamp post, and Jurgis got a glimpse 
 of the other. He was a young fellow — not much over 
 eighteen, with a handsome boyish face. He wore a silk hat 
 and a rich soft overcoat with a fur collar i and he smiled 
 at Jurgis with benignant sympathy. “ I'm hard up, too. 
 
THE JTOGLE 
 
 279 
 
 my goo fren’,” he said. “ I’ve got cruel parents, or I’d set 
 you up. Whuzzamatter wliizyer ? ” 
 
 “I’ve been in the hospital." 
 
 “ Hospital! ’’ exclaimed the young fellow, still smiling 
 sweetly, “ thass too bad I Same’s my Aunt Polly — hie 
 —my Aunt Polly’s in the hospital, too — ole auntie’s been 
 havin’ twins 1 Whuzzamatter whiz you?'^ 
 
 “ I’ve got a broken arm — ’’ Jurgis began. 
 
 “ So,’* said the other, sympathetically. “ That ain’t so 
 bad — you get over that. I wish somebody’s break my 
 arm, ole chappie — damfidon’t J Then they’s treat me 
 better — hie — hole me up, ole sport 1 W huzzit you 
 wamme do?*’ 
 
 “ I’m hungry, sir," said Jurgis. 
 
 “ Hungry ! Why don’t you hassome supper?'* 
 
 “ I’ve got no money, sir.’* 
 
 “No money ! Ho, ho — less be chums, ole boy—-jess 
 like me! No money, either, — a’most busted! Why 
 don’t you go home, then, same’s me ?’’ 
 
 “I haven’t any home,” said Jurgis. 
 
 “No home I Stranger in the city, hey ? Goo’ God, 
 thass bad ! Better come home wiz me — yes, by Harry, 
 thass the trick, you’ll come home an’ hassome supper—hie 
 
 — wizmel Awful lonesome—-nobody home ! Guv’ner 
 gone abroad — Bubby on’s honeymoon — Polly havin' 
 twins — every damn soul gone away I Nuff-—hie — nuft 
 to drive a teller to drink, I say ! Only ole Ham standin’ 
 by, passin’ plates — damfican eat like that, no sir ! The 
 club for me every time, my boy, I say. But then they 
 won’t lemme sleep there — guv’ner’s orders, by Harry — 
 home every night, sir I Ever hear anythin* like that ? 
 'Every mornin’ do?’ I asked him. ‘No, sir, every night, 
 or no allowance at all, sir.* Thass my guv’ner — hie — 
 hard as nails, by Harry 1 Tole ole Ham to watch me, too 
 
 — servants spyin’ on me — whuzyer think that, my fren’? 
 A nice, quiet — hie — good-hearted young feller like me, 
 an’ his daddy can’t go to Europe —hup!—an’ leave him 
 in peace I Ain’t that a shame, sir? An* I gotter go home 
 every evenin' an’ miss ail the fun, by Harry 1 Thass 
 
280 
 
 XHE JUNGLE 
 
 whuzzamatter now — thass why I’m here ! Hadda come 
 away an’ leave Kitty — hie — left her cryin’, too — whujja 
 
 think of that, ole sport? ‘ Lemme go, Kittens,’ says I_ 
 
 ’ come early an’ often — I go where duty — hie—ealls me. 
 Farewell, farewell, my own true love — farewell, fare' 
 we-hell, my-own-true-love I ’ ” 
 
 This last was a song, and the young gentleman’s voiee 
 rose mournful and wailing, while he swung upon Jurgis’s 
 ueek. The latter was glaneing about nervously, lest some 
 one should approaeh. They were still alone, however. 
 
 “ But I came all right, all right,” continued the young¬ 
 ster, aggressively. “I can — hie — I can have my own 
 way when I want it, by Harry — Freddie Jones is a hard 
 man to handle when he gets goin’ 1 ‘No, sir,’ says I, 
 ‘ by thunder, and 1 don’t need anybody goin’ home with 
 me, either — whujja take me for, hey? Think I’m drunk, 
 dontcha, hey ? — I know you I But- I’m no more drunk 
 than you are, Kittens,’ says I to her. And then says she, 
 ‘ Thass true, Freddie dear ’ (she’s a smart one, is Kitty), 
 ‘ but I’m stayin’ in the flat, an’ you’re goin’ out into the 
 cold, cold night I * ‘ Put it in a pome, lovely Kitty,’ says 
 I. ‘No jokin’, Freddie, my boy,’ says she. ‘Lemme 
 call a cab now, like a good dear ’ — but I can call my own 
 cabs, dontcha fool yourself — I know what I’m a-doin’, 
 you bet I Say, my fren’, whatcha say—willye come home 
 an’ see me, an’ hassome supper? Come ’long like a good 
 feller — don’t be haughty 1 You’re up against it, same 
 as me, an’ you can unnerstan’ a feller ; your heart’s in the 
 right place, by Harry — come ’long, ole chappie, an’ we’ll 
 light up the house, an’ have some fizz, an’ we’ll raise hell, 
 we will — whoop-la I S’long’s I’m inside the house I can 
 do as I please — the guv’ner’s own very orders, b’God I 
 Hip I hip I ” 
 
 They had started down the street, arm in arm, the young 
 man pushing Jurgis along, half dazed. Jurgis was try¬ 
 ing to think what to do — he knew he could not pass any 
 crowded place with his new acquaintance Avithout attract¬ 
 ing attention and being stopped. It was only because of 
 the falling snow that people who passed here did not noti as 
 imything wrongc 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 281 
 
 Suddenly, therefore, Jurgis stopped. ** Is it very far ? 
 he inquired. 
 
 ** Not very,” said the other. “ Tired, are you, though ? 
 Well, we’ll ride — whatcha say ? Good I Call a cab ! ” 
 
 And then, gripping Jurgis tight with one hand, the 
 young fellow began searching his pockets with the other. 
 “ You call, ole sport, an’ I’ll pay,” he suggested. “ How’s 
 that, hey ? ” 
 
 And he pulled out from somewhere a big roll of bills. 
 It was more money than Jurgis had ever seen in his life 
 before, and he stared at it with startled eyes. 
 
 “Looks like a lot, hey? ’’said Master Freddie, fumbling 
 with it. “Fool you, though, ole chappie — they’re all 
 little ones I I’ll be busted in one week more, sure thing — 
 word of honor. An’ not a cent more till the first — hie 
 
 — guv’ner’s orders — hie — not a cent, by Harry! Nuff 
 to set a feller crazy, it is. I sent him a cable this af’noon 
 
 — thass one reason more why I’m goin’ home. ‘ Hangin’ 
 on the verge of starvation,’ I says—‘for the honor of the 
 family — hie — sen’ me some bread. Hunger will compel 
 me to join you. — Freddie.’ Thass what I wired him, by 
 Harry, an’ I mean it — I’ll run away from school, b’God, 
 if he don’t sen’ me some.” 
 
 After this fashion the young gentleman continued to 
 prattle on — and meantime Jurgis was trembling with 
 excitement. He might grab that wad of bills and be out 
 of sight in the darkness before the other could collect his 
 wits. Should he do it ? What better had he to hope for, 
 if he waited longer? But Jurgis had never committed a 
 crime in his life, and now he hesitated half a second too 
 long. “ Freddie ” got one bill loose, and then stuffed the 
 rest back into his trousers’ pocket. 
 
 “Here, ole man,” he said, “you take it.” He held it 
 out fluttering. They were in front of a saloon; and by 
 the light of the window Jurgis saw that it was a hundred- 
 dollar bill I 
 
 “You take it,” the other repeated. “Pay the cabbie 
 an' keep the change — I’ve got — hie — no head for bush 
 nesBr Guv'ner says so hisself, an’ the guv'ner knows — 
 
 19 
 
282 
 
 THE JUJNGLB 
 
 the guv'ner’s got a head for business, you bet 1 ‘ All rights 
 guv’ner,’ I told him, ‘ you run the show, and I’ll take the 
 tickets I ’ An’ so he set Aunt Polly to watch me —hie—• 
 an’ now Polly’s off in the hospital havin’ twins, an’ me out 
 raisin’ Cain ! Hello, there I Hey I Call him I ” 
 
 A cab was driving by; and Jurgis spi'ang and called, 
 and it swung round to the curb. Master Freddie 
 clambered in with some difficulty, and Jurgis had started 
 to follow, when the driver shouted: “Hi, there I Get 
 out — you 1 ” 
 
 Jurgis hesitated, and was half obeying ; but his com¬ 
 panion broke out; “ Whuzzat ? Whuzzamatter wiz you, 
 hey?” 
 
 And the cabbie subsided, and Jurgis climbed in. Then 
 Freddie gave a number on the Lake Shore Drive, and the 
 carriage started away. The youngster leaned back and 
 snuggled up to Jurgis, murmuring contentedly; in half 
 a minute he was sound asleep. J urgis sat shivering, specu¬ 
 lating as to whether he might not still be able to get hold 
 of the roll of bills. Fie was afraid to try to go through 
 his companion’s pockets, however; and besides, the cabbie 
 might be on the watch. He had the hundred safe, and he 
 would have to be content with that. 
 
 At the end of half an hour or so the cab stopped. They 
 were out on the water-front, and from the east a freezing 
 gale was blowing off the ice-bound lake, “ Here we are,” 
 called the cabbie, and Jurgis av/akened his companion. 
 
 Master Freddie sat up with a start 
 
 “ Hello 1 ” he said. “ Where are we ? Whuzzis ? Who 
 are you, hey ? Oh, yes, sure nuff! Mos’ forgot you — 
 
 — hie — ole chappie I Home, are we ? Lessee I Br-r-f 
 
 — it’s cold! Yes — come ’long — we’re home — be it 
 ever so — hie — humble I ” 
 
 Before them there loomed an enormous granite pile, set 
 far back irom the street, and oeeupying a whole block. 
 By the light of the driveway lamps Jurgis could see that 
 it had towers and huge gables, like a meffiseval castle. He 
 thought that the young fellow must have made a mistake 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 283 
 
 — it was inconceivable to him that any person could have 
 a home like a hotel or the city hall. But he followed in 
 silence, and they went up the long flight of steps, arm in 
 arm. 
 
 “ There’s a button here, ole sport,” said Master Freddie. 
 “ Hole my arm while I find her J Steady, now—oh, yes, 
 here she is I Saved ! ” 
 
 A bell rang, and in a few seconds the door was opened. 
 A man in blue livery stood holding it, and gazing before 
 him, silent as a statue. 
 
 They stood for a moment blinking in the light. Then 
 Jurgis felt his companion pulling, and he stepped in, and 
 the blue automaton closed the door. Jurgis’s heart was 
 beating wildly; it was a bold thing for him to do — into 
 what strange unearthly place he w’as venturing he had no 
 idea. Aladdin entering his cave could not have been more 
 excited. 
 
 The place where he stood was dimly lighted; but he 
 could see a vast hall, with pillars fading into the darkness 
 above, and a great staircase opening at the far end of it. 
 The floor was of tesselated marble, smooth as glass, and 
 from the walls strange shapes loomed out, woven into huge 
 portieres in rich, harmonious colors, or gleaming from 
 paintings, wonderful and mysterious-looking in the half- 
 light, purpL and red and golden, like sunset glimmers in 
 8 shadowy forest. 
 
 The man in livery had moved silently toward them 5 
 Master Freddie took off his hat and handed it to him, and 
 then, letting go of Jurgis’s arm, tried to get out of his 
 overcoat. After two or three attempts he accomplished 
 this, with the lackey’s help ; and meantime a second man 
 had approached, a tall and portly personage, solemn as an 
 executioner. He bore straight down upon Jurgis, who 
 shrank away nervously; he seized him by the arm without 
 ft word, and started toward the door with him. Then 
 suddenly came Master Freddie’s voice, “ Hamilton ! My 
 fren’ will remain wiz me.” 
 
 The man paused and half released Jurgis. “ Come long 
 i»le chappie, said the other, and Jurgis started toward him 
 
284 
 
 THE JOTGLE 
 
 “ Master Frederick ! ” exclaimed, the mano 
 
 “ See that the cabbie ^ — hie — is paid,” was the other’s 
 response; and he linked his arm in Jurgis’s. Jurgis was 
 about to say, “ I have the money for him,” but he restrained 
 himself. The stout man in uniform signalled to the other, 
 who went out to the cab, while he followed J urgis and his 
 young master. 
 
 They went down the great hall, and then turned. Be¬ 
 fore them were two huge doors. 
 
 “ Hamilton,” said Master Freddie. 
 
 “Well, sir? ” said the other. 
 
 “ Whuzzamatter wizze dinin’-room doors ?*'’ 
 
 “Nothing is the matter, sir.” 
 
 “ Then why dontcha openum ? ” 
 
 The man rolled them back ; another vista lost itself in 
 the darkness. “ Lights,” commanded Master Freddie ; and 
 the butler pressed a button, and a flood of brilliant in¬ 
 candescence streamed from above, half blinding Jurgis. 
 He stared; and little by little he made out the great 
 apartment, with a domed ceiling from which the light 
 poured, and walls that were one enormous painting — 
 nymphs and dryads dancing in a flower-strewn glade — 
 Diana with her hounds and horses, dashing headlong 
 through a mountain streamlet — a group of maidens bath¬ 
 ing in a forest-pool — all life-size, and so real chat Jurgis 
 thought that it was some work of enchantment, that he 
 was in a dream-palace. Then his eye passed to the long 
 table in the centre of the hall, a table black as ebony, and 
 gleaming with wrought silver and gold. In the centre of 
 it was a huge carven bowl, with the glistening gleam of 
 ferns and the red and purple of rare orchids, glowing from 
 a light hidden somewhere in their midst. 
 
 “ This’s the dinin’-room,” observed Master Freddie. 
 “ How you like it, hey, ole sport ? ” 
 
 He always insisted on having an answer to his remarks, 
 leaning over Jurgis and smiling into his face. Jurgis 
 liked it. 
 
 “ Rummy ole place to feed in all ’lone, though,” wa.^’ 
 1^‘reddie’s comment — “ rummy’s hell! Whuzya think, 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 285 
 
 hey ? ^ Then another idea occurred to him and he went 
 on, without waiting: “Maybe you never saw anything — 
 hie — like this ’fore ? Hey, ole chappie ? ” 
 
 “No,” said Jurgis. 
 
 “ Come from country, maybe —hey ? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Jurgis. 
 
 “ Aha! I thosso I Lossa folks from country never saw 
 such a place. Guv’ner brings ’em — free show —- hie 
 
 — reg’lar circus! Go home tell folks about it. Ole 
 man Jones’s place — Jones the packer-—beef-trust man. 
 Made it all out of hogs, too, damn ole scoundrel. Now we 
 see where our pennies go — rebates, an’ private-car lines 
 
 — hie — by Harry! Bully place, though — worth seein’ I 
 Ever hear of Jones the packer, hey, ole chappie ? ” 
 
 Jurgis had started involuntarily; the other, whose sharp 
 eyes missed nothing, demanded: “Whuzzamatter, hey? 
 Heard of him ? ” 
 
 And Jurgis managed to stammer out: “I have worked 
 for him in tlie yards.” 
 
 “What!” cried Master Freddie, with a yell. '•'■You! 
 In the yards? Ho, ho! Why, say, thass good! Shake 
 hands on it, ole man — by Harry ! Guv’ner ought to be 
 here — glad to see you. Great fren’s with the men, guv’¬ 
 ner— labor an’ capital, commun’ty ’f int’rests, an’ all that 
 
 — liic! Funny things happen in this world, don’t they, 
 ole man? Hamilton, lemme interduce you — fren’ the 
 family — ole fren’ the guv’ner’s — works in the yards. 
 Come to spend the night wiz me, Hamilton — have a hot 
 
 time. My fren’, Mr.-whuzya name, ole chappie ? Tell 
 
 us your name.” 
 
 “ Rudkus ~ Jurgis Rudkus.” 
 
 “My fren’, Mr. Rudnose, Hamilton — shake ban’s.” 
 
 The stately butler bowed his head, but made not a 
 sound; and suddenly Master Freddie pointed an eager 
 finger at him. “ I know whuzzamatter wiz you, Hamilton 
 
 — lay you a dollar I know! You think — hie — you 
 think I’m drunk! Hey, now? ” 
 
 And the butler again bowed his head. “ Yes, sir,” he 
 said, at which Master Freddie hung tightly upon Jurgis’s 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 li86 
 
 neck and went into a fit of laughter. “ Hamilton, you 
 damn ole scoundrel,” he roared, “I’ll ’scharge you for im¬ 
 pudence, you see T I don’t! Ho, ho, ho! I’m drunk! 
 Ho, ho! ” 
 
 The two waited until his fit had spent itself, to see 
 what new whim would seize him. “ Whatcha wanta do ? ” 
 he queried suddenly. “ Wanta see the place, ole chappie ? 
 W amine play the guv’ner — show you roun’ ? State 
 parlors — Looee Cans — Looee Sez — chairs cost three 
 thousand apiece. Tea-room — Maryanntnet — picture of 
 shepherds dancing — Ruysdael—twenty-three thousan’! 
 Ball-room — balc’ny pillars—hie—imported—special ship 
 
 — sixty-eight thousan’! Ceilin’ painted in Rome—whuz- 
 zat feller’s name, Hamilton-—Mattatoni ? Macaroni? Then 
 this place — silver bowl—Benvenuto Cellini — rummy 
 ole Dago! An’ the organ — thirty thousan’ dollars, sir 
 
 — starter up, Hamilton, let Mr. Rednose hear it. No 
 
 — never mind — clean forgot — says he’s hungry, Hamil¬ 
 ton — less have some supper. Only — hie — don’t less 
 have it here — come up to my place, ole sport — nice 
 an’ cosy. This way — steady now, don’t slip on the floor. 
 Hamilton, we’ll have a cole spread, an’ some fizz — don’t 
 leave out the fizz, by Harry. We’ll have some of the 
 eighteen-thirty Madeira. Hear me, sir ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, sir,” said the butler, “ but, Master Frederick, your 
 father left orders — ” 
 
 And Master Frederick drev/ himself up to a stately 
 height. “ My father’s orders were left to me — hie —• an’ 
 not to you,” he said. Then, clasping Jurgis tightly by 
 the neck, he staggered out of the room; on the way an¬ 
 other idea occurred to him, and he asked: “ Any — hie 
 
 — cable message for me, Hamilton ? ” 
 
 “ No, sir,” said the butler, 
 
 “ Guv’ner must be travellin’. An’ how’s the twins, 
 Hamilton ? ” 
 
 “They are doing well, sir.” 
 
 “Good!” said Master Freddie; and added fervently: 
 “ God bless ’em, the little lambs! ” 
 
 They went up the great staircase, one step at a time; 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 287 
 
 at the top of it there gleamed at them out of the shadows 
 the figure of a nymph crouching by a fountain, a figure 
 ravishingly beautiful, the flesh warm and glowing with the 
 hues of life. Above was a huge court, with domed roof, 
 the various apartments opening into it. The butler had 
 paused below but a few minutes to give orders, and then 
 followed them; now he pressed a button, and the hall 
 blazed with light. He opened a door before them, and 
 then pressed another button, as they staggered into the 
 apartment. 
 
 It was fitted up as a study. In the centre was a mahog¬ 
 any table, covered with books, and smokers’ implements; 
 the walls were decorated with college trophies and colors,— 
 flags, posters, photographs and knickknacks — tennis-rack¬ 
 ets, canoe-paddles, golf-clubs, and polo-sticks. An enor¬ 
 mous moose head, with horns six feet across, faced a 
 Duft'alo head on the opposite wall, while bear and tiger 
 skins covered the polished floor. There were lounging- 
 cliairs and sofas, window-seats covered with soft cushions 
 of fantastic designs; there was one corner fitted in Persian 
 fashion, with a huge canopy and a jewelled lamp beneath. 
 Be 3 mnd, a door opened upon a bedroom, and be 3 'ond that 
 was a swimming pool of the purest marble, that had cost 
 about fort 3 " thousand dollars. 
 
 Master Freddie stood for a moment or two, gazing about 
 him ; then out of the next room a dog emerged, a mon¬ 
 strous bulldog, the most hideous object that Jurgis had 
 ever laid e 3 'es upon. He 3 'awned, opening a mouth like 
 a dragon’s ; and he came toward the 3 mung man, wagging 
 his tail. “ Hello, Dewey I ” cried his master. “ Been 
 havin’ a snooze, ole boy ? Well, well — hello there, whuzza- 
 matter?” (The dog was snai'ling at Jurgis.) “Why, 
 Dewey — this’ my fren’, Mr. ilednose — ole fren’ the 
 guv’ner’s 1 Mr. Rednose, Admiral Dewey ; shake ban's — 
 liic. Ain’t he a daisy, tliough — blue ribbon at the New 
 York show — eighty-five huj dred at a clip 1 How’s that, 
 hey ? ” 
 
 The speaker sank into one of the big arm-chairs, and 
 Admiral Dewey crouched beneath it, he did not snarl 
 
288 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 again, but he never took his eyes off Jurgis* He was 
 perfectly sober, was the Admiral. 
 
 The butler had closed the door, and he stood by it, 
 watching Jurgis every second. Now there came footsteps 
 outside, and, as he opened the door a man in livery entered, 
 carrying a folding-table, and behind him two men with 
 covered trays. They stood like statues while the first 
 spread the table and set out the contents of the trays upon 
 it. There were cold pates, and thin slices of meat, tiny 
 bread and butter sandwiches with the crust cut off, a bowl 
 of sliced peaches and cream (in January), little fancy cakes, 
 pink and green and yellow and white, and half a dozen 
 ice-cold bottles of wine. 
 
 “ Thass the stuff for you I ” cried Master Freddie, ex¬ 
 ultantly, as he spied them. “Come ’long, ole chappie, 
 move up.” 
 
 And he seated himself at the table; the waiter pulled a 
 cork, and he took the bottle and poured three glasses of 
 its contents in succession down his throat. Then he gave 
 a long-drawn sigh, and cried again to Jurgis to seat him¬ 
 self. 
 
 The butler held the chair at the opposite side of the 
 table, and Jurgis thought it was to keep him out of it; 
 but finally he understood that it was the other’s intention 
 to put it under him, and so he sat down, cautiously and 
 mistrustingly. Master Freddie perceived that the attend¬ 
 ants embarrassed him, and he remarked, with a nod to 
 them, “ You may go.” 
 
 They went, all save the butler. 
 
 “You may go too, Hamilton,” he said, 
 
 “ Master Frederick — ” the man began. 
 
 “ Go ! ” cried the youngster, angrily. “ Damn you, 
 don’t you hear me ? ” 
 
 The man went out and closed the door ; Jurgis, who 
 was as sharp as he, observed that he took the key out of 
 the lock, in order that he r ight peer through the key¬ 
 hole. 
 
 Master Frederick turned to the table again. “Now.” 
 he said, “go for it.” 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 289 
 
 Jurgis gazed at him doubtingly. “ Eat I ” cried the 
 other. “ Pile in, ole chappie ! ” 
 
 “ Don’t you want anything ? ” Jurgis asked. 
 
 “ Ain’t hungry,” was the reply — “■ only thirsty. Kitty 
 and me had some candy — you go on.” 
 
 So Jurgis began, without further parley. He ate as 
 with two shovels, his fork in one hand and his knife in the 
 other ; when he once got started his wolf-hunger got the 
 better of him, and he did not stop for breath until he had 
 cleared every plate. “ Gee whiz 1 ” said the other, who 
 had been watching him in wonder. 
 
 Then he held Jurgis tlie bottle. “ Lessee you drink 
 now,” he said ; and Jurgis took the bottle and turned it 
 up to his mouth, and a wonderful unearthly liquid ecstasy 
 poured down his throat, tickling every nerve of him, 
 thrilling him with joy. He drank the very last drop of 
 it, and then he gave vent to a long-drawn “Ah ! ” 
 
 “ Good stulf, hey ? ” said Freddie, sympathetically; he 
 had leaned back in the big chair, putting his arm behind 
 his head and gazing at Jurgis. 
 
 And Jurgis gazed back at him. He was clad in spotless 
 evening-dress, was Freddie, and looked very handsome — 
 he was a beautiful boy, with light golden hair and the 
 head of an Antinous. He smiled at Jurgis confidingly, 
 and then started talking again, with his blissful insouciance. 
 This time he talked for ten minutes at a stretch, and in the 
 course of the speech he told Jurgis all of his family history. 
 His big brother Charlie was in loA'^e with the guileless 
 maiden -who played the part of “ Little Bright-Eyes ” in 
 “The Kaliph of Kamskatka.” Lie had been on the verge 
 of marrying her once, only “ the guv’ner ” had sworn to 
 disinherit him, and had presented him with a sum that 
 would stagger the imagination, and that had staggered 
 the virtue of “Little Bright-Eyes.” Now Charlie had 
 got leave from college, and had gone away in his auto¬ 
 mobile on the next best thing to a honeymoon. “The 
 guv’ner” had made threats to disinherit another of his 
 children also, sister Gwendolen, who had married an 
 Italian marquis with a string of titles and a duelling 
 
290 
 
 THE JUXGLE 
 
 record. They lived in his chateau, or rather had, until he 
 had taken to firing the breakfast-dishes at her ; then she 
 had cabled for help, and the old gentleman had gone over 
 to find out what were his Grace’s terms. So they had left 
 Freddie all alone, and he with less than two thousand 
 dollars in his pocket. Freddie was up in arms and meant 
 serious business, as they would find in the end — if there 
 was no other way of bringing them to terms he would 
 have his “ Kittens ” wire that she was about to marry him, 
 and see what happened then. 
 
 So the cheerful youngster rattled on, until he was tired 
 out. He smiled his sweetest smile at Jurgis, and then he 
 closed his eyes, sleepily. Then he opened them again, and 
 smiled once more, and finally closed them and forgot to 
 open them. 
 
 For several minutes Jurgis sat perfectly motionless, 
 watching him, and revelling in the strange sensations of 
 the champagne. Once he stirred, and the dog growled ; 
 after that he sat almost holding his breath — until after a 
 while the door of the room opened softly, and the butler 
 came in. 
 
 He walked toward Jurgis upon tiptoe, scowling at him; 
 and Jurgis rose up, and retreated, scowling back. So 
 until he was against the wall, and then the butler came 
 close, and pointed toward the door. “ Get out of here I ” 
 he whispered. 
 
 Jurgis hesitated, giving a glance at Freddie, who was 
 
 snoring softly. “If you do, you son of a-” hissed 
 
 the butler, “ I’ll mash in your face for you before you get 
 out of here I ” 
 
 And Jurgis wavered but an instant more. He saw 
 “ Admiral Dewey ” coming up behind the man and growl¬ 
 ing softly, to back up his threats. Then, he surrendered 
 and started toward the door. 
 
 They went out without a sound, and down the great 
 echoing staircase, and through the dark hall. At the 
 front door he paused, and the butler strode close to 
 him. 
 
THE JUNGLF 
 
 891 
 
 *HoId up your hands,*’ he snarled. Jurgis took a step 
 back, clinching his one well fist. 
 
 “ What for ? ” he cried ; and then understanding that 
 the fellow proposed to search him, he answered, “ I’ll see 
 you in hell first.,” 
 
 “ Do you want to go to jail ? ” demanded the butler, 
 menacingly. “ I’ll have the police — ” 
 
 “Have ’em!” roared Jurgis, with fierce pas,sion. “But 
 you won't put your hands on me till you do I I haven’t 
 touched anything in your damned house, and I’ll not have 
 you touch me 1 ” 
 
 So the butler, who was terrified lest his young mastei 
 should waken, stepped suddenly to the door, and opened 
 it. “Get out of here I ” he said; and then as Jurgis passed 
 through the opening, he gave him a ferocious kick that sent 
 him down the great stone steps at a run, and landed him 
 sprawling in the snow at the bottom.. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 J UEGIS got up, wild with rage; but the door was shut 
 and the great castle was dark and impregnable. Then the 
 icy teeth of the blast bit into him, and he turned and went 
 away at a run. 
 
 When he stopped again it was because he was coming 
 to frequented streets and did not v/ish to attract attention. 
 In spite of that last humiliation, his heart was thumping 
 fast with triumph. He had come out ahead on that deal I 
 He put his hand into his trousers’ pocket every now and 
 then, to make sure that the precious hundred-dollar bill was 
 still there. 
 
 Yet he was in a plight — a curious and even dreadful 
 plight, when he came to realize it. He had not a single 
 cent but that one bill I And he had to find some shelter 
 that night — he had to change it I 
 
 Jurgis spent half an hour walking and debating the 
 
 E roblem. There was no one he could go to for help — he 
 ad to manage it all alone. To get it changed in a lodg¬ 
 ing-house would be to take his life in his hands—he would 
 almost certainly be robbed, and perhaps murdered, before 
 morning. He might go to some hotel or railroad-depot 
 and ask to have it changed; but what would they think, 
 seeing a “bum” like him with a hundred dollars? He 
 would probably be arrested if he tried it; and what story 
 could he tell? On the morrow Freddie Jones would dis¬ 
 cover his loss, and there Avould be a hunt for him, and he 
 would lose his money. The only other plan he could think 
 of was to try in a saloon. He might pay them to change 
 it, if it could not be done otherwise 
 
 292 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 He began peering into places as he walked ; he passed 
 several as being too crowded—then finally, chancing upon 
 one where the bartender was all alone, he gripped his hands 
 in sudden resolution and went in. 
 
 “ Can you change me a hundred-dollar bill ? ” he 
 demanded. 
 
 The bartender was a big, husky fellow, with the jaw of 
 a prize fighter, and a three weeks’ stubble of hair upon it. 
 He stared at Jurgis. “What’s that youse say?” he 
 demanded. 
 
 “I said, could you change me a hundred-dollar bill? ” 
 
 “ Where’d youse get it ? ” he inquired incredulously. 
 
 “Never mind,” said Jurgis; “I’ve got it, and I want 
 it changed. I’ll pay you if you’ll do it.” 
 
 The other stared at him hard. “ Lemme see it,” he 
 said. 
 
 “Will you change it! ” Jurgis demanded, gripping it 
 tightly in his pocket. 
 
 “ How the hell can I know if it’s good or not? ” retorted 
 the bartender. “ Whatcher take me for, hey ? ” 
 
 Then Jurgis slowly and warily approached him; he 
 took out the bill, and fumbled it for a moment, while the 
 man stared at him with hostile eyes across the counter. 
 Then finally he handed it over. 
 
 The other took it, and began to examine it; he smoothed 
 it between his fingers, and he held it up to the light; he 
 turned it over, and upside down, and edgeways. It was 
 new and rather stiff, and that made him dubious. Jurgis 
 was watching him like a cat all the time. 
 
 “ Humph,” he said, finally, and gazed at the stranger, 
 sizing him up — a ragged, ill-smelling tramp, with no over¬ 
 coat and one arm in a sling — and a hundred-dollar bill I 
 Want to buy anything?” he demanded. 
 
 “Yes,” said Jurgis, “I’ll take a glass of beer.” 
 
 “ All right,” said the other, “ I’ll change it.” And he 
 put the bill in his pocket, and poured Jurgis out a glass of 
 beer, and set it on the counter. Then he turned to the 
 cash-register, and punched up five cents, and began to 
 pull money out of the drawer. Finally, he faced Jurgis, 
 
294 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 counting it out — two dimes, a quarter, and fifty cents. 
 “There,” he said. 
 
 For a second Jurgis waited, expecting to see him turn 
 again. “ My ninety-nine dollars,” he said. 
 
 “ What ninety-nine dollars? ” demanded the bartender. 
 
 “ My change ! ” he cried — “ the rest of my hun¬ 
 dred 1 ” 
 
 “ Go on,” said the bartender, “ youhe nutty! ” 
 
 And Jurgis stared at him with wild eyes. For an 
 instant horror reigned in him — black, paralyzing, awful 
 horror, clutching him at the heart; and then came rage, 
 in surging, blinding floods—he screamed aloud, and seized 
 the glass and hurled it at the other’s head. The man 
 ducked, and it missed him by half an inch; he rose 
 again and faced Jurgis, who was vaulting over the bar 
 with his one well arm, and dealt him a smashing blow in 
 the face, hurling him backward upon the floor. Then, as 
 Jurgis scrambled to his feet again and started round the 
 counter after him, he shouted at the top of his voice, “Help S 
 help! ” 
 
 Jurgis seized a bottle off the counter as he ran; and as 
 the bartender made a leap he hurled the missile at him with 
 all his force. It just grazed his head, and shivered into a 
 thousand pieces against the post of the door. Then Jurgis 
 started back, rushing at the man again in the middle of the 
 room. This time, in his blind frenzy, he came without a 
 bottle, and that was all the bartender wanted — he met 
 him halfway and floored him with a sledge-hammer drive 
 between the eyes. An instant later the screen-doors flew 
 open, and two men rushed in — just as Jurgis was getting 
 to his feet again, foaming at the mouth with rage, and try¬ 
 ing to tear his broken arm out of its bandages. 
 
 “ Look out! ” shouted the bartender. “ He’s got a 
 knife ! ” Then, seeing that the two were disposed to join 
 in the fray, he made another rush at Jurgis, and knocked 
 aside his feeble defence and sent him tumbling again; and 
 the three flung themselves upon him, rolling and kicking 
 about the place, 
 
 A second later a policeman dashed in, and the bartender 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 295 
 
 yelled once moxe — “Look out for his knife!” Jurgis 
 had fought himself half to his knees, when the policeman 
 made a leap at him, and cracked him across the face with 
 his club. Tliough the blow staggered him, the wild beast 
 frenzy still blazed in him, and he got to his feet, lunging 
 into the air. Then again the club descended, full upon 
 his head, and he dropped like a log to the floor. 
 
 The policeman crouched over him, clutching his stick, 
 waiting for him to try to rise again; and meantime the 
 barkeeper got up, and put his hand to his head. “ Christ! ” 
 he said, “ 1 thought I was done for that time. Did he cut 
 me? ” 
 
 “ Don’t see anything, Jake,” said the policeman. 
 “What’s the matter with him?” 
 
 “ Just crazy drunk,” said the other. “ A lame duck, toe 
 — but he ’most got me under the bar. Youse had better 
 call the wagon, Billy.” 
 
 “ No,” said the officer. “ He’s got no more fight in him, 
 I guess — and he’s only got a block to go.” He twisted 
 his hand in Jurgis’s collar and jerked at him. “ Git up here, 
 you I ” he commanded. 
 
 But Jurgis did not move, and the bartender went behind 
 the bar, and, after stowing the hundred-dollar bill away in 
 a safe hiding-place, came and poured a glass of water over 
 Jurgis. Then, as the latter began to moan feebly, the 
 policeman got him to his feet and di-agged him out of the 
 place. The station-house was just around the corner, 
 and so in a few minutes Jurgis was in a cell. 
 
 He spent half the night lying unconscious, and the 
 balance moaning in torment, with a blinding headache 
 and a racking thirst. Now and then he cried aloud for 
 a drink of water, but there was no one to hear him. There 
 were others in that same station-house with split heads and 
 a fever; there were hundreds of them in the great city, 
 and tens of thousands of them in the great land, and there 
 was no one to hear any of them. 
 
 In the morning Jurgis was given a cup of water and a 
 piece of bread, and then bustled into a patrol wagon and 
 
296 
 
 THE jungle 
 
 driven to the nearest police-court. He sat in the pen with 
 a score of others until his turn came. 
 
 The bartender—who proved to be a well-known bruiser 
 — was called to the stand. He took the oath and told his 
 story. The prisoner had come into his saloon after mid¬ 
 night, fighting drunk, and had ordered a glass of beer and 
 tendered a dollar bill in payment. He had been given 
 ninety-five cents’ change, and had demanded ninety-nine 
 dollars more, and before the plaintiff could even answer 
 had hurled the glass at him and then attacked him with 
 a bottle of bitters, and nearly wrecked the place. 
 
 Then the prisoner was sworn—a forlorn object, haggard 
 and unshorn, with an arm done up in a filthy bandage, a 
 cheek and head cut and bloody, and one eye purplish black 
 and entirely closed. “ What have you to say for your¬ 
 self ? ” queried the magistrate. 
 
 “Your Honor,” said Jurgis, “I went into his place and 
 asked the man if he could change me a hundred-dollar 
 bill. And he said he would if I bought a drink. I 
 gave him the bill and then he wouldn’t give me the 
 change.” 
 
 The magistrate was staring at him in perplexityc “You 
 gave him a hundred-dollar bill I ” he exclaimed. 
 
 “Yes, your Honor,” said Jurgis. 
 
 “ Where did you get it ? ” 
 
 “ A man gave it to me, your Honor.” 
 
 “ A man? What man, and what for ? ” 
 
 “A young man I met upon the street, your Honor. 
 I had been begging.” 
 
 There was a titter in the court-room; the officer who 
 was holding Jurgis put up his hand to hide a smile, and 
 the magistrate smiled withoiit trying to hide it. “ It’s 
 true, your Honor 1 ” cried Jurgis, passionately. 
 
 “ You had been drinking as well as begging last nighti 
 had you not ? ” inquired the magistrate. 
 
 “No, your Honor — ” protested Jurgis. “I — ” 
 
 “You had not had anything to drink? ” 
 
 “ Why, yes, your Honor, I had — ” 
 
 “ What did you have ? ” 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 29? 
 
 “ I had a bottle of something — I don’t know what it 
 was—something that burned — ” 
 
 There was again a laugh round the court-room, stopping 
 suddenly as the magistrate looked up and frowned. “ Have 
 you ever been arrested before ? ” he asked abruptly. 
 
 The question took Jurgis aback, “I — I — ” he 
 stammered. 
 
 “ Tell me the truth, now I ” commanded the other, 
 sternly. 
 
 “ Yes, your Honor,” said Jurgis, 
 
 ” How often ? ” 
 
 “ Only once, your Honor." 
 
 « What for ? ” 
 
 “ For knocking down my boss, your Honor. 1 was 
 working in the stockyards, and he — ” 
 
 “ I see,” said his Honor; “ 1 guess that will do. You 
 ought to stop drinking if you can’t control yourself. Ten 
 days and costs. Next case.” 
 
 Jurgis gave vent to a cry of dismay, cut off suddenly 
 by the policeman, who seized him by the collar. He was 
 jerked out of the way, into a room with tho convicted 
 prisoners, where he sat and wept like a child in his impo¬ 
 tent rage. It seemed monstrous to him that policemen 
 and judges should esteem his word as nothing in compari¬ 
 son with the bartender’s ; poor Jurgis could not know 
 that the owner of the saloon paid five dollars each week to 
 the policeman alone for Sunday privileges and general 
 favors — nor that the pugilist bartender was one of the 
 most trusted henchmen of the Democratic leader of the 
 district, and had helped only a few months before to hustle 
 out a record-breaking vote as a testimonial to the magis¬ 
 trate, who had been made the target of odious kid-gloved 
 reformers. 
 
 Jurgis was driven out to the Bridewell for the second time- 
 In his tumbling around he had hurt his arm again, and so 
 could not work, but had to be attended by the physician. 
 Also his head and his eye had to be tied up — and sc he 
 was a pretty-looking object v/hen, the second day after 
 
 20 
 
298 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 his arrival, he went out into the exercise-court and encoun¬ 
 tered— Jack Duane ! 
 
 The 3^0 ung fellow was so glad to see Jurgis that he al¬ 
 most hugged him. ‘‘By God, if it isn’t ‘the Stinker’I” 
 he cried. “ And what is it — have you been through a 
 sausage-machine ? ” 
 
 “No,” said Jurgis, “but I’ve been in a railroad wreck 
 and a fight,” And then, v»^hile some of the other prisoners 
 gathered round, he told his wild story ; most of them 
 were incredulous, but Duane knew that Jurgis could never 
 have made up such a yam as that. 
 
 “Hard luck, old man,” he said, when they were alonej 
 “ but maybe it’s taught you a lesson.” 
 
 “ I’ve learned some things since I saw you last,” said 
 Jurgis, mournfully. Then he explained how he had spent 
 the last summer, “hoboing it,” as the phrase was. “And 
 you ? ” he asked, finally. “ Have you been here ever 
 since ?” 
 
 “ Lord, no I ” said the other. “ I only came in the day 
 before yesterday. It’s the second time they’ve sent me 
 up on a trumped-up charge-—I’ve had hard luck and can’t 
 pay them what they want. Why don’t you quit Chicago 
 with me, Jurgis ? ” 
 
 “ I’ve no place to go,” said Jurgis, sadly. 
 
 “ Neither have I,” replied the other, laughing lightly. 
 — “ But we’ll wait till we get out and see.” 
 
 In the Bridewell Jurgis met few who had been there the 
 last time, but he met scores of others, old and young, of 
 exactly the same sort. It was like breakers upon a beach; 
 there was new water, but the wave looked just the same. 
 He strobed about and talked with them, and the biggest- 
 of them told tales of their prowess, while those who were 
 weaker, or younger and inexperien(;ed, gathered round and 
 listened in admiring silence. The last time he was there, 
 Jurgis had thought of little but his family; but now he 
 was free to listen to these men, and to realize that he was 
 one of them,-—that their point of view was his point of 
 view, and that the way they kept themselves ali\re in the 
 world was the way he meant to do it in future. 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 299 
 
 And so, when he was turned out of prison again, with¬ 
 out a penny in his pocket, he went straight to Jack Duane. 
 He went full of humility and gratitude; for Duane was 
 a gentleman, and a man with a profession — and it was re¬ 
 markable that he should be willing to throw in his lot with 
 a humble working-man, one who had even been a beggar 
 and a tramp. Jurgis could not see what help he could be 
 to him ; he did not understand that a man like himself —- 
 who could be trusted to stand by any one who was kind to 
 him — was as rare among criminals as among any other 
 class of men. 
 
 The address Jurgis had was a garret-room in the Ghetto 
 district, the home of a pretty little French girl, Duane’s 
 mistress, who sewed all day, and eked out her living by 
 prostitution. He had gone elsewhere, she told Jurgis — 
 he was afraid to stay there now, on account of the police. 
 The new address was a cellar dive, whose proprietor said 
 that he had never heard of Duane; but after he had put 
 Jurgis through a catechism he showed him a back stairs 
 which led to a “ fence ” in the rear of a pawnbroker’s 
 shop, and thence to a number of assignation-rooms, in one 
 of which Duane was hiding. 
 
 Duane was glad to see him ; he was without a cent of 
 Jnoney, he said, and had been waiting for Jurgis to help him 
 get some. He explained his plan — in fact he spent the 
 day in laying bare to iiis friend the criminal world of the 
 city, and in showing him how he might earn himself a living 
 in it. That winter he would have a hard time, on account 
 of his arm, and because of an unwonted fit of activity of 
 the police; but so long as he was unknown to them he 
 would be safe if he were careful. Here at “Papa” Han¬ 
 son’s (so they called the old man who kept the dive) he 
 might rest at ease, for “ Papa ” Hanson was “ square ” — 
 would stand by him so long as he paid, and gave him an 
 hour’s notice if there were to be a police raid. Also 
 Rosensteg, the pawnbroker, would buy anything he had 
 for a third of its value, and guarantee to keep it hidden 
 for a year. 
 
 There was an oil stove in the little cupboard of a room. 
 
800 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 and they had some supper ; and then about eleven o’clock 
 at night they sallied forth together, by a rear entrance to 
 the place, Duane armed with a slung-shot. They came 
 to a residence district, and he sprang up a lamp post and 
 ))lew out the light, and then the two dodged into the 
 shelter of an area-step and hid in silence. 
 
 Pretty soon a man came by, a working-man — and they 
 let him go. Then after a long interval came the heavy 
 tread of a policeman, and they held their breath till he 
 was gone. Though half frozen, they waited a full quar¬ 
 ter of an hour after that — and then again came footsteps, 
 walking briskly. Duane nudged Jurgis, and the instant 
 the man had passed they rose up. Duane stole out as 
 silently as a shadow, and a second later Jurgis heard a 
 thud and a stifled cry. He was only a couple of feet be¬ 
 hind, and he leaped to stop the man’s mouth, while Duane 
 held him fast by the arms, as they had agreed. But the 
 man was limp and showed a tendency to fall, and so Jurgis 
 had only to hold him by the collar, while the other, with 
 swift fingers, went through his pockets,—ripping open, 
 first his overcoat, and then his coat, and then his vest, 
 searching inside and outside, and transferring the contents 
 into his own pockets. At last, after feeling of the man’s 
 fingers and in his neck-tie, Duane whispered, “ That’s all I ” 
 and they dragged him to the area and dropped him in. 
 Then Jurgis went one way and his friend the other, walk¬ 
 ing briskly. 
 
 The latter arrived first, and Jurgis found him examin¬ 
 ing the “ swag.” There was a gold watch, for one thing, 
 with a chain and locket ; there was a silver pencil, and a 
 match-box, and a handful of small change, and finally a 
 card-case. This last Duane opened feverishly — there were 
 letters and checks, and two theatre-tickets, and at last, in 
 the back part, a wad of bills. He counted them — there 
 was a twenty, five tens, four fives, and three ones. Duane 
 drew a long breath. “ That lets us out I ” he said. 
 
 After further examination, they burned the card-case 
 and its contents, all but the bills, and likewise the picture 
 of a little girl in the locket. Then Duane took the watch 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 301 
 
 and trinkets downstairs, and came back with sixteen 
 dollars. “ The old scoundrel said the case was filled,” he 
 said. “ It’s a lie, but he knows I want the money.” 
 
 They divided up the spoils, and Juigis got as his share 
 fifty-five dollars and some change. He protested that it 
 was too much, but the other had agreed to divide even. 
 That was a good haul, he said, better than the average. 
 
 When they got up in the morning, Jurgis was sent 
 out to buy a paper ; one of the pleasures of committing 
 a crime was the reading about it afterward. “ I had a 
 pal that always did it,” Duane remarked, laughing — 
 “until one day he read that he had left three thousand 
 dollars in a lower inside pocket of his party’s vest 1 ” 
 
 There was a half-column account of the robbery — it 
 was evident that a gang was operating in the neighbor¬ 
 hood, said the paper, for it was the third within a week, 
 and the police were apparently powerless. The victim 
 was an insurance agent, and he had lost a hundred and 
 ten dollars that did not belong to him. He had chanced 
 to have his name marked on his shirt, otherwise he would 
 not have been identified yet. His assailant had hit him 
 too hard, and he was suffering from concussion of the 
 brain; and also he had been half-frozen when found, and 
 would lose three fingers of his right hand. Tlie enter- 
 prising newspaper reporter had taken all this information 
 to his family, and told how they had received it. 
 
 Since it was Jurgis’s first experience, these details natu¬ 
 rally caused him some worriment; but the other laughed 
 coolly — it was the way of the game, and there was no 
 helping it. Before long Jurgis would think no more of 
 it than they did in the yards of knocking out a bullock. 
 “It’s a case of us or the other fellow, and I say the other 
 fellow every time,” he observed. 
 
 “ Still,” said Jurgis, reflectively, “ he never did us any 
 harm.” 
 
 “He was doing it to somebody as hard as he could, 
 you can be sure of that,” said his friend. 
 
 Duane had already explained to Jurgis that if a man of 
 
302 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 their trade were known he would have to work all the 
 time to satisfy the demands of the police. Therefore it 
 would be better for Jurgis to stay in hiding and never be 
 seen in public with his pal. But Jurgis soon got very 
 tired of staying in hiding. In a couple of weeks he was 
 feeling strong and beginning to use his arm, and then he 
 could not stand it any longer. Duane, who had done a 
 job of some sort by himself, and made a truce with the 
 powers, brought over Marie, his little French girl, to share 
 with him; but even that did not avail for long, and in 
 the end he had to give up arguing, and take Jurgis 
 out and introduce him to the saloons and “ sporting- 
 houses ” where the big crooks and “hold-up men” hung 
 out. 
 
 And so Jurgis got a glimpse of the high-class criminal 
 world of Chicago. The city, which was owned by an 
 oligarchy of business men, being nominally ruled by the 
 people, a huge army of graft was necessary for the pur¬ 
 pose of effecting the transfer of power. Twice a year, in 
 the spring and fall elections, millions of dollars were fur¬ 
 nished by the business men and expended by this army; 
 meetings were held and clever speakers were hired, bands 
 played and rockets sizzled, tons of documents and reser¬ 
 voirs of drinks were distributed, and tens of thousands of 
 votes were bought for cash. And this army of graft had, 
 of course, to be maintained the year round. The leaders 
 and organizers were maintained by the business men 
 directly,— aldermen and legislators by means of bribes, 
 party officials out of the campaign funds, lobbyists and 
 corporation lawyers in the form of salaries, contractors by 
 means of jobs, labor union leaders by subsidies, and news¬ 
 paper proprietors and editors by advertisements. The 
 rank and file, however, were either foisted upon the city, 
 or else lived off the populace directly. There was the 
 police department, and the fire and water departments, 
 and the whole balance of the civil list, from the meanest 
 office-boy to the head of a city department; and for the 
 horde who could find no room in these, there was the 
 world of vice and crime, there was license to seduce, to 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 303 
 
 swindle and plunder and prey. The law forbade Sunday 
 drinking ; and this had delivered the saloon-keepers into 
 the hands of the police, and made an alliance between them 
 necessary. The law forbade prostitution; and this had 
 brought the “madames” into the combination. It was the 
 same with the gambling-house keeper and the pool-room 
 man, and the same with any other man or woman who had 
 a means of getting “graft,” and was willing to pay over a 
 share of it; the green-goods man and the highwayman, the 
 pickpocket and the sneak-thief, and the receiver of stolen 
 goods, the seller of adulterated milk, of stale fruit and 
 diseased meat, the proprietor of unsanitary tenements, the 
 fake-doctor and the usurer, the beggar and the “ push-cart 
 man,” the prize-fighter and the professional slugger, the 
 "ace-track “ tout,” the procurer, the white-slave agent, and 
 the expert seducer of young girls. All of these agencies 
 of corruption were banded together, and leagued in blood 
 brotherhood Vvdth the politician and the police; more often 
 than not they were one and the same person, — the police 
 captain v/ould own the brothel he pretended to raid, and 
 the politician would open his headquarters in his saloon. 
 “Hinkydink” or “Bath-house John,” or others of that 
 ilk, were proprietors of the most notorious dives in Chi¬ 
 cago, and also the “gray wolves” of the city-council, who 
 gave away the streets of the city to the business men; and 
 those who patronized their places were the gamblers and 
 prize-fighters who set the law at defiance, and the burglars 
 and hold-up men who kept the whole city in terror. On 
 election day all these powers of vice and crime were one 
 power; they could tell within one per cent what the vote 
 of their district would be, and they could change it at an 
 hour’s notice. 
 
 A month ago Jurgis had all but perished of starvation 
 upon the streets ; and now suddenly, as by the gift of 
 a magic kejq he had entered into a world where money 
 and all the good things of life came freely. He was 
 introduced by his friend to an Irishman named “ Buck ” 
 Halloran, who was a political “ worker ” and on the inside 
 of things. This man talked with Jurgis for a while, and 
 
S04 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 then told him that he had a little plan by which a man 
 who looked like a working-man might make some easy 
 money ; but it was a private aifair, and had to be kept 
 quiet. Jurgis expressed himself as agreeable, and the 
 other took him that afternoon (it was Saturday) to a 
 place where city laborers were being paid off. The pay¬ 
 master sat in a little booth, with a pile of envelopes before 
 him, and two policemen standing by. Jurgis went, ac¬ 
 cording to directions, and gave the name of “ Michael 
 O'Flaherty,” and received an envelope, which he took 
 around the corner and delivered to Halloran, who was 
 waiting for him in a saloon. Then he went again, and 
 gave the name of ‘‘Johann Schmidt,”and a third time, and 
 gave the name of “Serge Keminitsky,” Halloran had 
 quite a list of imaginary working-men, and Jurgis got 
 an envelope ^or each one. For this work he received five 
 dollars, and was told that he might have it every week, 
 so long as he kept quiet. As Jurgis was excellent at 
 keeping quiet, he soon won the trust of “ Buck ” Halloran, 
 and was introduced to others as a man who could be 
 depended upon. 
 
 This acquaintance was useful to him in another way, 
 also ; before long Jurgis made his discovery of the mean¬ 
 ing of “ pull,” and just why his boss, Connor, and also the 
 pugilist bartender, had been able to send him to jail. 
 One night there was given a ball, the “ benefit ” of “ One- 
 eyed Larry,” a lame man who played the violin in one of 
 the big “high-class” houses of prostitution on Clark Street, 
 and was a wag and a popular character on the “Levee.” 
 This ball was held in a big dance-hall, and was one of the 
 occasions when the city’s powers of debaiichery gave 
 themselves up to madness. Jurgis attended and got half 
 insane with drink, and began quarrelling over a girl; his 
 arm was pretty strong by then, and he set to work to clean 
 out the place, and ended in a cell in the police-station. 
 The police-station being crowded to the doors, and stink¬ 
 ing with “bums,” Jurgis did not relish staying there to 
 sleep off his liquor, and sent for Halloran, who called up 
 the district leader and had Jurgis bailed out by telephone 
 
THE JIGGLE 
 
 305 
 
 at four © clock in the morniiig. When he was arraigned 
 that same morning, the district leader had already seen the 
 clerk of the court and explained that Jurgis Kudkus was 
 a decent fellow, who had been indiscreet; and so J urgis 
 was lined ten dollars and the line was “ suspended " — 
 which meant that he did not have to pay it, and never 
 would have to pay it, unless somebody chose to bring it up 
 against him in the future. 
 
 Among the people Jurgis lived with now money was 
 valued according to an entirely different standard from 
 that of the people of Packmgtown ; yet, strange as it may 
 seem, he did a great deal less drinking than he had as a 
 working-man. He had not the same provocations of 
 exhaustion and hopelessness ; he had now' something to 
 work for, to struggle for. He soon found that it he kept 
 his wits about him, he would come upt n new opportunities; 
 and being naturally an active man, he not only kept sober 
 himself, but helped to steady his friend, who was a good 
 deal fonder of both wine and women than he. 
 
 One thing led to another. In the saloon where Jurgis 
 met “ Buck ” Halloran he was sitting late one night with 
 Duane, when a “ country customer” (a buyer for an out-of- 
 town merchant) came in, a little more than half “piped.” 
 There was no one else in the place but the bartender, 
 and as the man went out again Jurgis and Duane followed 
 him ; he went round the corner, and in a dark place made 
 by a combination of the elevated railroad and an unrented 
 building, Jurgis leaped forward and shoved a revolver 
 under his nose, while Duane, with his hat pulled over his 
 eyes, went through the rnan'spockets with lightning fingers. 
 They got his watch and his “ wad,” and were round the 
 corner again and into the saloon before he could shout more 
 than once. The bartender, to whom they had tipped the 
 wink, had the cellar-door open for them, and they vanished, 
 making their way by a secret entrance to a brothel next 
 door. From the roof of this there was access to three 
 similar places oeyond. By means of these passages the 
 customers of any one place could be gotten out of the way, 
 in case a falling out with the pob’ce chanced to lead to a 
 
306 
 
 mE JUNGLE 
 
 raid 5 and also it was necessary to have a way of getting 
 a girl out of reach in case of an emergency. Thousands 
 of them came to Chicago answering advertisements for 
 “servants*’ and “factory hands,” and found themselves 
 trapped by fake employment agencies, and locked np in a 
 bawdy-house. It was generally enough to take all their 
 clothes away from them ; but sometimes they would have 
 to be “ doped ” and kept prisoners for weeks ; and mean¬ 
 time their parents might be telegraphing the police, and 
 even coming on to see why nothing was done. Occasion¬ 
 ally there was no way of satisfying them but to let them- 
 search the place to which the girl had been traced. 
 
 For his help in this little job, the bartender received 
 twenty out of the hundred and thirty odd dollars that the 
 pair secured ; and naturally this put them on friendly 
 terms with him, and a few days later he introduced them 
 to a little “ sheeny ” named Goldberger, one of the “ run¬ 
 ners” of the “sporting-house” where they had been 
 hidden. After a few drinks Goldberger began, with some 
 hesitation, to narrate how he had had a quarrel over his 
 best girl with a professional “ card-sharp,” who had hit 
 him in the jaw. The fellow was a stranger in Chicago, 
 and if he was found some night with his head cracked 
 there would be no one to care very much. Jurgis, who 
 by this time would cheerfully have cracked the heads of 
 all the gamblers in Chicago, inquired what would be com¬ 
 ing to him ; at which the Jew became still more confi¬ 
 dential, and said that he had some tips on the New Orleans 
 races, which he got direct from the police captain of the 
 district, whom he had got out of a bad scrape, and who 
 “ stood in ” with a big syndicate of horse owners. Duane 
 took all this in at once, but Jurgis had to have the whole 
 race-track situation explained to him before he realized the 
 importance of such an opportunity. 
 
 There was the gigantic Racing Trust. It owned tne 
 legislatures in every state in which it did business ; it 
 even owned some of the big newspapers, and made public 
 opinion — there was no power in the land that could 
 oppose it unless, perhaps, it were the Pool-room Trust 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 307 
 
 It built magnificent racing parks all over the country, and 
 by means of enormous purses it lured the people to come, 
 and then it organized a gigantic shell-game, whereby it 
 plundered them of hundreds of millions of dollars every 
 year. Horse-racing had once been a sport, but nowadays 
 it was a business; a horse could be “ doped ” and doctored, 
 undertrained or overtrained ; it could be made to fall at 
 any moment — or its gait could be broken by lashing it 
 with the whip, which all the spectators would take to be 
 a desperate elfort to keep it in the lead. There were 
 scores of such tricks ; and sometimes it was the owners 
 who played them and made fortunes, sometimes it was the 
 jockeys and trainers, sometimes it was outsiders, who 
 bribed them — but most of the time it was the chiefs of 
 the trust. Now, for instance, they were having winter- 
 racing in New Orleans, and a syndicate was laying out 
 each day’s programme in advance, and its agents in all the 
 Northern cities were “milking” the pool-rooms. The 
 word came by long-distance telephone in a cipher code, 
 just a little while before each race ; and any man who 
 could get the secret had as good as a fortune. If Jurgis did 
 not believe it, he could try it, said the little Jew — let 
 them meet at a certain house on the morrow and make a 
 test. Jurgis was willing, and so was Duane, and so they 
 went to one of the high-class pool-rooms where brokers 
 and merchants gambled (with society women in a private 
 room), and they put up ten dollars each upon a horse 
 called “ Black Beldame,” a six to one shot, and won. For 
 a secret like that they would have done a good many slug- 
 gings — but the next day Goldberger informed them that 
 the offending gambler had got wind of what was coming 
 to him, and had skipped the town. 
 
 There were ups and downs at the business ; but tliere 
 was always a living, inside of a jail, if not out of it. Early 
 in April the city elections were due, and that meant pros¬ 
 perity for all the powers of graft. Jurgis, hanging round 
 in dives and gambling-houses and brothels, met with the 
 heelers of both parties, and from -their conversation he 
 
308 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 came to understand all the ins and outs of the game, and to 
 hear of a number of ways in which he could make himself 
 useful about election time. “ Buck ” Halloran was a 
 “Democrat,” and so Jurgis became a Democrat also ; but 
 he was not a bitter one—the Republicans were good fellows, 
 too, and were to have a pile of money in this next campaign. 
 At the last election the Republicans had paid four dollars 
 a vote to the Democrats’ three ; and “ Buck ” Halloran sat 
 one night playing cards with Jurgis and another man, who 
 told how Halloran had been charged with the job of voting 
 a “ bunch ” of thirty-seven newly landed Italians, and how 
 he, the narrator, had met the Republican worker who was 
 after the very same gang, and how the three had effected 
 a bargain, whereby the Italians were to vote half and 
 half, for a glass of beer apiece, while the balance of the 
 fund went to the conspirators I 
 
 Not long after this, Jurgis, wearying of the risks and 
 vicissitudes of miscellaneous crime, was moved to give up 
 the career for that of a politician. Just at this time there 
 was a tremendous uproar being raised concerning the 
 alliance between the criminals and the police. For the 
 criminal graft was one in which the business men had no 
 direct part —■ it was what is called a “ side-line,” carried 
 by the police. “ Wide-open ” gambling and debauchery 
 made the city pleasing to “ trade,” but burglaries and hold¬ 
 ups did not. One night it chanced that while Jack Duane 
 was drilling a safe in a clothing store he was caught red- 
 handed by the night-watchman, and turned over to a 
 policeman, who chanced to know him well, and who took 
 the responsibility of letting him make his escape. Such a 
 howl from the newspapers followed this that Duane was 
 slated for a sacrifice, and barely got out of town in time. 
 
 And just at that juncture it happened that Jurgis was 
 introduced to a man named Harper whom he recognized as 
 the night-watchman at Brown’s, who had been instrumental 
 in making him an American citizen, the first year of his 
 arrival at the yards. The other was interested in the 
 coincidence, but did not remember Jurgis — he had han¬ 
 dled too many “ green ones ” in his time, he said. He sat in 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 309 
 
 a dance-hall with Jurgis and Halloran until one or two in 
 the morning, exchanging experiences. He had a long 
 story to tell of his quarrel with the superintendent of his 
 department, and how he was now a plain working-man, 
 and a good union man as well. It was not until some 
 months afterward that Jurgis understood that the quarrel 
 with the superintendent had been prearranged, and that 
 Harper was in reality drawing a salary of twenty dollars 
 a week from the packers for an inside report of his union’s 
 secret proceedings. The yards were seething with agita¬ 
 tion just then, said the man, speaking as a unionist. The 
 people of Packingtown had borne about all that they would 
 bear, and it looked as if a strike might begin any week. 
 
 After this talk the man made inquiries concerning Jurgis, 
 and a couple of days la.ter he came to him with an interest¬ 
 ing proposition. He was not absolutely certain, he said, 
 but he thought that he could get him a regular salary if 
 he would come to Packingtown and do as he was told, and 
 keep his mouth shut. Harper— “ Bush ” Harper, he was 
 called — was a right-hand man of Mike Scully, the Demo¬ 
 cratic boss of the stockyards; and in the coming election 
 there was a peculiar situation. There had come to Scully 
 a proposition to nominate a certain rich brewer who lived 
 upon a swell boulevard that skirted the district, and who 
 coveted the big badge and the “ honorable ” of an aider- 
 man. The brewer was a Jew, and had no brains, but he 
 was harmless, and would put up a rare campaign fund. 
 Scully had accepted the offer, and then gone to the Re¬ 
 publicans with a proposition. He was not sure that he 
 could manage the “ sheeny,” and he did not mean to take 
 any chances with his district; let the Republicans nomi¬ 
 nate a certain obscure but amiable friend of Scully’s, who 
 was now setting ten-pins in the cellar of an Ashland Ave¬ 
 nue saloon, and he, Scully, would elect him with the 
 “ sheeny’s ” money, and the Republicans might have the 
 glory, which was more than they would get otherwise. 
 In return for this the Republicans would agree to put up 
 no candidate the following year, when Scully himself 
 came up for reelection as the other alderman from the 
 
810 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 ward. To this the Republicans had assented at once; but 
 the hell of it was — so Harper explained—that the Repub¬ 
 licans were all of them fools—a man had to be a fool to 
 be a Republican in the stockyards, where Scully was king. 
 And they didn’t know how to work, and of course it 
 would not do for the Democratic workers, the noble red¬ 
 skins of the War-Whoop League, to support the Repub¬ 
 lican openly. The difficulty would not have been so great 
 except for another fact — there had been a curious develop¬ 
 ment in stockyards politics in the last year or two, a new 
 party having leaped into being. They were the Socialists; 
 and it was a devil of a mess, said “Bush” Harper. The 
 one image which the word “Socialist” brought to Jurgis 
 was of poor little Tamoszius Kuszleika, who had called him¬ 
 self one, and wmuld go out with a couple of other men and 
 a soap-box, and shout himself hoarse on a street corner Sat¬ 
 urday nights. Tamoszius had tried to explain to Jurgiswhat 
 it was all about, but Jurgis, who was not of an imagina¬ 
 tive turn, had never quite got it straight ; at present he 
 was content with his companion’s explanation that the So¬ 
 cialists were the enemies of American institutions — could 
 not be bought, and would not combine or make any sort 
 of a “ dicker.” Mike Scully was very much worried over 
 the opportunity which his last deal gave to them — the 
 stockyards Democrats were furious at the idea of a rich 
 capitalist for their candidate, and while they were changing 
 they might possibly conclude that a Socialist iirebrand was 
 preferable to a Republican bum. And so right here was a 
 chance for Jurgis to make himself a place in the world, 
 explained “ Bush ” Harper; he had been a union man, and 
 he was known in the yards as a working-man; he must 
 have hundreds of acquaintances, and as he had never talked 
 politics with them he might come out as a Republican now 
 without exciting the least suspicion. There were barrels of 
 money for the use of those who could deliver the goods; 
 and Jurgis might count upon Mike Scully, who had never 
 yet gone back on a friend. Just what could he do? 
 Jurgis asked, in some perplexity, and the other explained 
 in detail. To begin with, he would have to go to the 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 311 
 
 yards and work, and he mightn’t relish that; but he 
 would have what he earned, as well as the rest that came to 
 him. He would get active in the union again, and per¬ 
 haps try to get an office, as he, Harper, had ; he would tell 
 all his friends the good points of Doyle, the Republican 
 nominee, and the bad ones of the “ sheeny ” ; and then 
 Scully would furnish a meeting-place, and he would start 
 the “Young Men’s Republican Association,” or something 
 of that sort, and have the rich brewer’s best beer by the 
 hogshead, and fireworks and speeches, just like the War- 
 Whoop League. Surely Jurgis must know hundreds of 
 men who would like that sort of fun ; and there would be 
 the regular Republican leaders and workers to help him 
 out, and they would deliver a big enough majority o» 
 election day. 
 
 When he had heard all this explanation to the end, 
 Jurgis demanded : “ But how can I get a job in Packing- 
 town? I’m blacklisted.” 
 
 At which “ Bush ” Harper laughed. “ I’ll attend to that 
 all right,” he said. 
 
 And the other replied, “ It’s a go, then ; I’m your 
 man.” 
 
 So Jurgis went out to the stockyards again, and was 
 introduced to the political lord of the district, the boss of 
 Chicago’s mayor. It was Scully who owned the brick¬ 
 yards and the dump and the ice pond — though Jurgis 
 did not know it. It was Scully who was to blame for the 
 unpaved street in which Jurgis’s child had been drowned; it 
 was Scully who had put into office the magistrate who had 
 first sent Jurgis to jail; it was Scullj'" who was principal 
 stockholder in the company which had sold him the ram¬ 
 shackle, tenement, and then robbed him of it. But Jurgis 
 knew none of these things — any more than he knew that 
 Scully was but a tool and puppet of the packers. To him 
 Scully was a mighty power, the “ biggest ” man he bad 
 ever met. 
 
 He was a little, dried-up Irishman, whose hands shook, 
 He had a brief talk with his visitor, watching him with 
 his rat-like eyes, and making up his mind about him; and 
 
m 
 
 THE JUEGLE 
 
 then he gave him a note to Mr. Harmon, one the head 
 managers of Durham’s: -— 
 
 “The bearer, Jurgis Rudkus, is a particular friend of 
 mine, and I would like you to find him a good place, for 
 important reasons. He was once indiscreet, but you will 
 perhaps be so good as to overlook that.” 
 
 Mr. Harmon looked up inquiringly when he read this. 
 “ What does he mean by ‘ indiscreet ’ ? ” he asked. 
 
 “ I was blacklisted, sir,” said Jurgis. 
 
 At which the other frowned. “ Blacklisted ? ” he said. 
 “ How do you mean ? ” 
 
 And Jurgis turned red with embarrassment. He had 
 forgotten that a blacklist did not exist. “ I — that is 
 I had difficulty in getting a place,” he stammered. 
 
 “ What was the matter ? ” 
 
 “ 1 got into a quarrel with a foreman — not my own 
 boss, sir—and struck him.” 
 
 “ I see,” said the other, and meditated for a few mo 
 ments. “ What do you wish to do ? ” he asked. 
 
 “Anything, sir,” said Jurgis — “only I had a broken 
 arm this winter, and so 1 have to be careful.” 
 
 “ How would it suit you to be a night-watchman ? ” 
 
 “ That wouldn’t do, sir. I have to be among the men 
 at night.” 
 
 “ I see—-politics. Well, would it suit you to trim hogs?’ 
 
 “Yes, sir,” said Jurgis. 
 
 And Mr. Harmon called a time-keeper and said, “Take 
 this man to Pat Murphy and tell him to find room for him 
 somehow.” 
 
 And so Jurgis marched into the hog-killing room, a 
 place where, in the days gone by, he had come begging 
 W a job. Now he walked jauntily, and smiled to himself, 
 seeing' the frown that came to the boss’s face as the time¬ 
 keeper said, “ Mr. Harmon says to put this man on.” It 
 would overcrowd his department and spoil the record he 
 was trying to make-—but he said nob a word except 
 “All rigfit.” 
 
 And so Jurgis became a working-man once more • and 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 3i3 
 
 straightway he sought out his old friends, and joined the 
 union, and began to “ root ” for “ Scotty ” Doyle Doyle 
 had done him a good turn once, he explained, and was 
 really a bully chap | Doyle was a working-man himself, 
 and would represent the working-men — why did they 
 want to vote for a millionnaire “ sheeny,” and what the 
 hell had Mike Scully ever done for them that they should 
 back his candidates all the time ? And meantime Scully 
 had given Jurgis a note to the Republican leader of the 
 ward, and he had gone there and met the crowd he was 
 to work witho Already they had hired a big hall, with 
 some of the brewer’s money, and every night Jurgis 
 brought in a dozen new members of the “ Doyle Republi¬ 
 can Association.” Pretty soon they had a grand opening 
 night; and there was a brass band, which marched 
 through the streets, and fireworks and bombs and red 
 lights in front of the hall; and there was an enormous 
 crowd, with two overflow meetings — so that the pale and 
 trembling candidate had to recite three times over the 
 little speech which one of Scully’s henchmen had written, 
 and which he had been a month learning by heart. Best 
 of all, the famous and eloquent Senator Spareshanks, presi¬ 
 dential candidate, rode out in an automobile to discuss 
 the sacred privileges of American citizenship, and protec¬ 
 tion and prosperity for the American working-man. His 
 inspiriting address was quoted to the extent of half a 
 column in all the morning newspapers, which also said 
 that it could be stated upon excellent authority that the 
 unexpected popularity developed by Doyle, the Republican 
 candidate for alderman, was giving great anxiety to Mr. 
 Scully, the chairman of the Democratic City Committee. 
 
 The chairman was still more worried when the monster 
 torchlight procession came off, with the members of the 
 Doyle Republican Association all in red capes and hats, 
 and free beer for every voter in the ward — the best beer 
 ever given away in a political campaign, as the whole elec¬ 
 torate testified. During tnis parade, and at innumerable 
 cart-tail meetings as well, Jurgis labored tirelessly. He 
 did not make any speeches—there were lawyers and 
 
 21 
 
314 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 other experts for that—but he helped to manage things*, 
 distributing notices and posting placards and bringing 
 out the crowds ; and when the show was on he attended 
 to the fireworks and the beer. Thus in the course of the 
 campaign he handled many hundreds of dollars of the 
 Hebrew brewer’s money, administering it with naive and 
 touching fidelity. Toward the end, however, he learned 
 that he was regarded with hatred by the rest of the 
 “boys,” because he compelled them either to make a 
 poorer showing than he or to do without their share of 
 the pie. After that Jurgis did his best to please them, 
 and to make up for the time he had lost before he dis¬ 
 covered the extra bung-holes of the campaign-barrel. 
 
 He pleased Mike Scully, also. On election morning he 
 was out at four o’clock, “ getting out the vote ” ; he had 
 a two-horse carriage to ride in, and he went from house to 
 house for his friends, and escorted them in triumph to the 
 polls. Re voted half a dozen times himself, and voted 
 some of his friends as often ; he brought bunch after 
 bunch of the newest foreigners —■ Lithuanians, Poles, Bo¬ 
 hemians, Slovaks — and when he had put them through 
 the mill he turned them over to another man to take to 
 the next polling-place. When Jurgis first set out, the 
 captain of the precinct gave him a hundred dollars, and 
 three times in the course of the day he came for another 
 hundred, and not more than twenty-five out of each lot 
 got stuck in his own pocket. The balance all went for 
 actual votes, and on a day of Democratic landslides they 
 elected “ Scotty ” Doyle, the ex-ten-pin setter, by nearly 
 a thousand plurality — and beginning at five o’clock in 
 the afternoon, and ending at three the next morning, 
 Jurgis treated himself to a most unholy and horrible 
 “jag.” Nearly every one else in Packingtown did the 
 same, however, for there was universal exultation over 
 this triumph of popular government, this crushing defeat 
 of an arrogant plutocrat by the powek of the cointnon 
 people. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 After the elections Jurgis stayed on in Packingtown 
 and kept his job. The agitation to break up the police 
 protection of criminals was continuing, and it seemed to 
 him best to “ lay low” for the present. He had nearly three 
 hundred dollars in the bank, and might have considered 
 himself entitled to a vacation ; but he had an easy job, 
 and force of habit kept him at it. Besides, Mike Scully, 
 whom he consulted, advised him that something might 
 ‘‘ tui’n up ” before long. 
 
 Jurgis got himself a place in a boarding-house with 
 some congenial friends. He had already inquired of 
 Aniele, and learned that Elzbieta and her family had gone 
 down-town, and so he gave no further thought to them. 
 He went with a new set, now, young unmarried fellow's 
 who were “ sporty.” Jurgis had long ago cast off his 
 fertilizer clothing, and since going into politics he had 
 donned a linen collar and a greasy red necktie. He had 
 some reason for thinking of his dress, for he was making 
 about eleven dollars a week, and two-thirds of it he might 
 spend upon his pleasures v/ithout ever touching his 
 savings. 
 
 Sometimes he would ride down-town with a party of 
 friends to the cheap theatres and the music halls and 
 other haunts with which they were familiar. Many of 
 the saloons in Packingtown had pool-tables, and soma 
 of them bowling-alleys, by means of which he could spend 
 his evenings in petty gambling. Also, there were cards 
 and dice. One time Jurgis got into a game on a Saturday 
 night and won prodigiously, and because he was a man of 
 spirit he stayed in with the rest and the game concinued 
 until late Sunday afternoon, and b*y that time he was “out” 
 
 316 
 
316 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 over twenty dollars^ On Saturday nights, also, a number 
 of balls were generally given in Packingtown ; each man 
 would bring his “ girl with him, paying half a dollar for 
 a ticket, and several dollars additional for drinks in the 
 course of the festivities, which continued until three or 
 four o’clock in the morning, unless broken up by fighting. 
 During all this time the same man and woman would 
 dance together, half-stupefied with sensuality and drink. 
 
 Before long Jurgis discovered what Scully had meant 
 by something “turning up.” In May the agreement be¬ 
 tween the packers and the unions expired, and a new agree¬ 
 ment had to be signed. Negotiations were going on, and 
 the yards were full of talk of a strike. The old scale had 
 dealt with the wages of the skilled men only; and of the 
 members of the Meat Workers’ Union about two-thirds 
 were unskilled men. In Chicago these latter were receiv¬ 
 ing, for the most part, eighteen and a half cents an hout, 
 and the unions wished to make this the general wage foi 
 the next year. It was not nearly so large a wage as it 
 seemed — in the course of the negotiations the union 
 officers examined time-checks to the amount of ten thou¬ 
 sand dollars, and they found that the highest wages paid 
 had been fourteen dollars a week, the lowest two dollars 
 and five cents, and the average of the whole, six dollars 
 and sixty-five cents. And six dollars and sixty-five cents 
 was hardly too much for a man to keep a family on. Con¬ 
 sidering the fact that the price of dressed meat had in¬ 
 creased nearly fifty per cent in the last five years, while 
 the price of “ beef on the hoof ” had decreased as much, it 
 would have seemed that the packers ought to be able to 
 pay it; but the packers were unwilling to pay it — they 
 rejected the union demand, and to show what their pur¬ 
 pose was, a week or two after the agreement expired they 
 put down the wages of about a thousand men to sixteen 
 and a half cents, and it was said that old man Jones had 
 vowed he would put them to fifteen before he got through. 
 There were a million and a half of men in the country 
 poking for work, a huTidred thousand of them right in 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 SI? 
 
 Chicago ; and were the packers to let the union stewards 
 march into their places and bind them to a contract that 
 would lose them several thousand dollars a day for a year? 
 Not much I 
 
 All tins was in June; and before long the question was 
 submitted to a referendum in the unions, and the decision 
 was for a strike. It was the same in all the packing-house 
 cities ; and suddenly the newspapers and public woke up 
 to face the grewsome spectacle of a meat famine. All sorts 
 of pleas for a reconsideration were made, but the packers 
 were obdurate ; and all the while they were reducing 
 wages, and heading off shipments of cattle, and rushing 
 in wagon-loads of mattresses and cots. So the men boiled 
 over, and one night telegrams went out from the union 
 headquarters to all the big packing centres, — to St. Paul, 
 South Omaha, Sioux City, St. Joseph, Kansas City, East 
 St. Louis, and New York, — and the next day at noon be¬ 
 tween fifty and sixty thousand men drew off their work¬ 
 ing clothes and marched out of the factories, and the great 
 “ Beef Strike ” was on. 
 
 Jurgis went to his dinner, and afterward he walked 
 over to see Mike Scully, who lived in a fine house, upon a 
 street which had been decently paved and lighted for his 
 especial benefit. Scully had gone into semi-retirement, 
 and looked nervous and worried. “What do you want?” 
 he demanded, when he saw Jurgis. 
 
 “ I came to see if maybe you could get me a place during 
 the strike,” the other replied. 
 
 And Scully knit his brows and eyed him narrowly. In 
 that morning’s papers Jurgis had read a fierce denuncia¬ 
 tion of the packers by Scully, who had declared that if 
 they did not treat their people better the city authorities 
 would end the matter by tearing down their plants. 
 Now, therefore, Jurgis was not a little taken aback when 
 the other demanded suddenly, “See here, Rudkus, why 
 don’t you stick by your job ? ” 
 
 Jurgis started. “ Work as a scab ? ” he cried. 
 
 “ Why not?” demanded Scully. “What’s that to you?*" 
 
318 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 “But — but — ” stammered Jurgis. He had somehow 
 taken it for granted that he should go out with his union 
 
 “ The packers need good men, and need them bad," con¬ 
 tinued the other, “and they’ll treat a man right that 
 stands by them. Why don’t you take your chance and 
 fix yourself ? ” 
 
 “ But,’’ said Jurgis, “how could I ever be of any use 
 to you — in politics ? ’’ 
 
 “ You couldn’t be it anyhow,’’ said Scully, abruptly. 
 
 “ Why not? ’’ asked Jurgis. 
 
 “ Hell, man ! ’’ cried the other. “ Don’t you know 
 you’re a Republican ? And do you think I’m always going 
 to elect Republicans ? My brewer has found out already 
 how we served him, and there is the deuce to pay.’’ 
 
 Jurgis looked dumfounded. He had never thought of 
 that aspect of it before. “ I could be a Democrat,’’ he said. 
 
 “Yes,’’ responded the other, “but not right away; a 
 man can’t change his politics every day. And besides, I 
 don’t need you —- there’d be nothing for you to do. And 
 it’s a long time to election day, anyhow ; and what are 
 you going to do meantime ? ’’ 
 
 “ I thought I could count on you,’’ began Jurgis. 
 
 “Yes,” responded Scully, “so you could — I never yet 
 went back on a friend. But is it fair to leave the job I 
 got you and come to roe for another ? I have had a hun* 
 dred fellows after me to-day, and what can I do ? I’ve put 
 seventeen men on the city pay-roll to clean streets this one 
 week, and do you think I can keep that up forever? It 
 wouldn’t do for me to tell other men what I tell you, but 
 you’ve been on the inside, and you ought to have sense 
 enough to see for yourself. What have you to gain by a 
 strike ? ” 
 
 “ I hadn’t thought,” said Jurgis. 
 
 “Exactly,” said Scully, “but you’d better. Take my 
 word for it, the strike will be over in a few days, and the 
 men will be beaten ; and meantime what you get out of it 
 will belong to you. Do you see ?” 
 
 And Jurgis saw. He went back to the yards, and into 
 the work-room. The men had left a long line of hogs in 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 319 
 
 various stages of preparation, and the foreman was direct¬ 
 ing the feeble efforts of a score or two of clerks and stenog¬ 
 raphers and office-boys to finish up the job and get them 
 into the chilling-rooms. Jurgis went straight up to him 
 and announced, “ I have come back to work, Mr. 
 Murphy.” 
 
 The boss’s face lighted up. “ Good man I ” he cried. 
 “ Come ahead ! ” 
 
 “Just a moment,” said Jurgis, checking his enthusiasm. 
 “ I think I ought to get a little more wages.” 
 
 “Yes,” replied the other, “of course. What do you 
 want ? ” 
 
 Jurgis had debated on the way. His nerve almost 
 failed him now, but he clenched his hands. “ I think I 
 ought to have three dollars a day,” he said. 
 
 “ All right,” said the other, promptly; and before the 
 day was out our friend discovered that the clerks and 
 stenographers and office-boys were getting five dollars a 
 day, and then he could have kicked himself I 
 
 So Jurgis became one of the new “American heroes,” a 
 man whose virtues merited comparison with those of the 
 martyrs of Lexington and Valley Forge. The resem¬ 
 blance was not complete, of course, for Jurgis was gener¬ 
 ously paid and comfortably clad, and was provided with 
 a spring-cot and a mattress and three substantial meals a 
 day; also he was perfectly at ease, and safe from all peril of 
 life and limb- save only in the case that a desire for beer 
 should lead nim to venture outside of the stockyards 
 gates. And even in the exercise of tliis privilege he was 
 not left unprotected; a good part of the inadequate police 
 force of Chicago was suddenly diverted from its work of 
 hunting criminals, and rushed out to serve him. 
 
 The police, and the strikers also, were determined that 
 there should be no violence; but there was another party 
 interested which was minded to the contrary — and that 
 was the press. On the first day of his life as a strike¬ 
 breaker Jurgis quit work early, and in a spirit of bravado 
 he challenged three men of his acquaintance to go outside 
 
320 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 and get a drink. They acceptea, and went through the big 
 Halsted Street gate, where several policemen were watch¬ 
 ing, and also some union pickets, scanning sharply those who 
 passed in and out. Jurgis and his companions went south 
 on Halsted Street, past the hotel, and then suddenly half 
 a dozen men started across the street toward them and 
 proceeded to argue with them concerning the error of their 
 ways. As the arguments were not taken in the proper 
 spirit, they went on to threats; and suddenly one of them 
 jerked off the hat of one of the four and Sung it over the 
 fence. The man started after it, and then, as a cry of 
 “ Scab! ” was raised and a dozen people came running out 
 of saloons and doorways, a second man’s heart failed him 
 and he followed. Jurgis and the fourth stayed long enough 
 to give themselves the satisfaction of a quick exchange of 
 blows, and then they, too, took to their heels and fled back 
 of the hotel and into the yards again. Meantime, of course, 
 policemen were coming on a run, and as a crowd gathered 
 other police got excited and sent in a riot-calL Jurgis 
 knew nothing of this, but went back to “ Packers’ Ave¬ 
 nue,” and in front of the “ Central Time-Station ” he saw 
 one of his companions, breathless and Virild with excite- 
 ment, narrating to an ever growing throng how the foui 
 had been attacked and surrounded by a howling mob, and 
 had been nearly torn to pieces. While he stood listening, 
 smiling cynically, several dapper young men stood by with, 
 note-books in their hands, and it was not more than two 
 hours later that Jurgis saw newsboys running about with 
 armfuls of newspapers, printed in red and black letters 
 six inches high : — 
 
 VIOLENCE IN THE YARDS! STRIKE-BREAKERS SURr 
 ROUNDED BY FRENZIED MOB I 
 
 If he had been able to buy all of the newspapers of the 
 United States the next morning, he might have discovered 
 that his beer-hunting exploit was being perused by some 
 two score millions of people, and had served as a text for 
 editorials in half the staid and solemn business men’s news' 
 papers in the land. 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 321 
 
 Jurgis was to see more of this as time passed. For the 
 present, his work being over, he was free to ride into ’/he 
 city, by a railroad direct from the yards, or else to spend 
 the night in a room where cots had been laid in rows. 
 He chose the latter’, but to his regret, for all night long 
 gangs of strike-breakers kept arriving. As very few of 
 the better class of working-men could he got for such work, 
 these specimens of the new American liero contained an 
 assortment of the criminals and thugs of the city, besides 
 negroes and the lowest foreigners — Greeks, Roumanians, 
 Sicilians, and Slovaks. They had been attracted more by 
 the prospect of disorder than by the big wages; and they 
 made the night hideous with singing and carousing, and 
 only went to sleep when the time came for them to get up 
 to work. 
 
 In the morning before Jurgis had finished his breakfast, 
 “ Pat ” Murphy ordered him to one of the superintendents, 
 who questioned him as to his experience in the work of 
 the killing-room. His heart began to thump with excite¬ 
 ment, for he divined instantly that his hour had come — 
 that he was to be a boss 1 
 
 Some of the foremen were union members, and many 
 who were not had gone out with the men. It was in the 
 killing department that the packers had been left most in 
 the lurch, and precisely here that they could least afford 
 it; the smoking and canning and salting of meat might 
 wait, and all the by-products might be wasted — but 
 fresh meats must be had, or the restaurants and hotels and 
 brown-stone houses would feel the pinch, and then “public 
 opinion ” would take a startling turn. 
 
 An opportunity such as this would not come twice to a 
 man ; and Jurgis seized it. Yes, he knew the work, the 
 whole of it, and he could teach it to others. But if he 
 took the job and gave satisfaction he would expect to keep 
 it — they would not turn him off at the end of the strike ? 
 To which the superintendent replied that he might safely 
 trust Durham’s for that — they proposed to teach these 
 unions a lesson, and most of ail those foremen who had 
 gone back on them. Jurgis would receive five dollars a 
 
322 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 day during the strike, and twenty-five a week after it was 
 settled. 
 
 So our friend got a pair of “ slaughter-pen ” boots and 
 “jeans,” and flung himself at his task. It was a weird 
 sight, there on the killing-beds — a throng of stupid black 
 negroes, and foreigners who could not understand a word 
 that was said to them, mixed with pale-faeed, hollow¬ 
 chested bookkeepers and clerks, half-fainting for the 
 tropical heat and the sickening stench of fresh blood — 
 and all struggling to dress a dozen or two of cattle in the 
 same place where, twenty-four hours ago, the old killing- 
 gang had been speeding, with their marvellous precision, 
 turning out four hundred carcasses every hour 1 
 
 The negroes and the “ toughs ” from the Levee did not 
 want to v/ork, and every few minutes some of them would 
 feel obliged to retire and recuperate. In a couple of dayn 
 Durham and Company had electric fans up to cool off th(j 
 rooms for them, and even couches for them to rest on; and 
 meantime they could go out and find a shady corner and 
 take a “ snooze,” and as there was no place for any one in 
 particular, and no system, it might be hours before their 
 boss discovered them. As for the poor office employees, 
 they did their best, moved to it by terror; thirty of them 
 had been “ fired ” in a bunch that first morning for refus¬ 
 ing to serve, besides a number of women clerks and 
 typewriters who had declined to act as waitresses. 
 
 It was such a force as this that Jurgis had to organize. 
 He did his best, flying here and there, placing them in 
 rows and showing them the tricks; he had never given an 
 order in his life before, but he had taken enough of them 
 to know, and he soon fell into the spirit of it, and roared 
 and stormed like any old stager. He had not the most 
 tractable pupils, hovzever. “ See hyar, boss,” a big black 
 “ buck ” v/ould begin, “ ef you doan’ like de way Ah does 
 dis job, you kin git somebody else to do it.” Then a crowd 
 would gather and listen, muttering threats. After the first 
 meal nearly all the steel knives had been missing, and now 
 every negro had one, ground to a fine point, hidden in his 
 boots. 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 323 
 
 There was no bringing order out of such a chaos, Jurgis 
 soon discovered; and he fell in with the spirit of the thing 
 —there was no reason why he should wear himself out 
 with shouting. If hides and guts were slashed and ren¬ 
 dered useless there Avas no way of tracing it to any one: 
 and if a man lay off and forgot to come back there was 
 nothing to be gained by seeking him, for all the rest would 
 quit in the meantime. Everything went, during the strike, 
 and the packers paid. Before long Jurgis found that the 
 custom of resting had suggested to some alert minds the 
 possibility of registering at more than one place and earn¬ 
 ing more than one live dollars a day. When he caught a 
 man at this he fired ” him, but it chanced to be in a quiet 
 corner, and the man tendered him a ten-dollar bill and a 
 wink, and he took them. Of course, before long this cus¬ 
 tom spread, and Jurgis was soon making quite a good 
 income from it. 
 
 In the face of handicaps such as these the packers 
 counted themselves lucky if they could kill off the cattle 
 that had been crippled in transit and the hogs that had 
 developed disease. Frequently, in the course of a two or 
 three days’ trip, in hot weather and without water, some 
 hog would deA’elop cholera, and die; and the rest would 
 attack him before he had ceased kicking, and whevi the car 
 was opened there would be nothing of him left but the 
 bones. If all the hogs in this car-load were not killed at 
 once, they would soon be down with the dread disease, and 
 there would be nothing to do but make them into lard. 
 It was the same with cattle that were gored and dying, or 
 were limping with broken bones stuck through their flesh 
 — they must be killed, even if brokers and buyers and 
 superintendents had to take off their coats and help drive 
 and cut and skin them. And meantime, agents of the 
 packers were gathering gangs of negroes in the country 
 districts of the far South, promising them five dollars a day 
 and board, and being careful not to mention there was a 
 strike; already car-loads of them were on the way, with 
 special rates from the railroads, and all traffic ordered out 
 of the way. Ma;Dy towns and cities were taking advantage 
 
824 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 of the chance to clear out their jails and work-houses — ii» 
 Detroit the magistrates would release every man who 
 agreed to leave town within twenty-four hours, and agents 
 of the packers were in the court-rooms to ship them right. 
 And meantime train-loads of supplies were coming in for 
 their accommodation, including beer and whiskey, so that 
 they might not be tempted to go outside. They hired 
 thirty young girls in Cincinnati to “pack fruit,” and 
 when they arrived put tliem at work canning corned-beef, 
 and put cots for them to sleep in a public hallway, through 
 which the men passed. As the gangs came in day and 
 night, under the escort of squads of police, they stowed 
 them away in unused work-rooms and store-rooms, and in 
 the car-sheds, crowded so closely together that the cots 
 touched. In some places they would use the same room 
 for eating and sleeping, and at night the men would put 
 their cots upon the tables, to keep away from the swarms 
 of rats. 
 
 But with all their best efforts, the packers were demor¬ 
 alized. Ninety per cent of the men had walked out; and 
 they faced the task of completely remaking their labor 
 force — and with the price of meat up thirty per cent, and 
 the public clamoring for a settlement. They made an 
 offer to submit the whole question at issue to arbitration; 
 and at the end of ten days the unions accepted it, and the 
 strike was called off. It was agreed that all the men were 
 to be reemployed within forty-five days, and that there 
 was to be “ no discrimination against union men.” 
 
 Thus was an anxious time for Jurgis. If the men 
 were taken back “ without discrimination,” he would lose 
 his present place. He sought out the superintendent, who 
 smiled grimly and bade him “ wait and see.” Durham's 
 strike-breakers were few of them leaving. 
 
 Whether or not the “ settlement ” was simply a trick of 
 the packers to gam time, or whether they really expected 
 to break the strike and cripple the unions by the plan, cart- 
 not be said; but that night there went out from the office 
 of Durham and Company a telegram to all the big packing- 
 centres, “ Employ no union leaders.” And in the ^aaornr 
 
THE JUIv^GLE 
 
 325 
 
 ing, when the twenty thousand men thronged into the 
 yards, with their dinner-pails and working-clothes, Jurgis 
 stood near the door of the hog-trimming room, where he ^ 
 had worked before the strike, and saw a tlirong of eager 
 men, with a score or two of policemen watching them ; and 
 he saw a superintendent come out and walk down the line, 
 and pick out man after man that pleased him; and one 
 after another came, and there were some men up near the 
 head of the line who were never picked — they being the 
 union stewards and delegates, and the men Jurgis had 
 heard making speeches at the meetings. Each time, of 
 course, there were louder murmurings and angrier looks. 
 Over where the cattle-butchers were waiting, Jurgis heard 
 shouts and saw a crowd, and he hurried there. One big 
 butcher, who was president of the Packing Trades Council, 
 had been passed over five times, and the men were wild 
 with rage; they had appointed a committee of three to 
 go in and see the superintendent, and the committee had 
 made three attempts, and each time the police had clubbed 
 them back from the door. Then there were j'-ells and hoots, 
 continuing until at last the superintendent came to the 
 door. “We all go back or none of us do I ” ciied a hun- \ 
 dred voices. And the other shook his fist at them, and 
 shouted, “You went out of here like cattle, and like 
 cattle you’ll come back I ” 
 
 Then suddenly the big butcher president leaped upon 
 a pile of stones and yelled : “It’s off, boys. We’ll all of 
 us quit again 1 ” And so the cattle-butchers declared a new 
 strike on the spot; and gathering their members from the 
 other plants, where the same trick had been played, they 
 marched down Packers’ Avenue, which was thronged with 
 a dense mass of workers, cheering wildly. Men who had 
 already got to work on the killing-beds dropped their 
 tools and joined them ; some galloped here and there on 
 horseback, shouting the tidings, and within half an hour 
 the whole of Packirgtown was on stril'^e again, and beside 
 itself with fury. 
 
 There was quite a different tone in Packingtown after 
 
326 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 tliis — the place was a seething caldron of passion, and the 
 “scab” who ventured into it fared badly. There were 
 one or two of these incidents each day, the newspapers 
 detailing them, and always blaming them upon, the unions. 
 Yet ten years before, when there were no unions in Pack- 
 ingtown, there was a strike, and national troops had to be 
 called, and there were pitched battles fought at night, by 
 the light of blazing freight-trains. Packingtown was al¬ 
 ways a centre of violence ; in “ Whiskey Point,” where 
 there were a hundred saloons and one glue-factory, there 
 was always fighting, and always more of it in hot weather. 
 Any one who had taken the trouble to consult the station- 
 house blotter would have found that there was less vio¬ 
 lence that summer than ever before — and this while 
 Venty thousand men were out of work, and with nothing 
 to do all day but brood upon bitter wrongs. There was 
 no one to picture the battle the union leaders were fight¬ 
 ing— to hold this huge army in rank, to keep it from 
 straggling and pillaging, to cheer and encourage and 
 guide a hundred thousand people, of a dozen different 
 tongues, through six long weeks of hunger and disap¬ 
 pointment and despair. 
 
 Meantime the packers had set themselves definitely to 
 the task of making a new labor force. A thousand or 
 two of strike-breakers were brought in every night, and 
 distributed among the various plants. Some of them were 
 experienced workers, — butchers, salesmen, and managers 
 from the packers’ branch stores, and a few union men 
 who had deserted from other cities ; but the vast major¬ 
 ity were “ green ” negroes from the cotton districts of the 
 far South, and the}^ were herded into the packing-plants 
 like sheep. There was a law forbidding the use of build¬ 
 ings as lodging-houses unless they were licensed for the 
 purpose, and provided vdth proper windows, stairways, 
 and fire-escapes ; but here, in a “ paint-room,” reached 
 only by an enclosed “ chute,” a room without a single 
 window and only one door, a hundred men were crowded 
 upon mattresses on the floor. Up on the third story of the 
 “ hog-house ” of Jones’s was a store-room, without a win 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 32? 
 
 dow, into which they crowded seven hundred men, sleeps 
 iug upon the bare springs of cots, and with a second shift 
 to use them by day. And when the clamor of the public 
 led to an investigation into these conditions, and the mayor 
 of the city was forced to order the enforcement of the law, 
 the packers got a judge to issue an injunction forbidding 
 him to do it I 
 
 Just at this time the mayor was boasting that he had 
 put an end to gambling and prize-fighting in the city; 
 but here a swarm of professional gamblers had leagued 
 themselves with the police to fleece the strike-breakers; 
 and any night, in the big open space in front of Brown’s, 
 one might see brawny negroes stripped to the waist and 
 pounding each other for money, while a howling throng 
 of three or four thousand surged about, men and women, 
 young white girls from the country rubbing elbows with 
 big buck negroes with daggers in their boots, while rows 
 of woolly heads peered down from every window of the 
 surrounding factories. The ancestors of these black people 
 had been savages in Africa ; and since then they had been 
 chattel slaves, or had been held down by a community 
 ruled by the traditions of slavery. Now for the first time 
 they were free, — free to gratify every passion, free to 
 wreck themselves. They were wanted to break a strike, 
 and when it was broken they would be shipped away, and 
 their present masters would never see them again; and so 
 whiskey and women were brought in by the car-load and 
 sold to them, and hell was let loose in the yards. Every 
 night there were stabbings and shootings; it was said that 
 the packers had blank permits, which enabled them to ship 
 dead bodies from the city without troubling the authori¬ 
 ties. They lodged men and women on the same floor; and 
 with the night there began a saturnalia of debauchery — 
 scenes such as never before had been witnessed in America. 
 And as the women were the dregs from the brotliels of 
 Chicago, and the men were for the most part ignorant 
 country negroes, the nameless diseases of vice were soon 
 rife ; and this where food was being handled which was 
 sent out to every corner of the civilized world. 
 
328 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 The ** Union Stockyards ” were never a pleasant place; 
 but now they were not only a collection of slaughter¬ 
 houses, but also the camping-place of an army of fifteen oi 
 twenty thousand human beasts. All day long the blazing 
 midsummer sun beat down upon that square mile of 
 abominations: upon tens of thousands of cattle crowded 
 into pens whose wooden floors stank and steamed conta¬ 
 gion; upon bare, blistering, cinder-strewn railroad-tracks, 
 and huge blocks of dingy meat-factories, whose labyrinthine 
 passages defied a breath of fresh air to penetrate them ; 
 and there were not merely rivers of hot blood, and car- 
 loads of moist flesh, and rendering-vats and soap-caldrons, 
 glue-factories and fertilizer tanks, that smelt like the 
 craters of hell — there were also tons of garbage festering 
 in the sun, and the greasy laundry of the workers hung 
 out to dry, and dining-rooms littered with food and black 
 with flies, and toilet-rooms that were open sewers. 
 
 And then at night, when this throng poured out into 
 the streets to play—fighting, gambling, drinking and 
 carousing, cursing and screaming, laughing and singing, 
 playing banjoes and dancing ! They were worked in the 
 yards all the seven days of the week, and they had their 
 prize-fights and crap-games on Sunday nights as well; but 
 then around the corner one might see a bonfire blazing, 
 and an old, gray-headed negress, lean and witchlike, her 
 hair flying wild and her eyes blazing, yelling and chanting 
 of the fires of perdition and the blood of the “ Lamb,” 
 while men and women lay down upon the ground and 
 moaned and screamed in convulsions of terror and remorse. 
 
 Such were the stockyards during the strike; while the 
 unions watched in sullen despair, and the country clamored 
 like a greedy child for its food, and the packers went 
 grimly on their wa.y. Each day they added new workers, 
 and could be more stern with the old ones — could put 
 them on piece-work, and dismiss them if they did not keep 
 up the pace. Jurgis was now one of their agents in this 
 process; and he could feel the change .day by day, like 
 the slow starting up of a huge machine. He had gotten 
 used to being a master of men; and because of the stifling 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 329 
 
 heat and the stench, and the fact that he was a “ scab ” 
 and knew it and despised himself, he was drinking, and 
 developing a villainous temper, and he stormed and cursed 
 and raged at his men, and drove them until they were 
 ready to drop with exhaustion. 
 
 Then one day late in August, a superintendent ran into 
 the place and shouted to Jurgis and his gang to drop 
 their work and come. They followed him outside, to 
 where, in the midst of a dense throng, they saw several 
 two-horse trucks waiting, and three patrol-wagon loads of 
 police. Jurgis and his men sprang upon one of the trucks, 
 and the driver yelled to the crowd, and they went thunder¬ 
 ing away at a gallop. Some steers had just escaped from 
 the yards, and the strikers had got hold of them, and there 
 would be the chance of a scrap I 
 
 They went out at the Ashland Avenue gate, and over 
 in the direction of the “ dump.” There was a yell as soon 
 as they were sighted, men and women rushing out of houses 
 and saloons as they galloped by. There were eight or ten 
 policemen on the truck, however, and there was no dis¬ 
 turbance until they came to a place where the street was 
 blocked with a dense throng. Those on the flying truck 
 yelled a warning and the crowd scattered pell-mell, dis¬ 
 closing one of the steers lying in its blood. There were 
 a good many cattle-butchers about just then, witii nothing 
 much to do, and hungry children at heme; and so some one 
 had knocked out the steer — and as a first-class man can 
 kill and dress one in a couple of minutes, ther°! were a 
 good many steaks and roasts already missing. This called 
 for punishment, of course; and the police proceeded to ad¬ 
 minister it by leaping from the truck and cracking at every 
 head they saw. There were yells of rage and pain, and 
 the terrified people fled into houses and stores, or scattered 
 helter-skelter down the street. Jurgis and his gang joined 
 in the sport, every man singling out his victim, and striv¬ 
 ing to bring him to bay and punch him. If he fled into 
 a house his pursuer would smash in the flimsy door and 
 follow him up the stairs, hitting every one who came 
 22 
 
330 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 witliin reacli, and finally dragging his squealing quarry 
 from under a bed or a pile of old clothes in a closet. 
 
 Jurgis and two policemen chased some men into a bar¬ 
 room. One of them took shelter behind the bar, where a 
 policeman cornered him and proceeded to whack him over 
 the back and shoulders, until he lay down and gave a 
 chance at his head. The others leaped a fence in the rear, 
 balking the second policeman, who was fat; and as he came 
 back, furious and cursing, a big Polish woman, the owner 
 of the saloon, rushed in screaming, and received a poke in 
 the stomach that doubled her up on the floor. Meantime 
 Jurgis, who was of a practical temper, was helping himself 
 at the bar; and the first policeman, who had laid out his 
 man, joined him, handing out several more bottles, and 
 filling his pockets besides, and then, as he started to leave, 
 cleaning off all the balance with a sweep of his club. The 
 din of the glass crashing to the floor brought the fat Po¬ 
 lish woman to her feet again, but another policeman came 
 up behind her and put his knee into her back and his 
 hands over her eyes — and then called to his companion, 
 who went back and broke open the cash-drawer and filled 
 his pockets with the contents. Then the three went out¬ 
 side, and the man who was holding the woman gave her a 
 shove and dashed out himself. The gang having already 
 got the carcass on to the truck, the party set out at a trot, 
 followed by screams and curses, and a shower of bricks 
 and stones from unseen enemies. These bricks and stones 
 would figure in the accounts of the “ riot ” which would 
 be sent out to a few thousand newspapers within an hour 
 or two ; but the episode of the cash-drawer would never 
 be mentioned again, save only in the heart-breaking legends 
 of Packingtown. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when they got back, and 
 they dressed out the remainder of the steer, and a couple 
 of others that had been killed, and then knocked off for 
 the day. Jurgis went down-town to supper, with three 
 friends who had been on the other trucks, and they ex¬ 
 changed reminiscences on the way. Afterward they 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 331 
 
 drifted into a roulette-parlor, and Jurgis, who was never 
 lucky at gambling, dropped about fifteen dollars. To 
 console himself he had to drink a good deal, and he went 
 back to Packingtown about two o’clock in the morning, 
 very much the worse for his excursion, and, it must be 
 confessed, entirely deserving the calamity that was in store 
 for him. 
 
 As he was going to the place where he slept, he met a 
 painted-cheeked woman in a greasy “kimono,” and she 
 put her arm about his waist to steady him; they turned 
 into a dark room they were passing — but scarcely had 
 they taken two steps before suddenly a door swung open, 
 and a man entered, carrying a lantern. “ Who’s there ? ” 
 he called sharply. And Jurgis started to mutter some 
 reply; but at the same instant the man raised his light, 
 which flashed in his face, so that it was possible to recog¬ 
 nize him. Jurgis stood stricken dumb, and his heart gave 
 a leap like a mad thing. The man was Connor 1 
 
 Connor, the boss of the loading gang I The man who 
 had seduced his wife — who had sent him to prison, and 
 wrecked his home, and ruined his life I He stood there, 
 staring, with the light shining full upon him. 
 
 Jurgis had often thought of Connor since coming back 
 to Packingtown, but it had been as of something far off, 
 that no longer concerned him. Now, however, when he 
 saw him, alive and in the flesh, the same thing happened 
 to him that had happened before — a flood of rage boiled 
 up in him, a blind frenzy seized him. And he flung him¬ 
 self at the man, and smote him between the eyes — and 
 then, as he fell, seized him by the tliroat and began to 
 pound his head upon the stones. 
 
 The woman began screaming, and people came rushing 
 in. The lantern had been upset and extinguished, and it 
 was so dark they could not see a thing; but they could 
 hear Jurgis panting, and hear the thumping of his victim’s 
 skull, and they rushed there and tried to pull him off. 
 Precisely as before, Jurgis came away with a piece of his 
 enemy’s flesh between his teeth ; and, as before, he went 
 on fighting with those who had interfered with him. 
 
332 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 until a policeman had come and beaten him in to insensi¬ 
 bility. 
 
 And so Jurgis spent the balance of the night in the 
 stockyards station-house. This time, however, he had 
 money in his pocket, and when he came to his senses he 
 could get something to drink, and also a messenger to 
 take word of his plight to “ Bush” Harper. Harper did 
 not appear, however, until after the prisoner, feeling 
 very weak and ill, had been haled into court and re¬ 
 manded at five hundred dollars' bail to await the result of 
 his victim’s injuries. Jurgis was wild about this, because 
 a different magistrate had chanced to be on the bench, 
 and he had stated that he had never been arrested before, 
 and also that he had been attacked first — and if only 
 some one had been there to speak a good word for him, 
 he could have been let off at once. 
 
 But Harper explained that he had been down-town, and 
 had not got the message. “• What’s happened to you ? ” 
 he asked. 
 
 ‘H’ve been doing a fellow up,” said Jurgis, “and I’ve 
 got to get five hundred dollars’ bail.” 
 
 “ I can arrange that all right,” said the other — 
 “ though it may cost you a few dollars, of course. But 
 what was the trouble ? ” 
 
 “ It was a man that did me a mean trick once,” an¬ 
 swered Jurgis. 
 
 “ Who is he ? ” 
 
 “ He’s a foreman in Brown’s — or used to be. His 
 name’s Connor.” 
 
 And the other gave a start. “ Connor I ” he cried. 
 “ Not Phil Connor ! ” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Jurgis, “ that’s the fellow. Why ?” 
 
 “ Good God ! ” exclaimed the other, “ then you’re in for 
 it, old man 1 I can’t help you ! ” 
 
 “ Not help me I Why not ? ” 
 
 “ Why, he’s one of Scully’s biggest men — he’s a mem¬ 
 ber of the War-Whoop League, and they talked of sending 
 him to the legislature 1 Phil Connor I Great heavens I ’’ 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 333 
 
 Jnrgis sat dumb with dismay. 
 
 “ Why, he can send you to Joliet, if he wants to I ” de¬ 
 clared the other. 
 
 Can’t I have Scully get me off before he finds out 
 about it ? ” asked Jurgis, at length. 
 
 “ But Scully’s out of town,” the other answei’ed. I 
 don’t even know where he is—he’s run away to dodge 
 the strike/’ 
 
 That was a pretty mess, indeed. Poor Jurgis sat half- 
 dazed, His pull had run up against a bigger pull, and 
 he was down and out I “But what am I going to do ?” 
 he asked, weakly. 
 
 “ How should I know ? ” said the other. “ I shouldn’t 
 even dare to get bail for you — why, 1 might ruin myself 
 for life I ” 
 
 Again there was silence. “Can’t you do it for me,” 
 Jurgis asked, “ and pretend that you didn’t know who I’d 
 hit ? ” 
 
 “ But what good would that do you when you came to 
 stand trial ? ” asked Harper. Then he sat buried in 
 thought for a minute or two. “ There’s nothing — unless 
 it’s this,” he said. “ I could have your ball reduced ; and 
 then if you had the money you could pay it and skip.” 
 
 “How much will it be?” Jurgis asked, after he had 
 had this explained more in detail. 
 
 “ I don’t know,” said the other. “ How much do you 
 own ? ” 
 
 “ I’ve got about three hundred dollars,” was the answer. 
 
 “ Well,” was Harper’s reply, “ I’m not sure, but I’ll 
 try and get you off for that. I’ll take the risk for friend¬ 
 ship’s sake — for I’d hate to see you sent to state’s prison 
 for a year or two.” 
 
 And so finally Jurgis ripped out his bank-book — which 
 was sewed up in his trousers — and signed an order, 
 which “ Bush ” Harper wrote, for all the money to be paid 
 out. Then the latter went and got it, and hurried to the 
 court, and explained to the magistrate that Jurgis was a 
 decent fellow and a friend of Scully’s, who had been at¬ 
 tacked by a strike-breaker. So the bail was reduced to 
 
THE JUHGLE 
 
 ibree hundred dollars, and Harper went on it himself ; he 
 did not tell this to Jurgis, however — nor did he tell him 
 that when the time for trial came it would be an easy 
 matter for him to avoid the forfeiting of the bail, and 
 pocket the three hundred dollars as his reward for the risk 
 of offending Mike Scully! Ail that he told Jurgis was that 
 he was now free, and that the best thing he could do was 
 to clear out as quickly as possible ; and so Jurgis, over¬ 
 whelmed with gratitude and relief, took the dollar and 
 fourteen cents that was left him out of all his bank 
 account, and put it with the two dollars and a quartet 
 that was left from his last night’s celebration, and boarded 
 a street-car and got ofi; at the other end of Chicago. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIl 
 
 Poor Jurgis was now an outcast and a tramp once 
 more. He was crippled — he was as literally crippled as 
 any wild animal which has lost its claws, or been torn out 
 of its shell. He had been shorn, at one cut, of all those 
 mysterious weapons whereby he had been able to make a 
 living easily and to escape the consequences of his actions. 
 He could no longer command a job when he wanted it 5 
 he could no longer steal with impunity — he must take 
 his chances with the common herd. Nay worse, he dared 
 not mingle with the herd — he must hide by himself, for 
 he was one marked out for destruction. His old com¬ 
 panions would betray him, for the sake of the influence 
 they would gain thereby; and he would be made to suffer, 
 not merely for the offence he had committed, but for 
 others which would be laid at his door, just as had been 
 done for some poor devil on the occasion of that assault 
 upon the “ country customer ” by him and Duane. 
 
 And also he labored under another handicap now. He 
 had acquired new standards of living, which were not 
 easily to be altered. When he had been out of work be¬ 
 fore, he had been content if he could sleep in a doorway 
 or under a truck out of the rain, and if he could get fifteen 
 cents a day for saloon lunches. But now he desired all 
 sorts of other things, and suffered because he had to do 
 without them. He must have a drink now and then, a 
 drink for its own sake, and apart from the food that came 
 with it. The craving for it was strong enough to master 
 every other consideration—he would have it, though it 
 were his last nickel and he had to starve the balance of 
 the day in consequence. 
 
 335 
 
336 
 
 THE JUKHLE 
 
 Jurgis became once more a besieger of factory gates. 
 But never since be had been in Chicago had he stood less 
 chance of getting a job than just then. For one thing, 
 there was the economic crisis, the million or two of men 
 who had been out of work in the spring and summer, and 
 were not yet all back, by any means. And then there 
 was the strike, with seventy thousand men and women all 
 over the country idle for a couple of months—twenty 
 thousand in Chicago, and many of them now seeking work 
 throughout the city. It did not remedy matters that a 
 few days later the strike was given up and about half the 
 strikers went back to work ; for every one taken on, 
 there was a “ scab ” who gave up and fled. The ten or 
 fifteen thousand “green negroes, foreigners, and criminals 
 were now being turned loose to shift for themselves. 
 Everywhere Jurgis went he kept meeting them, and he 
 was in an agony of fear least some one of them should 
 know that he was “wanted.” He would have left 
 Chicago, only by the time he had realized his danger he 
 was almost penniless ; and it would be better to go to jail 
 than to be caught out in the country in the winter-time. 
 
 At the end of about ten days Jurgis had only a few 
 pennies left; and he had not yet found a job — not even 
 a day's work at anything, not a chance to carry a sateheL 
 Once again, as when he had come out of the hospital, he 
 was bound hand and foot, and facing the grisly phantom 
 of starvation. Raw, naked terror possessed him, a madden¬ 
 ing passion that would never leave him, and that wore him 
 down more quickly than the actual want of food. He was 
 going to die of hunger I The fiend reached out its scaly 
 arms for him — it touched him, its breath came into his 
 face; and he would cry out for the awfulness of it, he 
 would wake up in the night, shuddering, and bathed m 
 perspiration, and start up and flee. He would walk, beg¬ 
 ging for work, until he was exhausted | he could net remain 
 still — he would wander on, gaunt and haggard, gazing 
 about him with restless eyes. Everywhere he went, from 
 one end of the vast city to the other, there were hundreds of 
 others like him; everywhere was the sight of pienri - 
 
THE JimGLE 
 
 337 
 
 'and the merciless hand of authority waving them away. 
 There is one kind of prison where the man is behind bars, 
 and everything that he desires is outside ; and there is 
 another kind where the things are behind the bars, and 
 the man is outside. 
 
 When he was down to his last quarter, Jurgis learned 
 that before the bakeshops closed at night they sold out 
 what was left at half price, and after that he would, go 
 and get two loaves of stale bread for a nickel, and break 
 them up and stuff his pockets with them, munching a bit 
 from time to time. He would not spend a penny save for 
 this; and, after two or three days more, he even became 
 sparing of the bread, and would stop and peer into the ash- 
 barrels as he walked along the streets, and now and then 
 rake out a bit of something, shake it free from dust, and 
 count himself just so many minutes further from the 
 end. 
 
 So for several days he had been going about, ravenous 
 ail the time, and growing weaker and weaker; and then 
 one morning he had a hideous experience, that almost 
 broke his heart. He was passing down a street lined with 
 warehouses, and a boss offered him a job, and then, after 
 he had started to work, turned him off because he was not 
 strong enough. And he stood by and saw another man 
 put into his place, and then picked up his coat, and walked 
 off, doing all that he could to keep from breaking down 
 and crying like a baby. He was lost i He was doomed! 
 There was no hope for him I Bub then, witli a sudden 
 rush, his fear gave place to rage. He fell to cursing. He 
 would come back there after dark, and he would show 
 that scoundrel whether he was good for anything or not I 
 
 He was still muttering this when suddenly, at the cor- 
 ner, he came upon a green-grocery, with a tray full of 
 cabbages in front of it. Jurgis, after one swift glance 
 about him, stooped and seized the biggest of them, and 
 darted round the corner with it. There was a hue and 
 cry, and a score of men and boys started in chase of him; 
 but he came to an alley, and then to another branching 
 
338 
 
 THE JTOGLE 
 
 off from it and leading him into another street, where he 
 fell into a walk, and slipped his cabbage under his coat 
 and went off unsuspected in the crowd. When he had 
 gotten a safe distance away he sat down and devoured 
 half the cabbage raw, stowing the balance away in his 
 pockets till the next day. 
 
 Just about this time one of the Chicago newspapers, 
 which made much of the ‘‘common people,” opened a 
 “free-soup kitchen” for the benefit of the unemployed. 
 Some people said that they did this for the sake of the 
 advertising it gave them, and some others said that their 
 motive was a fear lest all their readers should be starved 
 off; but whatever the reason, the soup was thick and hot, 
 and there was a bowl for every man, ail night long. 
 When Jurgis heard of this, from a fellow “ hobo,” he 
 vowed that he would have half a dozen howls before 
 morning; but, as it proved, he was lucky to get one, for 
 there was a line of men two blocks long before the stand, 
 and there was just as long a line when the place was finally 
 closed up. 
 
 This depot was within the danger-line for Jurgis—-in 
 the “ Levee ’’ district, where he was known; but he went 
 there, all the same, for he was desperate, and beginning 
 to think of even the Bridewell as a place of refuge. So 
 far the weather had been fair, and he had slept out every 
 night in a vacant lot; but now there fell suddenly a shadow 
 of the advancing winter, a chill wind from the north and 2 
 driving storm of rain. That day Jurgis bought two drinks 
 for the sake of the shelter, and at night he spent his last 
 two pennies in a “stale-beer dive.” This was a place kept 
 by a negro, who went out and drew off' the old dregs of 
 beer that laj'- in barrels set outside of the saloons; and after 
 he had doctored it with chemicals to make it “ fizz,” he 
 sold it for two cents a can, the purchase of a can including 
 the privilege of sleeping the night through upon the floor, 
 with a mass of degraded outcasts, men and women. 
 
 All these horrors afflicted Jurgis all the more cruelly, 
 because he was always contrasting them with the oppor¬ 
 tunities he had lost. For instance, just now it was election 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 339 
 
 time again — within five or six weeks the voters ot the 
 country would select a President; and he heard the 
 wretches with whom he associated discussing it, and saw 
 the streets of the city decorated with placards and banners 
 — and what words could describe the pangs ot grief and 
 despair that shot through him ? 
 
 For instance, there was a night during this cold spell. 
 He had begged all day, for his very life, and found not a 
 soul to lieed him, until toward evening he saw an old 
 lady getting off a street-car and helped her down with her 
 umbrellas and bundles, and then told her his hard-luck 
 story,” and after answering all her suspicious questions 
 satisfactorily, was taken to a restau'rant and saw a quarter 
 paid down for a meal. And so he had soup and bread, 
 and boiled beef and potatoes and beans, and pie and 
 coffee, and came out with his skin stuffed tight as a foot¬ 
 ball. And then, through the rain and the darkness, far 
 down the street he saw red lights flaring and heard the 
 thumping of a bass-drum ; and his heart gave a leap, and 
 he made for the place on the run-—knowing without the 
 asking that it meant a political meeting. 
 
 The campaign had so far been characterized by what 
 the newspapers termed “apathy.” For some reason the 
 people refused to get excited over the struggle, and it was 
 almost impossible to get them to come to meetings, or to 
 make any noise when they did come. Those which had 
 been held in Chicago so far had proven most dismal 
 failures, and to-night, the speaker being no less a person¬ 
 age than a candidate for the vice-presidency of the nation, 
 the political managers had been trembling with anxiety. 
 But a merciful Providence had sent this storm of cold rain 
 >—and now all it was necessary to do was to set off a few 
 fireworks, and thump awhile on a drum, and all the home¬ 
 less wretches from a mile around would pour in and fid 
 the hall! And then on the morrow the newspapers would 
 have a chance to report the tremendous ovation, and to add 
 that it had been no “silk-stocking” audience, either, proving 
 clearly that the high-tariff sentiments of the distinguished 
 candidate w’ere pleasing to the wage-earners of the nation 
 
840 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 So Jui’gis found himself in a large hall, elaborately dec- 
 orated with flags and bunting; and after the chairman 
 had made his little speech, and the orator of the evening- 
 rose up, amid an uproar from the band — only fancy the 
 emotions of Jurgis upon making the discovery that the 
 personage was none other than the famous and eloquent 
 Senator Spareshanks, who had addressed the “ Doyle Re¬ 
 publican Association ” at the stockyards, and helped to 
 elect Mike Scully’s ten-pin setter to the Chicago Board of 
 Aldermen I 
 
 In truth, the sight of the senator almost brought the tears 
 into Jurgis’s eyes. What agony it was to him to look back 
 upon those golden hours, when he, too, had a place beneath 
 the shadow of the plum tree! When he, too, had been of 
 the elect, through whom the country is governed — when 
 he had had a bung in the campaign-barrel for his own 1 
 And this was another election in which the Republicans 
 had all the money; and but for that one hideous accident 
 he might have had a share of it, instead of being where he 
 was I 
 
 The eloquent senator was explaining the system of Pro¬ 
 tection ; an ingenious device whereby the working-man per¬ 
 mitted the manufacturer to charge him higher prices, in 
 order that he might receive higher wages; thus taking his 
 money out of his pocket with one hand, and putting a part 
 of it back with thp- other. To the senator this unique 
 arrangement had somehow become identified with the 
 higher verities of the universe. It was because of it that 
 Columbia waa the gem of the ocean; and all her future 
 triumphs, her power and good repute among the nations, 
 depended I’pon the zeal and fidelity with which each citi¬ 
 zen held up the hands of those who were tolling to main¬ 
 tain it. The name of this heroic company was “the 
 Grand Old Party ” — 
 
 And here the band began to play, and Jurgis sat up with 
 a violent start. Singular as it may seem, J urgis was making 
 a desperate effort to understand what the senator was say¬ 
 ing— to comprehend the extent of American prosperity 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 341 
 
 tbe enormous expansion of American commerce, and the 
 Republic’s future in the Pacific and in South America, and 
 wherever else the oppressed were groaning. The reason 
 for it was that he wanted to keep awake. He knew that 
 if he allowed himself to fall asleep he would begin to snore 
 loudly; and so he must listen — he must be interested! 
 But he had eaten such a big dinner, and he was so ex¬ 
 hausted, and the hall was so warm, and his seat was so com¬ 
 fortable 1 The senator's gaunt form began to grow dim 
 and hazy, to tower before him and dance about, with figures 
 of exports and imports. Once his neighbor gave him a 
 savage poke in the ribs, and he sat up with a start and 
 tried to look innocent; but then he was at it again, and 
 men began to stare at him with annoyance, and to call out 
 in vexation. Finally one of them called a policeman, who 
 came and grabbed Jurgis by the collar, and jerked him to 
 his feet, bewildered and terrified. Some of the audience 
 turned to see the commotion, and Senator Spareshanks 
 faltered in his speech; but a voice shouted cheerily: 
 “We’re just firing a bum I Go ahead, old sport 1 ” And so 
 the crowd roared, and the senator smiled genially, and went 
 on ; and in a few seconds poor Jurgis found himself landed 
 out in the rain, with a kick and a string of curses. 
 
 He got into the shelter of a doorway and took stock of 
 himself. He was not hurt, and he was not arrested—more 
 than he had any right to expect. He swore at himself and 
 his luck for a while, and then turned his thoughts to prac¬ 
 tical matters. He had no money, and no place to sleep; 
 he must begin begging again. 
 
 He went out, hunching his shoulders together and shiver¬ 
 ing at the touch of the icy rain. Coming down the street 
 toward him was a lady, well-dressed, and protected by an 
 umbrella; and he turned and walked beside her. “ Please, 
 ma’am,”he began, “ could you lend me the price of a night’s 
 lodging? I’m a poor working-man — ” 
 
 Then, suddenly, he stopped short. By the light of a 
 street lamp he had caught sight of the lady’s face. He 
 knew her. 
 
 It was Alena Jasaityte, who had been the belle of hia 
 
342 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 wedding-feast I Alena Jasaityte, who had looked so beau* 
 tiful, and danced with such a queenly air, with .Tuozaa 
 Raczius, the teamster! Jurgis had only seen her once or 
 twice afterward, for Juozas had thrown her over for an¬ 
 other girl, and Alena had gone away from Packingtown, 
 no one knew where. And now he met her here 1 
 
 She was as much surprised as he was. ‘‘Jurgis Rudkus I ” 
 she gasped. “ And what in the world is the matter with 
 you?” 
 
 “I — I’ve had hard luck,” he stammered. “I’m out of 
 work, and I’ve no home and no money. And you, Alena 
 — are you married ? ” 
 
 “No,” she answered, “I’m not married, but I’ve got a 
 good place.” 
 
 They stood staring at each other for a few moments 
 longer. Finallj;- Alena spoke again. “Jurgis,” she said, 
 “I’d help you if I could, upon my word I would, but it 
 happens that I’ve come out without my purse, and I hon¬ 
 estly haven’t a penny with me. I can do something better 
 for you, though — I can tell you how to get help. I can 
 tell you where Marija is.” 
 
 Jurgis gave a start. “ Marija! ” he gasped. 
 
 “Yes,” said Alena; “and she’ll help you. She’s got a 
 place, and she’s doing well; she’ll be glad to see you.” 
 
 It was not much more than a year since -lurgis had left 
 Packingtown, feeling like one escaped from jail; and it 
 bad been from Marija and Elzbieta that he was escaping 
 But now, at the mere mention of them, his whole being 
 cried out with joy. He wanted to see them; he wanted 
 to go home ! They would help him — they would be kind 
 to him. In a flash he had thought over the situation. He 
 had a good excuse for running away — his grief at the 
 death of his son; and also he had a good excuse for not 
 returning—the fact that they had left Packingtown. “ All 
 right,” he said, “I’ll go.” 
 
 So she gave him a number on Clark Street, adding, 
 “ There’s no need to give you my address, because Marija 
 knows it.” And Jurgis set out, without furtlier ado. 
 
 He found a large brown-stone house of aristocratic ap- 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 343 
 
 pearance, and rang the basement bell. A young colored 
 girl came to the door, opening it about an inch, and gazing 
 at him suspiciously. 
 
 “What do you want?” she demanded. 
 
 “Does Marija Berezynskas live here?” he inquired. 
 
 “ I dunno,” said the girl. “ What you want wid her ?” 
 
 “ I want to see her,” said he ;'fehe’s a relative of mine.” 
 
 The girl hesitated a moment. Then she opened the door 
 and said, “ Come in.” Jurgis came and stood in the hall, 
 and she continued : “I’ll go see. What’s yo’ name?” 
 
 “Tell her it’s Jurgis,” he answered, and the girl went 
 upstairs. She came back at the end of a minute or two, 
 and replied, “ Dey ain’t no sich person here.” 
 
 Jurgis’s heart went down into his boots. “ I was told 
 this was where she lived !” he cried. 
 
 But the girl only shook her head. “ De lady says dey 
 ain’t no sich person here,” she said. 
 
 And he stood for a moment, hesitating, helpless with 
 dismay. Then he turned to go to the door. At the same 
 instant, however, there came a knock upon it, and the girl 
 went to open it. Jurgis heard the shuffling of feet, and 
 then heard her give a cry; and the next moment she 
 sprang back, and past him, her eyes shining white with 
 terror, and bounded up the stairway, screaming at the top 
 of her lungs “ Police 1 Police ! We're pinched T' 
 
 Jurgis stood for a second, bewildered. Then, seeing 
 blue-coated forms rushing upon him, he sprang after the 
 negress. Her cries had been the signal for a wild uproar 
 above; the house was full of people, and as he entered the 
 hallway he saw them rushing hither and thither, crying 
 and screaming with alarm. There were men and women 
 the latter clad for the most part in wrappers, the former in 
 all stages of deshabille. At one side Jurgis caught a 
 glimpse of a big apartment with plush-covered chairs, and 
 tables covered with trays and glasses. There were play¬ 
 ing-cards scattered all over the floor—one of the tables 
 had been upset, and bottles of wine were rolling about, 
 their contents running out upon the carpet. There was a 
 
844 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 young girl who had fainted, and two men who were sup¬ 
 porting her; and there were a dozen others crowding 
 toward the front-door. 
 
 Suddenly, however, there came a series of resounding 
 blows upon it, causing the crowd to give back. At the 
 same instant a stout woman, with painted cheeks and dia¬ 
 monds in her ears, came running down the stairs, panting 
 breathlessly : “ To the rear I Quick! ” 
 
 She led the way to a back staircase, Jurgis following; 
 in the kitchen she pressed a spring, and a cupboard gave 
 way and opened, disclosing a dark passageway. “ Go in I ” 
 she cried to the crowd, which now amounted to twenty or 
 thirty, and they began to pass through. Scarcely had the 
 last one disappeared, however, before there were cries from 
 in front, and then the panic-stricken throng poured out 
 again, exclaiming; “ They’re there too I We’re trapped I ” 
 
 “ Upstairs I ” cried the woman, and there was another 
 rush of the mob, women and men cursing and screaming 
 and fighting to be first. One flight, two, three —■ and then 
 there was a ladder to the roof, with a crowd packed at the 
 foot of it, and one man at the top, straining and struggling 
 to lift the trap-door. It was not to be stirred, however, 
 and when the woman shouted up to unhook it, he answered; 
 “ It’s already unhooked. There’s somebody sitting on it I ” 
 
 And a moment later came a voice from downstairs: 
 “You might as well quit, you people. We mean busine'^s, 
 this time.’’ 
 
 So the crowd subsided; and a few moments later several 
 policemen came up, staring here and there, and leering at 
 their victims. Of the latter the men were for the most 
 part frightened and sheepish-looking. The women took it 
 as a joke, as if they were used to it — though if they had 
 been pale, one could not have told, for the paint on their 
 cheeks. One black-eyed young girl perched herself upon 
 the top of the balustrade, and began to kick with her slip¬ 
 pered foot at the helmets of the policemen, until one ol 
 them caught her by the ankle and pulled her down. On 
 the floor below four or five other girls sat upon trunks in 
 the hall, making fun of the procession which filed by them 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 346 
 
 They were noisy and hilarious, and had evidently been 
 drinking; one of them, who wore a bright red kimono, 
 shouted and screamed in a voice that drowned out all the 
 other sounds in the hall — and Jurgis took a glance at her, 
 and then gave a start, and a cry, “ Marija ! ” 
 
 She heard him, and glanced around; then she shrank 
 back and half sprang to her feet in amazement. “Jurgis! ” 
 she gasped. 
 
 h or a second or two they stood staring at each other. 
 “How did you come here?” Marija exclaimed. 
 
 “ I came to see you,” he answered. 
 
 “When?” 
 
 “Just now.” 
 
 “Rut how did you know — who told you I was here?” 
 
 “Alena Jasaityte. I met her on the street.” 
 
 Again there was a silence, while they gazed at each other. 
 The rest of the crowd was watching them, and so Marija 
 got up and came closer to him. “And you?” Jurgis 
 asked. “You live here?” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Marija, “I live here.” 
 
 Then suddenly came a hail from below: “Get your 
 clothes on now, girls, and come along. You’d best begin, 
 or you’ll be sorry — it’s raining outside.” 
 
 “ Rr-r-rl ” shivered some one, and the women got up and 
 entered the various doors which lined the hallway. 
 
 “Come,” said Marija, and took Jurgis into her room, 
 which was a tiny place about eight by six, with a cot and 
 a chair and a dressing-stand and some dresses hanging be¬ 
 hind the door. There were clothes scattered about on the 
 floor, and hopeless confusion everywhere, — boxes of rouge 
 and bottles of perfume mixed with hats and soiled dishes 
 on the dresser, and a pair of slippers and a clock and a 
 whiskey bottle on a chair. 
 
 Marija had nothing on but a kimono and a pair of stock¬ 
 ings; yet she proceeded to dress before Jurgis, and with¬ 
 out even taking the trouble to close the door. He had by 
 this time divined what sort of a place he was in; and he 
 had seen a great deal of the world since he had left home, 
 and was not easy to shock — and yet it gave him a paiufid 
 
 23 
 
346 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 start that Marija should do this. They had always been 
 decent people at home, and it seemed to him that the mem¬ 
 ory of old times ought to have ruled her. But then he 
 laughed at himself for a fool. What was he, to be pre¬ 
 tending to decency I 
 
 “ How long have you been living here ? ” he asked. 
 
 “ Nearly a year,” she answered. 
 
 “ Why did you come ? ” 
 
 “I had to live,” she said; “and I couldn’t see the chib 
 dren starve.” 
 
 He paused for a moment, watching her. “You were 
 out of work ? ” he asked, finally. 
 
 “I got sick,” she replied, “and after that I had no 
 money. And then Stanislovas died — ” 
 
 “ Stanislovas dead! ” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Marija, “ I forgot. ITou didn’t know about 
 It.” 
 
 “ How did he die ? ” 
 
 “ Rats killed him,” she answered. 
 
 Jurgis gave a gasp. “ Rats killed him I ” 
 
 “Yes,” said the other; she was bending over, lacing her 
 shoes as she spoke. “He was working in an oil factory — 
 at least he was hired by the men to get their beer. He 
 ^'used to carry cans on a long pole ; and he’d drink a little 
 .out of each can, and one day he drank too much, and fell 
 ^ asleep in a corner, and got locked up in the place all night. 
 When they found him the rats had killed him and eaten 
 him nearly all up.” 
 
 Jurgis sat, frozen with horror. Marija went on lacing 
 ap her shoes. There was a long silence. 
 
 Suddenly a big policeman came to the door. “Hurry 
 ap, there,” he said. 
 
 “ As quick as I can,” said Marija, and she stood up and 
 began putting on her corsets with feverish haste. 
 
 “ Are the rest of the people alive ?” asked Jurgis,finally. 
 
 “Yes,” she said. 
 
 “ Where are they ? ” 
 
 “ They live not far from here. They’re all right now.’’ 
 
 “ They are working ? ” he inquired. 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 347 
 
 “ Elzbieta is,” said Marija, “ when she can. I take care 
 of them most of the time — I’m making plenty of money 
 now.” 
 
 Jurgis was silent for a moment. “Do they know you 
 live here — how you live ? ” he asked. 
 
 “ Elzbieta knows,” answered Marija. “ I couldn’t lie to 
 her. And maybe the children have found out by this 
 time. It’s nothing to be ashamed of — we can’t help 
 it.” 
 
 “ And Tamoszius ? ” he asked. “ Does he know ? ” 
 
 Marija shrugged her shoulders. “How do I know?” 
 she said. “ I haven’t seen him for over a year. He got 
 blood-poisoning and lost one finger, and couldn’t play the 
 violin any more ; and then he went away.” 
 
 Marija was standing in front of the glass fastening her 
 dress. Jurgis sat staring at her. He could hardly believe 
 that she was the same woman he had known in the old 
 days; she was so quiet — so hard ! It struck fear to his 
 heart to watch her. 
 
 Then suddenly she gave a glance at him. “ You look 
 as if you had been having a rough time of it yourself,” 
 she said. 
 
 “ I have,” he answered. “ I haven’t S' cent in my 
 pockets, and nothing to do.” 
 
 “ Where have you been ? ” 
 
 “ Ail over. I’ve been hoboing it. Then I went back 
 to the yai’ds—-just before the strike.” He paused for a 
 moment, hesitating. “ I a.sked for you,” he added. “ I 
 found you had gone away, no one knew where. Perhaps 
 you think I did you a dirty trick, running away as I did, 
 Marija — ” 
 
 “No,” she answered, “I don't blame you. We never 
 have—any of us. You did your best — the job was too 
 much for us.” She paused a moment, then added: “ We 
 were too ignorant — that was the trouble. We didn’t 
 stand any chance. If I’d known what I know now 
 we’d have won out.” 
 
 “ You’d have come here?” said Jurgis. 
 
 “Yes,” she answered; “but that’s not what I meant 
 
348 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 I meant you — how differently you would have behaved — 
 about Ona.” 
 
 Jurgis was silent; he had never thought of that aspect 
 
 of it. 
 
 “ When people are starving,” the other continued, “and 
 they have anything with a price, they ought to sell it, I 
 say. 1 guess you realize it now when it’s too late. Ona 
 could have taken care of us all, in the beginning.” Marija 
 spoke without emotion, as one who had come to regard 
 things from the business point of view. 
 
 “I—yes, I guess so,” Jurgis answered hesitatingly. 
 He did not add that he had paid three hundred dollars, and 
 a foreman’s job, for the satisfaction of knocking down 
 “ Phil ” Connor a second time. 
 
 The policeman came to the door again just then. “ Come 
 on, now,” he said. “ Lively ! ” 
 
 “ All right,” said Marija, reaching for her hat, which was 
 big enough to be a drum-major’s, and full of ostrich feathers. 
 She went out into the hall and Jurgis followed, the police¬ 
 man remaining to look under the bed and behind the door. 
 
 “ What’s going to come of this ? ” Jurgis asked, as they 
 started down the steps. 
 
 “ The raid, you mean ? Oh, nothing — it happens to us 
 every now and then. The madame’s having some sort of 
 time with the police ; I don’t know what it is, but maybe 
 they’ll come to terms before morning. Anyhow, they 
 won’t do anything to you. They always let the men off.” 
 
 “ Maybe so,” he responded, “ but not me — I’m afraid 
 [’m in for it.” 
 
 “ How do you mean ? ” 
 
 “ I’m wanted by the police,” he said, lowering his voice, 
 though of course their conversation was in Lithuanian. 
 
 They’ll send me up for a year or two. I’m afraid.” 
 
 “Hell! ” said Marija. “That’s too bad. I’ll see if I 
 can’t get you off.” 
 
 Downstairs, where the greater part of the prisoners were 
 now massed, she sought out the stout personage with the 
 diamond earrings, and had a few whispered words with her. 
 The latter then approached the police sergeant who was in 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 349 
 
 charge of the raid. “ Billy,” she said, pointing to Jurgis, 
 “ there’s a fellow who came in to see his sister. He’d just 
 got in the door when you Knocked. You aren’t taking 
 hoboes, are you ? ” 
 
 The sergeant laughed as he looked at .Jurgis. “ Sorry,” 
 he said, “but the orders are every one but the servants.” 
 
 So Jurgis slunk in among the rest of the men, who kept 
 dodging behind each other like sheep that have smelt 
 a wolf. There were old men and young men, college bo 3 ^s 
 and graybeards old enougli to be their giandfathers; some 
 of them wore evening-dress — there was no one among 
 them save Jurgis who showed any signs of poverty. 
 
 When the round-up was completed, the doors were 
 opened and the party marched out. Three patrol-wagons 
 were drawn up at the curb, and the whole neighborhood 
 had turned out to see the sport; there was much chaffing, 
 and a universal craning of necks. The women stared 
 about them with defiant eyes, or laughed and joked, while 
 the men kept their heads bowed, and their hats pulled over 
 their faces. They were crowded into the patrol-wagons as 
 if into street-cars, and then off they went amid a din of 
 cheers. At the station-house .Jurgis gave a I^olish name 
 and was put into a cell with half a dozen others; and 
 while these sat and talked in whispers, he lay down in a 
 corner and gave himself up to his thoughts. 
 
 Jurgis had looked into the deepest reaches of the social 
 pit, and grown used to the sights in them. Yet when 
 he had thought of all humanity as vile and hideous, he had 
 somehow always excepted his own family, that he had 
 loved; and now this sudden horrible discovery — Marija 
 a whore, and Elzbieta and the children living off her 
 shame ! Jurgis might argue with himself all he chose, that 
 he had done worse, and was a fool for caring — but still 
 he could not get over the shock of that sudden un¬ 
 veiling, he could not help being sunk in grief because of it. 
 The depths of him were troubled and shaken, memories 
 were stirred in him that had been sleeping so long, he had 
 counted them dead. Memories of the old life -G-~^s old 
 hopes and his old yearnings, his old di^fiis of decency and 
 
850 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 independencdj^lfe saw Ona, again, he heard her gentle 
 voice pleading with saw little Antanas, whom 
 
 he had meant to make a mah^ 'He saw his trembling old 
 __ father, who had blessed them all with his wonderful love. 
 4 He lived again through that day of horror when he had 
 discovered Ona’s shame — God, how he had suffered, what 
 a madman he had been! How dreadful it had all seemed 
 to him ; and now, to-day, he had sat and listened, and half 
 agreed when Marija told him he had been a fool! Yes— 
 told him that he ought to have sold^is wife’s honor and 
 lived by it! — And then there wa^^tanislovas and his 
 awful fate —that brief story which Marija had narrated so 
 calmly, with such dull indifference ! The poor little fellow, 
 with his frost-bitten fingers and his terror of the snow — 
 his wailing voice rang in Jurgis’s ears, as he lay there in 
 the darkness, until the sweat started on his forehead. Now 
 and then he would quiver with a sudden spasm of horror, 
 at the picture of little Stanislovas shut up in the deserted 
 building and fighting for his life with the rats! 
 
 All these emotions had become strangers to the soul of 
 Jurgis ; it was so long since they had troubled him that he 
 had ceased to think they might ever trouble him again. 
 Helpless, trapped, as he was, what good did they do him— 
 why should he ever have allowed them to torment him? 
 It had been the task of his recent life to fight them down. 
 to crush them out of him; never in his life would he have 
 suffered from them again, save that they had caught him 
 unawares, and overwhelmed him before he could protect 
 himself. He heard the old voices of his soul, he saw itP 
 old ghosts beckoning to him, stretching out their arms to 
 him ! But they were far-off and shadowy, and the guh 
 between them was black and bottomless ; they would fadf 
 away into the mists of the past once more. Their voices 
 would die, and never again would he hear them — and so 
 the last faint spark of manhood in his soul would Sicker 
 out. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 After breakfast Jurgis was driven to the court, which 
 was crowded with the prisoners and those who had come 
 out of curiosity or in the hope of recognizing one of the 
 men and getting a case for blackmail. The men were called 
 up first, and reprimanded in a bunch, and then dismissed; 
 but Jurgis, to his terror, was called separately, as being a 
 suspicious-looking case. It was in this very same court 
 that he had been tried, that time when his sentence had 
 been “suspended”; it was the same judge, and tlie same 
 clerk. The latter now stared at J urgis, as if he half thought 
 that he knew him ; but the judge had no suspicions — just 
 then his thoughts were upon a telephone message he was 
 expecting from a friend of the police captain of the dis¬ 
 trict, telling what disposition he should make of the case 
 of “Folly” Simpson, as the “ madame ” of the house was 
 known. Meantime, he listened to the story of how Jurgis 
 had been looking for his sister, and advised him dryly to 
 keep his sister in a better place; then he let him go, and 
 proceeded to fine each of the girls five dollars, which fines 
 were paid in a bunch from a wad of bills which Madame 
 Polly extracted from her stocking. 
 
 Jurgis waited outside and walked home with Marija. 
 The police had left the house, and already there were a few 
 visitors; by evening the place would be running again, 
 exactly as if nothing had happened. Meantime, i\Iarija 
 took Jurgis upstairs to her room, and they sat and talked. 
 By daylight, Jurgis was able to observe that the color on 
 her cheeks was not the old natural one of abounding 
 health; her complexion was in reality a parchment yellow, 
 and there were black rings under her eyes. 
 
 “Have you been sick?” he asked. 
 
 351 
 
352 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 “Sick?” she said. “Hell!” (Marija had learned to 
 scatter her conversation with as many oaths as a longshore¬ 
 man or a mule driver.) “ How can I ever be anything but 
 sick, at this life ? ” 
 
 She fell silent for a moment, staring ahead of her gloom¬ 
 ily. “It’s morphine,” she said, at last. “I seem to take 
 more of it every day.” 
 
 “What’s that for?” he asked. 
 
 “ It’s the way of it; I don’t know why. If it isn’t that, 
 it’s drink. If the girls didn’t booze they couldn’t stand it 
 any time at all. And the madame always gives them dope 
 when they first come, and they learn to like it; or else they 
 take it for headaches and such things, and get the habit 
 that way. I’ve got it, I know; I’ve tried to quit, but I 
 never will while I’m here.” 
 
 “ How Jong are you going to stay? ” he asked. 
 
 “ I don’t know,” she said. “ Always, I guess. What 
 else could I do? ” 
 
 “Don’t you save any money?” 
 
 “ Save ! ” said Marija. “ Good Lord, no ! I get enough, 
 I suppose, but it all goes. I get a half share, two dollars 
 and a half for each customer, and sometimes I make twenty- 
 five or thirty dollars a night, and you’d think I ought to 
 save something out of that I But then I am charged for 
 my room and my meals — and such prices as you never 
 heard of; and then for extras, and drinks— for everything 
 I get, and some I don’t. My laundry bill is nearly twenty 
 dollars each week alone — think of that! Yet what can. I 
 do? I either have to stand it or quit, and it would be the 
 same anywhere else. It’s all I can do to save the fifteen 
 dollars I give Elzbieta each week, so the children can go to 
 school.” 
 
 Marija sat brooding in silence for a while ; then, seeing 
 that Jurgis was interested, she went on : “ That’s the way 
 they keep the girls — they let them run up debts, so they 
 can’t get away. A young girl comes from abroad, and she 
 doesn’t know a word of English, and she gets into a place 
 like this, and when she wants to go the madame shows her 
 that she is a couple of hundred dollars in debt, and takes 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 353 
 
 all her clothes away, and threatens to have her arrested if 
 she doesn’t stay and do as she’s told. So she stays, and 
 the longer she stays, the more in debt slie gets. Often, 
 too, tliey are girls that didn’t know what they were coming 
 to, that had hired out for housework. Did you notice that 
 little French girl with the yellow hair, that stood next to 
 me in the court ? ” 
 
 Jurgis answered in the affirmative. 
 
 “ Well, she came to America about a year ago. She 
 was a store-clerk, and she hired herself to a man to be sent 
 here to work in a factory. There were six of them, all to¬ 
 gether, and they were brought to a house just down the 
 street from here, and this girl was put into a room alone, 
 and they gave her some dope in her food, and wiien she 
 came to she found that she had been ruined. She cried, 
 and screamed, and tore her hair, but she had nothing but a 
 wrapper, and couldn’t get away, and they kept her half insen¬ 
 sible with drugs all the time, until she gave up. She 
 never got outside of that place lor ten months, and then 
 they sent her away, because she didn’t suit. I guess they’ll 
 put her out of here, too — she’s getting to have crazy hts, 
 from drinking absinthe. Only one of the girls that came 
 out with her got away, and she jumped out of a second- 
 story window one night. There was a great fuss about 
 that — maybe y-na heard of it.” 
 
 “1 did,” said Jurgis, “I heard of it afterward.” (It 
 had happened in the place where be and Duane had taken 
 refuge from their “• country customer.” The girl had be¬ 
 come insane, fortunately for the police.) 
 
 “ There’s lots of money in it,” said Marija —“ they get as 
 much as forty dollars a head for girls, and they bring them 
 from all over. There are seventeen in this place, and nine 
 different countries among them. In some places you might 
 find even more. We have half a dozen French giils —I 
 suppose it’s because the madame speaks the language. 
 French girls are bad, too, the worst of all, except for the 
 Japanese. There’s a place next door that’s full of Japanese 
 women, but I wouldn’t live in the same house with one of 
 them.” 
 
354 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 Marija paused for a moment or two, and then she 
 added : “ Most of the women here are pretty decent— 
 you’d be surprised. I used to think they did it because 
 they liked to; but fancy a woman selling herself to every 
 kind of man that comes, old or young, black or white -* 
 and doing it because she likes to I ” 
 
 “Some of them say they do,”said Jurgis. 
 
 “ I know,” said she ; “ they say anything. They’re io^ 
 and they know they can’t get out. But they didn’t like iv 
 when they began — you’d find out — it’s always misery! 
 There’s a little Jewish girl here who used to run errands 
 for a milliner, and got sick and lost her place; and she 
 was four days on the streets without a mouthful of food, 
 and then she went to a place just around the coriier and 
 offered herself, and they made her give up her clothes 
 before they would give her a bite to eat 1 ” 
 
 Marija sat for a minute or two, brooding sombrely. 
 “Tell me about yourself, Jurgis,” she said, suddenly. 
 “Where have you been?” 
 
 So he told her the long story of his adventures since his 
 flight from home; his life as a tramp, and his work in the 
 freight tunnels, and the accident; and then of Jack Duane, 
 and of his political career in the stockyards, and his down* 
 fall and subsequent failures. Marija listened with sym- 
 pathjr; it was easy to believe the tale of Ms late starvation, 
 for his face showed it all. “ You found me just in the 
 nick of time,” she said. “ I’ll stand by you — I’ll help you 
 till you can get some work.” 
 
 “ I don’t like to let you — ” he began. 
 
 “ Why not ? Because I’m here ? ” 
 
 “ No, not that,” he said. “ But I went off and left you —** 
 “ Nonsense I ” said Marija. “ Don’t think about it. I 
 don’t blame you.” 
 
 “ You must be hungry,” she said, after a minute or 
 two. “You stay here to lunch'—I’ll have something up 
 in the room.” 
 
 She pressed a button, and a colored woman came to the 
 door and took her order. “ It’s nice to have somebody to 
 wait on you,” she observed, with a laugh, as she lay back 
 on the bed. 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 355 
 
 As the prison breakfast had not been liberal, Jurgis had 
 sA good appetite, and they had a little feast together, talk¬ 
 ing meanwhile of Elzbieta and the children and old times. 
 Shortly before they were through, there came another 
 colored girl, with the message that the “ madame ” wanted 
 Marija— “ Lithuanian Mary,’’ as they called her here. 
 
 “ That means you have to go,” she said to Jurgis. 
 
 So he got up, and she gave him the new address of the 
 family, a tenement over in the Ghetto district. “ You go 
 there,” she said. “ They’ll be glad to see you.” 
 
 But Jurgis stood hesitating. 
 
 “I — I don’t like to,” he said. “Honest, Marija, why 
 don’t you just give me a little money and let me look for 
 work first ? ” 
 
 “How do you need money?” was her reply. “All you 
 want is something to eat and a place to sleep, isn’t it?” 
 
 “ Yes,” he said; “but then I don’t like to go there after 
 I left them — and while I have nothing to do, and while 
 you — you —” 
 
 “ Go on I ” said Marija, giving him a push. “ What are 
 you talking ? — I won’t give you money,” she added, as she 
 lollowed him to the door, “ because you’ll drink it up, and 
 do yourself harm. Here’s a quarter for you now, and go 
 along, and they’ll be so glad to have you back, you won’t 
 have time to feel asiiamed. Gnod-by I ” 
 
 So Jurgis went out, and walked down the street to think 
 it over. He decided tliat he would first try to get work, 
 and so he put in the rest of the day wandering here and 
 there among factories and w'arehouses without success. 
 Then, when it was nearly dark, he concluded to go home, 
 and set out; but he came to a restaurant, and went in and 
 spent his quarter for a meal; and when he came out he 
 changed his mind — the night was pleasant, and he would 
 sleep somewhere outside, and put in the morrow hunting, 
 and so have one more chance of a job. So he started away 
 again, when suddenly he chanced to look about him, and 
 found that he was walking down the same street and past 
 the same hail where he had listened to the political speech 
 
356 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 the night before. There was no red fire and no band now» 
 but there was a sign out, announcing a meeting, and a 
 stream of people pouring in through the entrance. In a 
 flash Jurgis had decided that he would chance it once 
 more, and sit down and rest while making up his mind 
 what to do. There was no one taking tickets, so it must 
 be a free show again. 
 
 He entered. There were no decorations in the hall this 
 time; but there was quite a crowd upon the platform, and 
 almost every seat in the place was filled. He took one of 
 the last, far in the rear, and straightway forgot all about 
 his surroundings. Would Elzbieta think tha.t he had come 
 to sponge off her, or would she understand that he meant 
 to get to work again and do his share? Would she be 
 decent to him, or would she scold him? If only he could 
 get some sort of a job before he went — if that last boss 
 had only been willing to try him I 
 
 — Then suddenly Jurgis looked up. A tremendous roar 
 had burst from the throats of the crowd, which by this 
 time had packed the hall to the very doors. Men and 
 women were standing up, waving handkerchiefs, shouting, 
 yelling. Evidently the speaker had arrived, thought 
 Jurgis; what fools they were making of themselves I 
 vVhat were they expecting to get out of it anyhow — 
 wnat uad they to do with elections, with governing the 
 country? Jurgis had been behind the scenes in politics. 
 
 He went back to his thoughts, but with one further fact 
 to reckon with — that he was caught here. The ball was 
 now filled to the doors; and after the meeting it would be 
 too late for him to go home, so he would have to make the 
 best of it outside. Perhaps it would be better to go home 
 in the morning, anyway, for the children would be at 
 school, and he and Elzbieta could have a quiet explanation. 
 She alv/ays had been a reasonable person; and he really 
 did mean to do right. He would manage to persuade her 
 of it — and besides, Marija was willing, and Marija was 
 furnishing the money. If Elzbieta were ugly, he would 
 tell her that in so many words. 
 
 So Jurgis went on meditating; until finally, v/hen he 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 357 
 
 had been an hour or two in the hall, there began to pre- 
 pare itself a repetition of the dismal catastrophe of the 
 night before. Speaking had been going on all the time, 
 and the audience was clapping its hands and shouting, 
 thrilling with excitement; and little by little the sounds 
 were beginning to blur in Jurgis’s ears, and his thoughts 
 were beginning to run together, and his head to wobble 
 and nod. He caught himself many times, as usual, and 
 made desperate resolutions; but the hall was hot and close, 
 and his long walk and his dinner were too much for him 
 — in the end his head sank forward and he went off again. 
 
 And then again some one nudged him, and he sat up 
 with his old terrified start I He had been snoring again, 
 of course I And now what ? He fixed his eyes ahead of 
 him, with painful intensity, staring at the platform as if 
 nothing else ever had interested him, or ever could inter¬ 
 est him, all his life. He imagined the angry exclamations, 
 the hostile glances ; he imagined the policeman striding 
 toward him—reaching for his neck.— Or was he to have 
 one more chance? Were they going to let him alone this 
 time? He sat trembling, waiting — 
 
 And then suddenly came a voice in his ear, a woman's 
 voice, gentle and sweet, “If you would try to listen, com¬ 
 rade, perhaps you would be interested.” 
 
 Jurgis was more startled by that than he would have 
 been by the touch of a policeman. He still kept his eyes 
 fixed ahead, and did not stir; but his heart gave a great 
 leap. Comrade 1 Who was it that called him “comrade ” ? 
 
 He waited long, long; and at last, when he was sure 
 that he was no longer watched, he stole a glance out of the 
 corner of his eyes at the woman who sat beside him. She 
 was young and beautiful; she wore fine clothes, and was 
 what is called a “ lady.” And she called him “ comrade ” ’ 
 
 He turned a little, carefully, so that he could see hei 
 better; then he began to watch her, fascinated. She had 
 apparently forgotten all about him, and was looking 
 toward the platform. A man was speaking there — Jurgis 
 heal’d his voice vaguely; but all his thoughts were for this 
 woman’s face. A feeling of alarm stole over him as he 
 
358 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 stared at her. It made his flesh creep. What ^¥as the 
 matter with her, what could be going on, to affect any one 
 like that? She sat as one turned to stone, her hands 
 clenched tightly in her lap, so tightly that he could see the 
 cords standing out in her wrists. Thei-e was a look of 
 excitement upon her face, of tense effort, as of one strug¬ 
 gling mightily, or witnessing a struggle. There was a 
 faint quivering of her nostrils; and now and then she 
 would moisten her lips with feverish haste. Her bosom 
 rose and fell as she breathed, and her excitement seemed 
 to mount higher and higher, and then to sink away again, 
 like a boat tossing upon ocean surges. What was it? 
 What was the matter? It must be something that the 
 man was saying, up there on the platform. What sort of 
 a man was he ? And what sort of a thing was this, any¬ 
 how ? — So all at once it occurred to J urgis to look at 
 the speaker. 
 
 It was like coming suddenly upon some wild sight of 
 nature, — a mountain forest lashed by a tempest, a ship 
 tossed about upon a stormy sea. Jurgis had an unpleasant 
 sensation, a sense of confusion, of disorder, of wild and 
 meaningless uproar. The man was tall and gaunt, as 
 haggard as his auditor himself; a thin black beard cov¬ 
 ered half of his face, and one could see only two black 
 hollows where the eyes were. He was speaking rapidly, 
 in great excitement; he used many gestures — as bespoke 
 he moved here and there upon the stage, reaching with 
 his long arms as if to seize each person in his audience. 
 His voice was deep, like an organ; it was some time, how¬ 
 ever, before Jurgis thought of the voice — he was too 
 much occupied with his eyes to think of what the man was 
 saying. But suddenly it seemed as if the speaker had begun 
 pointing straight at him, as if he had singled him out par¬ 
 ticularly for his remarks ; and so Jurgis became suddenly 
 aware of the voice, trembling, vibrant with emotion, with 
 pain and longing, with a burden of things unutterable, not 
 to be compassed by words. To hear it was to be suddenly 
 arrested, to be gripped, transfixed. 
 
 “ You listen to these things,” the man was saying, “ and 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 359 
 
 you say, * Yes, they are true, but they have been that way 
 always.’ Or you say, ‘ Maybe it will come, but not in 
 my time—it will not help me.’ And so you return to 
 your daily round of toil, you go back to be ground up for 
 profits in the world-wide mill of economic might I To toil 
 long hours for another’s advantage; to live in mean and 
 squalid homes, to work in dangerous and unhealthful 
 places; to wrestle with the spectres of hunger and priva¬ 
 tion, to take your chances of accident, disease, and death. 
 And each day the struggle becomes fiercer, the pace more 
 cruel; each day you have to toil a little harder, and feel 
 the iron hand of circumstance close upon you a little 
 tighter. Months pass, years maybe—and then you come 
 again; and again 1 am here to plead with you, to know if 
 want and misery have yet done their work with you, if in¬ 
 justice and oppression have yet opened your eyes I I shall 
 still be waiting — there is nothing else that I can do. 
 There is no wilderness where I can hide from these things, 
 there is no haven where 1 can escape them; though I 
 travel to the ends of the earth, I find the same accursed 
 system, — I find that all the fair and noble impulses of 
 humanity, the dreams of poets and the agonies of tnartyrs, 
 are shackled and bound in the service of organized and 
 predatory Greed I And therefore I cannot rest, I cannot 
 be silent; therefore I cast aside comfort and happiness, 
 health and good repute — and go out into the w^oiid and 
 cry out the pain of my spirit! Therefore I am not to be 
 silenced by poverty and sickness, not by hatred and oblo¬ 
 quy, by threats and ridicule — not by prison and perse¬ 
 cution, if they should come — not by any power that is 
 upon the earth or above the earth, that was, or is, or ever 
 can be created. If I fail to-night, I can only try to-morrow ; 
 knowing that the fault must be mine — that if once the 
 vision of my soul were spoken upon earth, if once the 
 anguish of its defeat were uttered in human speech, it 
 would break the stoutest barriers of prejudice, it would 
 shake the most sluggish soul to action! It would abash 
 the most cynical, it would terrify the most selfish ; and the 
 voice of mockery would be silenced, and fraud and false- 
 
360 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 hood would slink back into their dens, and the truth would 
 stand forth alone! For I speak with the voice of the 
 millions who are voiceless I Of them that are oppressed 
 and have no comforter! Of the disinherited of life, for 
 whom there is no respite and no deliverance, to whom the 
 world is a prison, a dungeon of torture, a tomb! With 
 the voice of the little child who toils to-night in a South¬ 
 ern cotton-mill, staggering with exhaustion, numb with 
 agony, and knowing no hope buc the grave I Of the 
 mother who sews by candle-light in her tenement-garret, 
 weary and weeping, smitten with the mortal hunger of hel 
 babes! Of the man who lies upon a bed of rags, wrestling 
 in his last sickness and leaving his loved ones to perish t 
 Of the young girl who, somewhere at this moment, is walk¬ 
 ing the streets of this horrible city, beaten and starving, 
 and making her choice between the brothel and the lake! 
 With the voice of tliose, whoever and wherever they may 
 be, who are caught beneath the wheels of the jiTggernaut 
 of Greed I With the voice of humanity, calling for deliv- 
 ®.rance! Of the everlasting soul of Man, arising from tho 
 dust; breaking its way out of its prison — rending the 
 bands of oppression and ignorance—groping its way to 
 the light! 
 
 The speaker paused. There was an instant of silence, 
 while men caught their breaths, and then like a single 
 sound there came a cry from a thousand people. — Through 
 it ail Jurgis sat still, motionless and rigid, his eyes fixed 
 upon the speaker ; he was trembling, smitten with wonder. 
 
 Suddenly the man raised his hands, and silence fell, and 
 he began again. 
 
 “ I plead with you,” he said, “ whoever you may be, pro¬ 
 vided that you care about the truth ; but most of all I plead 
 with working-men, with those to whom the evils I portray 
 are not mere matters of sentiment, to be dallied and toyed 
 with, and then perhaps put aside and forgotten — to whom 
 they are the grim and relentless realities of the daily grind, 
 the chains upon their limbs, the lash upon their backs, the 
 iron in their souls. To you, working-men i To you, the 
 toilers, who have made this land, and have no voice in its 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 361 
 
 councils! To you, whose lot it is to sow that others may 
 reap, to labor and obey, and ask no more than the wages of 
 a beast of burden, the food and shelter to keep you alive 
 from day to day. It is to you. that I come with my mes¬ 
 sage of salvation, it is to you that I appeal. I know how 
 much it is to ask of you — I know, for I have been in your 
 place, 1 have lived your life, and there is no man before me 
 here to-night who knows it better. I have known what it 
 is to be a street-waif, a boot-black, living upon a crust of 
 bread and sleeping in cellar stairways and under empty 
 wagons. I have known what it is to dare and to aspire, to 
 dream mighty dreams and to see them perish —to see all 
 the fair flowers of my spirit trampled into the mire by the 
 wild beast powers of life. I know what is the price that a 
 working-man pays for knowledge — I have paid for it with 
 food and sleep, with agony of body and mind, with health, 
 almost with life itself; and so, when I come to you with a 
 story of hope and freedom, with the vision of a new earth 
 to be created, of a new labor to be dared, I am not sur¬ 
 prised that I And 3^00 sordid and material, sluggish and in¬ 
 credulous. That I do not despair is because I know also 
 the forces that are driving behind you — because I know 
 the raging lash of poverty, the sting of contempt and mas¬ 
 tership, ‘the insolence of office and the spurns.’ Because 
 I feel sure that in the crowd that has come to me to-night, 
 no matter how many may be dull and heedless, no matter 
 how many may have come out of idle curiosity, or in order 
 to ridicule—there will be some one man whom pain and 
 suffering have made desperate, whom some chance vision 
 of wrong and horror has startled and shocked into atten¬ 
 tion. And to him my words will come like a sudden flash 
 of lightning to one who travels in darkness — revealing the 
 wa}" before him, the perils and the obstacles — solving all 
 problems, making all difficulties clear! The scales will fall 
 from his eyes, the shackles will be torn from his limbs — he 
 will leap up with a cry of thankfulness, he will stride forth a 
 free man at lastl A man delivered from his self-created 
 slavery! A man who will never more be trapped—whom 
 no blandishments will cajole, whom no threats will frighten,• 
 24 
 
362 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 who from to-night on will move forward, and not backward, 
 who will study and understand, who will gird on his sword 
 and take his place in the army of his comrades and brothers. 
 Who will carry the good tidings to others, as I have carried 
 them to him — the priceless gift of liberty and light that 
 is neither mine nor his, but is the heritage of the soul of 
 man 1 Working-men, working-men —- comrades! open your 
 eyes and look about you I You have lived so long in the 
 toil and heat that your senses are dulled, your souls 
 are numbed; but realize once in your lives this world in 
 which you dwell — tear off the rags of its customs and 
 conventions —behold it as it is, in all its hideous nakedness! 
 Realize it, realize it! Realize that out upon the plains ol 
 Manchuria to-night two hostile armies are facing each othei 
 — that now, while we are seated here, a million humai< 
 beings may be hurled at each other’s throats, striving wiHj 
 the fury of maniacs to tear each other to pieces! And tins 
 in the twentieth century, nineteen hundred years simse 
 the Prince of Peace was born on earth I Nineteen hun¬ 
 dred years that his words have been preached as divine, and 
 here two armies of men are rending and tearing each other 
 like the wild beasts of the forest! Philosophers have 
 reasoned, prophets have denounced, poets have wept and 
 pleaded — and still this hideous Monster roams at large! 
 We have schools and colleges,newspapers and books; we 
 have searched the heavens and the earth, w'e have weighed 
 and probed and reasoned—and all to equip men to destroy 
 each other! We call it War, and pass it by — but do not 
 put me off with platitudes and conventions — come with 
 me, come with me — realize it! See the bodies of men 
 pierced by bullets, blown into pieces by bursting shells I 
 Hear the crunching of the bayonet, plunged into human 
 flesh; hear the groans and shrieks of agony, see the faces 
 of men crazed by pain, turned into fiends by fury and 
 hate ! Put your hand upon that piece of flesh — it is hot 
 and quivering — just now it was a part of a man.! This 
 blood is still steaming — it was driven by a human heart I 
 Almighty God! and this goes on — it is systematic, organ¬ 
 ized, premeditated I And we know it, and re&d of it, and 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 363 
 
 take it for granted; our papers tell of it, and the presses 
 are not stopped — our churches know of it, and do not close 
 their doors — the people behold it, and do not rise up in 
 horror and revolution I 
 
 “ Or perhaps Manchuria is too far away for you — come 
 home with me then, come here to Chicago. Here in this 
 city to-night ten thousand women are shut up in foul pens, 
 and driven by hunger to sell their bodies to live. And 
 we know it, we make it a jest I And these women are 
 made in the image of your mothers, they may be your 
 sisters, your daughters; the child whom you left at home 
 to-night, whose laughing eyes will greet you in the morn¬ 
 ing— that fate may be waiting for her I To night in 
 Chicago there are ten thousand men, homeless and 
 wretched, willing to work and begging for a chance, yet 
 starving, and fronting in terror the awful winter coldl 
 To-night in Chicago there are a hundred thousand children 
 wearing out their strength and blasting their lives in the 
 effort to earn their bread I There are a hundred thousand 
 mothers who are living in misery and squalor, struggling 
 to earn enough to feed their little ones I There are a 
 hundred thousand old people, cast off and helpless, waiting 
 for death to take them from their torments! There are a 
 million people, men and women and children, who share 
 the curse of the wage-slave; who toil every hour they can 
 stand and see, for just enough to keep them alive ; who are 
 condemned till the end of their days to monotony and 
 weariness, to hunger and misery, to heat and cold, to dirt 
 and disease, to ignorance and drunkenness and vice ! And 
 then turn over the page with me, and gaze upon the other 
 side of the picture. There are a thousand—ten thousand, 
 maybe — who are the masters of these Taves, who own 
 their toil. They do nothing to earn what they receive, 
 they do not even have to ask for it — it comes to them of 
 itself, their only care is to dispose of it. They live in 
 palaces, they riot in luxury and extravagance — such as no 
 words can describe, as makes the imagination reel and 
 stagger, makes the soul grow sick and faint. Thej'’ spend 
 hundreds of dollars for a pair of shoes, a handkerchief, a 
 
364 
 
 THE JUI^GIiE 
 
 garter; they spend millions for horses and antomobiles and 
 yachts, for palaces and banquets, for little shiny stones 
 with which to deck their bodies. Their life is a contest 
 among themselves for supremacy in ostentation and reck¬ 
 lessness, in tlie destroying of useful and necessary things, 
 in the wasting of the labor and the lives of their fellow- 
 creatures, the toil and anguish of the nations, the sweat 
 and tears and blood of the human race I It is all theirs — 
 it comes to them; just as all the springs pouj’ into stream' 
 lets, and the streamlets into rivers, and the rivers into the 
 ocean — so, automatically and inevitably, all the wealth 
 of society comes to them. The farmer tills the soil, 
 the miner digs in the earth, the weaver tends the loom, 
 the mason carves the stone; the clever man invents, the 
 shrewd man directs, the wise man studies, the inspired man 
 sings—and all the result, the products of the labor of brain 
 and muscle, are gathered into one stupendous stream and 
 poured into their laps I The whole of society is in their 
 grip, the whole labor of the world lies at their mercy — 
 and like fierce wolves they rend and destroy, like ravening 
 vultures they devour and tear I The whole power of maii- 
 kind belongs to them, forever and beyond recall—do what 
 it can, strive as it will, humanity lives for them and dies 
 for them I They own not merely the labor of society, they 
 have bought the governments; and everywhere they use 
 their raped and stolen power to intrench themselves in 
 their privileges, to dig wider and deeper the channels 
 through which the river of profits flows to them I — And 
 you, working-men, working-men 1 You have been brought 
 up to it, you plod on like beasts of burden, thinking only 
 of the day and its pain — yet is there a man among you 
 who can believe that such a system will continue forever 
 —is there a man here in this audience to-night so hardened 
 and debased that he dare rise up before me and say that he 
 believes it can continue forever ; that the product of the 
 labor of society, the means of existence of the human race, 
 will always belong to idlers and parasites, to be spent for 
 the gratification of vanity and lust — to be spent for any 
 purpose whatever, to be at the disposal of any individual 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 365 
 
 will whatever — that somehow, somewhen, the labor of 
 humanity will not belong to humanity, to be used for the 
 purposes of humanity, to be controlled by the will of 
 humanity? And if this is ever to be, how is it to be — 
 what power is there that will bring it about? Will it be 
 the task of your masters, do you think — will they write 
 the charter of your liberties? Will they forge you the 
 sword of your deliverance, will they marshal you the army 
 and lead it to the fray? Will their wealth be spent for 
 the purpose — will they build colleges and churches to 
 teach you, will they print papers to herald your progress, 
 and organize political parties to guide and carry on the 
 struggle? Can you not see that the task is your task—- 
 yours to dream, yours to resolve, yours to execute ? That 
 if ever it is carried out, it will be in the face of every ob¬ 
 stacle that wealth and mastership can oppose — in the face 
 of ridicule and slander, of hatred and persecution, of the 
 bludgeon and the jail? That it will be by the power of 
 your naked bosoms, opposed to the rage of oppression 1 
 By the grim and bitter teaching of blind and merciless 
 affliction ! By the painful gropings of the untutored mind, 
 by the feeble stammerings of the uncultured voice ! By 
 the sad and lonely hunger of the spirit; by seeking and 
 striving and yearning, by heartache and despairing, by 
 agony and sweat of blood I It will be by money paid for 
 Avith hunger, by knowledge stolen from sleep, by thoughts 
 communicated under the shadow of the gallows! It will 
 be a movement beginning in the far-off past, a thing ob¬ 
 scure and unlionored, a thing easy to ridicule, easy to de¬ 
 spise ; a thing unlovely, wearing the aspect of vengeance 
 and hate — but to you, the working-man, the wage-slave, 
 calling with a voice insistent, imperious—with a voice 
 that you cannot escape, wherever upon the earth you may 
 be ! With the voice of all your wrongs, with the voice of 
 all your desires ; with the voice of your duty and your 
 hope — of everything in the world that is worth while to 
 you I The voice of the poor, demanding that poverty shall 
 cease I The voice of the oppressed, pronouncing the doom 
 of oppression I The voice of power, wrought out of suffer- 
 
366 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 ing—of resolution, crushed out of weakness — of joy and 
 courage, born in the bottomless pit of anguish and despair! 
 The voice of Labor, desjjised and outraged; a mighty 
 giant, lying prostrate — mountainous, colossal, but blinded, 
 bound, and ignorant of his strength. And now a di-eam 
 of resistance haunts him, hope battling with fear; until 
 suddenly he stirs, and a fetter snaps — and a thrill shoots 
 through him, to the farthest ends of his huge body, and in 
 a flash the dream becomes an act I He starts, he lifts him¬ 
 self ; and the bands are shattered, the burdens roll off him; 
 he rises —• towering, gigantic; he springs to his feet, he 
 shouts in his new-born exultation — ” 
 
 And the speaker’s voice broke suddenly, with the stress 
 of his feelings ; he stood with his arms stretched out above 
 him, and the power of his vision seemed to lift him from 
 the floor. The audience came to its feet with a yell ■; men 
 waved their arms, laughing aloud in their excitement. 
 And .Jurgis was with them, he was shouting to tear his 
 throat; shouting because he could not help it, because the 
 stress of his feeling was more than he could bear. It was 
 not merely the man’s words, the torrent of his eloquence. 
 It was his presence, it was his voice: a voice with strange 
 intonations that rang through the chambers of the soul like 
 the clanging of a bell — that gripped the listener like a 
 mighty hand about his body, that shook him and startled 
 him with sudden fright, with a sense of things not of earth, 
 of mysteries never spoken before, of presences of awe and 
 terror! There was an unfolding of vistas before him, a 
 breaking of the ground beneath him, an upheaving, a stir¬ 
 ring, a trembling; he felt himself suddenly a mere man no 
 longer—there were powers within him undreamed of, there 
 were demon forces contending, age-long wonders struggling 
 to be born; and he sat oppressed with pain and joy, while a 
 . tingling stole down into his finger-tips, and his breath came 
 ' hard and fast. The sentences of this man were to Jurgis like 
 the crashing of thunder in his soul; a flood of emotion surged 
 ' up in him—-all his old hopes and longings, his old griefs 
 and rages and despairs. All that he had ever felt in his 
 whole life seemed to come back to him at once, and with 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 367 
 
 one new emotion, hardly to be described. That he should 
 have suffered such oppressions and such horrors was bad 
 enough; but that he should have been crushed and beaten 
 by them, that he should have submitted, and forgotten^ 
 and lived in peace — ah, truly that was a thing not to be' 
 put into words, a thing not to be borne by a human crea¬ 
 ture, a thing of terror and madness 1 “ What,” asks the 
 
 prophet, “is the murder of them that kill the body, to the 
 murder of them that kill the soul?” And Jurgis was a 
 man whose soul had been murdered, who had ceased to 
 hope and to struggle — who had made terms with degra¬ 
 dation and despair; and now, suddenly, in one awful con¬ 
 vulsion, the black and hideous fact was made plain to him I 
 There was a falling in of all the pillars of his soul, the sky 
 seemed to split above him -— he stood there, with his 
 clenched hands upraised, his eyes bloodshot, and the veins 
 standing out purple in his face, roaring in the voice of a 
 wild beast, frantic, incoherent, maniacal. And when he 
 could 
 whisp 
 God I 
 
 shout no more he still stood there, gasping, and 
 ering hoarsely to himself; “By Godl By Godl By 
 
ohaptbe xxix 
 
 Th® man had gone back to a seat upon the platforna, 
 and Jurgis realized that his speech was overo The applause 
 continued for several minutes •, and then some one started 
 a song, and the crowd took it up,, and the place shook with 
 it. Jurgis had never heard it, and he could not make out 
 the words, but the wild and wonderful spirit of it seized 
 upon him — it was the Marseillaise I As stanza after 
 stanza of it thundered forth, he sat with his hands clasped, 
 trembling in every nerve. Be had never been so stirred 
 in his life — it was a miracle that had been wrought in 
 him. He could not think at all, he was stunned5 yet he 
 knew that in the mighty upheaval that had taken place in 
 his soul, a new man had been born. He bad been torn out 
 of the jaws of destruction, he had been delivered from the 
 thraldom of despair; the whole world had been changed 
 for him — he was free, he was free! Even if he were to 
 suffer as he had before, even if he were to beg and starve, 
 nothing would be the same to him; he would understand 
 it, and bciar it. He would no longer be the sport of circum¬ 
 stances, he would be a man, with a will and a purpose; be 
 would have something to fight for, something to die for, if 
 need be! Here were men who would show him and help 
 him; and he would have friends and allies, he would dwell 
 in the sight of justice, and walk arm in arm with power. 
 
 The audience subsided again, and Jurgis sat back. The 
 chairman of the meeting came forward and began to speak 
 His voice sounded thin and futile after the other's, and to 
 Jurgis it seemed a profanation. Why should any one else 
 speak, after that miraculous man — why should thej not 
 all sit in silence if The chairman was explaining v 
 
 368 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 369 
 
 collection would now be taken up to defray the ex])enses 
 ot the meetiiig, and for tlie benefit of the campaign fund of 
 the party. J urgis heard ; but he had not a penny to give, 
 and so his tlioughts went elsewhere again. 
 
 He kept his eyes fixed on the orator, who sat in an arm* 
 chair, his head leaning on his hand and his attitude indi 
 eating exhaustion. But suddenly he stood up again, and 
 Jurgis heard the chairman of the meeting saying that the 
 speaker would now answer any questions which the audi¬ 
 ence might care to put to him. The man came foi ward, 
 and some one — a woman — arose and asked about some 
 apinion the speaker had expressed eoncerning Tolstoi. 
 Jurgis had never heard of Tolstoi, and did not care any¬ 
 thing about him. Why should any one want to ask such 
 questions, after an address like that? The thing was not 
 to calk, but to do; the thing was to get nold of others and 
 rouse them, to organize them and prepare tor the fight I 
 
 But still the discussion went on, in ordinary conversa¬ 
 tional tones, and it brought Jurgis back to tfie everyday 
 world. A few minutes ago he had felo like seizing the hand 
 of the beautiful lady by his side, and Kissing it; he had 
 felt like fimging liis arms about the neck of the man on 
 the other side of him. And now he began to realize again 
 that he was a “hobo,” — that he was ragged and dirty,and 
 smelt bad, and had no place to sleep that night! 
 
 And so, at last, when the meeting broke up, and the 
 audience started to leave, poor Jurgis was in an agony of 
 uncertainty, ffe had not thought of leaving — he had 
 thougut that the vision must last forever, that he had 
 found comrades and brothers. But now be wmuld go out, 
 and the thing \rould fade away, and he would never be 
 able to find it again I He sat in his seat, frightened and 
 wondering; but others in the same row wanted to get out, 
 and so he had to stand up and move along. As he was 
 swept down the aisle he looked from one pei'sou to 
 another, wistfully; they were all excitedly discussing the 
 address — but there was nobody wfio offered to discuss it 
 With him. He was near enough to the door to feel the 
 night aii\ when desperation seized him He knew nothing 
 
^70 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 at all about that speech he had heard, not even the- name 
 of the orator; anjd he was to go away — no, no, it was 
 preposterous, he must speak to some one; he must find 
 that man himself and tell himo He would not despise 
 him, tramp as he was I 
 
 So he stepped into an empty row of seats and watched, 
 and when the crowd had thinned out, he started toward 
 the platform. The speaker was gone; but there was a 
 stage-door that stood open, with people passing in and 
 out, and no one on guard. Jurgis summoned up his cour¬ 
 age and went in, and down a hallway, and to the door of 
 a room where many people were crowded No one paid 
 any attention to him, and he pushed in, and in a corner 
 he saw the man he sought. The orator sat in a chair, 
 with his shoulders sunk together and his eyes half closed; 
 his face was ghastly pale, almost greenish in hue, and one 
 arm lay limp at his side. A big man with spectacles on 
 stood near him, and kept pushing back the crowd, saying, 
 
 Stand away a little, please; can’t you see the comrade 
 is worn out ? ” 
 
 So Jurgis stood watching, while five or ten minutes 
 passed. Now and then the man would look up, and ad¬ 
 dress a word or two to those who were near him ; and, at 
 last, on one of these occasions, his glance rested on Jurgis. 
 There seemed to be a slight hint of inquiry about it, and 
 a sudden impulse seized the other. He stepped forward. 
 
 “1 wanted to thank you, sir l” he began, in breathless 
 haste. “I could not go away without telling you how 
 much — how glad 1 am 1 heard you. 1 — 1 didn’t know 
 any thing about it all — 
 
 The big man with the spectacles, who had moved away, 
 came back at this moment. “The comrade is too tired 
 to talk to any one — ” he began; but the other held up 
 his hand. 
 
 “Wait,'* he said. “He has something to say to me.’^ 
 And then he looked into Jurgis’s face. “ You want to 
 Know more about Socialism?'’ he asked. 
 
 Jurgis started. “I — I — ” he stammered. “Is it 
 
 Socialism ? I didn’t know. I want to know about what 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 371 
 
 you spoke of — I want to help. I have bee i through all 
 that.’’ 
 
 “Where do you live?” asked the other. 
 
 “I have no home,” said Jurgis, “I am out of work.” 
 
 “ You are a foreigner, are you not? ” 
 
 “ Lithuanian, sir.” 
 
 The man thought for a moment, and then turned to his 
 friend. “Who is there, Walters?” he asked. “There 
 's Ostrinski — but he is a Pole — ” 
 
 “ Ostrinski speaks Lithuanian,” said the other. 
 
 “ All right, then ; would you mind seeing if he has gone 
 yet ? ” 
 
 The other started away, and the speaker looked at Jur¬ 
 gis again. He had deep, black eyes, and a face full of 
 gentleness and pain. “ You must excuse me, comrade,” 
 he said. “ I am just tired out — I have spoken every 
 day for the last month. I will introduce you to some one 
 who will be able to help you as well as I could — ” 
 
 The messenger had had to go no further than the door; 
 he came back, followed by a man whom he introduced to 
 Jurgis as “Comrade Ostrinski.” Comrade Ostrinski was 
 ti little man, scarcely up to Jurgis’s shoulder, wizened and 
 wrinkled, very ugly, and slightly lame. He had on a 
 long-tailed black coat, worn green at the seams and the 
 Outtonholes; his eyes must have been weak, for he wore 
 green spectacles, that gave him a grotesque appearance. 
 But his hand clasp was bearty, and he spoke in Lithuanian, 
 which warmed Jurgis to him. 
 
 “You want to know about Socialism?” he said. 
 “Surely. Let us go out raid take a stroll, where we can 
 be quiet and talk some.” 
 
 And so Jurgis bade farewell to the master wizard, and 
 went out. Ostrinski asked where he lived, offering to 
 walk in that direction; and so he had to explain once 
 more that he was without a home. At the other’s request 
 he told his story; how he had come to America, and what 
 had happened to him in the stockyards, and how his family 
 had been broken up, and how he had become a wanderer. 
 So much the little man heard, and then he pressed Jurgis’s 
 
372 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 arm tightly. “You have been through the mill, com¬ 
 rade !” he said. “.We will make a tighter out of you!” 
 
 Then Ostriuski in turn explained his circumstances. 
 He would have asked Jurgis to his home—but he had 
 only two rooms, and had no bed to offer. He would have 
 given up his own bed, but his wife was ill. Later on, 
 when he understood that otherwise Jurgis would have to 
 sleep in a hallway, he offered him his kitchen-floor, a 
 chance which the other was only too glad to accept. 
 “ Perhaps to-morrow we can do better,” said Ostrinski. 
 “ We try not to let a comrade starve.” 
 
 Ostrinski’s home was in the Ghetto district, where lie 
 had two rooms in the basement of a tenement. There was 
 a baby crying as they entered, and he closed the door 
 leading into the bedroom. He had three young children, 
 he explained, and a baby had just come. He drew up two 
 chairs near the kitchen stove, adding that Jurgis must ex¬ 
 cuse thecdisorder of the place,since at such a time one’s do¬ 
 mestic arrangements were upset. Half of the kitchen was 
 given up to a work-bench, which was piled with clothing, 
 and Ostrinski explained that he was a “ pants-finisher.” 
 He brought great bundles of clothing here to his home, 
 where he and his wife worked on them. He made a living 
 at it, but it was getting harder all the time, because his 
 eyes were failing. What would come when they gave out 
 he could not tell; there had been no saving anything— 
 a man could barely keep alive by twelve or fourteen hours* 
 work a day. The finishing of pants did not take much 
 skill, and anybody could learn it, and so the pay was for¬ 
 ever getting less. That was the competitive wage system; 
 and if Jurgis wanted to understand what Socialism was, 
 it was there he had best begin. The workers were de¬ 
 pendent upon a job to exist from day to day, and so 
 they bid against each other, and no man could get more 
 than the lowest man would consent to work for. And 
 thus the mass of the people were always in a life-and- 
 death struggle with poverty. That was “ competition,” 
 so far as it concerned the wage-earner, the man who 
 had only his labor to sell; to those on top, the exploiters, 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 373 
 
 it appeared very differently, of course — there were few 
 of them, and they could combine and dominate, and 
 their power would be unbi-eakable. And so all over the 
 world two classes were forming, with an unbridged chasm 
 between them, — the capitalist class, with its enormous 
 fortunes, and the proletariat, bound into slavery by un¬ 
 seen chains. The latter were a thousand to one in num¬ 
 bers, but they were ignorant and helpless, and they would 
 remain at the mercy of their exploiters until they were 
 organized — until they had become “ class-conscious.” It 
 was a slow and weary process, but it would go on —it 
 was like the movement of a glacier, once it was started 
 it could never be stepped. Every Socialist did his share, 
 and lived upon the vision of the “ good time coming,” — 
 when the working-class should go to the polls and seize 
 the powers of government, and put an end to private prop¬ 
 erty in the means of production. No matter how poor a 
 man was, or how much he suffered, he could never be 
 really unhappy while he knew of that future; even if he 
 did not live to see it himself, his children would, and, to a 
 Socialist, the victory of his class was his victory. A''s^ he 
 had always the progress to encourage him; here in Un. 
 cago, for instance, the movement was growing by leaps 
 and bounds. Chicago was the industrial centre of the 
 country, and nowhere else were the unions so strong; but 
 their organizations did the workers little good, for the 
 employers were organized, also; and so the strikes gener¬ 
 ally failed, and as fast as the unions were broken up the 
 men were coming over to the Socialists. 
 
 Ostrinski explained the organization of the party, the 
 machinery by which the proletariat was educating itself. 
 There were “ locals ” in every big city and town, and they 
 were being organized rapidly in the smaller places; a local 
 had anywhere from six to a thousand members, and there 
 were fourteen hundred of them in all, with a total of about 
 twenty-five thousand members, who paid dues to support 
 the organization. “ Local Cook County,” as the city or¬ 
 ganization was called, had eighty branch locals, and it 
 alone was spending several thousand dollars in the cam- 
 
374 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 paign. It published a weekly in English, and one each in 
 Bohemian and German; also there was a monthly published 
 in Chicago, and a cooperative publishing house, that issued 
 a million and a half of Socialist books and pamphlets every 
 year. All this was the growth of the last few years — 
 there had been almost nothing of it when Ostrinski lirst 
 came to Chicago. 
 
 Ostrinski was a Pole, about fifty years of age. He had 
 lived in Silesia, a member of a despised and persecuted 
 race, and had taken part in the proletarian movement in the 
 early seventies, when Bismarck, having conquered France, 
 had turned his policy of blood and iron upon the “ Inter¬ 
 national.” Ostrinski himself had twice been in jail, but 
 he had been young then, and had not cared. He had had 
 more of his share of the fight, though, for just when Social¬ 
 ism had broken all its barriers and become the great political 
 force of the empire, he had come to America, and begun 
 all over again. In America every one had laughed at the 
 mere idea of Socialism then — in America all men were 
 free. As if political li berty made wage-Alay^ry any the 
 more tolerable I said Ostrinski. 
 
 The little tailor sat tilted back in his stiff kitchen-chair, 
 with his feet stretched out upon the empty stove, and 
 speaking in low whispers, so as not to waken those in the 
 next room. To Jurgis he seemed a scarcely less wonder¬ 
 ful person than the speaker at the meeting; he was poor, 
 the lowest of the low, hunger-driven and miserable — and 
 yet how much he knew, how much he had dared and 
 achieved, what a hero he had been 1 There were others 
 like him, too — thousands like him, and all of them work¬ 
 ing-men I That all this wonderful machinery of progress 
 had been created by his fellows — Jurgis could not believe 
 it, it seemed too good to be true. 
 
 That was always the way, said Ostrinski; when a 
 man was first converted to Socialism he was like a craz} 
 person, — he could not understand how others could fail to 
 see it, and he expected to convert all the world the first- 
 week. After a while he would realize how hard a task it 
 was ; and then it would be fortunate that other new hand£ 
 
THE JUNGHE 
 
 375 
 
 kept coming, to save him from settling down into a rut. 
 Just now Jurgis would have plenty of chance to vent his 
 excitement, for a presidential campaign was on, and every¬ 
 body was talking politics. Ostrinski would take him to 
 the next meeting of the branch-local, and introduce him, 
 and he might join the party. The dues were five cents a 
 week, but any one who could not afford this might be ex¬ 
 cused from paying. The Socialist party was a really demo¬ 
 cratic political organization—it was controlled absolutely 
 by its own membership, and had no bosses. All of these 
 things Ostrinski explained, as also the principles of the 
 party. You might say that there was really but one 
 Socialist principle — that of “ no compromise,” which was 
 the essence of the prole^^^arian movement all over the 
 world. When a Socialist »ras elected to office he voted 
 with old party legislators for any measure that was likely 
 to be of help to the working-class, but he never forgot 
 that these concessions, whatever they might be, were 
 trifles compared with the great purpose, — tlie organizing 
 of the working-class for the revolution. So far, the rule in 
 America had been that one Socialist made another Socialist 
 once every two years; and if they should maintain the 
 same rate they would carry the country in 1912 — though 
 not all of them expected to succeed as quickly as that. 
 
 The Socialists were organized in every civilized nation; 
 it was an international political party, said Ostrinski, the 
 greatest the world had ever known. It numbered thirty 
 millions of adherents, and it cast eight million votes. It 
 had started its first newspaper in Japan, and elected its first 
 deputy in Argentina; in France it named members of cab¬ 
 inets, and in Italy and Australia it held the balance of 
 power and turned out ministries. In German}^ where its 
 vote was more than a third of the total vote of the empire, 
 all other parties and powers had united to fight it. It 
 would not do, Ostrinski explained, for the proletariat of 
 one nation to achieve the victory for that nation would be 
 crushed by the military power of the others; and so the 
 Socialist movement was a world movement,an organization 
 of all mankind to eatii-blisb. liberty and fraternity. It was 
 
376 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 the new religion of humanity—or you might say it was 
 the fulfilment of the old religion, since it implied but the 
 literal application of all the teachings of Christ. 
 
 Until long after midnight Jurgis sat lost in the conver¬ 
 sation of his new acquaintance. It was a most wonderful 
 experience to him—an almost supernatural experience. 
 It was like encountering an inhabitant of the fourth dimen¬ 
 sion of space, a being who was free from all one’s own 
 limitations. For four years, now, Jurgis had been wander¬ 
 ing and blundering in the depths of a wilderness; and here, 
 suddenly, a hand reached down and seized him, and lifted 
 him out of it, and set him upon a mountain-top, from 
 which he could survey it all,—could see the paths from 
 which he had wandered, the morasses into which he had 
 stumbled, the hiding-places of the beasts of prey that had 
 fallen upon him. IJiere.. were his Packingtown experi¬ 
 ences, for instance—what was there about Packingtown 
 that Ostrinski could not explain! To Jurgis the packers 
 had been equivalent to fate; Ostrinski showed him that 
 they were the Beef Trust. They were a gigantic combi¬ 
 nation of capital, which had crushed all opposition, and 
 overthrown the laws of the land, and was preying upon the 
 people. Jurgis recollected how, when he had first come to 
 Packingtown, he had stood and watched the hog-kilhng, 
 and thought how cruel and savage it was, and come away 
 congratulating himself that he was not a hog; now his new 
 acquaintance showed him that a hog was just what he had 
 been—one of the packers’ hogs. jWhat they wanted from 
 a hog was all the profits that could be got out of him; and 
 that was what they wanted from the working-man,and also 
 that was what they wanted from the public; What the hog 
 thought of it, and what he suffered, were^not considered; 
 and no more was it with labor, and no more with the pur¬ 
 chaser of meat. That was true everywhere in the world, 
 but it was especially true in Packingtown; there seemed 
 to be something about the work of slaughtering that tended 
 to ruthlessness and ferocity—it was literally the fact that 
 in the methods of the packers a hundred human lives did 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 377 
 
 not balance a penny of profit. When Jurgis had made 
 himself familiar with the Socialist literature, as he would 
 very quickly, he would get glimpses of the Beef Trust 
 from all sorts of aspects, and he would find it everywhere 
 the same; it was the incarnation of blind and insensate 
 Greed. It was a monster devouring with a thousand 
 mouths, trampling with a thousand hoofs; it was the 
 Great Butcher — it was the spirit of Capitalism made flesh. 
 Upon the ocean of commerce it sailed as a pirate ship; it 
 had hoisted the black flag and declared war upon ci’dliza- 
 tiom Bribery and corruption were its everyday methods. 
 In Chicago the city government was simply one of its 
 branch-offices; it stole billions of gallons of city water 
 openly, it dictated to the courts the sentences of disorderly 
 strikers, it forbade the mayor to enforce the building laws 
 against it. In the national capital it had power to prevent 
 inspection of its product, and to falsify government 
 reports; it violated the rebate laws, and when an investi¬ 
 gation was threatened it burned its books and sent its 
 criminal agents out of the country. In the commercial 
 world it was a .Juggernaut car; it wiped“butlhousands of 
 businesses every year, it drove men to madness and suicide. 
 It had forced the price of cattle so low as to destroy the 
 stock-raising industry, an occupation upon which whole 
 states existed; it had ruined thousands of butchers who 
 had refused to handle its-products. It divided the coun¬ 
 try into districts, and fixed the price of meat in ail of 
 them ; and it owned all the refi’igerator cars, and levied an 
 enormous tribute upon all poultry and eggs and fruit and 
 vegetables. With the millions of dollars a week th-at 
 poured in upon it, it was reaching out for the control of 
 other interests, railroads and trolley lines, gas and electric 
 light franchises — it already owned the leather and the 
 grain business of the country. The people were tremen- 
 dously stirred up over its encroachments, but nobody had 
 any remedy to suggest; it was the task of Socialists to 
 teach and organize them, and prepare them for the tin>e 
 when they were to seize the huge machine called the Beef 
 Trust, and use it to produce food for human beings and 
 
 25 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 STS 
 
 not to heap up fortunes for a band of pirates. — It was 
 long after midnight when Jurgis lay down upon the floor of 
 Ostrinski’s kitchen; and yet it was an hour before he could 
 get to sleep, for the glory of that joyful vision of the 
 people of Packingtown marching in and taking possession 
 of the Union Stockyards 1 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 
 JURGis had breakfast with Ostrinski and his family, and 
 then he went home to Elzbieta. He was no longer shy 
 about it — when he went in, instead of saying all the things 
 he had been planning to say, he started to tell Elzbieta 
 about the revolution! At first she thought he was out of 
 his mind, and it was hours before she could really feel 
 certain that he was himself. When, however, she had 
 satisfied herself that he was sane upon all subjects except 
 politics, she troubled herself no further about it. Jurgis 
 was destined to find that Elzbieta's armor was absoluteK 
 impervious to Socialism. Her soul had been baked hard in 
 the fire of adversity, and there was no altering it now; 
 life to her was the hunt for daily bread, and ideas existed 
 for her only as they bore upon that. All that interested 
 her in regard to this new frenzy which had seized hold of 
 her son-in-law was whether or not it had a tendency to 
 make him sober and industrious; and when she found he 
 intended to look for work and to contribute bis share to the 
 family fund, she gave him full rein to convince her of any¬ 
 thing. A wonderfully wise little woman was Elzbieta; 
 she could think as quickly as a hunted rabbit, and in half 
 an hour she had chosen her life-attitude to the Socialist 
 movement. She agreed in everything with Jurgis, except 
 the need of his paying his dues; and she would even go to 
 a meeting with him now and then, and sit and plan her 
 next day’s dinner amid the storm. 
 
 For a week after he became a convert Jurgis continued 
 to wander about all day, looking for work; until at last 
 he met with a strange fortune. He was passing one of 
 
 «79 
 
880 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 Chicago’s innumerable small hotels, and after some hesita^ 
 tion he concluded to go in. A man he took for the pro¬ 
 prietor was standing in the lobby, and he went up to him 
 and tackled him for a job. 
 
 “ What can you do ? ” the man asked, 
 
 “Anything, sir,” said Jurgis, and added quickly; “I’ve 
 been out of work for a long time, sir. I’m an honest man, 
 and I’m strong and willing — ” 
 
 The other was 
 he asked. 
 
 “No, sir,” said Jurgis. 
 
 “Well, I’ve been employing a man as a porter, and he 
 drinks. I’ve discharged him seven times now, and I’ve 
 about made up my mind that’s enough. Would you be a 
 porter?” 
 
 “ Yes, sir.” 
 
 “ It’s hard work. You’ll have to clean floors and wash 
 spittoons and fill lamps and handle trunks-—” 
 
 “ I’m willing, sir.” 
 
 “ All right. I’ll pay you thirty a month and board, and 
 you can begin now, if you feel like it. You can put on the 
 other fellow’s rig.” 
 
 And so Jurgis fell to work, and toiled like a Trojan till 
 night. Then he went and told Elzbieta, and also, late as 
 it was, he paid a visit to Ostrinski to let him know of his 
 good fortune. Here he received a great surprise, for when 
 he was describing the location of the hotel Ostrinski inter¬ 
 rupted suddenly, “ Not Hinds’s I ” 
 
 “Yes,” said Jurgis, “that’s the name.” 
 
 To which the other replied, “ Then you’ve got the best 
 boss in Chicago — he’s a state organizer of our party, and 
 one of our best-known speakers I ” 
 
 So the next morning Jurgis went to his employer and 
 told him; and the man seized him by the hand and shook 
 “By Jove I” he cried, “that lets me out. I didn’t 
 sleep all last night because I had discharged a good Social¬ 
 ist! ” 
 
 So, after that, Jurgis was known to his “boss” as “Com¬ 
 rade Jurgis,” and in return he was expected to call him 
 
 eying him narrowly. “ Do you drink? 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 383. 
 
 ** Comrade Hindso” Tommy ” Hinds, as he was known to 
 his intimates, was a squat little man, with broad shoulders 
 and a florid face, decorated with gray side-whiskers. He 
 was the kindest-hearted man that ever lived, and the 
 liveliest—-inexhaustible in his enthusiasm, and talking 
 Socialism all day and all night. He was a great fellow to 
 jolly along a crowd, and would keep a meeting in an 
 uproar; when once he got really waked up, the torrent 
 of his eloquence could be compared with nothing save 
 Niagara. 
 
 Tommy Hinds had begun life as a blacksmith’s helper, 
 and had. run away to join the Union army, where he had 
 made his first acquaintance with “ graft,” in the shape of 
 rotten muskets and shoddy blankets. To a musket that 
 broke in a crisis he always attributed the death of his only 
 brother, and upon worthless blankets he blamed all the 
 agonies of his own old age. Whenever it rained, the 
 rheumatism would get into his joints, and then he would 
 screw up his face and mutter: “Capitalism, my boy, Capi¬ 
 talism I ‘ Ecrasez VInfdme ! ’ ” He had one unfailing 
 remedy for all the evils of this world, and he preached it 
 to every one ; no matter whether the person’s trouble was 
 failure in business, or dyspepsia, or a quarrelsome mother- 
 in-law, a twinkle would come into his eyes and he would 
 say, “You know what to do about it — vote the Socialist 
 ticket! ” 
 
 Tommy Hinds had set out upon the trail of the Octopus 
 as soon as the war was over. He had gone into business, 
 and found himself in competition with the fortunes of those 
 who had been stealing while he had been fighting. The 
 city government was in their hands and the railroads were 
 in league with them, and honest business was driven to the 
 wall; and so Hinds had put all his savings into Chicago 
 real estate, and set out single-handed to dam the river of 
 graft. He had been a reform member of the city council, 
 he had been a Greenbacker, a Labor Unionist, a Populist, 
 a Bryanite — and after thirty years of fighting, the year 
 1896 had served to convince him that the power of concen 
 trated wealth could never be controlled, but could only be 
 
382 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 destroyed. He had published a pamphlet about it, and set 
 out to organize a party of his own, when a stray Socialist 
 leaflet had revealed to him that others had been ahead of 
 him. Now for eight years he had been fighting for the 
 party, anywhere, everywhere — whether it was a G. A. R, 
 reunion, or a hotel-keepers’ convention, or an Afro-Ameri¬ 
 can business-men’s banquet, or a Bible society picnic. 
 Tommy Hinds would manage to get himself invited to 
 explain the relations of Socialism to the subject in hand. 
 After that he would start off upon a tour of his own, end¬ 
 ing at some place between New York and Oregon; and 
 when he came back from there, he would go out to organize 
 new locals for the state committee; and finally he would 
 come home to rest—and talk Socialism in Chicago. 
 Hinds’s hotel was a very hot-bed of the propaganda ; all 
 the employees were party men, and if they were not when 
 they came, they were quite certain to be before they went 
 away. The proprietor would get into a discussion with 
 some one in the lobby, and as the conversation grew ani¬ 
 mated, others would gather about to listen, until finally every 
 one in the place would be crowded into a group, and a 
 regular debate would be under way. This went on every 
 night — when Tommy Hinds was not there to do it, bis 
 clerk did it; and when his clerk was away campaigning, the 
 assistant attended to it, while Mrs. Hinds sat behind the 
 desk and did the work. The clerk was an old crony of 
 the proprietor’s, an awkward, raw-boned giant of a man, 
 with a lean, sallow face, a broad mouth, and whiskers under 
 his chin, the very type and body of a prairie farmer. He 
 had been that all his life — he had fought the railroads in 
 Kansas for fifty years, a Granger, a Farmers’ Alliance man, 
 a “ middle-of-the-road ” Populist. Finally, Tommy Hinds 
 had revealed to him the wonderful idea of using the trusts 
 instead of destroying them, and he had sold his farm and 
 come to Chicago. 
 
 That was Amos Struver; and then there was Harry 
 Adams, the assistant clerk, a pale, scholarly-looking man, 
 who came from Massachusetts, of Pilgrim stock. Adams 
 had been a cotton operative in Fall River, and the con- 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 383 
 
 tinued depression in the industry had worn him and his 
 family out, and he had emigrated to South Carolina. In 
 Massachusetts the percentage of white illiteracy is eight- 
 tenths of one per cent, while in South Carolina it is 
 thirteen and six-tenths per cent; also in South Carolina 
 there is a property qualification for voters — and for these 
 and other reasons child-labor is the rule, and so the cotton 
 mills were driving those of Massachusetts out of the busi¬ 
 ness. Adams did not know this, he only knew that the 
 Southern mills were running; but when he got there he 
 found that if he was to live, all his family would have to 
 work, and from six o’clock at night to six o’clock in the 
 morning. So he had set to work to organize the mill- 
 hands, after the fashion in Massachusetts, and had been 
 discharged ; but he had gotten other work, and stuck at it, 
 and at last there had been a strike for shorter hours, and 
 Harry Adams had attempted to address a street meeting, 
 which was the end of him. In the states of the far South 
 the labor of convicts is leased to contractors, and when 
 there are not convicts enough they have to be supplied. 
 Harry Adams was sent up by a judge who was a cousin of 
 the mill-owner with whose business he had interfered; and 
 though the life had nearly killed him, he had been wise 
 enough not to murmur, and at the end of his terra he and 
 his family had left the state of South Carolina — hell’s 
 back yard, as he called it. He had no money for car-fare, 
 but it was harvest-time, and they walked one day and 
 worked the next; and so Adams got at last to Chicago, 
 and joined the Socialist party. He was a studious man, 
 reserved, and nothing of an orator; but he always had a- 
 pile of books under his desk in the hotel, and articles from 
 his pen were beginning to attract attention in the party 
 press. 
 
 Contrary to what one would have expected, all this 
 radicalism did not hurt the hotel business; the radicals 
 flocked to it, and the commercial travellers all found it 
 diverting. Of late, also, the hotel had become a favorite 
 stopping-place for Western cattlemen. Now that the Beef 
 Trust had adopted the trick of raising prices to induce 
 
384 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 enormous shipments of cattle, and then dropping them 
 again and scooping in all they needed, a stock-raiser was 
 very apt to find himself in Chicago without money enough 
 to pay his freight bill; and so he had to go to a cheap hotel, 
 and it was no drawback to him if there was an agitator 
 talking in the lobby. These Western fellows were just 
 “meat” for Tommy Hinds—he would get a dozen of 
 them around him and paint little pictures of “ the Sys¬ 
 tem.” Of course, it was not a week before he had heard 
 Jurgis’s story, and after that he would not have let his 
 new porter go for the world. “ See here,” he would say, in 
 the middle of an argument, “ I’ve got a fellow right here 
 in ray place who’s worked there and seen every bit of it! ” 
 And then Jurgis would drop his work, whatever it was, 
 and come, and the other would say, “ Comrade Jurgis, just 
 tell these gentlemen what you saw on the killing-beds.” 
 At first this request caused poor Jurgis the most acute 
 agony, and it wa,s like pulling teeth to get him to talk; 
 but gradually he found out what was wanted, and in the 
 end he learned to stand up and speak his piece with enthu¬ 
 siasm. His employer would sit by and encourage him with 
 exclamations and shakes of the head ; when Jurgis would 
 give the formula for “ potted ham,” or tell about the 
 condemned hogs that were dropped into the “ destructors ” 
 at the top and immediately taken out again at the bottom, to 
 be shipped into another state and made into lard. Tommy 
 Hinds would bang his knee and cry, “Do you think a 
 man could make up a thing like that out of his head ? ” 
 And then the hotel-keeper would go on to show how 
 the Socialists had the only real remedy for such evils, how 
 they alone “ meant business ” with the Beef Trust. And 
 when, in answer to this, the victim would say that the 
 whole country was getting stirred up, that the newspapers 
 were full of denunciations of it, and the government tak¬ 
 ing action against it. Tommy Hinds had a knock-out blow 
 all ready. “Yes,” he would say, “ all that is true — but 
 what do you suppose is the reason for it? Are you foolish 
 enough to believe that it’s done for the public? There are 
 other trusts in the country just as illegal and extortionate 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 385 
 
 as the Beef Trust : there is the Coal Trust, that freezes 
 the poor in winter—there is the Steel Trust, that doubles 
 the price of every nail in your shoes — there is the Oil 
 Trust, that keeps you from reading at night — and why do 
 you suppose it is that all the fury of the press and the 
 government is directed against the Beef Trust?” And when 
 to this the victim would reply that there was clamor enough 
 over the Oil Trust, the other would continue: “ Ten years 
 ago Henry D. Lloyd told all the truth about the Standard 
 Oil Company in his ‘ Wealth versus Commonwealth ’; and 
 the book was allowed to die, and you hardly ever hear of 
 it. And now, at last, two magazines have the courage to 
 tackle ‘ Standard Oil ’ again, and what happens ? The 
 newspapers ridicule the authors, the churches defend the 
 criminals, and the government — does nothing. And now, 
 why is it all so different with the Beef Trust ? ” 
 
 Here the other would generally admit that he was 
 “ stuck ”; and Tommy Hinds would explain to him, and it 
 was fun to see his eyes open. “ If you were a Socialist,” 
 the hotel-keeper would say, “ you would understand that 
 the power which really governs the United States to-day 
 is the Railroad Trust. It is the Railroad Trust that I’unf 
 your state government, wherever you live, and that run 
 the United States Senate. And all of the trusts that 
 have named are railroad trusts — save only the Bee 
 Trust! The Beef Trust has defied the railroads — it k 
 plundering them day by day through the Private Car; and 
 80 the public is roused to fury, and the papers clamor for 
 action, and the government goes on the war-path! And 
 you poor common people watch and applaud the job, and 
 think it’s all done for you, and never dream that it is 
 really the grand climax of the century-long battle of com¬ 
 mercial competition, — the final death-grapple between the 
 chiefs of the Beef Trust and ‘ Standard Oil,’ for the prize 
 of the mastery and ownership of the United States of 
 America! ” 
 
 Such was the new home in which .Jurgis lived and 
 worked, and in which his education was completed. Per- 
 
386 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 haps you would imagine that he did not do much work 
 there, but that would be a great mistake. He would have 
 cut off one hand for Tommy Hinds; and to keep Hinds’s 
 hotel a thing of beauty was his joy in life. That he had a 
 score of Socialist arguments chasing through his brain in 
 the meantime did not interfere with this; on the contrary, 
 Jurgis scrubbed the spittoons and polished the banisters all 
 the more vehemently because at the same time he was 
 wrestling inwardly with an imaginary recalcitrant. It 
 would be pleasant to record that he swore off drinking 
 immediately, and all the rest of his bad habits with it; but 
 that would hardly be exact. These revolutionists were 
 not angels; they were men, and men who had come up 
 from the social pit, and with the mire of it smeared over 
 them. Some of them drank, and some of them swore, and 
 some of them ate pie with their knives ; there was only one 
 difference between them and all the rest of the populace — 
 that they were men with a hope, with a cause to fight for 
 •and suffer for. There came times to J urgis when the vision 
 seemed far-off' and pale, and a glass of beer loomed large in 
 comparison; but if the glass led to another glass, and to too 
 many glasses, he had something to spur him to remorse and 
 resolution on the morrow. It was so evidently a wicked 
 thing to spend one’s pennies for drink, when the working- 
 class was wandering in darkness, and waiting to be de¬ 
 livered ; the price of a glass of beer would buy fifty copies 
 of a leaflet, and one could hand these out to the unregener¬ 
 ate, and then get drunk upon the thought of the good that 
 was being accomplished. That was the way the movement 
 had been made, and it was the only way it would progress; 
 it availed nothing to know of it, without fighting for it — 
 it was a thing for all, not for a few I A corollary of this 
 proposition of course was, that any one who refused to re¬ 
 ceive the new gospel was personally responsible for keep¬ 
 ing Jurgis from his heart’s desire; and this, alas, made 
 him uncomfortable as an acquaintance. He met some 
 neighbors with whom Elzbieta had made friends in her 
 neighborhood, and he set out to make Socialists of them 
 by wholesale, and several times he all but got into a fight. 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 OS')* 
 
 It was aU so painfully obvious to Jurgfis T It was so in¬ 
 comprehensible how a man could fail to see it! Here were 
 all the opportunities of the country, the land, and the build¬ 
 ings upon the land, the railroads, the mines, the factories, 
 and the stores, all in the hands of a few private individuals, 
 called capitalists, for whom the people were obliged to 
 work for wages. The whole balance of what the people 
 produced went to heap up the fortunes of these capitalists, 
 to heap, and heap again, and yet again — and that in spite of 
 the fact that they, and every one about them, lived in un¬ 
 thinkable luxury! And was it not plain that if the people 
 cut off the share of those who merely “owned,” the share of 
 those who worked would be much greater ? That was as 
 plain as two and two makes four; and it was the whole of it, 
 absolutely the whole of it; and yet there were people who 
 could not see it, who would argue about everything else in 
 the world. They would tell you that governments could 
 not manage things as economically as private individuals; 
 they would repeat and repeat that, and think they were ' 
 saying something I They could not see that “ economical ” 
 management by masters meant simply that they, the people, 
 were worked harder and ground closer and paid less! 
 They were wage-earners and servants, at the mercy of ex¬ 
 ploiters whose one thought was to get as much out of them 
 as possible; and they were taking an interest in the process, 
 were anxious lest it should not be done thoroughly enough ! 
 Was it not honestly a trial to listen to an argument such 
 as that? 
 
 And yet there were things even worse, Ton would 
 begin talking to some poor devil who had worked in one 
 shop for the last thirty years, and had never been able to 
 save a penny; v/ho left home every morning at six o’clock, 
 to go and tend a machine, and come back at night too tired 
 to take his clothes off; who had never had a week’s vaca¬ 
 tion in his life, had never travelled, never had an adventure,- 
 never learned anything, never hoped anything--and when 
 you started to tell him about Socialism he would sniff and 
 say, “ I’m not interested in that — I’m an individualist! 
 And then h« would go on to tell you that Socialism wa/? 
 
388 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 “Paternalism,” and that if it ever had its way the world 
 would stop progressing. It was enough to make a mule 
 laugh, to hear arguments like that; and yet it was no 
 laughing matter, as you found out—for how many mil¬ 
 lions of such poor deluded wretches there were, whose lives 
 had been so stunted by Capitalism that they no longer 
 knew what freedom was! And they really thought that it 
 was “ Individualism ” for tens of thousands of them to herd 
 together and obey the orders of a steel magnate, and pro¬ 
 duce hundreds of millions of dollars of wealth for him, and 
 then let him give them libraries; while for them to take 
 the industry, and run it to suit themselves, and build their 
 own libraries—that would have been “Paternalism” ! 
 
 Sometimes the agony of such things as this was almost more 
 than Jurgis could bear; yet there was no way of escape from 
 it, there was nothing to do but to dig away at the base of 
 this mountain of ignorance and prejudice. You must keep 
 at the poor fellow ; you must hold your temper, and argue 
 with him, and watch for your chance to stick an idea or two 
 into his head. And the rest of the time you must sharpen 
 up your weapons,—you must think out new replies to 
 his objections, and provide yourself with new facts to 
 prove to him the folly of his ways. 
 
 So Jui’gis acquired the reading habit. He would carry 
 in his pocket a tract or a pamphlet which some one had 
 loaned him, and whenever he had an idle moment dur¬ 
 ing the day he would plod through a paragraph, and 
 then think about it while he worked. Also he read 
 the newspapers, and asked questions about them. One of 
 the other porters at Hinds’s was a sharp little Irishman, who 
 knew everything that Jurgis wanted to know; and while 
 they were busy he would explain to him the geography of 
 America, and its history, its constitution and its laws; also 
 he gave him an idea of the business system of the country, 
 the great railroads and corporations, and who owned them, 
 and the labor unions, and the big strikes, and the men who 
 had led them. Then at night, when he could get off, Jur¬ 
 gis would attend the Socialist meetings. During the cam¬ 
 paign one was not dependent upon the street-corner affairs. 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 389 
 
 where the weather and the quality of the orator were equally 
 uncertain; there were hall meetings every night, and one 
 could hear speakers of national prominence. These dis¬ 
 cussed the political situation from every point of view, 
 and all that troubled Jurgis was the impossibility of carry¬ 
 ing off but a small part of the treasures they offered him. 
 
 There was a man who was known in the party as the 
 “ Little Giant.” The Lord had used up so much material 
 in the making of his head that there had not been enough 
 to complete his legs; but he got about on the platform, 
 and when he shook his raven whiskers tlie pillars of Capi¬ 
 talism rocked. He had written a veritable encyclopaedia 
 upon the subject, a book that was nearly as big as himself. 
 — And then there was a young author, who came from 
 California, and had been a salmon-tisher, an oyster-pirate, 
 a longshoreman, a sailor; who had tramped the country 
 and been sent to jail, had lived in the Whitechapel slums, 
 and been to the Klondike in search of gold. All these 
 things he pictured in his books, and because he was a man 
 of genius he forced the world to hear him. Now he was 
 famous, but wherever he went he still preached the gospel 
 of the poor. — And then there was one who was known 
 as the “millionnaire Socialist.” He had made a fortune in 
 buoineis, and spent nearly all of it in building up a maga¬ 
 zine, which the post-office department had tried to suppress, 
 and had driven to Canada. He was a quiet-mannered man, 
 whom you would have taken for anything in the world 
 but a Socialist agitator. His speech was simple and in¬ 
 formal — he could not understand why any one should get 
 excited about these things. It was a process of economic 
 evolution, he said, and he exhibited its laws and methods. 
 Life was a struggle for existence, and the strong overcame 
 the weak, and in turn were overcome by the strongest. 
 Those who lost in the struggle were generally exterminated; 
 but now and then they had been known to save themselves 
 by combination — which was a new and higher kind of 
 strength. It was so that the gregarious animals had over¬ 
 come the predaceous; it was so, in human history, that 
 the people had mastered the kings. The workers were 
 
390 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 simply the citizens of industry, and the Socialist movement 
 was the expression of their will to survive. The inevita¬ 
 bility of the revolution depended upon this fact, that they 
 had no choice but to unite or bo exterminated; this fact, 
 grim and inexorable, depended upon no human will, it was 
 the law of the economic process, of which the editor showed 
 the details with the most marvellous precision. 
 
 And later on came the evening of the great meeting ot 
 the campaign, when Jurgis heard the two standard-bearers 
 of his party. Ten years before there had been in Chicago 
 a strike of a hundred and fifty thousand railroad employees, 
 and thugs had been hired by the railroads to commit 
 violence, and the President of the United States had sent 
 in troops to break the strike, by flinging the officers of the 
 union into jail without trial. The president of the union 
 came out of his cell a ruined man; but also he came out a 
 Socialist; and now for just ten years he had been travelling 
 up and down the country, standing face to face with the 
 people, and pleading with them for justice. He was a man 
 of electric presence, tall and gaunt, with a face worn thin 
 by struggle and suffering. The fury of outraged manhood 
 gleamed in it — and the tears of suffering little children 
 pleaded in his voice. When he spoke he paced the stage, 
 lithe and eager, like a panther. He leaned over, reaching 
 out for his audience ; he pointed into their souls with an 
 insistent finger. His voice was husky from much speaking, 
 but the great auditorium was as still as death, and every 
 one heard him. 
 
 And then, as Jurgis came out from this meeting, some 
 one handed him a paper which he carried home with him 
 and read; and so he became acquainted with the “ Appeal 
 to Reason.” About twelve years previously a Colorado 
 real-estate speculator had made up his mind that it was 
 wrong to gamble in the necessities of life of human beings; 
 and so he had retired and begun the publication of a 
 Socialist weekly. There had come a time when he had to 
 set his own type, but he had held on and won out, and now 
 his publication was an institution. It used a car-load of 
 paper every week, and the mail-trains would be hours 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 391 
 
 ioading up at the depot of the little Kansas town. It was a 
 four-page weekly, which sold for less than half a cent a 
 copy; its regular subscription list was a quarter of a mill¬ 
 ion, and it went to every cross-roads post-office in America. 
 
 The “Appeal” was a “propaganda” paper. It had a 
 manner all its own, — it was full of ginger and spice, of 
 Western slang and hustle. It collected news of the doings 
 of the “ plutes,” and served it up for the benefit of the 
 “American working-mule.” It would have columns of 
 the deadly parallel,— the million dollars’worth of diamonds, 
 or the fancy pet-poodle establishment of a society dame, 
 beside the fate of Mrs. Murphy of San Francisco, who had 
 starved to death on the streets, or of John Robinson, just 
 out of the hospital, who had hanged himself in New Yoik 
 because he could not find vvork. It collected the stories 
 of graft and misery from the daily press, and made little 
 pungent paragraphs out of them. “ Three banks of Bung- 
 town, South Dakota, failed, and more savings of the 
 workers swallowed up I” “The mayor of Sandy Creek, 
 Oklahoma, has skipped with a hundred thousand dollars. 
 That’s the kind of rulers the old partyites give you! ” 
 “ The president of the Florida Flying Machine Company 
 is in jail for bigamy. He was a prominent opponent of So¬ 
 cialism, which he said would break up the home! ” The 
 “Appeal” had what it called its “Army,” about thirty 
 thousand of the faithful, who did things for it; and it was 
 always exhorting the “Army” to keep its dander up, and 
 occasionally encouraging it with a prize competition, for 
 anything from a gold watch to a private yacht or an eighty- 
 acre farm. Its office helpers were all known to the “Army” 
 by quaint titles—“Inky Ike,” “the Bald-headed Man,” 
 “ the Red-headed Girl,” “ the Bulldog,” “ the Office 
 Goat,” and “the One Hoss.” 
 
 But sometimes, again, the “Appeal” would be desperately 
 serious. It sent a correspondent to Colorado, and printed 
 pages describing the overthrow of American institutions 
 in that state. In a certain city of the country it had over 
 forty of its “Army” in the headquarters of the Telegraph 
 Trust, and no message of importance to Socialists ever 
 
392 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 went through that a copy of it did not go to the “Appeal.” 
 It would print great broadsides during the eampaign; one 
 copy that came to Jurgis was a manifesto addressed to 
 striking working-men, of which nearly a million copies had 
 been distributed in the industrial centres, wherever the 
 employers’ associations had been carrying out their “ open 
 shop” program. “You have lost the strike!” it was 
 headed. “And now what are you going to do about it?” 
 It was what is called an “incendiary” appeal, — it was 
 written by a man into whose soul the iron had entered. 
 .When this edition appeared, tv/enty thousand copies were 
 sent to the stockyards district; and they were taken out 
 and stowed away in the rear of a little cigar-store, and 
 every evening, and on Sundays, the members of the Pack- 
 ingtown locals would get armfuls and distribute them on 
 the streets and in the houses. The people of Packing- 
 town had lost their strike, if ever a people had, and so 
 they read these papers gladly, and twenty thousand were 
 hardly enough to go round. Jurgis had resolved not to 
 go near his old home again, but when he heard of this it 
 was too much for him, and every night for a week he 
 would get on the car and ride out to the stockyards, and 
 help to undo his work of the previous year, when he had 
 sent Mike Scully’s ten-pin setter to the city Board of 
 Aldermen. 
 
 It was quite marvellous to see what a difference twelve 
 months had made in Packingtown — the eyes of the people 
 were getting opened! The Socialists were literally sweep¬ 
 ing everything before them that election, and Scully and 
 the Cook County machine were at their wits’ end for an 
 “issue.” At the very close of the campaign they be¬ 
 thought themselves of the fact that the strike had been 
 broken by negroes, and so they sent for a South Carolina 
 fire-eater, the “pitchfork senator,” as he was called, a 
 man who took off his coat when he talked to working-men, 
 and damned and swore like a Hessian. This meeting they 
 advertised extensively, and the Socialists advertised it too 
 — with the result that about a thousand of them were 
 on hand that evening. The “pitchfork senator” stood 
 
THE JUHGLE 
 
 393 
 
 their fusillade of questions for about an hour, and then 
 went home in disgust, and the balance of the meeting was 
 a strictly party affair. Jurgis, who had insisted upon com¬ 
 ing, had the time of his life that night; he danced about and 
 waved his arms in his excitement—and at the very climax 
 he broke loose from his friends, and got out into the aisle, 
 and proceeded to make a speech himself! The senator 
 had been denying that the Democratic party was corrupt; 
 it was always the Republicans who bought the votes, he 
 said,—and here was Jurgis shouting furiously, “It’s a lie! 
 It’s a lie! ” After which he went on to tell them how he 
 knew it—that he knew it because he had bought them 
 himself! And he would have told the “pitchfork senator” 
 %.il his experiences, had not Harry Adams and a friend 
 grabbed him about the neck and shoved him into a seat. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 One of the first things that Jurgis had done after he 
 got a job was to go and see Marija. She came down into 
 the basement of the house to meet him, and he stood by 
 the door with his hat in his hand, saying, “ I’ve got work 
 now, and so you can leave here.” 
 
 But Marija only shook her head. There was nothing 
 else for her to do, she said, and nobody to employ her. 
 She could not keep her past a secret — girls had tried it, 
 and they were always found out. There were thousands 
 of men who came to this place, and sooner or later she 
 would meet one of them. “ And besides,” Marija added, 
 “ I can’t do anything, I’m no good — I take dope. What 
 could you do with me ? ” 
 
 “ Can’t you stop ? ” Jurgis cried. 
 
 “ No,” she answered, “ I’ll never stop. What’s the use 
 of talking about it — I’ll stay here till I die, I guess. It’s 
 all I’m fit for.” And that was all that he could get her to 
 say — there was no use trying. When he told her he 
 would not let Elzbieta take her money, she answered indif¬ 
 ferently; “ Then it’ll be wasted here — that’s all.” Her 
 eyelids looked heavy and her face was red and swollen; he 
 saw that he was annoying her, that she only wanted him to 
 go away. So he went, disappointed and sad. 
 
 Poor Jurgis was not very happy in his home-life. 
 Elzbieta was sick a good deal now, and the boys were wild 
 and unruly, and very much the worse for their life upon 
 the streets. But he stuck by the family nevertheless, for 
 they reminded him of his old happiness; and when things 
 went wrong he could solace himself with a plunge into 
 the Socialist movement. Since his life had been caught 
 
 394 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 395 
 
 up into the current of this great stream, things which 
 had before been the whole of life to him came to seem of 
 relatively slight importance; his interes ts were elsewher e, 
 in the world of ideas. His ontwardJlfe was commonplace 
 and uninteresting; he was just a hotel-porter, and ex¬ 
 pected to remain one while he lived; but meantime, in 
 the realm of thought, his life was a perpetual adventure. 
 There was so much to know — so many wonders to be dis¬ 
 covered I Never in all his life did Jurgis forget the day 
 before election, when there came a telephone message from a 
 friend of Harry Adams, asking him to bring Jurgis to see 
 him that night ; and Jurgis went, and met one of the minds 
 of the movement. 
 
 The invitation was from a man named Fisher, a Chicago 
 millionnaire who had given up his life to settlement-work, 
 and had a little home in the heart of the city’s slums. He 
 did not belong to the party, but he was in sympathy with 
 it; and he said that he was to have as his guest that 
 night the editor of a big Eastern magazine, who wrote 
 against Socialism, but really did not know what it was. 
 The millionnaire suggested that Adams bring Jurgis along, 
 and then start up the subject of “^pure food,’.’ in which the 
 editor was interested. ■* 
 
 Young Fisher’s home was a little two-story brick house, 
 dingy and weather-beaten outside, but attractive within. 
 The room that Jurgis saw was half lined with books, and 
 upon the walls were many pictures, dimly visible in the 
 soft, yellow light ; it was a cold, rainy night, so a log-fire 
 was crackling in the open hearth. Seven or eight people 
 were gathered about it when Adams and his friend arrived, 
 and Jurgis saw to his dismay that three of them were 
 ladies. He had never talked to people of this sort before, 
 and he fell into an agony of embarrassment. He stood in 
 the doorway clutching his hat tightly in his hands, and 
 made a deep bow to each of the persons as he was intro¬ 
 duced ; then, when he was asked to have a seat, he took a 
 chair in a dark corner, and sat down upon the edge of it, 
 and wiped the perspiration off his forehead with his sleeve. 
 He was terrified lest they should expect him to talk. 
 
396 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 There was the host himself, a tall, athletic young man, 
 clad in evening dress, as also was the editor, a dyspeptic¬ 
 looking gentleman named Maynard. There was the 
 former’s frail young wife, and also an elderly lady, who 
 taught kindergarten in the settlement, and a young college 
 student, a beautiful girl with an intense and earnest face. 
 She only spoke once or twice while Jurgis was there — the 
 rest of the time she sat by the table in the centre of the 
 room, resting her chin in her hands and drinking in 
 the conversation. There were two other men, whom young 
 Fisher had introduced to Jurgis as Mr. Lucas and Mr. 
 Schliemann; he heard them address Adams as “ Comrade,” 
 and so he knew that they were Socialists. 
 
 The one called Lucas was a mild and meek-looking little 
 gentleman of clerical aspect; he had been an itinerant 
 evangelist, it transpired, and had seen the light and be¬ 
 come a prophet of the new dispensation. He travelled all 
 over the country, living like the apostles of old, upon 
 hospitality, and preaching upon street-corners when there 
 was no hall. The other man had been in the midst of h 
 discussion with the editor when Adams and Jurgis came 
 in; and at the suggestion of the host they resumed it after 
 the interruption. Jurgis was soon sitting spellbound, 
 thinking that here was surely the strangest man that had 
 ever lived in the world. 
 
 Nicholas Schliemann was a Swede, a tall, gaunt person, 
 with hairy hands and bristling yellow beard; he was a 
 university man, and had been a professor of philosophy — 
 until, as he said, he had found that he was selling his char¬ 
 acter as well as his time. Instead he had come to America, 
 where he lived in a garret-room in this slum district, and 
 made volcanic energy take the place of fire. He studied 
 the composition of food-stuffs, and knew exactly how many 
 proteids and carbohydrates his body needed; and by 
 scientific chewing he said that he tripled the value of all 
 he ate, so that it cost him eleven cents a day. About the 
 first of July he would leave Chicago for his vacation, on 
 foot; and when he struck the harvest-fields he would set 
 to work for two dollars and a half a day, and come home 
 
THE J [JHGLE 
 
 397 
 
 fhen he had another year’s supply — a hundred and 
 twenty-five dollars. That was the nearest approach to in¬ 
 dependence a man could make “ under capitalism,” he ex¬ 
 plained ; he would never marry, for no sane man would 
 allow himself to fall in love until after the revolution. 
 
 He sat in a big arm-chair, with his legs crossed, and his 
 head so far in the shadow that one saw only two glowing 
 lights, reflected from the fire on the hearth. He spoke 
 simply, and utterly without emotion ; with the manner of 
 a teacher setting forth to a group of scholars an axiom in 
 geometry, he would enunciate such propositions as made 
 the hair of an ordinary person rise on end. And when the 
 auditor had asserted his non-comprehension, he would pro¬ 
 ceed to elucidate by some new proposition, yet more appall¬ 
 ing. To Jurgis the Herr Dr. Schliemann assumed the 
 proportions of a thunder-storm or an earthquake. And yet, 
 strange as it might seem, there was a subtle bond between 
 them, and he could follow the argument nearly all the 
 time. He was carried over the difficult places in spite of 
 himself; and he went plunging away in mad career — a 
 very IMazeppa-ride upon the wild horse Speculation. 
 
 Nicholas Schliemann was familiar with all the universe, 
 and with man as a small part of it. He understood human 
 institutions, and blew them about like soap-bubbles. It 
 was surprising that so much destructiveness could be con¬ 
 tained in one human mind. Was it government? The 
 purpose of government was the guarding of property-rights, 
 the perpetuation of ancient force and modern fraud. Or 
 was it marriage ? Marriage and prostitution were two 
 sides of one shield, the predatory man’s exploitation of the 
 sex-pleasure. The difference between them was a differ¬ 
 ence of class. If a woman had money she might dictate 
 her own terms ; equality, a life-contract, and the legitimacy 
 — that is, the property-rights — of her children. If she had 
 no money, she was a proletarian, and sold herself for an 
 existence. And then the subject became Religion, which was 
 the Arch-fiend’s deadliest weapon. Government oppressed 
 the body of the wage-slave, but Religion oppressed hi: 
 mind, and poisoned the stream of progress at its source 
 
398 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 The working-man was to fix his hopes upon a future life, 
 while his pockets were picked in this one; he was brought 
 up to frugality, humility, obedience, — in short to all the 
 pseudo-virtues of capitalism. The destiny of civilization 
 would be decided in one final death-struggle between the 
 Red International and the Black, between Socialism and 
 the Roman Catholic Church; while here at home, “the 
 stygian midnight of American evangelicalism — ” 
 
 And here the ex-preacher entered the field, and there 
 was a lively tussle. “ Comrade ” Lucas was not what is 
 called an educated man; he knew only the Bible, but it 
 was the Bible interpreted by real experience. And what 
 was the use, he asked, of confusing Religion with men’s 
 perversions of it? That the church was in the hands of 
 the merchants at the moment was obvious enough; but 
 already there were signs of rebellion, and if Comrade 
 Schliemann could come back a few years from now — 
 
 “ Ah, yes,” said the other, “ of course. I have no doubt 
 that in a hundred years the Vatican will be denying that 
 it ever opposed Socialism, lust as at present it denies that 
 it ever tortured Galileo.” 
 
 “I am not defending the Vatican,” exclaimed Lucas, 
 vehemently. “ I am defending the word of God — which 
 is one long cry of the human spirit for deliverance from 
 the sway of oppression. Take the twenty-fourth chapter 
 of the Book of Job, which I am accustomed to quote in my 
 addresses as ‘ the Bible upon the Beef Trust ’; or take the 
 words of Isaiah — or of the Master himself! Not the 
 degant prince of our debauched and vicious art, not 
 the jewelled idol of our society churches — but the Jesus 
 of the awful reality, the man of sorrow and pain, the out¬ 
 cast, despised of the world, who had no where to lay his 
 head — ” 
 
 “I will grant you Jesus,” interrupted the other. 
 
 “ Well, then,” cried Lucas, “ and why should Jesus have 
 nothing to do with his church — why should his words and 
 his life be of no authority among those who profess to 
 adore him ? Here is a man who was the world’s first 
 revolutionist, the true founder of the Socialist movement ? 
 
THF- JDMGLE 
 
 399 
 
 a man whose whole being was one flame of hatred for 
 wealth, and all that wealth stands for, — for the pride of 
 wealth, and the luxury of wealth, and the tyranny of wealth; 
 who was himself a beggar and a tramp, a man of the people, 
 an associate of saloon-keepers and women of the town; 
 who again and again, in the most explicit language, de¬ 
 nounced wealth and the holding of wealth: ‘ Lay not up 
 for youi-selves treasures on earthl’ — ‘Sell that ye have 
 and give alms ! ’ — ‘ Blessed are ye poor, for yours is the 
 kingdom of Heaven I’ — ‘Woe unto you that are rich, for 
 ye have received your consolation I ’— ‘Verily, I say unto 
 you, that a rich man shall hardly enter into the kingdom 
 of Heaven I ’ Who denounced in unmeasured terms the 
 exploiters of his own time: ‘Woe unto j'^ou, scribes and 
 pharisees, hypocrites I’ — ‘Woe unto you also, you law¬ 
 yers I’— ‘Ye serpents, ye generation of vipers, how can 
 ye escape the damnation of hell ? ’ Who drove out the 
 business men and brokers from the temple with a whip I 
 Who was crucified — think of it — for an incendiary and 
 a disturber of the social order I And this man they have 
 made into the high-priest of property and smug respecta¬ 
 bility, a divine sanction of all the horrors and abominations 
 of modern commercial civilization 1 Jewelled images are 
 made of him, sensual priests burn incense to him, and mod¬ 
 ern pirates of industry bring their dollars, wrung from the 
 toil of helpless women and children, and build temples to 
 him, and sit in cushioned seats and listen to his teachings 
 expounded by doctors of dusty divinity — ” 
 
 “Bravo I” cried Schliemann, laughing. But the other 
 was in full career—he had talked this subject every day 
 for five years, and had never yet let himself be stopped 
 “ This Jesus of Nazareth I ” he cried. “ This class-con 
 scious working-man I This union carpenter 1 This agitator, 
 law-breaker, firebrand, anarchist I He, the sovereign lord 
 and master of a world which grinds the bodies and souls 
 of human beings into dollars — if he could come into the 
 world this day and see the things that men have made in 
 his name, would it not blast his soul with horror? Would 
 he not go mad at the sight of it, he the Prince of Mercy 
 
40(i 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 and Love! That dreadful night when he la,y in the Garden 
 of Gethsemane and writhed in agony until he sweat blood 
 -—do you think that he saw anything worse than he might 
 see to-night upon the plains of Manchuria, where men 
 march out with a jewelled image of him before them, to do 
 wholesale murder for the benefit of foul monsters of sen¬ 
 suality and cruelty ? Do you not know that if he were in 
 St. Petersburg now, he would take the whip with which 
 he drove out the bankers from his temple — ” 
 
 Here the speaker paused an instant for breath. “No, 
 comrade,” said the other, dryly, “ for he was a practical 
 man. He would take pretty little imitation-lemons, such 
 as are now being shipped into Russia, handy for carrying 
 in the pockets, and strong enough to blow a whole temple 
 out of sight.” 
 
 Lucas waited until the company had stopped laughing 
 over this ; then he began again: “ But look at it from the 
 point of view of practical politics, comrade. Here is an 
 historical figure whom all men reverence and love, whom 
 some regard as divine; and who was one of us — who lived 
 our life, and taught our doctrine. And now shall we leave 
 him in the hands of his enemies—■ shall we allow them to 
 stifle and stultify his example ? We have his words, which 
 no one can deny; and shall we not quote them to the 
 people, and prove to them what he was, and what he taught, 
 and what he did? No, no,—-a thousand times no! — we 
 shall use his authority to turn out the knaves and slug¬ 
 gards from his ministry, and we shall yet rouse the people 
 to action! — ” 
 
 Lucas halted again; and the other stretched out his 
 hand to a paper on the table. “ Here, comrade,” he said, 
 with a laugh, “ here is a place for you to begin. A bishop 
 whose wife has just been robbed of fifty thousand dollars’ 
 worth of diamonds! And a most unctuous and oily of 
 bishops I An eminent and scholarly bishop I A philan¬ 
 thropist and friend of labor bishop—-a Civic Federation 
 decoy-duck for the chloroforming of the wage-working¬ 
 man ! ” 
 
 To this little passage of arms the rest of the company 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 401 
 
 as spectators. But now Mr. Maynard, the editor, took oc* 
 frasion to remark, somewhat naively, that he had always 
 understood that Socialists had a cut-and-dried programme 
 for the future of civilization; whereas here were two active 
 members of the party, who, from what he could make out, 
 were agreed about nothing at all. Would the two, for his 
 enlightenment, try to ascertain just what they had in com* 
 mon, and why they belonged to the same party ? This 
 resulted, after much debating, in the formulating of two 
 carefully worded propositions: First, that a Socialist be¬ 
 lieves in the common ownership and democratic manage¬ 
 ment of the means of producing the necessities of life; and, 
 second, that a socialist believes that the means by which 
 this is to be brought about is the class-conscious political 
 organization of the wage-earners. Thus far they were at 
 one; but no farther. To Lucas, the religious zealot, 
 the cooperative commonwealth was the New Jerusalem, 
 the kingdom of Heaven, which is “ within you.” To the 
 ^ other. Socialism was simply a necessary step toward a 
 far-distant goal, a step to be tolerated with impatience. 
 Schliemann called himself a “philosophic anarchist”; and 
 he explained that an anarchist was one who believed that 
 the end of human existence was the free development of 
 every personality, unrestricted by laws save those of its 
 own being. Since the same kind of match would light 
 every one’s fire and the same-shaped loaf of bread would 
 fill every one’s stomach, it would be perfectly feasible to 
 submit industry to the control of a majority vote. There 
 was only one earth, and the quantity of material things 
 was limited. Of intellectual and moral things, on the 
 other hand, there was no limit, and one could have more 
 without another’s having less; hence “ Communism in 
 material production, anarchism in intellectual,” was the 
 formula of modern proletarian thought. As soon as the 
 birth-agony was over, and the wounds of society had been 
 healed, there would be established a simple system whereby 
 each man was credited with his labor and debited with his 
 purchases; and after that the processes of production, ex¬ 
 change, and consumption would go on automatically, and 
 
 27 
 
402 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 without our being conscious of them, any more than a man 
 is conscious of the beating of his heart. And then, explained 
 Schliemann, society would break up into independent, self- 
 governing communities of mutually congenial persons j 
 examples of which at present were clubs, churches, and po¬ 
 litical parties. After the revolution, all the intellectual, 
 artistic, and spiritual activities of men would be cared for 
 by such “ free associations ”; romantic novelists would be 
 supported by those who liked to read romantic novels, and 
 impressionist painters would be supported by those who 
 liked to look at impressionist pictures — and the same with 
 preachers and scientists, editors and actors and musicians. 
 If any one wanted to work or paint or pray, and could find 
 no one to maintain him, he could support himself by work¬ 
 ing part of the time. That was the case at present, the 
 only difference being that the competitive wage-system 
 compelled a man to work all the time to live, while, after 
 the abolition of privilege and exploitation, any one would 
 be able to support himself by an hour’s work a day. Also 
 the artist’s audience of the present was a small minority 
 of people, all debased and vulgarized by the effort it had 
 cost them to win in the commercial battle; of the intellec¬ 
 tual and artistic activities which would result when the 
 whole of mankind was set free from the nightmare of com¬ 
 petition, we could at present form no conception what 
 ever. 
 
 And then the editor wanted to know upon what ground 
 Dr. Schliemann asserted that it might be possible for a society 
 to exist upon an hour’s toil by each of its members. “Just 
 what,” answered the other, “would be the productive 
 capacity of society if the present resources of science were 
 utilized, we have no means of ascertaining; but we may be 
 sure it would exceed anything that would sound reasonable 
 to minds inured to the ferocious barbarities of Capitalism. 
 After the triumph of the international proletariat, war 
 would of course be inconceivable; and who can figure the 
 cost of war to humanity — not merely the value of the 
 lives and the material that it destroys, not merely the cost 
 of keeping millions of men in idleness, of arming and 
 
J'HE JUNGLE 
 
 equipping them for battle and parade, but the drain 
 upon the vital energies of society by the war-attitude and 
 the war-terror, the brutality and ignorance, the drunken¬ 
 ness, prostitution, and crime it entails, the industrial impo¬ 
 tence and the moral deadness ? Do you think that it 
 would be too much to say that two hours of the working 
 time of every efficient member of a community goes to 
 feed the red fiend of war ? ” 
 
 And then Sehliemann went on to outline some of the 
 wastes of competition: the losses of industrial warfare ; 
 the ceaseless worry and friction; the vices — such as drink, 
 for instance, the use of which had nearly doubled in twenty 
 years, as a consequence of the intensification of the eco¬ 
 nomic struggle ; the idle and unproductive members of the 
 community, the frivolous rich and the pauperized poor; 
 the law and the whole machinery of repression ; the wastes 
 of social ostentation, the milliners and tailors, the hair¬ 
 dressers, dancing masters, chefs and lackeys. “ You under¬ 
 stand,” he said, “ that in a society dominated by the fact 
 of commercial competition, money is necessarily the test 
 of prowess, and wastefulness the sole criterion of power. 
 So we have, at the present moment, a society with, say, 
 thirty per cent of the population occupied in producing 
 useless articles, and one per cent occupied in destroying 
 them. And this is not all; for the servants and panders 
 of the parasites are also parasites, the milliners and the 
 jewellers and the lackeys have also to be supported by the 
 useful members of the community. And bear in mind 
 also that this monstrous disease affects not merely the 
 idlers and their menials, its poison penetrates the whole 
 social body. Beneath the hundred thousand women of 
 the elite are a million middle-class women, miserable 
 because they are not of the ^lite, and trying to appear of 
 it in public; and beneath them, in turn, are five million 
 farmers’ wives reading ‘ fashion papers ’ and trimming 
 bonnets, and shop-girls and serving-maids selling them¬ 
 selves into brothels for cheap jewellery and imitation seal¬ 
 skin robes. And then consider that, added to this 
 competition in display, you have, like oil on the flames, a 
 
40i 
 
 THE JUiVGLE 
 
 whole system of competition in selling! You have manu¬ 
 facturers contriving tens of thousands of catchpenny 
 devices, storekeepers displaying them, and newspapers and 
 magazines tilled up with advertisements of them!” 
 
 ‘‘And don’t forget the wastes of fraud,” put in young 
 Fisher, • 
 
 “ When one comes to the ultra-modern profession of 
 advertising,” responded Schliemann,—“ the science of per¬ 
 suading people to buy wliat they do not want,—he is in 
 the very centre of the ghastly charnel-house of capitalist 
 destructiveness, and he scarcely knows which of a dozen 
 horrors to point out first. But consider the waste in time 
 and energy incidental to making ten thousand varieties of 
 a thing for purposes of ostentation and snobbishness, where 
 one variety would do for use! Consider all the waste 
 incidental to the manufacture of cheap qualities of goods, 
 of goods made to sell and deceive the ignorant; consider 
 the wastes of adulteration,—the shoddy clothing, the 
 cotton blankets, the unstable tenements, the ground-cork 
 life-preservers, tlie adulterated milk, the analine soda-water, 
 the potato-flour sausages—” 
 
 “And consider the moral aspects of the thing,” put in 
 the ex-preacher. 
 
 “ Precisely,” said Schliemann; “the low knavery and the 
 ferocious cruelty incidental to them, the plotting and the 
 lying and the bribing, the blustering and bragging, 
 the screaming egotism, the hurrying and worrying. Of 
 course, imitation and adulteration are the essence of com- 
 peti‘"ion—they are but another form of the phrase ‘to buy 
 in tne cheapest market and sell in the dearest.’ A govern¬ 
 ment oflicial has stated that the nation suffers a loss of a 
 billion and a quarter dollars a year through adulterated 
 foods; which means, of course, not only materials wasted 
 that might have been useful outside of the human stomach, 
 but doctors and nurses for people who would otherwise 
 have been well, and undertakers for the whole human race 
 ten or twenty years before the proper time. Then again, 
 consider the waste of time and energy required to sell 
 these things in a dozen stores, where one would do. There 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 406 
 
 are a million or two of business firms in the country, and 
 five or ten times as many clerks; and consider the hand¬ 
 ling and rehandling, the accounting and reaccounting, the 
 planning and worrying, the balancing of petty profit and 
 loss. Consider the whole machinery of the civil law made 
 necessary by these processes; the libraries of ponderous 
 tomes, the courts and juries to interpret them, the lawyers 
 studying to circumvent them, the pettifogging and chi¬ 
 canery, the hatreds and lies ! Consider the wastes 
 incidental to the blind and haphazard production of com* 
 modities, — the factories closed, the workers idle, the goods 
 spoiling in storage; consider the activities of the stock- 
 manipulator, the paralyzing of whole industries, the over- 
 stimulation of others, for speculative purposes ; the assign¬ 
 ments and bank-failures, the crises and panics, the deserted 
 towns and the starving populations! Consider the ener¬ 
 gies wasted in the seeking of markets, the sterile trades, 
 such as drummer, solicitor, bill-poster, advertising agent. 
 Consider the wastes incidental to the crowding into cities, 
 made necessary by competition and by monopoly railroad- 
 rates ; consider the slums, the bad air, the disease and the 
 waste of vital energies; consider the office-buildings, the 
 waste of time and material in the piling of story upon story, 
 and the burrovnng underground! Then take the whole 
 business of insurance, the enormous mass of administrative 
 and clerical labor it involves, and all utter waste — ” 
 
 “ I do not follow that,” said the editor. 
 
 “ The Cooperative Commonwealth is a universal auto¬ 
 matic insi’rance compau}’^ and savings-bank for all its mem¬ 
 bers. Capital being the property of all, injury to it is 
 shared by all and made up by all. The bank is the uni¬ 
 versal government credit-account, the ledger in which 
 every individual’s earnings and spendings are balanced 
 There is also a universal government bulletin, in which are 
 listed and precisely described everything which the com 
 monwealth has for sale. As no one makes any profit by 
 the sale, there is no longer any stimulus to extravagance 
 and no misrepresentation ; no cheating, no adulteration or 
 imitation, no bribery or ‘ grafting.’ ” 
 
406 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 “ How is the price of an article determined ? ” 
 
 “ The price is the labor it has cost to make and deliver 
 it, and it is determined by the first principles of arithmetic. 
 The million workers in the nation’s wheat-fields have 
 worked a hundred days each, and the total product of the 
 labor is a billion bushels, so the value of a bushel of wheat 
 is the tenth part of a farm labor-day. If we employ an 
 arbitrary symbol, and pa}^, say, five dollars a day for farm- 
 work, then the cost of a bushel of wheat is fifty cents.” 
 
 “ You say ‘ for farm-work,’ ” said Mr. Maynard. “ Then 
 labor is not to be paid alike ? ” 
 
 “ Manifestly not, since some work is easy and some hard, 
 and we should have millions of rural mail-carriers, and no 
 coal-miners. Of course the wages may be left the same, 
 and the hours varied; one or the other will have to be 
 varied continually, according as a greater or less number 
 of workers is needed in any particular industry. That is 
 precisely what is done at present, except that the transfer 
 of the workers is accomplished blindly and imperfectly, by 
 rumors and advertisements, instead of instantly and com¬ 
 pletely, by a universal government bulletin.” 
 
 > “ How about those occupations in which time is difficult 
 
 to calculate ? What is the labor cost of a book ? ” 
 
 “ Obviously it is the labor cost of the paper, printing, and 
 binding of it — about a fifth of its present cost.” 
 
 “ And the author? ” 
 
 “ I have already said that the state could not control in, 
 tellectual production. The state might say that it had 
 taken a year to write the book, and the author might say it 
 had taken thirty. Goethe said that every hon mot of his had 
 cost a purse of gold. What I outline here is a national, 
 or rather international, system for the providing of the 
 material needs of men. Since a man has intellectual needs 
 also, he will work longer, earn more, and provide for them 
 to his own taste and in his own way. I live on the same 
 earth as the majority, I wear the same kind of shoes and 
 sleep in the same kind of bed ; but I do not think the same 
 kind of thoughts, and I do not wish to pay for such think¬ 
 ers as the majority selects. I wish such things to be left 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 407 
 
 to free effort, as at present. If people want to listen to a 
 certain preacher, they get together and contribute what 
 they please, and pay for a church and support the preacher, 
 and then listen to him; I, who do not want to listen to 
 him, stay away, and it costs me nothing. In the same way 
 there are magazines about Egyptian coins, and Catholic 
 saints, and flying machines, and athletic records, and I 
 know nothing about any of them. On the other hand, if 
 wage-slavery were abolished, and I could earn some spare 
 money without paying tribute to an exploiting capitalist, 
 then there would be a magazine for the purpose of inter¬ 
 preting and popularizing the gospel of Friedrich Nietzsche, 
 the prophet of Evolution, and also of Horace Fletcher, the 
 inventor of the noble science of clean eating; and inciden¬ 
 tally, perhaps, for the discouraging of long skirts, and the 
 scientific breeding of men and women, and the establishing 
 of divorce by mutual consent.” 
 
 Dr. Schliemann paused for a moment. “ That was a 
 lecture,” he said with a laugh, ‘‘and yet I am only 
 begun ! ” 
 
 “ What else is there?” asked Maynard. 
 
 “ I have pointed out some of tlie negative wastes of 
 competition,” answered the other. “ I have hardly men¬ 
 tioned the positive economies of cooperation. Allowing 
 five to a family, there are fifteen million families in this 
 country; and at least ten million of these live separately, 
 the domestic drudge being either the wife or a wage-slave. 
 Now set aside the modern system of pneumatic house-clean¬ 
 ing, and the economies of cooperative cooking; and con¬ 
 sider one single item, the washing of dishes. Surely it is 
 moderate to say that the dish-washing for a family of five 
 takes half an hour a day; with ten hours as a day’s work, 
 it takes, therefoi-e, half a million able-bodied persons — 
 mostly women — to do the dish-washing of the country. 
 And note that this is most filthy and deadening and brutal¬ 
 izing work; that it is a cause of anaemia, nervousness, 
 ugliness, and ill-temper; of prostitution, suicide, and insan¬ 
 ity; of drunken husbands and degenerate children — for 
 all of which things the community has natuially to pay^ 
 
t08 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 And now consider that in each of my little free commu’ 
 lities there would be a machine which would wash and dry 
 vhe dishes, and do it, not merely to the eye and the touch, 
 uut scientifically — sterilizing them — and do it at a saving 
 of all of the drudgery and nine-tenths of the time I All of 
 these things you may find in the books of Mrs. Gilman; 
 and then take Kropotkin’s ‘ Fields, Factories, and Work¬ 
 shops,’ and read about the new science of agriculture, which 
 has been built up in the last ten years; by which, with 
 made soils and intensive culture, a gardener can raise ten 
 or twelve crops in a season, and two hundred tons of vege¬ 
 tables upon a single acre; by which the population of the 
 whole globe could be supported on the soil now cultivated 
 in the United States alone I It is impossible to apply such 
 methods now, owing to the ignorance and poverty of our 
 scattered farming population; but imagine the problem of 
 providing the food supply of our nation once taken in hand 
 systematically and rationally, by scientists I All the poor 
 and rocky land set apart for a national timber-reserve, in 
 which our children play, and our young men hunt, and our 
 poets dwell I The most favorable climate and soil for each 
 product selected; the exact requirements of the commu¬ 
 nity known, and the acreage figured accordingly; the most 
 improved machinery employed, under the direction of ex¬ 
 pert agricultural chemists I I was brought up on a farm, 
 and I know the awful deadliness of farm-work; and I like 
 to picture it all as it will be after the revolution. To pic¬ 
 ture the great potato-planting machine, drawn by four 
 horses, or an electric motor, ploughing the furrow, cutting 
 and dropping and covering the potatoes, and planting a 
 score of acres a day I To picture the great potato-digging 
 machine, run by electricity, perhaps, and moving across a 
 thousand-acre field, scooping up earth and potatoes, and 
 dropping the latter into sacks 1 To see every other kind 
 of vegetable and fruit handled in the same way — apples 
 and oranges picked by machinery, cows milked by electric¬ 
 ity — things which are already done, as you may know. 
 To picture the harvest-fields of the future, to which mill¬ 
 ions of happy men and women come for a summer holidayt 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 409 
 
 brought by special trains, the exactly needful number to 
 each place! And to contrast all this with our present 
 agonizing system of independent small farming,—a stunted, 
 haggard, ignorant man, mated with a yellow, lean, and sad¬ 
 eyed drudge, and toiling from four o’clock in the morning 
 until nine at night, working the children as soon as thej 
 are able to walk, scratching the soil with its primitive 
 tools, and shut out from all knowledge and hope, from all 
 the benefits of science and invention, and all the joys of 
 the spirit—held to a bare existence by competition in ^ 
 labor, and boasting of his freedom because he is too blind 
 to see his chains! ’ 
 
 Dr Schliemann paused a moment, “And then,” he 
 continued, “ place beside this fact of an unlimited food sup¬ 
 ply, the newest discovery ot physiologists, that most of the 
 ills of the human system are due to overfeeding! And 
 then again, it has been proven that meat is unnecessary as 
 a food; and meat is obviously more difficult to produce 
 than vegetable food, less pleasant to prepare andliandle, 
 and more likely to be unclean. But what of that, so long 
 as it tickles the palate more strongly ? ” 
 
 “ How would Socialism change that ? ” asked the girl- 
 student, quickly. It was the first time she had spoken. 
 
 “ So long as we have wage slavery,” answered Schlie- .- 5 \ 
 mann, “it matters not in the least ho v debasing and repul- t* 
 sive a task may be, it is easy to find people to perform it. 
 But just as soon as labor is set free, then the price of such Jj 
 work will begin to rise. So one by one the old, dingy, and 
 unsanitary factories will come down—it will be cheaper 
 to build new; and so tbe steamships will be provided with 
 stoking-machinery, and so the dangerous trades will be 
 made safe, or substitutes will be found for their products. 
 
 In exactly the same way, as the citizens of our Industrial 
 Republic become refined, year by year the cost of slaughter¬ 
 house produets will increase; until eventually those who 
 want to eat meat will have to do their own killing—and 
 how long do you think the custom would survive then? 
 
 —To go on to another item—one of the necessary accom- 
 naniments of capitalism in a democracy is political cor- 
 
410 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 ruption; anid one of the consequences of civic administra 
 tion by ignorant and vicious politicians, is that preventable 
 diseases kill off half our population. And even if science 
 were allowed to try, it could do little, because the majority 
 of human beings are not yet human beings at all, but simpl}>- 
 machines for the creating of wealth for others. They are 
 penned up in filthy houses and left to rot and stew in 
 misery, and the conditions of their life make them ill faster 
 than all the doctors in the world could heal them; and so, 
 of course, they remain as centres of contagion, poisoning 
 the lives of all of us, and making happiness impossible for 
 even the most selfish. For this reason I would seriously 
 maintain that all the medical and surgical discoveries that 
 science can make in the future will be of less importance 
 than the application of the knowledge we already possess, 
 when the disinherited of the earth have established their 
 right to a human existence.” 
 
 And here the Herr Doctor relapsed into silence again. 
 Jurgis had noticed that the beautiful young girl who sat 
 by the centre-table was listening with something of the 
 same look that he himself had worn, the time when he had 
 first discovered Socialism. Jurgis would have liked to talk 
 to her, he felt sure that she would have understood him. 
 Later on in the evening, when the group broke up, he 
 heard Mrs. Fisher say to her, in a low voice, “ I wonder if 
 Mr. Maynard will still write the same things about Social¬ 
 ism ; ” to which she answered, “ I don’t know — but if he 
 does we shall know that he is a knave ! ” 
 
 ****** 
 
 And only a few hours after this came election day—when 
 the long campaign was over, and the whole country seemed 
 to stand still and hold its breath, awaiting the issue. Jur¬ 
 gis and the rest of the staff of Hinds’s Hotel could hardly 
 stop to finish their dinner, before they hurried off to the 
 big hall which the party had hired for that evening. 
 
 But already there were people waiting, and already the 
 telegraph instrum.ent on the stage had begun clicking off 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 411 
 
 the returns^. When the final accounts were made up, the 
 Socialist vote proved to be over four hundred thousand— 
 an increase of something like three hundred and fifty per 
 cent in four years. And that was doing well; but the party 
 was dependent for its early returns upon messages from 
 the locals, and naturally those locals which had been most 
 successful were the ones which felt most like reporting; 
 and so that night every one in the hall believed that the 
 vote was going to be six, or seven, or even eight hundred 
 thousand. Just such an incredible increase had actually 
 been made in Chicago, and in the state; the vote of the 
 city had been 6700 in 1900, and now it was 47,000; that 
 of Illinois had been 9600, and now it was 69,000 ! So, as 
 the evening waxed, and the crowd piled in, the meeting 
 was a sight to be seen. Bul’-etins would be read, and the 
 people would shout themselves hoarse ; and then some one 
 would make a speech, and there would be more shouting ; 
 and then a brief silence, and more bulletins. There would 
 come messages from the secretaries of neighboring states, 
 reporting their achievements; the vote of Indiana had gone 
 from 2300 to 12,000; of Wisconsin from 7000 to 28,000; of 
 Ohio from 4800 to 36,000! There were telegrams to the 
 national office from enthusiastic individuals in little towns 
 which had made amazing and unprecedented increases in a 
 single year: Benedict, Kansas, from 26 to 260; Hender¬ 
 son, Kentucky, from 19 to 111; Holland, Michigan, from 
 14 to 208 ; Cleo, Oklahoma, from 0 to 104 ; Martin’s 
 Ferry, Ohio, from 0 to 296 — and many more of the 
 same kind. There were literally hundreds of such towns; 
 there would be reports from half a dozen of them in a 
 single batch of telegrams. And the men who read the 
 despatches off to the audience were old campaigners, who 
 had been to the places and helped to make the vote, and 
 could make appropriate comments: Quincy, Illinois, from 
 189 to 831 — that was where the mayor had arrested a 
 Socialist speaker I Crawford County, Kansas, from 285 to 
 1975, that was the home of the “Appeal to Reason”! 
 Battle Creek, Michigan, from 4261 to 10,184; that was the 
 answer of labor to the Citizens’ Alliance Movement! 
 
412 
 
 THE JUNGLE 
 
 And then there were official returns from the various 
 precincts and wards of the city itself! Whether it was a 
 factory district or one of the “ silk-stocking ” wards seemed 
 to make no particular difference in the increase; but one 
 of the things which surprised the party leaders most was 
 the tremendous vote that came rolling in from the stock- 
 yards. Packingtown comprised three wards of the city, 
 and the vote in the spring of 1903 had been five hundred, 
 and in the fall of the same year, sixteen hundred. Now, 
 only a year later, it was over sixty-three hundred — and 
 the Democratic vote only eighty-eight hundred I There 
 were other wards in which the Democratic vote had been 
 actually surpassed, and in two districts, members of the 
 state legislature had been elected. Thus Chicago now led 
 the country; it had set a new standard for the party, it 
 had shown the working-men the way I 
 
 — So spoke an orator upon the platform ; and two thou¬ 
 sand pairs of eyes were fixed upon him, and two thousand 
 voices were cheering his every sentence. The orator had 
 been the head of the city’s relief bureau in the stockyards, 
 until the sight of misery and corruption had made him 
 sick. He was young, hungry-looking, full of fire; and as 
 he swung his long arms and beat up the crowd, to Jurgis 
 he seemed the very spirit of the revolution. “ Organize I 
 Organize! Organize!”—that was his cry. He was afraid 
 of this tremendous vote, which his party had not expected, 
 and which it had not earned. “These men are not So¬ 
 cialists ! ” he cried. “ This election will pass, and the ex¬ 
 citement will die, and people will forget about it; and if 
 you forget about it, too, if you sink back and rest upon 
 your oars, we shall lose this vote that we have polled to¬ 
 day, and our enemies will laugh us to scorn ! It rests with 
 you to take your resolution — now, in the flush of ^fictory, 
 to find these men who have voted for us, and bring them 
 to our meetings, and organize them and bind them to us! 
 We shall not find all our campaigns as easy as this one. 
 Everywhere in the country to-night the old party politi¬ 
 cians are studying this vote, and setting their sails by it; 
 and nowhere will they be quicker or more cunning than 
 
THE JUNGLE 
 
 41S 
 
 here in oui own city. Fifty thousand Socialist votes in 
 Chicago means a municipal-ownership Democracy in 
 the spring ! And then they will fool the voters once more, 
 and all the powers of plunder and corruption will be swept 
 into office again! But whatever they may do when they 
 get in, there is one thing they will not do, and that will 
 be the thing for which they were elected! They will not 
 give the people of our city municipal ownership — they 
 will not mean to do it, they will not try to do it; all that 
 they will do is give our party in Chicago the greatest 
 opportunity that has ever come to Socialism in America! 
 We shall have the sham reformers self-stultified and self- 
 convicted ; we shall have the radical Democracy left with¬ 
 out a lie with which to cover its nakedness! And. then 
 will begin the rush that will never be checked, the tide 
 I that will never turn till it has reached its flood — that will 
 be irresistible, overwhelming — the rallying of the out¬ 
 raged working-men of Chicago to our standard! And we 
 shall organize them, we shall drill them, we shall marshal 
 them for the victory! We shall bear down the opposition, 
 we shall sweep it before us — and Chicago will be ours 
 Chicago will be ours! CHICAGO WILL BE OURSl” 
 
 THE ENI> 
 
OIL! 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 By UPTON SINCLAIR 
 
 S INCLAIR’S first full-length novel in eight years; a 
 picture of the oil industry, beginning in Southern 
 California, and taking in the world-struggle. 
 
 A complex pattern of present-day life, into which 
 are woven oil magnates and labor leaders, financiers 
 and Soviet agents, “holy rollers” and Socialist agita¬ 
 tors, moving picture stars and producers, flappers and 
 grandmothers of flappers; a swiftly moving panorama 
 of business and politics, jazz dancing and evangelism, 
 love and war, diplomatic intrigue, strikes, jails, and 
 revolutionary martyrdom. 
 
 Floyd Dell writes: “I can hardly tear myself away 
 from it. Tremendously absorbing. It can’t help mak¬ 
 ing an impression on America. I love the book for 
 all the richness of life that has gone into it, the im¬ 
 mense range of its interest, the eagle-swooping vistas 
 of American life; for the new tolerance it displays, for 
 its tremendous story-telling capacity, its Tolstoyan 
 ease in grasping a huge theme. A splendid novel 
 . . . truly epic.” ^ ^ 
 
 Translations und^ way in Russia, France, Ger¬ 
 many, Holland, Swe den, Czecho-slovakia and Japan. 
 
 One of the longest novels ever published in Amer¬ 
 ica, “OIL!” might have been made into three volumes 
 and sold for $7.50. 
 
 Price, Cloth Bound, $2.50 
 UPTON SINCLAIR - Pasadena, Calif. 
 
A New Novel by Upton Sinclair 
 
 100 % 
 
 THE STORY OF A PATRIOT 
 
 W/ OULD you like to g'o behind the scenes and see tlie 
 ^ “mvisible government” of your countiy saving you from 
 the Bolsheviks and the Reds? Would you like to meet the 
 secret agents and provocateurs of “Big Business,” to know 
 what they look like, how tliey talk and what they are doing 
 to make the world safe for democracy? Several of these 
 gentlemen have been haunting the home of Upton Sinclair 
 during the past three years and he has had the idea of turn¬ 
 ing the tables and investigating the investigators. He has put 
 one of them, Peter Gudge by name, into a book, together with 
 Peter’s ladyloves, and his wife, and his boss and a whole 
 group of his fellow-agents and their employers. 
 
 The hero of this book is a red-blooded, 100% American, 
 a “he-man” and no mollycoddle. He begins with the Mooney 
 case, and goes through half a dozen big cases of which you 
 have heard. His story is a fact-stoiy of America from 1916 
 to 1920, and will make a bigger sensation than “The Jungle.” 
 Albert Rhys Williams, author of “Lenin” and “In the Claws 
 of the German Eagle,” read the MS. and wrote: 
 
 “This is the first novel of yours that T have read through 
 with real interest. It is your most timely work, and is bound to 
 make a sensation. I venture that you will have even more trouble 
 than you had with ‘The Brass Check’—in getting the books 
 minted fast enough.” 
 
 Single copy, paper, $1.00 postpaid. 
 Single copy, cloth, $1.50 postpaid. 
 
 UPTON SINCLAIR, Pasadena, California 
 
A book which has been absolutely boycotted by the literary 
 reviews of America. 
 
 THE PROFITS 
 OF RELIGION 
 
 By Upton Sinclair 
 
 A STUDY of Supernaturalism as a Source of Income and a 
 Shield to Privilege; the first examination in any language 
 of institutionalized religion from the economic point of 
 view. “Has the labour as well as the merit of breaking virgin 
 soil,” writes Joseph McCabe. The book has had practically no 
 advertising and only two or three reviews in radical publications; 
 yet forty thousand copies have been sold in the first year. 
 
 From the Rev. John Haynes Holmes: “I must confess that it has fairly 
 made me writhe to read these pages, not because they are untrue or un¬ 
 fair, but on the contrary, because I know them to be the real facts. I 
 love the church as I love my home, and therefore it is no pleasant expe¬ 
 rience to be made to face such a story as this which you have told. It 
 had to be done, however, and I am glad you have done it, for my interest 
 in the church, after all, is more or less incidental, whereas my interest in 
 religion is a fundamental thing. . . . Let me repeat again that I feel 
 
 that you have done us all a service in the writing of this book. Our 
 Churches today, like those of ancient Palestine, are the abode of Pharisees 
 and scribes. It is as spiritual and helpful a thing now as it was in 
 Jesus’ day for that fact to be revealed.” 
 
 From Luther Burbank: “No one has ever told ‘the truth, the whole 
 truth, and nothing but the truth’ more faithfully than Upton Sinclair in 
 ‘The Profits of Religion.’ ” 
 
 From Louis Untermeyer: “Let me add my quavering alto to the chorus 
 of applause of ‘The Profits of Religion.’ It is something more than a 
 book—it is a Work!” 
 
 Single copy, paper, $1.00 postpaid. 
 
 Single copy, cloth, $1.50 postpaid. 
 
 UPTON SINCLAIR - Pasadena, California