“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 for 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 vocabulary 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?”
“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—”
“Yes, 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!”
“You would have done well to think about them before you committed the 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.
18
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, 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 hearing 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 down 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 Stanislovas was also trembling, and all but too frightened to speak. “They—they sent me to tell 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 almost 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, breathlessly. “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—”
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 off. And Marija cries all the time—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 whimper. “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 toward the child. There was an old hatred between them because of the snow—ever since that dreadful morning when the boy had had his fingers frozen and Jurgis had had to beat him to send him to work. Now he 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 Stanislovas, 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—”
Jurgis reeled, and gave a gasp. “She went back to that place?” he screamed.
“She tried to,” said Stanislovas, gazing at him in perplexity. “Why not, Jurgis?”
The man breathed hard, three or four times. “Go—on,” he panted, finally.
“I went with her,” said Stanislovas, “but Miss Henderson wouldn’t take her back. And Connor saw her and cursed her. He was still bandaged up—why did you hit him, Jurgis?” (There was some fascinating 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 us now. So I’ve got to go down-town and sell papers with the rest of the boys and Kotrina—”
“Kotrina!”
“Yes, she’s been selling papers, too. She does best, because she’s a girl. Only the cold is so bad—it’s terrible coming home at night, Jurgis. Sometimes they can’t come home at all—I’m going to try to find 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 table 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. “You cannot help us?” he said, weakly.
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 hesitation, 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.
EIGHTEEN
JURGIS 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 expected to be free he found himself still set at the stoneheap, 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 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 his 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!”
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 stockyards?” Jurgis demanded.
“I don’t go,” replied the boy.
Jurgis hesitated a moment, nonplussed. Then he said, “I mean which is the way?”
“Why don’t yer say so then?” was the response, and the boy pointed to the northwest, across the tracks. “That way.”
“How far is it?” Jurgis asked.
“I dunno” said the other. “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, following his flying desire, almost at a run. Ona—the baby—the family—the house—he would know the truth about them all! And he was coming to the rescue—he was free again! His hands were his own, and he could help them, he could do battle for them against the world.
For an hour or so he walked thus, and then he began to look about him. He seemed to be leaving the city altogether. The street was turning into a country road, leading out to the westward; there were snow-covered fields on either side of him. Soon he met a farmer driving a two-horse wagon loaded with straw, and he stopped him.
“Is this the way to the stockyards?” he asked.
The farmer scratched his head. “I dunno jest where they be,” he said. “But they’re in the city somewhere, and you’re going dead away from it now.”