CHAPTER 27

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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; 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 himself, for he was one marked out

for destruction. His old companions would betray him, for the

sake of the influence they would gain thereby; and he would be

made to suffer, not merely for the offense 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 before, 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.

Jurgis became once more a besieger of factory gates. But never

since he 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 lest 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 satchel. 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 maddening 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! 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 in perspiration, and start up and

flee. He would walk, begging for work, until he was exhausted;

he could not 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 plenty 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 all 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! He was doomed! There was

no hope for him! But then, with 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!

He was still muttering this when suddenly, at the corner, 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

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, all night long. When

Jurgis heard of this, from a fellow "hobo," he vowed that he

would have half a dozen bowls 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 a 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 lay 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 opportunities he had

lost. For instance, just now it was election time again--within

five or six weeks the voters of 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 of

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 heed

him, until toward evening he saw an old lady getting off a

streetcar 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 restaurant

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 football.

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 tonight, the speaker being no less a

personage 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 homeless wretches from a mile

around would pour in and fill 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 were pleasing to the wage-earners of the

nation.

So Jurgis found himself in a large hall, elaborately decorated

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 Republican Association" at the stockyards, and helped to

elect Mike Scully's tenpin setter to the Chicago Board of

Aldermen!

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! 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!

The eloquent senator was explaining the system of protection; an

ingenious device whereby the workingman permitted 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 the 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 was the gem of the ocean; and all her future

triumphs, her power and good repute among the nations, depended

upon the zeal and fidelity with which each citizen held up the

hands of those who were toiling to maintain 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, Jurgis was making a desperate

effort to understand what the senator was saying--to comprehend

the extent of American prosperity, the 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 exhausted, and the hall

was so warm, and his seat was so comfortable! 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! Go ahead, old

sport!" 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 practical matters. He had no

money, and no place to sleep; he must begin begging again.

He went out, hunching his shoulders together and shivering 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 his wedding

feast! Alena Jasaityte, who had looked so beautiful, and danced

with such a queenly air, with Juozas Raczius, the teamster!

Jurgis had only seen her once or twice afterward, for Juozas had

thrown her over for another girl, and Alena had gone away from

Packingtown, no one knew where. And now he met her here!

She was as much surprised as he was. "Jurgis Rudkus!" 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.

Finally 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 honestly 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 exclaimed.

"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 Jurgis had left

Packingtown, feeling like one escaped from jail; and it had 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 further ado. He found a large brownstone house

of aristocratic appearance, 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 Berczynskas live here?" he inquired.

"I dunno," said the girl. "What you want wid her?"

"I want to see her," said he; "she'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! Police! We're pinched!"

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 dishabille. At one side Jurgis caught a

glimpse of a big apartment with plush-covered chairs, and tables

covered with trays and glasses. There were playing 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 young girl who had fainted,

and two men who were supporting 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 diamonds in her ears, came running

down the stairs, panting breathlessly: "To the rear! 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!" 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! We're

trapped!"

"Upstairs!" 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!"

And a moment later came a voice from downstairs: "You might as

well quit, you people. We mean business, 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 slippered foot at the helmets of the policemen, until

one of 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. 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.

For 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."

"But 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."

"Br-r-r!" 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 behind 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 whisky bottle on a chair.

Marija had nothing on but a kimono and a pair of stockings;

yet she proceeded to dress before Jurgis, and without 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 painful start that Marija should do this. They had

always been decent people at home, and it seemed to him that the

memory of old times ought to have ruled her. But then he laughed

at himself for a fool. What was he, to be pretending to decency!

"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 children

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. You didn't know about it."

"How did he die?"

"Rats killed him," she answered.

Jurgis gave a gasp. "Rats killed him!"

"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 up her

shoes. There was a long silence.

Suddenly a big policeman came to the door. "Hurry up, 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.

"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 a cent in my pockets, and

nothing to do."

"Where have you been?"

"All over. I've been hoboing it. Then I went back to the

yards--just before the strike." He paused for a moment,

hesitating. "I asked 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. 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. I 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 policeman

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 I'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 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 smelled a wolf. There

were old men and young men, college boys and gray-beards old

enough to be their grandfathers; some of them wore evening

dress--there was no one among them save Jurgis who showed any

signs of poverty.

When the roundup 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

streetcars, and then off they went amid a din of cheers. At the

station house Jurgis gave a Polish 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 unveiling, 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--his old hopes and his old yearnings, his old dreams of

decency and independence! He saw Ona again, he heard her gentle

voice pleading with him. He saw little Antanas, whom he had

meant to make a man. He saw his trembling old father, who had

blessed them all with his wonderful love. 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, today, 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 his wife's honor and lived by

it!--And then there was Stanislovas and his awful fate--that

brief story which Marija had narrated so calmly, with such dull

indifference! The poor little fellow, with his frostbitten

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 its old

ghosts beckoning to him, stretching out their arms to him! But

they were far-off and shadowy, and the gulf between them was

black and bottomless; they would fade 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 flicker out.

Read next: CHAPTER 28

Read previous: CHAPTER 26

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