Billy could help Saxon little in her trouble. He dimly sensed her suffering, without comprehending the scope and intensity4 of it. He was too man-practical, and, by his very sex, too remote from the intimate tragedy that was hers. He was an outsider at the best, a friendly onlooker5 who saw little. To her the baby had been quick and real. It was still quick and real. That was her trouble. By no deliberate effort of will could she fill the aching void of its absence. Its reality became, at times, an hallucination. Somewhere it still was, and she must find it. She would catch herself, on occasion, listening with strained ears for the cry she had never heard, yet which, in fancy, she had heard a thousand times in the happy months before the end. Twice she left her bed in her sleep and went searching—each time coming to herself beside her mother's chest of drawers in which were the tiny garments. To herself, at such moments, she would say, “I had a baby once.” And she would say it, aloud, as she watched the children playing in the street.
One day, on the Eighth street cars, a young mother sat beside her, a crowing infant in her arms. And Saxon said to her:
“I had a baby once. It died.”
The mother looked at her, startled, half-drew the baby tighter in her arms, jealously, or as if in fear; then she softened6 as she said:
“You poor thing.”
“Yes,” Saxon nodded. “It died.”
Tears welled into her eyes, and the telling of her grief seemed to have brought relief. But all the day she suffered from an almost overwhelming desire to recite her sorrow to the world—to the paying teller7 at the bank, to the elderly floor-walker in Salinger's, to the blind woman, guided by a little boy, who played on the concertina—to every one save the policeman. The police were new and terrible creatures to her now. She had seen them kill the strikers as mercilessly as the strikers had killed the scabs. And, unlike the strikers, the police were professional killers8. They were not fighting for jobs. They did it as a business. They could have taken prisoners that day, in the angle of her front steps and the house. But they had not. Unconsciously, whenever approaching one, she edged across the sidewalk so as to get as far as possible away from him. She did not reason it out, but deeper than consciousness was the feeling that they were typical of something inimical to her and hers.
At Eighth and Broadway, waiting for her car to return home, the policeman on the corner recognized her and greeted her. She turned white to the lips, and her heart fluttered painfully. It was only Ned Hermanmann, fatter, broader-faced, jollier looking than ever. He had sat across the aisle9 from her for three terms at school. He and she had been monitors together of the composition books for one term. The day the powder works blew up at Pinole, breaking every window in the school, he and she had not joined in the panic rush for out-of-doors. Both had remained in the room, and the irate10 principal had exhibited them, from room to room, to the cowardly classes, and then rewarded them with a month's holiday from school. And after that Ned Hermanmann had become a policeman, and married Lena Highland11, and Saxon had heard they had five children.
But, in spite of all that, he was now a policeman, and Billy was now a striker. Might not Ned Hermanmann some day club and shoot Billy just as those other policemen clubbed and shot the strikers by her front steps?
“What's the matter, Saxon?” he asked. “Sick?”
She nodded and choked, unable to speak, and started to move toward her car which was coming to a stop.
“I'll help you,” he offered.
She shrank away from his hand.
She turned away dizzily, up Broadway to Ninth. Two blocks along Ninth, she turned down Clay and back to Eighth street, where she waited for another car.
As the summer months dragged along, the industrial situation in Oakland grew steadily13 worse. Capital everywhere seemed to have selected this city for the battle with organized labor14. So many men in Oakland were out on strike, or were locked out, or were unable to work because of the dependence15 of their trades on the other tied-up trades, that odd jobs at common labor were hard to obtain. Billy occasionally got a day's work to do, but did not earn enough to make both ends meet, despite the small strike wages received at first, and despite the rigid16 economy he and Saxon practiced.
The table she set had scarcely anything in common with that of their first married year. Not alone was every item of cheaper quality, but many items had disappeared. Meat, and the poorest, was very seldom on the table. Cow's milk had given place to condensed milk, and even the sparing use of the latter had ceased. A roll of butter, when they had it, lasted half a dozen times as long as formerly17. Where Billy had been used to drinking three cups of coffee for breakfast, he now drank one. Saxon boiled this coffee an atrocious length of time, and she paid twenty cents a pound for it.
The blight18 of hard times was on all the neighborhood. The families not involved in one strike were touched by some other strike or by the cessation of work in some dependent trade. Many single young men who were lodgers19 had drifted away, thus increasing the house rent of the families which had sheltered them.
“Gott!” said the butcher to Saxon. “We working class all suffer together. My wife she cannot get her teeth fixed20 now. Pretty soon I go smash broke maybe.”
Once, when Billy was preparing to pawn21 his watch, Saxon suggested his borrowing the money from Billy Murphy.
“I was plannin' that,” Billy answered, “only I can't now. I didn't tell you what happened Tuesday night at the Sporting Life Club. You remember that squarehead Champion of the United States Navy? Bill was matched with him, an' it was sure easy money. Bill had 'm goin' south by the end of the sixth round, an' at the seventh went in to finish 'm. And then—just his luck, for his trade's idle now—he snaps his right forearm. Of course the squarehead comes back at 'm on the jump, an' it's good night for Bill. Gee23! Us Mohegans are gettin' our bad luck handed to us in chunks24 these days.”
“Don't!” Saxon cried, shuddering25 involuntarily.
“What?” Billy asked with open mouth of surprise.
“Don't say that word again. Bert was always saying it.”
“Oh, Mohegans. All right, I won't. You ain't superstitious26, are you?”
“No; but just the same there's too much truth in the word for me to like it. Sometimes it seems as though he was right. Times have changed. They've changed even since I was a little girl. We crossed the plains and opened up this country, and now we're losing even the chance to work for a living in it. And it's not my fault, it's not your fault. We've got to live well or bad just by luck, it seems. There's no other way to explain it.”
“It beats me,” Billy concurred27. “Look at the way I worked last year. Never missed a day. I'd want to never miss a day this year, an' here I haven't done a tap for weeks an' weeks an' weeks. Say! Who runs this country anyway?”
Saxon had stopped the morning paper, but frequently Maggie Donahue's boy, who served a Tribune route, tossed an “extra” on her steps. From its editorials Saxon gleaned28 that organized labor was trying to run the country and that it was making a mess of it. It was all the fault of domineering labor—so ran the editorials, column by column, day by day; and Saxon was convinced, yet remained unconvinced. The social puzzle of living was too intricate.
The teamsters' strike, backed financially by the teamsters of San Francisco and by the allied29 unions of the San Francisco Water Front Confederation, promised to be long-drawn, whether or not it was successful. The Oakland harness-washers and stablemen, with few exceptions, had gone out with the teamsters. The teaming firms were not half-filling their contracts, but the employers' association was helping30 them. In fact, half the employers' associations of the Pacific Coast were helping the Oakland Employers' Association.
Saxon was behind a month's rent, which, when it is considered that rent was paid in advance, was equivalent to two months. Likewise, she was two months behind in the installments31 on the furniture. Yet she was not pressed very hard by Salinger's, the furniture dealers32.
“We're givin' you all the rope we can,” said their collector. “My orders is to make you dig up every cent I can and at the same time not to be too hard. Salinger's are trying to do the right thing, but they're up against it, too. You've no idea how many accounts like yours they're carrying along. Sooner or later they'll have to call a halt or get it in the neck themselves. And in the meantime just see if you can't scrape up five dollars by next week—just to cheer them along, you know.”
One of the stablemen who had not gone out, Henderson by name, worked at Billy's stables. Despite the urging of the bosses to eat and sleep in the stable like the other men, Henderson had persisted in coming home each morning to his little house around the corner from Saxon's on Fifth street. Several times she had seen him swinging along defiantly33, his dinner pail in his hand, while the neighborhood boys dogged his heels at a safe distance and informed him in yapping chorus that he was a scab and no good. But one evening, on his way to work, in a spirit of bravado34 he went into the Pile-Drivers' Home, the saloon at Seventh and Pine. There it was his mortal mischance to encounter Otto Frank, a striker who drove from the same stable. Not many minutes later an ambulance was hurrying Henderson to the receiving hospital with a fractured skull35, while a patrol wagon36 was no less swiftly carrying Otto Frank to the city prison.
Maggie Donahue it was, eyes shining with gladness, who told Saxon of the happening.
“Served him right, too, the dirty scab,” Maggie concluded.
“But his poor wife!” was Saxon's cry. “She's not strong. And then the children. She'll never be able to take care of them if her husband dies.”
“An' serve her right, the damned slut!”
“'Tis all she or any woman deserves that'll put up an' live with a scab. What about her children? Let'm starve, an' her man a-takin' the food out of other children's mouths.”
Mrs. Olsen's attitude was different. Beyond passive sentimental38 pity for Henderson's wife and children, she gave them no thought, her chief concern being for Otto Frank and Otto Frank's wife and children—herself and Mrs. Frank being full sisters.
“If he dies, they will hang Otto,” she said. “And then what will poor Hilda do? She has varicose veins39 in both legs, and she never can stand on her feet all day an' work for wages. And me, I cannot help. Ain't Carl out of work, too?”
Billy had still another point of view.
“It will give the strike a black eye, especially if Henderson croaks,” he worried, when he came home. “They'll hang Frank on record time. Besides, we'll have to put up a defense40, an' lawyers charge like Sam Hill. They'll eat a hole in our treasury41 you could drive every team in Oakland through. An' if Frank hadn't ben screwed up with whisky he'd never a-done it. He's the mildest, good-naturedest man sober you ever seen.”
Twice that evening Billy left the house to find out if Henderson was dead yet. In the morning the papers gave little hope, and the evening papers published his death. Otto Frank lay in jail without bail42. The Tribune demanded a quick trial and summary execution, calling on the prospective43 jury manfully to do its duty and dwelling44 at length on the moral effect that would be so produced upon the lawless working class. It went further, emphasizing the salutary effect machine guns would have on the mob that had taken the fair city of Oakland by the throat.
And all such occurrences struck at Saxon personally. Practically alone in the world, save for Billy, it was her life, and his, and their mutual45 love-life, that was menaced. From the moment he left the house to the moment of his return she knew no peace of mind. Rough work was afoot, of which he told her nothing, and she knew he was playing his part in it. On more than one occasion she noticed fresh-broken skin on his knuckles46. At such times he was remarkably47 taciturn, and would sit in brooding silence or go almost immediately to bed. She was afraid to have this habit of reticence48 grow on him, and bravely she bid for his confidence. She climbed into his lap and inside his arms, one of her arms around his neck, and with the free hand she caressed49 his hair back from the forehead and smoothed out the moody50 brows.
“Now listen to me, Billy Boy,” she began lightly. “You haven't been playing fair, and I won't have it. No!” She pressed his lips shut with her fingers. “I'm doing the talking now, and because you haven't been doing your share of the talking for some time. You remember we agreed at the start to always talk things over. I was the first to break this, when I sold my fancy work to Mrs. Higgins without speaking to you about it. And I was very sorry. I am still sorry. And I've never done it since. Now it's your turn. You're not talking things over with me. You are doing things you don't tell me about.
“Billy, you're dearer to me than anything else in the world. You know that. We're sharing each other's lives, only, just now, there's something you're not sharing. Every time your knuckles are sore, there's something you don't share. If you can't trust me, you can't trust anybody. And, besides, I love you so that no matter what you do I'll go on loving you just the same.”
Billy gazed at her with fond incredulity.
“Don't be a pincher,” she teased. “Remember, I stand for whatever you do.”
“How can I? I'm not your boss, Billy. I wouldn't boss you for anything in the world. And if you'd let me boss you, I wouldn't love you half as much.”
He digested this slowly, and finally nodded.
“An' you won't be mad?”
“With you? You've never seen me mad yet. Now come on and be generous and tell me how you hurt your knuckles. It's fresh to-day. Anybody can see that.”
“All right. I'll tell you how it happened.” He stopped and giggled53 with genuine boyish glee at some recollection. “It's like this. You won't be mad, now? We gotta do these sort of things to hold our own. Well, here's the show, a regular movin' picture except for file talkin'. Here's a big rube comin' along, hayseed stickin' out all over, hands like hams an' feet like Mississippi gunboats. He'd make half as much again as me in size an' he's young, too. Only he ain't lookin' for trouble, an' he's as innocent as... well, he's the innocentest scab that ever come down the pike an' bumped into a couple of pickets54. Not a regular strike-breaker, you see, just a big rube that's read the bosses' ads an' come a-humpin' to town for the big wages.
“An' here's Bud Strothers an' me comin' along. We always go in pairs that way, an' sometimes bigger bunches. I flag the rube. 'Hello,' says I, 'lookin' for a job?' 'You bet,' says he. 'Can you drive?' 'Yep.' 'Four horses!' 'Show me to 'em,' says he. 'No josh, now,' says I; 'you're sure wantin' to drive?' 'That's what I come to town for,' he says. 'You're the man we're lookin' for,' says I. 'Come along, an' we'll have you busy in no time.'
“You see, Saxon, we can't pull it off there, because there's Tom Scanlon—you know, the red-headed cop only a couple of blocks away an' pipin' us off though not recognizin' us. So away we go, the three of us, Bud an' me leadin' that boob to take our jobs away from us I guess nit. We turn into the alley55 back of Campwell's grocery. Nobody in sight. Bud stops short, and the rube an' me stop.
“'I don't think he wants to drive,' Bud says, considerin'. An' the rube says quick, 'You betcher life I do.' 'You're dead sure you want that job?' I says. Yes, he's dead sure. Nothin's goin' to keep him away from that job. Why, that job's what he come to town for, an' we can't lead him to it too quick.
“'Well, my friend,' says I, 'it's my sad duty to inform you that you've made a mistake.' 'How's that?' he says. 'Go on,' I says; 'you're standin' on your foot.' And, honest to God, Saxon, that gink looks down at his feet to see. 'I don't understand,' says he. 'We're goin' to show you,' says I.
“An' then—Biff! Bang! Bingo! Swat! Zooie! Ker-slambango-blam! Fireworks, Fourth of July, Kingdom Come, blue lights, sky-rockets, an' hell fire—just like that. It don't take long when you're scientific an' trained to tandem56 work. Of course it's hard on the knuckles. But say, Saxon, if you'd seen that rube before an' after you'd thought he was a lightnin' change artist. Laugh? You'd a-busted.”
Billy halted to give vent22 to his own mirth. Saxon forced herself to join with him, but down in her heart was horror. Mercedes was right. The stupid workers wrangled57 and snarled59 over jobs. The clever masters rode in automobiles61 and did not wrangle58 and snarl60. They hired other stupid ones to do the wrangling62 and snarling63 for them. It was men like Bert and Frank Davis, like Chester Johnson and Otto Frank, like Jelly Belly64 and the Pinkertons, like Henderson and all the rest of the scabs, who were beaten up, shot, clubbed, or hanged. Ah, the clever ones were very clever. Nothing happened to them. They only rode in their automobiles.
“'You big stiffs,' the rube snivels as he crawls to his feet at the end,” Billy was continuing. “'You think you still want that job?' I ask. He shakes his head. Then I read'm the riot act 'They's only one thing for you to do, old hoss, an' that's beat it. D'ye get me? Beat it. Back to the farm for YOU. An' if you come monkeyin' around town again, we'll be real mad at you. We was only foolin' this time. But next time we catch you your own mother won't know you when we get done with you.'
“An'—say!—you oughta seen'm beat it. I bet he's goin' yet. Ah' when he gets back to Milpitas, or Sleepy Hollow, or wherever he hangs out, an' tells how the boys does things in Oakland, it's dollars to doughnuts they won't be a rube in his district that'd come to town to drive if they offered ten dollars an hour.”
“It was awful,” Saxon said, then laughed well-simulated appreciation65.
“But that was nothin',” Billy went on. “A bunch of the boys caught another one this morning. They didn't do a thing to him. My goodness gracious, no. In less'n two minutes he was the worst wreck66 they ever hauled to the receivin' hospital. The evenin' papers gave the score: nose broken, three bad scalp wounds, front teeth out, a broken collarbone, an' two broken ribs67. Gee! He certainly got all that was comin' to him. But that's nothin'. D'ye want to know what the Frisco teamsters did in the big strike before the Earthquake? They took every scab they caught an' broke both his arms with a crowbar. That was so he couldn't drive, you see. Say, the hospitals was filled with 'em. An' the teamsters won that strike, too.”
“But is it necessary, Billy, to be so terrible? I know they're scabs, and that they're taking the bread out of the strikers' children's mouths to put in their own children's mouths, and that it isn't fair and all that; but just the same is it necessary to be so... terrible?”
“Sure thing,” Billy answered confidently. “We just gotta throw the fear of God into them—when we can do it without bein' caught.”
“And if you're caught?”
“Then the union hires the lawyers to defend us, though that ain't much good now, for the judges are pretty hostyle, an' the papers keep hammerin' away at them to give stiffer an' stiffer sentences. Just the same, before this strike's over there'll be a whole lot of guys a-wishin' they'd never gone scabbin'.”
Very cautiously, in the next half hour, Saxon tried to feel out her husband's attitude, to find if he doubted the rightness of the violence he and his brother teamsters committed. But Billy's ethical68 sanction was rock-bedded and profound. It never entered his head that he was not absolutely right. It was the game. Caught in its tangled69 meshes70, he could see no other way to play it than the way all men played it. He did not stand for dynamite71 and murder, however. But then the unions did not stand for such. Quite naive72 was his explanation that dynamite and murder did not pay; that such actions always brought down the condemnation73 of the public and broke the strikes. But the healthy beating up of a scab, he contended—the “throwing of the fear of God into a scab,” as he expressed it—was the only right and proper thing to do.
“Our folks never had to do such things,” Saxon said finally. “They never had strikes nor scabs in those times.”
“You bet they didn't,” Billy agreed. “Them was the good old days. I'd liked to a-lived then.” He drew a long breath and sighed. “But them times will never come again.”
“Would you have liked living in the country?” Saxon asked.
“Sure thing.”
“There's lots of men living in the country now,” she suggested.
“Just the same I notice them a-hikin' to town to get our jobs,” was his reply.
野性的呼唤 The Call of the Wild
The Iron Heel 铁蹄
野性的呼唤 The Call of the Wild
The Iron Heel 铁蹄
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1
picket
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| n.纠察队；警戒哨；v.设置纠察线；布置警卫 | |
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morbidness
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| （精神的）病态 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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onlooker
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| n.旁观者，观众 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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teller
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| n.银行出纳员；(选举)计票员 | |
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killers
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| 凶手( killer的名词复数 )； 消灭…者； 致命物； 极难的事 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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chunks
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| 厚厚的一块( chunk的名词复数 )； （某物）相当大的数量或部分 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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installments
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| 部分( installment的名词复数 ) | |
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dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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42
bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pickets
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| 罢工纠察员( picket的名词复数 ) | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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tandem
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| n.同时发生；配合；adv.一个跟着一个地；纵排地；adj.（两匹马）前后纵列的 | |
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wrangled
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wrangle
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| vi.争吵 | |
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snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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60
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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automobiles
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| n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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wrangling
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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meshes
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| 网孔( mesh的名词复数 )； 网状物； 陷阱； 困境 | |
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71
dynamite
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| n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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