“I couldn't work as a scab,” he concluded his tale.
“No,” Saxon said; “you couldn't work as a scab.”
But she wondered why it was that when men wanted to work, and there was work to do, yet they were unable to work because their unions said no. Why were there unions? And, if unions had to be, why were not all workingmen in them? Then there would be no scabs, and Billy could work every day. Also, she wondered where she was to get a sack of flour, for she had long since ceased the extravagance of baker3's bread. And so many other of the neighborhood women had done this, that the little Welsh baker had closed up shop and gone away, taking his wife and two little daughters with him. Look where she would, everybody was being hurt by the industrial strife4.
One afternoon came a caller at her door, and that evening came Billy with dubious6 news. He had been approached that day. All he had to do, he told Saxon, was to say the word, and he could go into the stable as foreman at one hundred dollars a month.
The nearness of such a sum, the possibility of it, was almost stunning7 to Saxon, sitting at a supper which consisted of boiled potatoes, warmed-over beans, and a small dry onion which they were eating raw. There was neither bread, coffee, nor butter. The onion Billy had pulled from his pocket, having picked it up in the street. One hundred dollars a month! She moistened her lips and fought for control.
“What made them offer it to you?” she questioned.
“That's easy,” was his answer. “They got a dozen reasons. The guy the boss has had exercisin' Prince and King is a dub5. King has gone lame8 in the shoulders. Then they're guessin' pretty strong that I'm the party that's put a lot of their scabs outa commission. Macklin's ben their foreman for years an' years—why I was in knee pants when he was foreman. Well, he's sick an' all in. They gotta have somebody to take his place. Then, too, I've been with 'em a long time. An' on top of that, I'm the man for the job. They know I know horses from the ground up. Hell, it's all I'm good for, except sluggin'.”
“Think of it, Billy!” she breathed. “A hundred dollars a month! A hundred dollars a month!”
“An' throw the fellows down,” he said.
It was not a question. Nor was it a statement. It was anything Saxon chose to make of it. They looked at each other. She waited for him to speak; but he continued merely to look. It came to her that she was facing one of the decisive moments of her life, and she gripped herself to face it in all coolness. Nor would Billy proffer9 her the slightest help. Whatever his own judgment10 might be, he masked it with an expressionless face. His eyes betrayed nothing. He looked and waited.
“You... you can't do that, Billy,” she said finally. “You can't throw the fellows down.”
His hand shot out to hers, and his face was a sudden, radiant dawn.
“Put her there!” he cried, their hands meeting and clasping. “You're the truest true blue wife a man ever had. If all the other fellows' wives was like you, we could win any strike we tackled.”
“What would you have done if you weren't married, Billy?”
“Seen 'em in hell first.”
“Than it doesn't make any difference being married. I've got to stand by you in everything you stand for. I'd be a nice wife if I didn't.”
She remembered her caller of the afternoon, and knew the moment was too propitious11 to let pass.
“There was a man here this afternoon, Billy. He wanted a room. I told him I'd speak to you. He said he would pay six dollars a month for the back bedroom. That would pay half a month's installment12 on the furniture and buy a sack of flour, and we're all out of flour.”
“Some scab in the shops, I suppose?”
“No; he's firing on the freight run to San Jose. Harmon, he said his name was, James Harmon. They've just transferred him from the Truckee division. He'll sleep days mostly, he said; and that's why he wanted a quiet house without children in it.”
In the end, with much misgiving14, and only after Saxon had insistently15 pointed16 out how little work it entailed17 on her, Billy consented, though he continued to protest, as an afterthought:
“But I don't want you makin' beds for any man. It ain't right, Saxon. I oughta take care of you.”
“And you would,” she flashed back at him, “if you'd take the foremanship. Only you can't. It wouldn't be right. And if I'm to stand by you it's only fair to let me do what I can.”
James Harmon proved even less a bother than Saxon had anticipated. For a fireman he was scrupulously19 clean, always washing up in the roundhouse before he came home. He used the key to the kitchen door, coming and going by the back steps. To Saxon he barely said how-do-you-do or good day; and, sleeping in the day time and working at night, he was in the house a week before Billy laid eyes on him.
Billy had taken to coming home later and later, and to going out after supper by himself. He did not offer to tell Saxon where he went. Nor did she ask. For that matter it required little shrewdness on her part to guess. The fumes20 of whisky were on his lips at such times. His slow, deliberate ways were even slower, even more deliberate. Liquor did not affect his legs. He walked as soberly as any man. There was no hesitancy, no faltering21, in his muscular movements. The whisky went to his brain, making his eyes heavy-lidded and the cloudiness of them more cloudy. Not that he was flighty, nor quick, nor irritable22. On the contrary, the liquor imparted to his mental processes a deep gravity and brooding solemnity. He talked little, but that little was ominous23 and oracular. At such times there was no appeal from his judgment, no discussion. He knew, as God knew. And when he chose to speak a harsh thought, it was ten-fold harsher than ordinarily, because it seemed to proceed out of such profundity24 of cogitation25, because it was as prodigiously26 deliberate in its incubation as it was in its enunciation27.
It was not a nice side he was showing to Saxon. It was, almost, as if a stranger had come to live with her. Despite herself, she found herself beginning to shrink from him. And little could she comfort herself with the thought that it was not his real self, for she remembered his gentleness and considerateness, all his finenesses of the past. Then he had made a continual effort to avoid trouble and fighting. Now he enjoyed it, exulted28 in it, went looking for it. All this showed in his face. No longer was he the smiling, pleasant-faced boy. He smiled infrequently now. His face was a man's face. The lips, the eyes, the lines were harsh as his thoughts were harsh.
He was rarely unkind to Saxon; but, on the other hand he was rarely kind. His attitude toward her was growing negative. He was disinterested29. Despite the fight for the union she was enduring with him, putting up with him shoulder to shoulder, she occupied but little space in his mind. When he acted toward her gently, she could see that it was merely mechanical, just as she was well aware that the endearing terms he used, the endearing caresses30 he gave, were only habitual31. The spontaneity and warmth had gone out. Often, when he was not in liquor, flashes of the old Billy came back, but even such flashes dwindled32 in frequency. He was growing preoccupied33, moody34. Hard times and the bitter stresses of industrial conflict strained him. Especially was this apparent in his sleep, when he suffered paroxysms of lawless dreams, groaning35 and muttering, clenching36 his fists, grinding his teeth, twisting with muscular tensions, his face writhing37 with passions and violences, his throat guttering38 with terrible curses that rasped and aborted39 on his lips. And Saxon, lying beside him, afraid of this visitor to her bed whom she did not know, remembered what Mary had told her of Bert. He, too, had cursed and clenched40 his fists, in his nights fought out the battles of his days.
One thing, however, Saxon saw clearly. By no deliberate act of Billy's was he becoming this other and unlovely Billy. Were there no strike, no snarling41 and wrangling42 over jobs, there would be only the old Billy she had loved in all absoluteness. This sleeping terror in him would have lain asleep. It was something that was being awakened43 in him, an image incarnate44 of outward conditions, as cruel, as ugly, as maleficent as were those outward conditions. But if the strike continued, then, she feared, with reason, would this other and grisly self of Billy strengthen to fuller and more forbidding stature45. And this, she knew, would mean the wreck46 of their love-life. Such a Billy she could not love; in its nature such a Billy was not lovable nor capable of love. And then, at the thought of offspring, she shuddered47. It was too terrible. And at such moments of contemplation, from her soul the inevitable48 plaint of the human went up: WHY? WHY? WHY?
“Why won't the building trades come out?” he demanded wrathfuly of the obscurity that veiled the ways of living and the world. “But no; O'Brien won't stand for a strike, and he has the Building Trades Council under his thumb. But why don't they chuck him and come out anyway? We'd win hands down all along the line. But no, O'Brien's got their goat, an' him up to his dirty neck in politics an' graft50! An' damn the Federation51 of Labor52! If all the railroad boys had come out, wouldn't the shop men have won instead of bein' licked to a frazzle? Lord, I ain't had a smoke of decent tobacco or a cup of decent coffee in a coon's age. I've forgotten what a square meal tastes like. I weighed myself yesterday. Fifteen pounds lighter53 than when the strike begun. If it keeps on much more I can fight middleweight. An' this is what I get after payin' dues into the union for years and years. I can't get a square meal, an' my wife has to make other men's beds. It makes my tired ache. Some day I'll get real huffy an' chuck that lodger54 out.”
“But it's not his fault, Billy,” Saxon protested.
“Who said it was?” Billy snapped roughly. “Can't I kick in general if I want to? Just the same it makes me sick. What's the good of organized labor if it don't stand together? For two cents I'd chuck the whole thing up an' go over to the employers. Only I wouldn't, God damn them! If they think they can beat us down to our knees, let 'em go ahead an' try it, that's all. But it gets me just the same. The whole world's clean dippy. They ain't no sense in anything. What's the good of supportin' a union that can't win a strike? What's the good of knockin' the blocks off of scabs when they keep a-comin' thick as ever? The whole thing's bughouse, an' I guess I am, too.”
Such an outburst on Billy's part was so unusual that it was the only time Saxon knew it to occur. Always he was sullen55, and dogged, and unwhipped; while whisky only served to set the maggots of certitude crawling in his brain.
One night Billy did not get home till after twelve. Saxon's anxiety was increased by the fact that police fighting and head breaking had been reported to have occurred. When Billy came, his appearance verified the report. His coatsleeves were half torn off. The Windsor tie had disappeared from under his soft turned-down collar, and every button had been ripped off the front of the shirt. When he took his hat off, Saxon was frightened by a lump on his head the size of an apple.
“D'ye know who did that? That Dutch slob Hermanmann, with a riot club. An' I'll get'm for it some day, good an' plenty. An' there's another fellow I got staked out that'll be my meat when this strike's over an' things is settled down. Blanchard's his name, Roy Blanchard.”
“Not of Blanchard, Perkins and Company?” Saxon asked, busy washing Billy's hurt and making her usual fight to keep him calm.
“Yep; except he's the son of the old man. What's he do, that ain't done a tap of work in all his life except to blow the old man's money? He goes strike-breakin'. Grandstand play, that's what I call it. Gets his name in the papers an makes all the skirts he runs with fluster56 up an' say: 'My! Some bear, that Roy Blanchard, some bear.' Some bear—the gazabo! He'll be bear-meat for me some day. I never itched57 so hard to lick a man in my life.
“And—oh, I guess I'll pass that Dutch cop up. He got his already. Somebody broke his head with a lump of coal the size of a water bucket. That was when the wagons58 was turnin' into Franklin, just off Eighth, by the old Galindo Hotel. They was hard fightin' there, an' some guy in the hotel lams that coal down from the second story window.
“They was fightin' every block of the way—bricks, cobblestones, an' police-clubs to beat the band. They don't dast call out the troops. An' they was afraid to shoot. Why, we tore holes through the police force, an' the ambulances and patrol wagons worked over-time. But say, we got the procession blocked at Fourteenth and Broadway, right under the nose of the City Hall, rushed the rear end, cut out the horses of five wagons, an' handed them college guys a few love-pats in passin'. All that saved 'em from hospital was the police reserves. Just the same we had 'em jammed an hour there. You oughta seen the street cars blocked, too—Broadway, Fourteenth, San Pablo, as far as you could see.”
“But what did Blanchard do?” Saxon called him back.
“He led the procession, an' he drove my team. All the teams was from my stable. He rounded up a lot of them college fellows—fraternity guys, they're called—yaps that live off their fathers' money. They come to the stable in big tourin' cars an' drove out the wagons with half the police of Oakland to help them. Say, it was sure some day. The sky rained cobblestones. An' you oughta heard the clubs on our heads—rat-tat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat-tat! An' say, the chief of police, in a police auto60, sittin' up like God Almighty—just before we got to Peralta street they was a block an' the police chargin', an' an old woman, right from her front gate, lammed the chief of police full in the face with a dead cat. Phew! You could hear it. 'Arrest that woman!' he yells, with his handkerchief out. But the boys beat the cops to her an' got her away. Some day? I guess yes. The receivin' hospital went outa commission on the jump, an' the overflow61 was spilled into St. Mary's Hospital, an' Fabiola, an' I don't know where else. Eight of our men was pulled, an' a dozen of the Frisco teamsters that's come over to help. They're holy terrors, them Frisco teamsters. It seemed half the workingmen of Oakland was helpin' us, an' they must be an army of them in jail. Our lawyers'll have to take their cases, too.
“But take it from me, it's the last we'll see of Roy Blanchard an' yaps of his kidney buttin' into our affairs. I guess we showed 'em some football. You know that brick buildin' they're puttin' up on Bay street? That's where we loaded up first, an', say, you couldn't see the wagon59-seats for bricks when they started from the stables. Blanchard drove the first wagon, an' he was knocked clean off the seat once, but he stayed with it.”
“He must have been brave,” Saxon commented.
“Brave?” Billy flared62. “With the police, an' the army an' navy behind him? I suppose you'll be takin' their part next. Brave? A-takin' the food outa the mouths of our women an children. Didn't Curley Jones's little kid die last night? Mother's milk not nourishin', that's what it was, because she didn't have the right stuff to eat. An' I know, an' you know, a dozen old aunts, an' sister-in-laws, an' such, that's had to hike to the poorhouse because their folks couldn't take care of 'em in these times.”
In the morning paper Saxon read the exciting account of the futile63 attempt to break the teamsters' strike. Roy Blanchard was hailed a hero and held up as a model of wealthy citizenship64. And to save herself she could not help glowing with appreciation65 of his courage. There was something fine in his going out to face the snarling pack. A brigadier general of the regular army was quoted as lamenting66 the fact that the troops had not been called out to take the mob by the throat and shake law and order into it. “This is the time for a little healthful bloodletting,” was the conclusion of his remarks, after deploring67 the pacific methods of the police. “For not until the mob has been thoroughly68 beaten and cowed will tranquil69 industrial conditions obtain.”
That evening Saxon and Billy went up town. Returning home and finding nothing to eat, he had taken her on one arm, his overcoat on the other. The overcoat he had pawned70 at Uncle Sam's, and he and Saxon had eaten drearily71 at a Japanese restaurant which in some miraculous72 way managed to set a semi-satisfying meal for ten cents. After eating, they started on their way to spend an additional five cents each on a moving picture show.
At the Central Bank Building, two striking teamsters accosted73 Billy and took him away with them. Saxon waited on the corner, and when he returned, three quarters of an hour later, she knew he had been drinking.
Half a block on, passing the Forum74 Cafe, he stopped suddenly. A limousine75 stood at the curb76, and into it a young man was helping77 several wonderfully gowned women. A chauffeur78 sat in the driver's sent. Billy touched the young man on the arm. He was as broad-shouldered as Billy and slightly taller. Blue-eyed, strong-featured, in Saxon's opinion he was undeniably handsome.
“Just a word, sport,” Billy said, in a low, slow voice.
The young man glanced quickly at Billy and Saxon, and asked impatiently:
“Well, what is it?”
“You're Blanchard,” Billy began. “I seen you yesterday lead out that bunch of teams.”
“Didn't I do it all right?” Blanchard asked gaily79, with a flash of glance to Saxon and back again.
“Sure. But that ain't what I want to talk about.”
“Who are you?” the other demanded with sudden suspicion.
“A striker. It just happens you drove my team, that's all. No; don't move for a gun.” (As Blanchard half reached toward his hip18 pocket.) “I ain't startin' anythin' here. But I just want to tell you something.”
“Be quick, then.”
Blanchard lifted one foot to step into the machine.
“Sure,” Billy went on without any diminution80 of his exasperating81 slowness. “What I want to tell you is that I'm after you. Not now, when the strike's on, but some time later I'm goin' to get you an' give you the beatin' of your life.”
Blanchard looked Billy over with new interest and measuring eyes that sparkled with appreciation.
“You are a husky yourself,” he said. “But do you think you can do it?”
“Sure. You're my meat.”
“All right, then, my friend. Look me up after the strike is settled, and I'll give you a chance at me.”
“Remember,” Billy added, “I got you staked out.”
Blanchard nodded, smiled genially82 to both of them, raised his hat to Saxon, and stepped into the machine.
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收听单词发音
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1
contractors
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| n.（建筑、监造中的）承包人( contractor的名词复数 ) | |
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structural
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| adj.构造的，组织的，建筑（用）的 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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dub
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| vt.（以某种称号）授予，给...起绰号，复制 | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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proffer
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| v.献出，赠送；n.提议，建议 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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installment
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| n.(instalment)分期付款；(连载的)一期 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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cogitation
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| n.仔细思考，计划，设计 | |
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prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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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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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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guttering
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| n.用于建排水系统的材料；沟状切除术；开沟 | |
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aborted
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| adj.流产的，失败的v.（使）流产( abort的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）（某事物）中止；（因故障等而）（使）（飞机、宇宙飞船、导弹等）中断飞行；（使）（飞行任务等）中途失败 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
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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wrangling
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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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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47
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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48
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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49
queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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50
graft
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| n.移植，嫁接，艰苦工作，贪污；v.移植，嫁接 | |
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51
federation
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| n.同盟，联邦，联合，联盟，联合会 | |
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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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53
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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fluster
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| adj.慌乱，狼狈，混乱，激动 | |
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itched
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| v.发痒( itch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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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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60
auto
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| n.(=automobile)(口语)汽车 | |
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61
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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62
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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citizenship
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| n.市民权，公民权，国民的义务(身份) | |
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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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lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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deploring
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的现在分词 ) | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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69
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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pawned
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的过去式和过去分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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71
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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72
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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73
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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limousine
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| n.豪华轿车 | |
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76
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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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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chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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80
diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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81
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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