prompt:
Chapter: There was no after-theatre lark, however, so far as Carrie was
concerned. She made her way homeward, thinking about her absence.
Hurstwood was asleep, but roused up to look as she passed through to her
own bed.

"Is that you?" he said.

"Yes," she answered.

The next morning at breakfast she felt like apologising.

"I couldn't get home last evening," she said.

"Ah, Carrie," he answered, "what's the use saying that? I don't care.
You needn't tell me that, though."

"I couldn't," said Carrie, her colour rising. Then, seeing that he
looked as if he said "I know," she exclaimed: "Oh, all right. I don't
care."

From now on, her indifference to the flat was even greater. There
seemed no common ground on which they could talk to one another. She let
herself be asked for expenses. It became so with him that he hated to do
it. He preferred standing off the butcher and baker. He ran up a grocery
bill of sixteen dollars with Oeslogge, laying in a supply of staple
articles, so that they would not have to buy any of those things for
some time to come. Then he changed his grocery. It was the same with the
butcher and several others. Carrie never heard anything of this directly
from him. He asked for such as he could expect, drifting farther and
farther into a situation which could have but one ending.

In this fashion, September went by.

"Isn't Mr. Drake going to open his hotel?" Carrie asked several times.

"Yes. He won't do it before October, though, now."

Carrie became disgusted. "Such a man," she said to herself frequently.
More and more she visited. She put most of her spare money in clothes,
which, after all, was not an astonishing amount. At last the opera she
was with announced its departure within four weeks. "Last two weeks of
the Great Comic Opera success ---- The --------," etc., was upon all
billboards and in the newspapers, before she acted.

"I'm not going out on the road," said Miss Osborne.

Carrie went with her to apply to another manager.

"Ever had any experience?" was one of his questions.

"I'm with the company at the Casino now."

"Oh, you are?" he said.

The end of this was another engagement at twenty per week.

Carrie was delighted. She began to feel that she had a place in the
world. People recognised ability.

So changed was her state that the home atmosphere became intolerable.
It was all poverty and trouble there, or seemed to be, because it was
a load to bear. It became a place to keep away from. Still she slept
there, and did a fair amount of work, keeping it in order. It was
a sitting place for Hurstwood. He sat and rocked, rocked and read,
enveloped in the gloom of his own fate. October went by, and November.
It was the dead of winter almost before he knew it, and there he sat.

Carrie was doing better, that he knew. Her clothes were improved now,
even fine. He saw her coming and going, sometimes picturing to himself
her rise. Little eating had thinned him somewhat. He had no appetite.
His clothes, too, were a poor man's clothes. Talk about getting
something had become even too threadbare and ridiculous for him. So he
folded his hands and waited--for what, he could not anticipate.

At last, however, troubles became too thick. The hounding of creditors,
the indifference of Carrie, the silence of the flat, and presence of
winter, all joined to produce a climax. It was effected by the arrival
of Oeslogge, personally, when Carrie was there.

"I call about my bill," said Mr. Oeslogge.

Carrie was only faintly surprised.

"How much is it?" she asked.

"Sixteen dollars," he replied.

"Oh, that much?" said Carrie. "Is this right?" she asked, turning to
Hurstwood.

"Yes," he said.

"Well, I never heard anything about it."

She looked as if she thought he had been contracting some needless
expense.

"Well, we had it all right," he answered. Then he went to the door. "I
can't pay you anything on that to-day," he said, mildly.

"Well, when can you?" said the grocer.

"Not before Saturday, anyhow," said Hurstwood.

"Huh!" returned the grocer. "This is fine. I must have that. I need the
money."

Carrie was standing farther back in the room, hearing it all. She was
greatly distressed. It was so bad and commonplace. Hurstwood was annoyed
also.

"Well," he said, "there's no use talking about it now. If you'll come in
Saturday, I'll pay you something on it."

The grocery man went away.

"How are we going to pay it?" asked Carrie, astonished by the bill. "I
can't do it."

"Well, you don't have to," he said. "He can't get what he can't get.
He'll have to wait."

"I don't see how we ran up such a bill as that," said Carrie.

"Well, we ate it," said Hurstwood.

"It's funny," she replied, still doubting.

"What's the use of your standing there and talking like that, now?"
he asked. "Do you think I've had it alone? You talk as if I'd taken
something."

"Well, it's too much, anyhow," said Carrie. "I oughtn't to be made to
pay for it. I've got more than I can pay for now."

"All right," replied Hurstwood, sitting down in silence. He was sick of
the grind of this thing.

Carrie went out and there he sat, determining to do something.

There had been appearing in the papers about this time rumours and
notices of an approaching strike on the trolley lines in Brooklyn. There
was general dissatisfaction as to the hours of labour required and the
wages paid. As usual--and for some inexplicable reason--the men chose
the winter for the forcing of the hand of their employers and the
settlement of their difficulties.

Hurstwood had been reading of this thing, and wondering concerning the
huge tie-up which would follow. A day or two before this trouble with
Carrie, it came. On a cold afternoon, when everything was grey and it
threatened to snow, the papers announced that the men had been called
out on all the lines. Being so utterly idle, and his mind filled with
the numerous predictions which had been made concerning the scarcity
of labour this winter and the panicky state of the financial market,
Hurstwood read this with interest. He noted the claims of the striking
motormen and conductors, who said that they had been wont to receive two
dollars a day in times past, but that for a year or more "trippers" had
been introduced, which cut down their chance of livelihood one-half,
and increased their hours of servitude from ten to twelve, and even
fourteen. These "trippers" were men put on during the busy and rush
hours, to take a car out for one trip. The compensation paid for such a
trip was only twenty-five cents. When the rush or busy hours were over,
they were laid off. Worst of all, no man might know when he was going to
get a car. He must come to the barns in the morning and wait around in
fair and foul weather until such time as he was needed. Two trips were
an average reward for so much waiting--a little over three hours' work
for fifty cents. The work of waiting was not counted.

The men complained that this system was extending, and that the time
was not far off when but a few out of 7,000 employees would have
regular two-dollar-a-day work at all. They demanded that the system
be abolished, and that ten hours be considered a day's work, barring
unavoidable delays, with $2.25 pay. They demanded immediate acceptance
of these terms, which the various trolley companies refused.

Hurstwood at first sympathised with the demands of these men--indeed, it
is a question whether he did not always sympathise with them to the
end, belie him as his actions might. Reading nearly all the news, he was
attracted first by the scare-heads with which the trouble was noted
in the "World." He read it fully--the names of the seven companies
involved, the number of men.

"They're foolish to strike in this sort of weather," he thought to
himself. "Let 'em win if they can, though."

The next day there was even a larger notice of it. "Brooklynites Walk,"
said the "World." "Knights of Labour Tie up the Trolley Lines Across the
Bridge." "About Seven Thousand Men Out."

Hurstwood read this, formulating to himself his own idea of what would
be the outcome. He was a great believer in the strength of corporations.

"They can't win," he said, concerning the men. "They haven't any money.
The police will protect the companies. They've got to. The public has to
have its cars."

He didn't sympathise with the corporations, but strength was with them.
So was property and public utility.

"Those fellows can't win," he thought.

Among other things, he noticed a circular issued by one of the
companies, which read:

                   ATLANTIC AVENUE RAILROAD

                      SPECIAL NOTICE

   The motormen and conductors and other employees of this company
   having abruptly left its service, an opportunity is now given to
   all loyal men who have struck against their will to be
   reinstated, providing they will make their applications by twelve
   o'clock noon on Wednesday, January 16th.  Such men will be given
   employment (with guaranteed protection) in the order in which
   such applications are received, and runs and positions assigned
   them accordingly.  Otherwise, they will be considered discharged,
   and every vacancy will be filled by a new man as soon as his
   services can be secured.
                         (Signed)
                         Benjamin Norton,
                                        President

He also noted among the want ads. one which read:

WANTED.--50 skilled motormen, accustomed to Westinghouse system, to run
U.S. mail cars only, in the City of Brooklyn; protection guaranteed.

He noted particularly in each the "protection guaranteed." It signified
to him the unassailable power of the companies.

"They've got the militia on their side," he thought. "There isn't
anything those men can do."

While this was still in his mind, the incident with Oeslogge and Carrie
occurred. There had been a good deal to irritate him, but this seemed
much the worst. Never before had she accused him of stealing--or very
near that. She doubted the naturalness of so large a bill. And he had
worked so hard to make expenses seem light. He had been "doing" butcher
and baker in order not to call on her. He had eaten very little--almost
nothing.

"Damn it all!" he said. "I can get something. I'm not down yet."

He thought that he really must do something now. It was too cheap to sit
around after such an insinuation as this. Why, after a little, he would
be standing anything.

He got up and looked out the window into the chilly street. It came
gradually into his mind, as he stood there, to go to Brooklyn.

"Why not?" his mind said. "Any one can get work over there. You'll get
two a day."

"How about accidents?" said a voice. "You might get hurt."

"Oh, there won't be much of that," he answered. "They've called out the
police. Any one who wants to run a car will be protected all right."

"You don't know how to run a car," rejoined the voice.

"I won't apply as a motorman," he answered. "I can ring up fares all
right."

"They'll want motormen, mostly."

"They'll take anybody; that I know."

For several hours he argued pro and con with this mental counsellor,
feeling no need to act at once in a matter so sure of profit.

In the morning he put on his best clothes, which were poor enough,
and began stirring about, putting some bread and meat into a page of a
newspaper. Carrie watched him, interested in this new move.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Over to Brooklyn," he answered. Then, seeing her still inquisitive, he
added: "I think I can get on over there."

"On the trolley lines?" said Carrie, astonished.

"Yes," he rejoined.

"Aren't you afraid?" she asked.

"What of?" he answered. "The police are protecting them."

"The paper said four men were hurt yesterday."

"Yes," he returned; "but you can't go by what the papers say. They'll
run the cars all right."

He looked rather determined now, in a desolate sort of way, and Carrie
felt very sorry. Something of the old Hurstwood was here--the least
shadow of what was once shrewd and pleasant strength. Outside, it was
cloudy and blowing a few flakes of snow.

"What a day to go over there," thought Carrie.

Now he left before she did, which was a remarkable thing, and tramped
eastward to Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, where he took the car.
He had read that scores of applicants were applying at the office of the
Brooklyn City Railroad building and were being received. He made his
way there by horse-car and ferry--a dark, silent man--to the offices in
question. It was a long way, for no cars were running, and the day was
cold; but he trudged along grimly. Once in Brooklyn, he could clearly
see and feel that a strike was on. People showed it in their manner.
Along the routes of certain tracks not a car was running. About certain
corners and nearby saloons small groups of men were lounging. Several
spring wagons passed him, equipped with plain wooden chairs, and
labelled "Flatbush" or "Prospect Park. Fare, Ten Cents." He noticed cold
and even gloomy faces. Labour was having its little war.

When he came near the office in question, he saw a few men standing
about, and some policemen. On the far corners were other men--whom he
took to be strikers--watching. All the houses were small and wooden, the
streets poorly paved. After New York, Brooklyn looked actually poor and
hard-up.

He made his way into the heart of the small group, eyed by policemen and
the men already there. One of the officers addressed him.

"What are you looking for?"

"I want to see if I can get a place."

"The offices are up those steps," said the bluecoat. His face was a very
neutral thing to contemplate. In his heart of hearts, he sympathised
with the strikers and hated this "scab." In his heart of hearts, also,
he felt the dignity and use of the police force, which commanded order.
Of its true social significance, he never once dreamed. His was not the
mind for that. The two feelings blended in him--neutralised one another
and him. He would have fought for this man as determinedly as for
himself, and yet only so far as commanded. Strip him of his uniform, and
he would have soon picked his side.

Hurstwood ascended a dusty flight of steps and entered a small,
dust-coloured office, in which were a railing, a long desk, and several
clerks.

"Well, sir?" said a middle-aged man, looking up at him from the long
desk.

"Do you want to hire any men?" inquired Hurstwood.

"What are you--a motorman?"

"No; I'm not anything," said Hurstwood.

He was not at all abashed by his position. He knew these people needed
men. If one didn't take him, another would. This man could take him or
leave him, just as he chose.

"Well, we prefer experienced men, of course," said the man. He paused,
while Hurstwood smiled indifferently. Then he added: "Still, I guess you
can learn. What is your name?"

"Wheeler," said Hurstwood.

The man wrote an order on a small card. "Take that to our barns," he
said, "and give it to the foreman. He'll show you what to do."

Hurstwood went down and out. He walked straight away in the direction
indicated, while the policemen looked after.

"There's another wants to try it," said Officer Kiely to Officer Macey.

"I have my mind he'll get his fill," returned the latter, quietly. They
had been in strikes before.

The barn at which Hurstwood applied was exceedingly short-handed, and
was being operated practically by three men as directors. There were a
lot of green hands around--queer, hungry-looking men, who looked as if
want had driven them to desperate means. They tried to be lively and
willing, but there was an air of hang-dog diffidence about the place.

Hurstwood went back through the barns and out into a large, enclosed
lot, where were a series of tracks and loops. A half-dozen cars were
there, manned by instructors, each with a pupil at the lever. More
pupils were waiting at one of the rear doors of the barn.

In silence Hurstwood viewed this scene, and waited. His companions took
his eye for a while, though they did not interest him much more than the
cars. They were an uncomfortable-looking gang, however. One or two
were very thin and lean. Several were quite stout. Several others were
rawboned and sallow, as if they had been beaten upon by all sorts of
rough weather.

"Did you see by the paper they are going to call out the militia?"
Hurstwood heard one of them remark.

"Oh, they'll do that," returned the other. "They always do."

"Think we're liable to have much trouble?" said another, whom Hurstwood
did not see.

"Not very."

"That Scotchman that went out on the last car," put in a voice, "told me
that they hit him in the ear with a cinder."

A small, nervous laugh accompanied this.

"One of those fellows on the Fifth Avenue line must have had a hell of
a time, according to the papers," drawled another. "They broke his car
windows and pulled him off into the street 'fore the police could stop
'em."

"Yes; but there are more police around to-day," was added by another.

Hurstwood hearkened without much mental comment. These talkers seemed
scared to him. Their gabbling was feverish--things said to quiet their
own minds. He looked out into the yard and waited.

Two of the men got around quite near him, but behind his back. They were
rather social, and he listened to what they said.

"Are you a railroad man?" said one.

"Me? No. I've always worked in a paper factory."

"I had a job in Newark until last October," returned the other, with
reciprocal feeling.

There were some words which passed too low to hear. Then the
conversation became strong again.

"I don't blame these fellers for striking," said one. "They've got the
right of it, all right, but I had to get something to do."

"Same here," said the other. "If I had any job in Newark I wouldn't be
over here takin' chances like these."

"It's hell these days, ain't it?" said the man. "A poor man ain't
nowhere. You could starve, by God, right in the streets, and there ain't
most no one would help you."

"Right you are," said the other. "The job I had I lost 'cause they shut
down. They run all summer and lay up a big stock, and then shut down."

Hurstwood paid some little attention to this. Somehow, he felt a little
superior to these two--a little better off. To him these were ignorant
and commonplace, poor sheep in a driver's hand.

"Poor devils," he thought, speaking out of the thoughts and feelings of
a bygone period of success. "Next," said one of the instructors.

"You're next," said a neighbour, touching him.

He went out and climbed on the platform. The instructor took it for
granted that no preliminaries were needed.

"You see this handle," he said, reaching up to an electric cut-off,
which was fastened to the roof. "This throws the current off or on. If
you want to reverse the car you turn it over here. If you want to send
it forward, you put it over here. If you want to cut off the power, you
keep it in the middle."

Hurstwood smiled at the simple information.

"Now, this handle here regulates your speed. To here," he said, pointing
with his finger, "gives you about four miles an hour. This is eight.
When it's full on, you make about fourteen miles an hour."

Hurstwood watched him calmly. He had seen motormen work before. He knew
just about how they did it, and was sure he could do as well, with a
very little practice.

The instructor explained a few more details, and then said:

"Now, we'll back her up."

Hurstwood stood placidly by, while the car rolled back into the yard.

"One thing you want to be careful about, and that is to start easy. Give
one degree time to act before you start another. The one fault of most
men is that they always want to throw her wide open. That's bad. It's
dangerous, too. Wears out the motor. You don't want to do that."

"I see," said Hurstwood.

He waited and waited, while the man talked on.

"Now you take it," he said, finally.

The ex-manager laid hand to the lever and pushed it gently, as he
thought. It worked much easier than he imagined, however, with the
result that the car jerked quickly forward, throwing him back against
the door. He straightened up sheepishly, while the instructor stopped
the car with the brake.

"You want to be careful about that," was all he said.

Hurstwood found, however, that handling a brake and regulating speed
were not so instantly mastered as he had imagined. Once or twice he
would have ploughed through the rear fence if it had not been for the
hand and word of his companion. The latter was rather patient with him,
but he never smiled.

"You've got to get the knack of working both arms at once," he said. "It
takes a little practice."

One o'clock came while he was still on the car practising, and he began
to feel hungry. The day set in snowing, and he was cold. He grew weary
of running to and fro on the short track.

They ran the car to the end and both got off. Hurstwood went into the
barn and sought a car step, pulling out his paper-wrapped lunch from
his pocket. There was no water and the bread was dry, but he enjoyed
it. There was no ceremony about dining. He swallowed and looked
about, contemplating the dull, homely labour of the thing. It was
disagreeable--miserably disagreeable--in all its phases. Not because
it was bitter, but because it was hard. It would be hard to any one, he
thought.

After eating, he stood about as before, waiting until his turn came.

The intention was to give him an afternoon of practice, but the greater
part of the time was spent in waiting about.

At last evening came, and with it hunger and a debate with himself as to
how he should spend the night. It was half-past five. He must soon eat.
If he tried to go home, it would take him two hours and a half of cold
walking and riding. Besides he had orders to report at seven the next
morning, and going home would necessitate his rising at an unholy and
disagreeable hour. He had only something like a dollar and fifteen cents
of Carrie's money, with which he had intended to pay the two weeks' coal
bill before the present idea struck him.

"They must have some place around here," he thought. "Where does that
fellow from Newark stay?"

Finally he decided to ask. There was a young fellow standing near one
of the doors in the cold, waiting a last turn. He was a mere boy in
years--twenty-one about--but with a body lank and long, because of
privation. A little good living would have made this youth plump and
swaggering.

"How do they arrange this, if a man hasn't any money?" inquired
Hurstwood, discreetly.

The fellow turned a keen, watchful face on the inquirer.

"You mean eat?" he replied.

"Yes, and sleep. I can't go back to New York to-night."

"The foreman 'll fix that if you ask him, I guess. He did me."

"That so?"

"Yes. I just told him I didn't have anything. Gee, I couldn't go home. I
live way over in Hoboken."

Hurstwood only cleared his throat by way of acknowledgment.

"They've got a place upstairs here, I understand. I don't know what sort
of a thing it is. Purty tough, I guess. He gave me a meal ticket this
noon. I know that wasn't much."

Hurstwood smiled grimly, and the boy laughed.

"It ain't no fun, is it?" he inquired, wishing vainly for a cheery
reply.

"Not much," answered Hurstwood.

"I'd tackle him now," volunteered the youth. "He may go 'way."

Hurstwood did so.

"Isn't there some place I can stay around here to-night?" he inquired.
"If I have to go back to New York, I'm afraid I won't."

"There're some cots upstairs," interrupted the man, "if you want one of
them."

"That'll do," he assented.

He meant to ask for a meal ticket, but the seemingly proper moment never
came, and he decided to pay himself that night.

"I'll ask him in the morning."

He ate in a cheap restaurant in the vicinity, and, being cold and
lonely, went straight off to seek the loft in question. The company was
not attempting to run cars after nightfall. It was so advised by the
police.

The room seemed to have been a lounging place for night workers. There
were some nine cots in the place, two or three wooden chairs, a soap
box, and a small, round-bellied stove, in which a fire was blazing.
Early as he was, another man was there before him. The latter was
sitting beside the stove warming his hands.

Hurstwood approached and held out his own toward the fire. He was sick
of the bareness and privation of all things connected with his venture,
but was steeling himself to hold out. He fancied he could for a while.

"Cold, isn't it?" said the early guest.

"Rather."

A long silence.

"Not much of a place to sleep in, is it?" said the man.

"Better than nothing," replied Hurstwood.

Another silence.

"I believe I'll turn in," said the man.

Rising, he went to one of the cots and stretched himself, removing only
his shoes, and pulling the one blanket and dirty old comforter over him
in a sort of bundle. The sight disgusted Hurstwood, but he did not dwell
on it, choosing to gaze into the stove and think of something else.
Presently he decided to retire, and picked a cot, also removing his
shoes.

While he was doing so, the youth who had advised him to come here
entered, and, seeing Hurstwood, tried to be genial.

"Better'n nothin'," he observed, looking around.

Hurstwood did not take this to himself. He thought it to be an
expression of individual satisfaction, and so did not answer. The
youth imagined he was out of sorts, and set to whistling softly. Seeing
another man asleep, he quit that and lapsed into silence.

Hurstwood made the best of a bad lot by keeping on his clothes and
pushing away the dirty covering from his head, but at last he dozed
in sheer weariness. The covering became more and more comfortable, its
character was forgotten, and he pulled it about his neck and slept.
In the morning he was aroused out of a pleasant dream by several men
stirring about in the cold, cheerless room. He had been back in Chicago
in fancy, in his own comfortable home. Jessica had been arranging to go
somewhere, and he had been talking with her about it. This was so clear
in his mind, that he was startled now by the contrast of this room.
He raised his head, and the cold, bitter reality jarred him into
wakefulness.

"Guess I'd better get up," he said.

There was no water on this floor. He put on his shoes in the cold
and stood up, shaking himself in his stiffness. His clothes felt
disagreeable, his hair bad.

"Hell!" he muttered, as he put on his hat.

Downstairs things were stirring again.

He found a hydrant, with a trough which had once been used for horses,
but there was no towel here, and his handkerchief was soiled from
yesterday. He contented himself with wetting his eyes with the ice-cold
water. Then he sought the foreman, who was already on the ground.

"Had your breakfast yet?" inquired that worthy.

"No," said Hurstwood.

"Better get it, then; your car won't be ready for a little while."

Hurstwood hesitated.

"Could you let me have a meal ticket?" he asked with an effort.

"Here you are," said the man, handing him one.

He breakfasted as poorly as the night before on some fried steak and bad
coffee. Then he went back.

"Here," said the foreman, motioning him, when he came in. "You take this
car out in a few minutes."

Hurstwood climbed up on the platform in the gloomy barn and waited for
a signal. He was nervous, and yet the thing was a relief. Anything was
better than the barn.

On this the fourth day of the strike, the situation had taken a turn for
the worse. The strikers, following the counsel of their leaders and
the newspapers, had struggled peaceably enough. There had been no great
violence done. Cars had been stopped, it is true, and the men argued
with. Some crews had been won over and led away, some windows broken,
some jeering and yelling done; but in no more than five or six instances
had men been seriously injured. These by crowds whose acts the leaders
disclaimed.

Idleness, however, and the sight of the company, backed by the police,
triumphing, angered the men. They saw that each day more cars were going
on, each day more declarations were being made by the company officials
that the effective opposition of the strikers was broken. This put
desperate thoughts in the minds of the men. Peaceful methods meant, they
saw, that the companies would soon run all their cars and those who
had complained would be forgotten. There was nothing so helpful to the
companies as peaceful methods. All at once they blazed forth, and for
a week there was storm and stress. Cars were assailed, men attacked,
policemen struggled with, tracks torn up, and shots fired, until at
last street fights and mob movements became frequent, and the city was
invested with militia.

Hurstwood knew nothing of the change of temper.

"Run your car out," called the foreman, waving a vigorous hand at him. A
green conductor jumped up behind and rang the bell twice as a signal to
start. Hurstwood turned the lever and ran the car out through the door
into the street in front of the barn. Here two brawny policemen got up
beside him on the platform--one on either hand.

At the sound of a gong near the barn door, two bells were given by the
conductor and Hurstwood opened his lever.

The two policemen looked about them calmly.

"'Tis cold, all right, this morning," said the one on the left, who
possessed a rich brogue.

"I had enough of it yesterday," said the other. "I wouldn't want a
steady job of this."

"Nor I."

Neither paid the slightest attention to Hurstwood, who stood facing
the cold wind, which was chilling him completely, and thinking of his
orders.

"Keep a steady gait," the foreman had said. "Don't stop for any one who
doesn't look like a real passenger. Whatever you do, don't stop for a
crowd."

The two officers kept silent for a few moments.

"The last man must have gone through all right," said the officer on the
left. "I don't see his car anywhere."

"Who's on there?" asked the second officer, referring, of course, to its
complement of policemen.

"Schaeffer and Ryan."

There was another silence, in which the car ran smoothly along. There
were not so many houses along this part of the way. Hurstwood did not
see many people either. The situation was not wholly disagreeable to
him. If he were not so cold, he thought he would do well enough.

He was brought out of this feeling by the sudden appearance of a curve
ahead, which he had not expected. He shut off the current and did an
energetic turn at the brake, but not in time to avoid an unnaturally
quick turn. It shook him up and made him feel like making some
apologetic remarks, but he refrained.

"You want to look out for them things," said the officer on the left,
condescendingly.

"That's right," agreed Hurstwood, shamefacedly.

"There's lots of them on this line," said the officer on the right.
Around the corner a more populated way appeared. One or two pedestrians
were in view ahead. A boy coming out of a gate with a tin milk bucket
gave Hurstwood his first objectionable greeting.

"Scab!" he yelled. "Scab!"

Hurstwood heard it, but tried to make no comment, even to himself. He
knew he would get that, and much more of the same sort, probably.

At a corner farther up a man stood by the track and signalled the car to
stop.

"Never mind him," said one of the officers. "He's up to some game."

Hurstwood obeyed. At the corner he saw the wisdom of it. No sooner did
the man perceive the intention to ignore him, than he shook his fist.

"Ah, you bloody coward!" he yelled.

Some half dozen men, standing on the corner, flung taunts and jeers
after the speeding car.

Hurstwood winced the least bit. The real thing was slightly worse than
the thoughts of it had been.

Now came in sight, three or four blocks farther on, a heap of something
on the track.

"They've been at work, here, all right," said one of the policemen.

"We'll have an argument, maybe," said the other.

Hurstwood ran the car close and stopped. He had not done so wholly,
however, before a crowd gathered about. It was composed of ex-motormen
and conductors in part, with a sprinkling of friends and sympathisers.

"Come off the car, pardner," said one of the men in a voice meant to
be conciliatory. "You don't want to take the bread out of another man's
mouth, do you?"

Hurstwood held to his brake and lever, pale and very uncertain what to
do.

"Stand back," yelled one of the officers, leaning over the platform
railing. "Clear out of this, now. Give the man a chance to do his work."

"Listen, pardner," said the leader, ignoring the policeman and
addressing Hurstwood. "We're all working men, like yourself. If you were
a regular motorman, and had been treated as we've been, you wouldn't
want any one to come in and take your place, would you? You wouldn't
want any one to do you out of your chance to get your rights, would
you?"

"Shut her off! shut her off!" urged the other of the policemen, roughly.
"Get out of this, now," and he jumped the railing and landed before the
crowd and began shoving. Instantly the other officer was down beside
him.

"Stand back, now," they yelled. "Get out of this. What the hell do you
mean? Out, now."

It was like a small swarm of bees.

"Don't shove me," said one of the strikers, determinedly. "I'm not doing
anything."

"Get out of this!" cried the officer, swinging his club. "I'll give ye a
bat on the sconce. Back, now."

"What the hell!" cried another of the strikers, pushing the other way,
adding at the same time some lusty oaths.

Crack came an officer's club on his forehead. He blinked his eyes
blindly a few times, wabbled on his legs, threw up his hands, and
staggered back. In return, a swift fist landed on the officer's neck.

Infuriated by this, the latter plunged left and right, laying about
madly with his club. He was ably assisted by his brother of the blue,
who poured ponderous oaths upon the troubled waters. No severe damage
was done, owing to the agility of the strikers in keeping out of reach.
They stood about the sidewalk now and jeered.

"Where is the conductor?" yelled one of the officers, getting his eye on
that individual, who had come nervously forward to stand by Hurstwood.
The latter had stood gazing upon the scene with more astonishment than
fear.

"Why don't you come down here and get these stones off the track?"
inquired the officer. "What you standing there for? Do you want to stay
here all day? Get down."

Hurstwood breathed heavily in excitement and jumped down with the
nervous conductor as if he had been called.

"Hurry up, now," said the other policeman.

Cold as it was, these officers were hot and mad. Hurstwood worked with
the conductor, lifting stone after stone and warming himself by the
work.

"Ah, you scab, you!" yelled the crowd. "You coward! Steal a man's job,
will you? Rob the poor, will you, you thief? We'll get you yet, now.
Wait."

Not all of this was delivered by one man. It came from here and there,
incorporated with much more of the same sort and curses.

"Work, you blackguards," yelled a voice. "Do the dirty work. You're the
suckers that keep the poor people down!"

"May God starve ye yet," yelled an old Irish woman, who now threw open a
nearby window and stuck out her head.

"Yes, and you," she added, catching the eye of one of the policemen.
"You bloody, murtherin' thafe! Crack my son over the head, will you, you
hardhearted, murtherin' divil? Ah, ye----"

But the officer turned a deaf ear.

"Go to the devil, you old hag," he half muttered as he stared round upon
the scattered company.

Now the stones were off, and Hurstwood took his place again amid a
continued chorus of epithets. Both officers got up beside him and the
conductor rang the bell, when, bang! bang! through window and door
came rocks and stones. One narrowly grazed Hurstwood's head. Another
shattered the window behind.

"Throw open your lever," yelled one of the officers, grabbing at the
handle himself.

Hurstwood complied and the car shot away, followed by a rattle of stones
and a rain of curses.

"That --- --- --- ---- hit me in the neck," said one of the officers. "I
gave him a good crack for it, though."

"I think I must have left spots on some of them," said the other.

"I know that big guy that called us a --- --- --- ----" said the first.
"I'll get him yet for that."

"I thought we were in for it sure, once there," said the second.

Hurstwood, warmed and excited, gazed steadily ahead. It was an
astonishing experience for him. He had read of these things, but the
reality seemed something altogether new. He was no coward in spirit.
The fact that he had suffered this much now rather operated to arouse a
stolid determination to stick it out. He did not recur in thought to New
York or the flat. This one trip seemed a consuming thing.

They now ran into the business heart of Brooklyn uninterrupted. People
gazed at the broken windows of the car and at Hurstwood in his plain
clothes. Voices called "scab" now and then, as well as other epithets,
but no crowd attacked the car. At the downtown end of the line, one of
the officers went to call up his station and report the trouble.

"There's a gang out there," he said, "laying for us yet. Better send
some one over there and clean them out."

The car ran back more quietly--hooted, watched, flung at, but not
attacked. Hurstwood breathed freely when he saw the barns.

"Well," he observed to himself, "I came out of that all right."

The car was turned in and he was allowed to loaf a while, but later he
was again called. This time a new team of officers was aboard. Slightly
more confident, he sped the car along the commonplace streets and felt
somewhat less fearful. On one side, however, he suffered intensely. The
day was raw, with a sprinkling of snow and a gusty wind, made all the
more intolerable by the speed of the car. His clothing was not intended
for this sort of work. He shivered, stamped his feet, and beat his arms
as he had seen other motormen do in the past, but said nothing. The
novelty and danger of the situation modified in a way his disgust and
distress at being compelled to be here, but not enough to prevent him
from feeling grim and sour. This was a dog's life, he thought. It was a
tough thing to have to come to.

The one thought that strengthened him was the insult offered by Carrie.
He was not down so low as to take all that, he thought. He could do
something--this, even--for a while. It would get better. He would save a
little.

A boy threw a clod of mud while he was thus reflecting and hit him upon
the arm. It hurt sharply and angered him more than he had been any time
since morning.

"The little cur!" he muttered.

"Hurt you?" asked one of the policemen.

"No," he answered.

At one of the corners, where the car slowed up because of a turn, an
ex-motorman, standing on the sidewalk, called to him:

"Won't you come out, pardner, and be a man? Remember we're fighting for
decent day's wages, that's all. We've got families to support." The man
seemed most peaceably inclined.

Hurstwood pretended not to see him. He kept his eyes straight on before
and opened the lever wide. The voice had something appealing in it.

All morning this went on and long into the afternoon. He made three
such trips. The dinner he had was no stay for such work and the cold was
telling on him. At each end of the line he stopped to thaw out, but
he could have groaned at the anguish of it. One of the barnmen, out of
pity, loaned him a heavy cap and a pair of sheepskin gloves, and for
once he was extremely thankful.

On the second trip of the afternoon he ran into a crowd about half
way along the line, that had blocked the car's progress with an old
telegraph pole.

"Get that thing off the track," shouted the two policemen.

"Yah, yah, yah!" yelled the crowd. "Get it off yourself."

The two policemen got down and Hurstwood started to follow.

"You stay there," one called. "Some one will run away with your car."

Amid the babel of voices, Hurstwood heard one close beside him.

"Come down, pardner, and be a man. Don't fight the poor. Leave that to
the corporations."

He saw the same fellow who had called to him from the corner. Now, as
before, he pretended not to hear him.

"Come down," the man repeated gently. "You don't want to fight poor men.
Don't fight at all." It was a most philosophic and jesuitical motorman.

A third policeman joined the other two from somewhere and some one ran
to telephone for more officers. Hurstwood gazed about, determined but
fearful.

A man grabbed him by the coat.

"Come off of that," he exclaimed, jerking at him and trying to pull him
over the railing.

"Let go," said Hurstwood, savagely.

"I'll show you--you scab!" cried a young Irishman, jumping up on the car
and aiming a blow at Hurstwood. The latter ducked and caught it on the
shoulder instead of the jaw.

"Away from here," shouted an officer, hastening to the rescue, and
adding, of course, the usual oaths.

Hurstwood recovered himself, pale and trembling. It was becoming serious
with him now. People were looking up and jeering at him. One girl was
making faces.

He began to waver in his resolution, when a patrol wagon rolled up and
more officers dismounted. Now the track was quickly cleared and the
release effected.

"Let her go now, quick," said the officer, and again he was off.

The end came with a real mob, which met the car on its return trip
a mile or two from the barns. It was an exceedingly poor-looking
neighbourhood. He wanted to run fast through it, but again the track
was blocked. He saw men carrying something out to it when he was yet a
half-dozen blocks away.

"There they are again!" exclaimed one policeman.

"I'll give them something this time," said the second officer, whose
patience was becoming worn. Hurstwood suffered a qualm of body as the
car rolled up. As before, the crowd began hooting, but now, rather
than come near, they threw things. One or two windows were smashed and
Hurstwood dodged a stone.

Both policemen ran out toward the crowd, but the latter replied by
running toward the car. A woman--a mere girl in appearance--was among
these, bearing a rough stick. She was exceedingly wrathful and struck
at Hurstwood, who dodged. Thereupon, her companions, duly encouraged,
jumped on the car and pulled Hurstwood over. He had hardly time to speak
or shout before he fell.

"Let go of me," he said, falling on his side.

"Ah, you sucker," he heard some one say. Kicks and blows rained on him.
He seemed to be suffocating. Then two men seemed to be dragging him off
and he wrestled for freedom.

"Let up," said a voice, "you're all right. Stand up."

He was let loose and recovered himself. Now he recognised two officers.
He felt as if he would faint from exhaustion. Something was wet on his
chin. He put up his hand and felt, then looked. It was red.

"They cut me," he said, foolishly, fishing for his handkerchief.

"Now, now," said one of the officers. "It's only a scratch."

His senses became cleared now and he looked around. He was standing in a
little store, where they left him for the moment. Outside, he could see,
as he stood wiping his chin, the car and the excited crowd. A patrol
wagon was there, and another.

He walked over and looked out. It was an ambulance, backing in.

He saw some energetic charging by the police and arrests being made.

"Come on, now, if you want to take your car," said an officer, opening
the door and looking in. He walked out, feeling rather uncertain of
himself. He was very cold and frightened.

"Where's the conductor?" he asked.

"Oh, he's not here now," said the policeman.

Hurstwood went toward the car and stepped nervously on. As he did so
there was a pistol shot. Something stung his shoulder.

"Who fired that?" he heard an officer exclaim. "By God! who did that?"
Both left him, running toward a certain building. He paused a moment and
then got down.

"George!" exclaimed Hurstwood, weakly, "this is too much for me."

He walked nervously to the corner and hurried down a side street.

"Whew!" he said, drawing in his breath.

A half block away, a small girl gazed at him.

"You'd better sneak," she called.

He walked homeward in a blinding snowstorm, reaching the ferry by
dusk. The cabins were filled with comfortable souls, who studied him
curiously. His head was still in such a whirl that he felt confused. All
the wonder of the twinkling lights of the river in a white storm passed
for nothing. He trudged doggedly on until he reached the flat. There he
entered and found the room warm. Carrie was gone. A couple of evening
papers were lying on the table where she left them. He lit the gas and
sat down. Then he got up and stripped to examine his shoulder. It was
a mere scratch. He washed his hands and face, still in a brown study,
apparently, and combed his hair. Then he looked for something to eat,
and finally, his hunger gone, sat down in his comfortable rocking-chair.
It was a wonderful relief.

He put his hand to his chin, forgetting, for the moment, the papers.

"Well," he said, after a time, his nature recovering itself, "that's a
pretty tough game over there."

Then he turned and saw the papers. With half a sigh he picked up the
"World."

"Strike Spreading in Brooklyn," he read. "Rioting Breaks Out in all
Parts of the City."

He adjusted his paper very comfortably and continued. It was the one
thing he read with absorbing interest.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The remainder of the summer and the autumn pass. Carrie obtains another part at a higher salary when the opera in which she played a part goes on the road. Hurstwood continues to sit in the rocking chair, reading his newspaper, promising himself that things will go better for him. Of course, the hotel job he talked about never materializes. One winter day, after Carrie complains to Hurstwood that she cannot possibly pay all their bills by herself, Hurstwood reads an advertisement in the newspaper announcing that because of a labor strike, a Brooklyn trolley line is seeking motormen and conductors. Although his sympathy lies with the strikers, he decides to go to Brooklyn to find work because Carrie seems to suspect him of stealing her money. Making his way through the cold to the trolley yard, he offers his services. The manager of the line is so pressed for workers that he decides to hire and train Hurstwood as a motorman. After a day of instruction and a cold night in the loft of the car storage barn, Hurstwood begins his first day of work in many months. The hours are long and the weather is cold, but the hardest and most dangerous part of the job is facing the angry strikers. Although there are policemen aboard the car for protection, Hurstwood is attacked and dragged off in a skirmish. He is finally rescued by the policemen, but as he is climbing back aboard the car, he is struck by a bullet. The violence and the misery are too much for Hurstwood and he leaves nervously. After a long walk in the snow, he arrives home, tends to the slight wound he has received in the arm, and settles down comfortably to read his paper with relief.


prompt:
Chapter: Those who look upon Hurstwood's Brooklyn venture as an error of judgment
will none the less realise the negative influence on him of the fact
that he had tried and failed. Carrie got a wrong idea of it. He said
so little that she imagined he had encountered nothing worse than
the ordinary roughness--quitting so soon in the face of this seemed
trifling. He did not want to work.

She was now one of a group of oriental beauties who, in the second act
of the comic opera, were paraded by the vizier before the new potentate
as the treasures of his harem. There was no word assigned to any of
them, but on the evening when Hurstwood was housing himself in the
loft of the street-car barn, the leading comedian and star, feeling
exceedingly facetious, said in a profound voice, which created a ripple
of laughter:

"Well, who are you?"

It merely happened to be Carrie who was courtesying before him. It might
as well have been any of the others, so far as he was concerned. He
expected no answer and a dull one would have been reproved. But Carrie,
whose experience and belief in herself gave her daring, courtesied
sweetly again and answered:

"I am yours truly."

It was a trivial thing to say, and yet something in the way she did it
caught the audience, which laughed heartily at the mock-fierce potentate
towering before the young woman. The comedian also liked it, hearing the
laughter.

"I thought your name was Smith," he returned, endeavouring to get the
last laugh.

Carrie almost trembled for her daring after she had said this. All
members of the company had been warned that to interpolate lines or
"business" meant a fine or worse. She did not know what to think.

As she was standing in her proper position in the wings, awaiting
another entry, the great comedian made his exit past her and paused in
recognition.

"You can just leave that in hereafter," he remarked, seeing how
intelligent she appeared. "Don't add any more, though."

"Thank you," said Carrie, humbly. When he went on she found herself
trembling violently.

"Well, you're in luck," remarked another member of the chorus. "There
isn't another one of us has got a line."

There was no gainsaying the value of this. Everybody in the company
realised that she had got a start. Carrie hugged herself when next
evening the lines got the same applause. She went home rejoicing,
knowing that soon something must come of it. It was Hurstwood who, by
his presence, caused her merry thoughts to flee and replaced them with
sharp longings for an end of distress.

The next day she asked him about his venture.

"They're not trying to run any cars except with police. They don't want
anybody just now--not before next week."

Next week came, but Carrie saw no change. Hurstwood seemed more
apathetic than ever. He saw her off mornings to rehearsals and the like
with the utmost calm. He read and read. Several times he found himself
staring at an item, but thinking of something else. The first of these
lapses that he sharply noticed concerned a hilarious party he had once
attended at a driving club, of which he had been a member. He sat,
gazing downward, and gradually thought he heard the old voices and the
clink of glasses.

"You're a dandy, Hurstwood," his friend Walker said. He was standing
again well dressed, smiling, good-natured, the recipient of encores for
a good story.

All at once he looked up. The room was so still it seemed ghostlike.
He heard the clock ticking audibly and half suspected that he had been
dozing. The paper was so straight in his hands, however, and the items
he had been reading so directly before him, that he rid himself of the
doze idea. Still, it seemed peculiar. When it occurred a second time,
however, it did not seem quite so strange.

Butcher and grocery man, baker and coal man--not the group with whom he
was then dealing, but those who had trusted him to the limit--called. He
met them all blandly, becoming deft in excuse. At last he became bold,
pretended to be out, or waved them off.

"They can't get blood out of a turnip," he said, "if I had it I'd pay
them."

Carrie's little soldier friend, Miss Osborne, seeing her succeeding, had
become a sort of satellite. Little Osborne could never of herself amount
to anything. She seemed to realise it in a sort of pussy-like way and
instinctively concluded to cling with her soft little claws to Carrie.

"Oh, you'll get up," she kept telling Carrie with admiration. "You're so
good."

Timid as Carrie was, she was strong in capability. The reliance of
others made her feel as if she must, and when she must she dared.
Experience of the world and of necessity was in her favour. No longer
the lightest word of a man made her head dizzy. She had learned that men
could change and fail. Flattery in its most palpable form had lost its
force with her. It required superiority--kindly superiority--to move
her--the superiority of a genius like Ames.

"I don't like the actors in our company," she told Lola one day.
"They're all so struck on themselves."

"Don't you think Mr. Barclay's pretty nice?" inquired Lola, who had
received a condescending smile or two from that quarter.

"Oh, he's nice enough," answered Carrie; "but he isn't sincere. He
assumes such an air."

Lola felt for her first hold upon Carrie in the following manner:

"Are you paying room-rent where you are?"

"Certainly," answered Carrie. "Why?"

"I know where I could get the loveliest room and bath, cheap. It's too
big for me, but it would be just right for two, and the rent is only six
dollars a week for both."

"Where?" said Carrie.

"In Seventeenth Street."

"Well, I don't know as I'd care to change," said Carrie, who was already
turning over the three-dollar rate in her mind. She was thinking if she
had only herself to support this would leave her seventeen for herself.

Nothing came of this until after the Brooklyn adventure of Hurstwood's
and her success with the speaking part. Then she began to feel as if she
must be free. She thought of leaving Hurstwood and thus making him act
for himself, but he had developed such peculiar traits she feared he
might resist any effort to throw him off. He might hunt her out at
the show and hound her in that way. She did not wholly believe that he
would, but he might. This, she knew, would be an embarrassing thing if
he made himself conspicuous in any way. It troubled her greatly.

Things were precipitated by the offer of a better part. One of the
actresses playing the part of a modest sweetheart gave notice of leaving
and Carrie was selected.

"How much are you going to get?" asked Miss Osborne, on hearing the good
news.

"I didn't ask him," said Carrie.

"Well, find out. Goodness, you'll never get anything if you don't ask.
Tell them you must have forty dollars, anyhow."

"Oh, no," said Carrie.

"Certainly!" exclaimed Lola. "Ask 'em, anyway."

Carrie succumbed to this prompting, waiting, however, until the manager
gave her notice of what clothing she must have to fit the part.

"How much do I get?" she inquired.

"Thirty-five dollars," he replied.

Carrie was too much astonished and delighted to think of mentioning
forty. She was nearly beside herself, and almost hugged Lola, who clung
to her at the news.

"It isn't as much as you ought to get," said the latter, "especially
when you've got to buy clothes."

Carrie remembered this with a start. Where to get the money? She had
none laid up for such an emergency. Rent day was drawing near.

"I'll not do it," she said, remembering her necessity. "I don't use the
flat. I'm not going to give up my money this time. I'll move."

Fitting into this came another appeal from Miss Osborne, more urgent
than ever.

"Come live with me, won't you?" she pleaded. "We can have the loveliest
room. It won't cost you hardly anything that way."

"I'd like to," said Carrie, frankly.

"Oh, do," said Lola. "We'll have such a good time."

Carrie thought a while.

"I believe I will," she said, and then added: "I'll have to see first,
though." With the idea thus grounded, rent day approaching, and clothes
calling for instant purchase, she soon found excuse in Hurstwood's
lassitude. He said less and drooped more than ever.

As rent day approached, an idea grew in him. It was fostered by the
demands of creditors and the impossibility of holding up many more.
Twenty-eight dollars was too much for rent. "It's hard on her," he
thought. "We could get a cheaper place."

Stirred with this idea, he spoke at the breakfast table.

"Don't you think we pay too much rent here?" he asked.

"Indeed I do," said Carrie, not catching his drift.

"I should think we could get a smaller place," he suggested. "We don't
need four rooms."

Her countenance, had he been scrutinising her, would have exhibited the
disturbance she felt at this evidence of his determination to stay by
her. He saw nothing remarkable in asking her to come down lower.

"Oh, I don't know," she answered, growing wary.

"There must be places around here where we could get a couple of rooms,
which would do just as well."

Her heart revolted. "Never!" she thought. Who would furnish the money to
move? To think of being in two rooms with him! She resolved to spend her
money for clothes quickly, before something terrible happened. That very
day she did it. Having done so, there was but one other thing to do.

"Lola," she said, visiting her friend, "I think I'll come."

"Oh, jolly!" cried the latter.

"Can we get it right away?" she asked, meaning the room.

"Certainly," cried Lola.

They went to look at it. Carrie had saved ten dollars from her
expenditures--enough for this and her board beside. Her enlarged salary
would not begin for ten days yet--would not reach her for seventeen. She
paid half of the six dollars with her friend.

"Now, I've just enough to get on to the end of the week," she confided.

"Oh, I've got some," said Lola. "I've got twenty-five dollars, if you
need it."

"No," said Carrie. "I guess I'll get along."

They decided to move Friday, which was two days away. Now that the
thing was settled, Carrie's heart misgave her. She felt very much like a
criminal in the matter. Each day looking at Hurstwood, she had realised
that, along with the disagreeableness of his attitude, there was
something pathetic.

She looked at him the same evening she had made up her mind to go, and
now he seemed not so shiftless and worthless, but run down and beaten
upon by chance. His eyes were not keen, his face marked, his hands
flabby. She thought his hair had a touch of grey. All unconscious of his
doom, he rocked and read his paper, while she glanced at him.

Knowing that the end was so near, she became rather solicitous.

"Will you go over and get some canned peaches?" she asked Hurstwood,
laying down a two-dollar bill.

"Certainly," he said, looking in wonder at the money.

"See if you can get some nice asparagus," she added. "I'll cook it for
dinner."

Hurstwood rose and took the money, slipping on his overcoat and getting
his hat. Carrie noticed that both of these articles of apparel were old
and poor looking in appearance. It was plain enough before, but now it
came home with peculiar force. Perhaps he couldn't help it, after all.
He had done well in Chicago. She remembered his fine appearance the days
he had met her in the park. Then he was so sprightly, so clean. Had it
been all his fault?

He came back and laid the change down with the food.

"You'd better keep it," she observed. "We'll need other things."

"No," he said, with a sort of pride; "you keep it."

"Oh, go on and keep it," she replied, rather unnerved. "There'll be
other things."

He wondered at this, not knowing the pathetic figure he had become in
her eyes. She restrained herself with difficulty from showing a quaver
in her voice.

To say truly, this would have been Carrie's attitude in any case. She
had looked back at times upon her parting from Drouet and had regretted
that she had served him so badly. She hoped she would never meet him
again, but she was ashamed of her conduct. Not that she had any choice
in the final separation. She had gone willingly to seek him, with
sympathy in her heart, when Hurstwood had reported him ill. There was
something cruel somewhere, and not being able to track it mentally
to its logical lair, she concluded with feeling that he would never
understand what Hurstwood had done and would see hard-hearted decision
in her deed; hence her shame. Not that she cared for him. She did not
want to make any one who had been good to her feel badly.

She did not realise what she was doing by allowing these feelings to
possess her. Hurstwood, noticing the kindness, conceived better of her.
"Carrie's good-natured, anyhow," he thought.

Going to Miss Osborne's that afternoon, she found that little lady
packing and singing.

"Why don't you come over with me today?" she asked.

"Oh, I can't," said Carrie. "I'll be there Friday. Would you mind
lending me the twenty-five dollars you spoke of?"

"Why, no," said Lola, going for her purse.

"I want to get some other things," said Carrie.

"Oh, that's all right," answered the little girl, good-naturedly, glad
to be of service. It had been days since Hurstwood had done more than
go to the grocery or to the news-stand. Now the weariness of indoors was
upon him--had been for two days--but chill, grey weather had held him
back. Friday broke fair and warm. It was one of those lovely harbingers
of spring, given as a sign in dreary winter that earth is not forsaken
of warmth and beauty. The blue heaven, holding its one golden orb,
poured down a crystal wash of warm light. It was plain, from the voice
of the sparrows, that all was halcyon outside. Carrie raised the front
windows, and felt the south wind blowing.

"It's lovely out to-day," she remarked.

"Is it?" said Hurstwood.

After breakfast, he immediately got his other clothes.

"Will you be back for lunch?" asked Carrie nervously.

"No," he said.

He went out into the streets and tramped north, along Seventh Avenue,
idly fixing upon the Harlem River as an objective point. He had seen
some ships up there, the time he had called upon the brewers. He
wondered how the territory thereabouts was growing.

Passing Fifty-ninth Street, he took the west side of Central Park,
which he followed to Seventy-eighth Street. Then he remembered the
neighbourhood and turned over to look at the mass of buildings erected.
It was very much improved. The great open spaces were filling up. Coming
back, he kept to the Park until 110th Street, and then turned into
Seventh Avenue again, reaching the pretty river by one o'clock.

There it ran winding before his gaze, shining brightly in the clear
light, between the undulating banks on the right and the tall,
tree-covered heights on the left. The spring-like atmosphere woke him to
a sense of its loveliness, and for a few moments he stood looking at it,
folding his hands behind his back. Then he turned and followed it toward
the east side, idly seeking the ships he had seen. It was four o'clock
before the waning day, with its suggestion of a cooler evening, caused
him to return. He was hungry and would enjoy eating in the warm room.

When he reached the flat by half-past five, it was still dark. He knew
that Carrie was not there, not only because there was no light showing
through the transom, but because the evening papers were stuck between
the outside knob and the door. He opened with his key and went in.
Everything was still dark. Lighting the gas, he sat down, preparing to
wait a little while. Even if Carrie did come now, dinner would be late.
He read until six, then got up to fix something for himself.

As he did so, he noticed that the room seemed a little queer. What
was it? He looked around, as if he missed something, and then saw an
envelope near where he had been sitting. It spoke for itself, almost
without further action on his part.

Reaching over, he took it, a sort of chill settling upon him even while
he reached. The crackle of the envelope in his hands was loud. Green
paper money lay soft within the note.

"Dear George," he read, crunching the money in one hand, "I'm going
away. I'm not coming back any more. It's no use trying to keep up the
flat; I can't do it. I wouldn't mind helping you, if I could, but I
can't support us both, and pay the rent. I need what little I make to
pay for my clothes. I'm leaving twenty dollars. It's all I have just
now. You can do whatever you like with the furniture. I won't want
it.--CARRIE."

He dropped the note and looked quietly round. Now he knew what he
missed. It was the little ornamental clock, which was hers. It had gone
from the mantelpiece. He went into the front room, his bedroom, the
parlour, lighting the gas as he went. From the chiffonier had gone
the knick-knacks of silver and plate. From the table-top, the lace
coverings. He opened the wardrobe--no clothes of hers. He opened the
drawers--nothing of hers. Her trunk was gone from its accustomed place.
Back in his own room hung his old clothes, just as he had left them.
Nothing else was gone.

He stepped into the parlour and stood for a few moments looking vacantly
at the floor. The silence grew oppressive. The little flat seemed
wonderfully deserted. He wholly forgot that he was hungry, that it was
only dinner-time. It seemed later in the night.

Suddenly, he found that the money was still in his hands. There were
twenty dollars in all, as she had said. Now he walked back, leaving the
lights ablaze, and feeling as if the flat were empty.

"I'll get out of this," he said to himself.

Then the sheer loneliness of his situation rushed upon him in full.

"Left me!" he muttered, and repeated, "left me!"

The place that had been so comfortable, where he had spent so many days
of warmth, was now a memory. Something colder and chillier confronted
him. He sank down in his chair, resting his chin in his hand--mere
sensation, without thought, holding him.

Then something like a bereaved affection and self-pity swept over him.

"She needn't have gone away," he said. "I'd have got something."

He sat a long while without rocking, and added quite clearly, out loud:

"I tried, didn't I?"

At midnight he was still rocking, staring at the floor.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Carrie misunderstands Hurstwood's Brooklyn trolley venture, thinking that "he had encountered nothing worse than the ordinary roughness." The same night that Hurstwood spends in the car barn Carrie gains the approval of the star of the show through a clever ad lib remark. The line remains in the show, and soon thereafter she wins her first speaking part. Having now "tried and failed," Hurstwood sinks lower and begins to experience reveries of glorious past times when he was the center of attention in Chicago society. He is continually harassed at home by creditors. As Carrie's salary increases, so does her resentment at having to support Hurstwood's dead weight. She debates leaving him to take a room with Lola Osborne. When a new part is given to her, she spends for costumes all the rent money she has been saving. The thought of leaving the pathetic Hurstwood fills her with sadness; nevertheless, one spring day she gathers her clothes and belongings and leaves the apartment. In a note to Hurstwood, she explains that she needs all the money she makes for clothes and costumes and that it is no use trying to keep up the flat. She gives him twenty dollars and all their furniture. When Hurstwood returns after a day of wandering, he reads the note and is struck by a powerful sensation of coldness. He sits in the rocker for a long time, staring at the floor.