The Octopus by Frank Norris (best e reader for academics TXT) đ
- Author: Frank Norris
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But evidently it had been decreed that Presley should be stopped at every point of his ride that day, for, as he was pushing his bicycle across the tracks, he was surprised to hear his name called. âHello, there, Mr. Presley. Whatâs the good word?â
Presley looked up quickly, and saw Dyke, the engineer, leaning on his folded arms from the cab window of the freight engine. But at the prospect of this further delay, Presley was less troubled. Dyke and he were well acquainted and the best of friends. The picturesqueness of the engineerâs life was always attractive to Presley, and more than once he had ridden on Dykeâs engine between Guadalajara and Bonneville. Once, even, he had made the entire run between the latter town and San Francisco in the cab.
Dykeâs home was in Guadalajara. He lived in one of the remodelled âdobe cottages, where his mother kept house for him. His wife had died some five years before this time, leaving him a little daughter, Sidney, to bring up as best he could. Dyke himself was a heavy built, well-looking fellow, nearly twice the weight of Presley, with great shoulders and massive, hairy arms, and a tremendous, rumbling voice.
âHello, old man,â answered Presley, coming up to the engine. âWhat are you doing about here at this time of day? I thought you were on the night service this month.â
âWeâve changed about a bit,â answered the other. âCome up here and sit down, and get out of the sun. Theyâve held us here to wait orders,â he explained, as Presley, after leaning his bicycle against the tender, climbed to the firemanâs seat of worn green leather. âThey are changing the run of one of the crack passenger engines down below, and are sending her up to Fresno. There was a smash of some kind on the Bakersfield division, and sheâs to hell and gone behind her time. I suppose when she comes, sheâll come a-humming. It will be stand clear and an open track all the way to Fresno. They have held me here to let her go by.â
He took his pipe, an old T. D. clay, but coloured to a beautiful shiny black, from the pocket of his jumper and filled and lit it.
âWell, I donât suppose you object to being held here,â observed Presley. âGives you a chance to visit your mother and the little girl.â
âAnd precisely they choose this day to go up to Sacramento,â answered Dyke. âJust my luck. Went up to visit my brotherâs people. By the way, my brother may come down hereâlocate here, I meanâand go into the hop-raising business. Heâs got an option on five hundred acres just back of the town here. He says there is going to be money in hops. I donât know; may be Iâll go in with him.â
âWhy, whatâs the matter with railroading?â
Dyke drew a couple of puffs on his pipe, and fixed Presley with a glance.
âThereâs this the matter with it,â he said; âIâm fired.â
âFired! You!â exclaimed Presley, turning abruptly toward him. âThatâs what Iâm telling you,â returned Dyke grimly.
âYou donât mean it. Why, what for, Dyke?â
âNow, YOU tell me what for,â growled the other savagely. âBoy and man, Iâve worked for the P. and S. W. for over ten years, and never one yelp of a complaint did I ever hear from them. They know damn well theyâve not got a steadier man on the road. And more than that, more than that, I donât belong to the Brotherhood. And when the strike came along, I stood by themâ stood by the company. You know that. And you know, and they know, that at Sacramento that time, I ran my train according to schedule, with a gun in each hand, never knowing when I was going over a mined culvert, and there was talk of giving me a gold watch at the time. To hell with their gold watches! I want ordinary justice and fair treatment. And now, when hard times come along, and they are cutting wages, what do they do? Do they make any discrimination in my case? Do they remember the man that stood by them and risked his life in their service? No. They cut my pay down just as off-hand as they do the pay of any dirty little wiper in the yard. Cut me along withâlisten to thisâcut me along with men that they had BLACK-LISTED; strikers that they took back because they were short of hands.â He drew fiercely on his pipe. âI went to them, yes, I did; I went to the General Office, and ate dirt. I told them I was a family man, and that I didnât see how I was going to get along on the new scale, and I reminded them of my service during the strike. The swine told me that it wouldnât be fair to discriminate in favour of one man, and that the cut must apply to all their employees alike. Fair!â he shouted with laughter. âFair! Hear the P. and S. W. talking about fairness and discrimination. Thatâs good, that is. Well, I got furious. I was a fool, I suppose. I told them that, in justice to myself, I wouldnât do first-class work for third-class pay. And they said, âWell, Mr. Dyke, you know what you can do.â Well, I did know. I said, âIâll ask for my time, if you please,â and they gave it to me just as if they were glad to be shut of me. So there you are, Presley. Thatâs the P. & S. W. Railroad Company of California. I am on my last run now.â
âShameful,â declared Presley, his sympathies all aroused, now that the trouble concerned a friend of his. âItâs shameful, Dyke. But,â he added, an idea occurring to him, âthat donât shut you out from work. There are other railroads in the State that are not controlled by the P. and S. W.â
Dyke smote his knee with his clenched fist.
âNAME ONE.â
Presley was silent. Dykeâs challenge was unanswerable. There was a lapse in their talk, Presley drumming on the arm of the seat, meditating on this injustice; Dyke looking off over the fields beyond the town, his frown lowering, his teeth rasping upon his pipestem. The station agent came to the door of the depot, stretching and yawning. On ahead of the engine, the empty rails of the track, reaching out toward the horizon, threw off visible layers of heat. The telegraph key clicked incessantly.
âSo Iâm going to quit,â Dyke remarked after a while, his anger somewhat subsided. âMy brother and I will take up this hop ranch. Iâve saved a good deal in the last ten years, and there ought to be money in hops.â
Presley went on, remounting his bicycle, wheeling silently through the deserted streets of the decayed and dying Mexican town. It was the hour of the siesta. Nobody was about. There was no business in the town. It was too close to Bonneville for that. Before the railroad came, and in the days when the raising of cattle was the great industry of the country, it had enjoyed a fierce and brilliant life. Now it was moribund. The drug store, the two barrooms, the hotel at the corner of the old Plaza, and the shops where Mexican âcuriosâ were sold to those occasional Eastern tourists who came to visit the Mission of San Juan, sufficed for the townâs activity.
At Solotariâs, the restaurant on the Plaza, diagonally across from the hotel, Presley ate his long-deferred Mexican dinnerâan omelette in Spanish-Mexican style, frijoles and tortillas, a salad, and a glass of white wine. In a corner of the room, during the whole course of his dinner, two young Mexicans (one of whom was astonishingly handsome, after the melodramatic fashion of his race) and an old fellow! the centenarian of the town, decrepit beyond belief, sang an interminable love-song to the accompaniment of a guitar and an accordion.
These Spanish-Mexicans, decayed, picturesque, vicious, and romantic, never failed to interest Presley. A few of them still remained in Guadalajara, drifting from the saloon to the restaurant, and from the restaurant to the Plaza, relics of a former generation, standing for a different order of things, absolutely idle, living God knew how, happy with their cigarette, their guitar, their glass of mescal, and their siesta. The centenarian remembered Fremont and Governor Alvarado, and the bandit Jesus Tejeda, and the days when Los Muertos was a Spanish grant, a veritable principality, leagues in extent, and when there was never a fence from Visalia to Fresno. Upon this occasion, Presley offered the old man a drink of mescal, and excited him to talk of the things he remembered. Their talk was in Spanish, a language with which Presley was familiar.
âDe La Cuesta held the grant of Los Muertos in those days,â the centenarian said; âa grand man. He had the power of life and death over his people, and there was no law but his word. There was no thought of wheat then, you may believe. It was all cattle in those days, sheep, horsesâsteers, not so manyâand if money was scarce, there was always plenty to eat, and clothes enough for all, and wine, ah, yes, by the vat, and oil too; the Mission Fathers had that. Yes, and there was wheat as well, now that I come to think; but a very littleâin the field north of the Mission where now it is the Seed ranch; wheat fields were there, and also a vineyard, all on Mission grounds. Wheat, olives, and the vine; the Fathers planted those, to provide the elements of the Holy Sacramentâbread, oil, and wine, you understand. It was like that, those industries began in Californiaâfrom the Church; and now,â he put his chin in the air, âwhat would Father Ullivari have said to such a crop as Senor Derrick plants these days? Ten thousand acres of wheat! Nothing but wheat from the Sierra to the Coast Range. I remember when De La Cuesta was married. He had never seen the young lady, only her miniature portrait, paintedââhe raised a shoulderââI do not know by whom, small, a little thing to be held in the palm. But he fell in love with that, and marry her he
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