The Jungle Upton Sinclair (bookreader .txt) 📖

In the Bridewell Jurgis met few who had been there the last time, but he met scores of others, old and young, of exactly the same sort. It was like breakers upon a beach; there was new water, but the wave looked just the same. He strolled about and talked with them, and the biggest of them told tales of their prowess, while those who were weaker, or younger and inexperienced, gathered round and listened in admiring silence. The last time he was there, Jurgis had thought of little but his family; but now he was free to listen to these men, and to realize that he was one of them⁠—that their point of view was his point of view, and that the way they kept themselves alive in the world was the way he meant to do it in future.

And so, when he was turned out of prison again, without a penny in his pocket, he went straight to Jack Duane. He went full of humility and gratitude; for Duane was a gentleman, and a man with a profession⁠—and it was remarkable that he should be willing to throw in his lot with a humble workingman, one who had even been a beggar and a tramp. Jurgis could not see what help he could be to him; he did not understand that a man like himself⁠—who could be trusted to stand by anyone who was kind to him⁠—was as rare among criminals as among any other class of men.

The address Jurgis had was a garret-room in the Ghetto district, the home of a pretty little French girl, Duane’s mistress, who sewed all day, and eked out her living by prostitution. He had gone elsewhere, she told Jurgis⁠—he was afraid to stay there now, on account of the police. The new address was a cellar dive, whose proprietor said that he had never heard of Duane; but after he had put Jurgis through a catechism he showed him a back stairs which led to a “fence” in the rear of a pawnbroker’s shop, and thence to a number of assignation-rooms, in one of which Duane was hiding.

Duane was glad to see him; he was without a cent of money, he said, and had been waiting for Jurgis to help him get some. He explained his plan⁠—in fact he spent the day in laying bare to his friend the criminal world of the city, and in showing him how he might earn himself a living in it. That winter he would have a hard time, on account of his arm, and because of an unwonted fit of activity of the police; but so long as he was unknown to them he would be safe if he were careful. Here at “Papa” Hanson’s (so they called the old man who kept the dive) he might rest at ease, for “Papa” Hanson was “square”⁠—would stand by him so long as he paid, and gave him an hour’s notice if there were to be a police raid. Also Rosensteg, the pawnbroker, would buy anything he had for a third of its value, and guarantee to keep it hidden for a year.

There was an oil stove in the little cupboard of a room, and they had some supper; and then about eleven o’clock at night they sallied forth together, by a rear entrance to the place, Duane armed with a slung-shot. They came to a residence district, and he sprang up a lamp post and blew out the light, and then the two dodged into the shelter of an area-step and hid in silence.

Pretty soon a man came by, a workingman⁠—and they let him go. Then after a long interval came the heavy tread of a policeman, and they held their breath till he was gone. Though half frozen, they waited a full quarter of an hour after that⁠—and then again came footsteps, walking briskly. Duane nudged Jurgis, and the instant the man had passed they rose up. Duane stole out as silently as a shadow, and a second later Jurgis heard a thud and a stifled cry. He was only a couple of feet behind, and he leaped to stop the man’s mouth, while Duane held him fast by the arms, as they had agreed. But the man was limp and showed a tendency to fall, and so Jurgis had only to hold him by the collar, while the other, with swift fingers, went through his pockets⁠—ripping open, first his overcoat, and then his coat, and then his vest, searching inside and outside, and transfernng the contents into his own pockets. At last, after feeling of the man’s fingers and in his necktie, Duane whispered, “That’s all!” and they dragged him to the area and dropped him in. Then Jurgis went one way and his friend the other, walking briskly.

The latter arrived first, and Jurgis found him examining the “swag.” There was a gold watch, for one thing, with a chain and locket; there was a silver pencil, and a matchbox, and a handful of small change, and finally a card-case. This last Duane opened feverishly⁠—there were letters and checks, and two theatre-tickets, and at last, in the back part, a wad of bills. He counted them⁠—there was a twenty, five tens, four fives, and three ones. Duane drew a long breath. “That lets us out!” he said.

After further examination, they burned the card-case and its contents, all but the bills, and likewise the picture of a little girl in the locket. Then Duane took the watch and trinkets downstairs, and came back with sixteen dollars. “The old scoundrel said the case was filled,” he said. “It’s a lie, but he knows I want the money.”

They divided up the spoils, and Jurgis got as his share fifty-five dollars and some change. He protested that it was too much, but the other had agreed to divide even. That was a good haul, he said, better than the average.

When they got up in the morning,