The Jungle Upton Sinclair (bookreader .txt) 📖

answered⁠—“but we thought you were in jail. How could we know when you would return? They will not work for nothing.”

Marija went on to tell how she had tried to find a midwife, and how they had demanded ten, fifteen, even twenty-five dollars, and that in cash. “And I had only a quarter,” she said. “I have spent every cent of my money⁠—all that I had in the bank; and I owe the doctor who has been coming to see me, and he has stopped because he thinks I don’t mean to pay him. And we owe Aniele for two weeks’ rent, and she is nearly starving, and is afraid of being turned out. We have been borrowing and begging to keep alive, and there is nothing more we can do⁠—”

“And the children?” cried Jurgis.

“The children have not been home for three days, the weather has been so bad. They could not know what is happening⁠—it came suddenly, two months before we expected it.”

Jurgis was standing by the table, and he caught himself with his hands; his head sank and his arms shook⁠—it looked as if he were going to collapse. Then suddenly Aniele got up and came hobbling toward him, fumbling in her skirt pocket. She drew out a dirty rag, in one corner of which she had something tied.

“Here, Jurgis!” she said, “I have some money. Palauk!22 See!”

She unwrapped it and counted it out⁠—thirty-four cents. “You go, now,” she said, “and try and get some body yourself. And maybe the rest can help⁠—give him some money, you; he will pay you back some day, and it will do him good to have something to think about, even if he doesn’t succeed. When he comes back, maybe it will be over.”

And so the other women turned out the contents of their pocketbooks; most of them had only pennies and nickels, but they gave him all. Mrs. Olszewski, who lived next door, and had a husband who was a skilled cattle-butcher, but a drinking man, gave nearly half a dollar, enough to raise the whole sum to a dollar and a quarter. Then Jurgis thrust it into his pocket, still holding it tightly in his fist, and started away at a run.

XIX

“Madame Haupt, Hebamme,” ran a sign, swinging from a second-story window over a saloon on the avenue; at a side door was another sign, with a hand pointing up a dingy flight of steps. Jurgis went up them, three at a time.

Madame Haupt was frying pork and onions, and had her door half open to let out the smoke. When he tried to knock upon it, it swung open the rest of the way, and he had a glimpse of her, with a black bottle turned up to her lips. Then he knocked louder, and she started and put it away. She was a Dutch woman, enormously fat⁠—when she walked she rolled like a small boat on the ocean, and the dishes in the cupboard jostled each other. She wore a filthy blue wrapper, and her teeth were black.

“Vot is it?” she said, when she saw Jurgis.

He had run like mad all the way and was so out of breath he could hardly speak. His hair was flying and his eyes wild⁠—he looked like a man that had risen from the tomb. “My wife!” he panted. “Come quickly!”

Madame Haupt set the frying pan to one side and wiped her hands on her wrapper. “You vant me to come for a case?” she inquired.

“Yes,” gasped Jurgis.

“I haf yust come back from a case,” she said. “I haf had no time to eat my dinner. Still⁠—if it is so bad⁠—”

“Yes⁠—it is!” cried he.

“Vell, den, perhaps⁠—vot you pay?”

“I⁠—I⁠—how much do you want?” Jurgis stammered.

“Tventy-five dollars.”

His face fell. “I can’t pay that,” he said.

The woman was watching him narrowly. “How much do you pay?” she demanded.

“Must I pay now⁠—right away?”

“Yes; all my customers do.”

“I⁠—I haven’t much money,” Jurgis began, in an agony of dread. “I’ve been in⁠—in trouble⁠—and my money is gone. But I’ll pay you⁠—every cent⁠—just as soon as I can; I can work⁠—”

“Vot is your work?”

“I have no place now. I must get one. But I⁠—”

“How much haf you got now?”

He could hardly bring himself to reply. When he said “A dollar and a quarter,” the woman laughed in his face.

“I vould not put on my hat for a dollar und a quarter,” she said.

“It’s all I’ve got,” he pleaded, his voice breaking. “I must get someone⁠—my wife will die. I can’t help it⁠—I⁠—”

Madame Haupt had put back her pork and onions on the stove. She turned to him and answered, out of the steam and noise: “Git me ten dollars cash, und so you can pay me de rest next mont’.”

“I can’t do it⁠—I haven’t got it!” Jurgis protested. “I tell you I have only a dollar and a quarter.”

The woman turned to her work. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “Dot is all to try to sheat me. Vot is de reason a big man like you has got only a dollar und a quarter?”

“I’ve just been in jail,” Jurgis cried⁠—he was ready to get down upon his knees to the woman⁠—“and I had no money before, and my family has almost starved.”

“Vere is your friends, dot ought to help you?”

“They are all poor,” he answered. “They gave me this. I have done everything I can⁠—”

“Haven’t you got notting you can sell?”

“I have nothing, I tell you⁠—I have nothing,” he cried, frantically.

“Can’t you borrow it, den? Don’t your store people trust you?” Then, as he shook his head, she went on: “Listen to me⁠—if you git me you vill be glad of it. I vill save your wife und baby for you, und it vill not seem like mooch to you in de end. If you loose dem now how you tink you feel den? Und here is a lady dot knows her business⁠—I could send you