From
The Jungle.
For his help in this little job, the bartender received twenty
out of the hundred and thirty odd dollars that the pair secured;
and naturally this put them on friendly terms with him, and a few
days later he introduced them to a little "sheeny" named
Goldberger, one of the "runners" of the "sporting house" where
they had been hidden. After a few drinks Goldberger began, with
some hesitation, to narrate how he had had a quarrel over his
best girl with a professional "cardsharp," who had hit him in the
jaw. The fellow was a stranger in Chicago, and if he was found
some night with his head cracked there would be no one to care
very much. Jurgis, who by this time would cheerfully have
cracked the heads of all the gamblers in Chicago, inquired what
would be coming to him; at which the Jew became still more
confidential, and said that he had some tips on the New Orleans
races, which he got direct from the police captain of the
district, whom he had got out of a bad scrape, and who "stood in"
with a big syndicate of horse owners. Duane took all this in at
once, but Jurgis had to have the whole race-track situation
explained to him before he realized the importance of such an
opportunity.
There was the gigantic Racing Trust. It owned the legislatures
in every state in which it did business; it even owned some of
the big newspapers, and made public opinion--there was no power
in the land that could oppose it unless, perhaps, it were the
Poolroom Trust. It built magnificent racing parks all over the
country, and by means of enormous purses it lured the people to
come, and then it organized a gigantic shell game, whereby it
plundered them of hundreds of millions of dollars every year.
Horse racing had once been a sport, but nowadays it was a
business; a horse could be "doped" and doctored, undertrained or
overtrained; it could be made to fall at any moment--or its gait
could be broken by lashing it with the whip, which all the
spectators would take to be a desperate effort to keep it in the
lead. There were scores of such tricks; and sometimes it was the
owners who played them and made fortunes, sometimes it was the
jockeys and trainers, sometimes it was outsiders, who bribed
them--but most of the time it was the chiefs of the trust. Now
for instance, they were having winter racing in New Orleans and a
syndicate was laying out each day's program in advance, and its
agents in all the Northern cities were "milking" the poolrooms.
The word came by long-distance telephone in a cipher code, just a
little while before each race; and any man who could get the
secret had as good as a fortune. If Jurgis did not believe it,
he could try it, said the little Jew--let them meet at a certain
house on the morrow and make a test. Jurgis was willing, and so
was Duane, and so they went to one of the high-class poolrooms
where brokers and merchants gambled (with society women in a
private room), and they put up ten dollars each upon a horse
called "Black Beldame," a six to one shot, and won. For a secret
like that they would have done a good many sluggings--but the
next day Goldberger informed them that the offending gambler had
got wind of what was coming to him, and had skipped the town.
There were ups and downs at the business; but there was always a
living, inside of a jail, if not out of it. Early in April the
city elections were due, and that meant prosperity for all the
powers of graft. Jurgis, hanging round in dives and gambling
houses and brothels, met with the heelers of both parties,
and from their conversation he came to understand all the ins and
outs of the game, and to hear of a number of ways in which he
could make himself useful about election time. "Buck" Halloran
was a "Democrat," and so Jurgis became a Democrat also; but he
was not a bitter one--the Republicans were good fellows, too,
and were to have a pile of money in this next campaign. At the last
election the Republicans had paid four dollars a vote to the
Democrats' three; and "Buck" Halloran sat one night playing cards
with Jurgis and another man, who told how Halloran had been
charged with the job voting a "bunch" of thirty-seven newly
landed Italians, and how he, the narrator, had met the Republican
worker who was after the very same gang, and how the three had
effected a bargain, whereby the Italians were to vote half and
half, for a glass of beer apiece, while the balance of the fund
went to the conspirators!
Not long after this, Jurgis, wearying of the risks and
vicissitudes of miscellaneous crime, was moved to give up the
career for that of a politician. Just at this time there was a
tremendous uproar being raised concerning the alliance between
the criminals and the police. For the criminal graft was one in
which the businessmen had no direct part--it was what is called a
"side line," carried by the police. "Wide open" gambling and
debauchery made the city pleasing to "trade," but burglaries and
holdups did not. One night it chanced that while Jack Duane was
drilling a safe in a clothing store he was caught red-handed by
the night watchman, and turned over to a policeman, who chanced
to know him well, and who took the responsibility of letting him
make his escape. Such a howl from the newspapers followed this
that Duane was slated for sacrifice, and barely got out of town
in time. And just at that juncture it happened that Jurgis was
introduced to a man named Harper whom he recognized as the night
watchman at Brown's, who had been instrumental in making him an
American citizen, the first year of his arrival at the yards.
The other was interested in the coincidence, but did not remember
Jurgis--he had handled too many "green ones" in his time, he
said. He sat in a dance hall with Jurgis and Halloran until one
or two in the morning, exchanging experiences. He had a long
story to tell of his quarrel with the superintendent of his
department, and how he was now a plain workingman, and a good
union man as well. It was not until some months afterward that
Jurgis understood that the quarrel with the superintendent had
been prearranged, and that Harper was in reality drawing a salary
of twenty dollars a week from the packers for an inside report of
his union's secret proceedings. The yards were seething with
agitation just then, said the man, speaking as a unionist. The
people of Packingtown had borne about all that they would bear,
and it looked as if a strike might begin any week.
After this talk the man made inquiries concerning Jurgis, and a
couple of days later he came to him with an interesting
proposition. He was not absolutely certain, he said, but he
thought that he could get him a regular salary if he would come
to Packingtown and do as he was told, and keep his mouth shut.
Harper--"Bush" Harper, he was called--was a right-hand man of
Mike Scully, the Democratic boss of the stockyards; and in the
coming election there was a peculiar situation. There had come
to Scully a proposition to nominate a certain rich brewer who
lived upon a swell boulevard that skirted the district, and who
coveted the big badge and the "honorable" of an alderman. The
brewer was a Jew, and had no brains, but he was harmless, and
would put up a rare campaign fund. Scully had accepted the
offer, and then gone to the Republicans with a proposition. He
was not sure that he could manage the "sheeny," and he did not
mean to take any chances with his district; let the Republicans
nominate a certain obscure but amiable friend of Scully's, who
was now setting tenpins in the cellar of an Ashland Avenue
saloon, and he, Scully, would elect him with the "sheeny's"
money, and the Republicans might have the glory, which was more
than they would get otherwise. In return for this the
Republicans would agree to put up no candidate the following
year, when Scully himself came up for reelection as the other
alderman from the ward. To this the Republicans had assented
at once; but the hell of it was--so Harper explained--that the
Republicans were all of them fools--a man had to be a fool to be
a Republican in the stockyards, where Scully was king. And they
didn't know how to work, and of course it would not do for the
Democratic workers, the noble redskins of the War Whoop League,
to support the Republican openly. The difficulty would not have
been so great except for another fact--there had been a curious
development in stockyards politics in the last year or two, a new
party having leaped into being. They were the Socialists; and it
was a devil of a mess, said "Bush" Harper. The one image which
the word "Socialist" brought to Jurgis was of poor little
Tamoszius Kuszleika, who had called himself one, and would go out
with a couple of other men and a soap-box, and shout himself
hoarse on a street corner Saturday nights. Tamoszius had tried
to explain to Jurgis what it was all about, but Jurgis, who was
not of an imaginative turn, had never quire got it straight; at
present he was content with his companion's explanation that the
Socialists were the enemies of American institutions--could not
be bought, and would not combine or make any sort of a "dicker."
Mike Scully was very much worried over the opportunity which his
last deal gave to them--the stockyards Democrats were furious at
the idea of a rich capitalist for their candidate, and while they
were changing they might possibly conclude that a Socialist
firebrand was preferable to a Republican bum. And so right here
was a chance for Jurgis to make himself a place in the world,
explained "Bush" Harper; he had been a union man, and he was
known in the yards as a workingman; he must have hundreds of
acquaintances, and as he had never talked politics with them he
might come out as a Republican now without exciting the least
suspicion. There were barrels of money for the use of those who
could deliver the goods; and Jurgis might count upon Mike Scully,
who had never yet gone back on a friend. Just what could he do?
Jurgis asked, in some perplexity, and the other explained in
detail. To begin with, he would have to go to the yards and
work, and he mightn't relish that; but he would have what he
earned, as well as the rest that came to him. He would get
active in the union again, and perhaps try to get an office, as
he, Harper, had; he would tell all his friends the good points of
Doyle, the Republican nominee, and the bad ones of the "sheeny";
and then Scully would furnish a meeting place, and he would start
the "Young Men's Republican Association," or something of that
sort, and have the rich brewer's best beer by the hogshead, and
fireworks and speeches, just like the War Whoop League. Surely
Jurgis must know hundreds of men who would like that sort of fun;
and there would be the regular Republican leaders and workers to
help him out, and they would deliver a big enough majority on
election day.
When he had heard all this explanation to the end, Jurgis
demanded: "But how can I get a job in Packingtown? I'm
blacklisted."
At which "Bush" Harper laughed. "I'll attend to that all right,"
he said.
And the other replied, "It's a go, then; I'm your man." So Jurgis
went out to the stockyards again, and was introduced to the
political lord of the district, the boss of Chicago's mayor. It
was Scully who owned the brickyards and the dump and the ice
pond--though Jurgis did not know it. It was Scully who was to
blame for the unpaved street in which Jurgis's child had been
drowned; it was Scully who had put into office the magistrate who
had first sent Jurgis to jail; it was Scully who was principal
stockholder in the company which had sold him the ramshackle
tenement, and then robbed him of it. But Jurgis knew none of
these things--any more than he knew that Scully was but a tool
and puppet of the packers. To him Scully was a mighty power, the
"biggest" man he had ever met.
He was a little, dried-up Irishman, whose hands shook. He had a
brief talk with his visitor, watching him with his ratlike eyes,
and making up his mind about him; and then he gave him a note to
Mr. Harmon, one of the head managers of Durham's--
"The bearer, Jurgis Rudkus, is a particular friend of mine, and I
would like you to find him a good place, for important reasons.
He was once indiscreet, but you will perhaps be so good as to
overlook that."
Mr. Harmon looked up inquiringly when he read this. "What does
he mean by 'indiscreet'?" he asked.
"I was blacklisted, sir," said Jurgis.
At which the other frowned. "Blacklisted?" he said. "How do you
mean?" And Jurgis turned red with embarrassment.
He had forgotten that a blacklist did not exist. "I--that is--I
had difficulty in getting a place," he stammered.
"What was the matter?"
"I got into a quarrel with a foreman--not my own boss, sir--and
struck him."
"I see," said the other, and meditated for a few moments. "What
do you wish to do?" he asked.
"Anything, sir," said Jurgis--"only I had a broken arm this
winter, and so I have to be careful."
"How would it suit you to be a night watchman?"
"That wouldn't do, sir. I have to be among the men at night."
"I see--politics. Well, would it suit you to trim hogs?"
"Yes, sir," said Jurgis.
And Mr. Harmon called a timekeeper and said, "Take this man to
Pat Murphy and tell him to find room for him somehow."
And so Jurgis marched into the hog-killing room, a place where,
in the days gone by, he had come begging for a job. Now he
walked jauntily, and smiled to himself, seeing the frown that
came to the boss's face as the timekeeper said, "Mr. Harmon says
to put this man on." It would overcrowd his department and spoil
the record he was trying to make--but he said not a word except
"All right."
And so Jurgis became a workingman once more; and straightway he
sought out his old friends, and joined the union, and began to
"root" for "Scotty" Doyle. Doyle had done him a good turn once,
he explained, and was really a bully chap; Doyle was a workingman
himself, and would represent the workingmen--why did they want to
vote for a millionaire "sheeny," and what the hell had Mike
Scully ever done for them that they should back his candidates
all the time? And meantime Scully had given Jurgis a note to the
Republican leader of the ward, and he had gone there and met the
crowd he was to work with. Already they had hired a big hall,
with some of the brewer's money, and every night Jurgis brought
in a dozen new members of the "Doyle Republican Association."
Pretty soon they had a grand opening night; and there was a brass
band, which marched through the streets, and fireworks and bombs
and red lights in front of the hall; and there was an enormous
crowd, with two overflow meetings--so that the pale and trembling
candidate had to recite three times over the little speech which
one of Scully's henchmen had written, and which he had been a
month learning by heart. Best of all, the famous and eloquent
Senator Spareshanks, presidential candidate, rode out in an
automobile to discuss the sacred privileges of American
citizenship, and protection and prosperity for the American
workingman. His inspiriting address was quoted to the extent of
half a column in all the morning newspapers, which also said that
it could be stated upon excellent authority that the unexpected
popularity developed by Doyle, the Republican candidate for
alderman, was giving great anxiety to Mr. Scully, the chairman of
the Democratic City Committee.
The chairman was still more worried when the monster torchlight
procession came off, with the members of the Doyle Republican
Association all in red capes and hats, and free beer for every
voter in the ward--the best beer ever given away in a political
campaign, as the whole electorate testified. During this parade,
and at innumerable cart-tail meetings as well, Jurgis labored
tirelessly. He did not make any speeches--there were lawyers and
other experts for that--but he helped to manage things;
distributing notices and posting placards and bringing out the
crowds; and when the show was on he attended to the fireworks and
the beer. Thus in the course of the campaign he handled many
hundreds of dollars of the Hebrew brewer's money, administering
it with naive and touching fidelity. Toward the end, however,
he learned that he was regarded with hatred by the rest of the
"boys," because he compelled them either to make a poorer showing
than he or to do without their share of the pie. After that
Jurgis did his best to please them, and to make up for the time
he had lost before he discovered the extra bungholes of the
campaign barrel.
He pleased Mike Scully, also. On election morning he was out at
four o'clock, "getting out the vote"; he had a two-horse carriage
to ride in, and he went from house to house for his friends, and
escorted them in triumph to the polls. He voted half a dozen
times himself, and voted some of his friends as often; he brought
bunch after bunch of the newest foreigners--Lithuanians, Poles,
Bohemians, Slovaks--and when he had put them through the mill he
turned them over to another man to take to the next polling
place. When Jurgis first set out, the captain of the precinct
gave him a hundred dollars, and three times in the course of the
day he came for another hundred, and not more than twenty-five
out of each lot got stuck in his own pocket. The balance all
went for actual votes, and on a day of Democratic landslides they
elected "Scotty" Doyle, the ex-tenpin setter, by nearly a
thousand plurality--and beginning at five o'clock in the
afternoon, and ending at three the next morning, Jurgis treated
himself to a most unholy and horrible "jag." Nearly every one
else in Packingtown did the same, however, for there was
universal exultation over this triumph of popular government,
this crushing defeat of an arrogant plutocrat by the power of the
common people.
The Jungle Chapter 26