'The Jungle: Chapter XVIII' literature fiction
He had not stopped for his-overcoat when he set out to “do up” Connor, and so his rides in the patrol wagons had been cruel experiences; his clothing was old and worn thin, and it never had been very warm. Now as he trudged on the rain soon wet it through; there were six inches of watery slush on the sidewalks, so that his feet would soon have been soaked, even had there been no holes in his shoes.
Yet, when he once got started, and his blood had warmed with walking, he forgot everything in the fever of his thoughts. All the dreadful imaginations that had haunted him in his cell now rushed into his mind at once. The agony was almost over—he was going to find out; and he clenched his hands in his pockets as he strode, following his flying desire, almost at a run.
A policeman gave him his direction and told him that he had five miles to go. He came again to the slum districts, to avenues of saloons and cheap stores, with long dingy red factory buildings, and coal-yards and railroad tracks; and then Jurgis lifted up his head and began to sniff the air like a startled animal—scenting the far-off odor of home. It was late afternoon then, and he was hungry, but the dinner invitations hung out of the saloons were not for him.
He came a couple of steps nearer. Yes; it had been gray and now it was yellow! The trimmings around the windows had been red, and now they were green! It was all newly painted! How strange it made it seem! Jurgis took hold of the railing of the steps, for he was a little unsteady. “What—what are you doing here?” he managed to gasp.“Me?” answered the boy, angrily. “I live here.”
“Rented it!” panted Jurgis. “I bought it! I paid for it! I own it! And they—my God, can’t you tell me where my people went?” Their home! Their home! They had lost it! Grief, despair, rage, overwhelmed him—what was any imagination of the thing to this heartbreaking, crushing reality of it—to the sight of strange people living in his house, hanging their curtains to his windows, staring at him with hostile eyes! It was monstrous, it was unthinkable—they could not do it—it could not be true! Only think what he had suffered for that house—what miseries they had all suffered for it—the price they had paid for...
To Aniele’s house, in back of the yards, was a good two miles; the distance had never seemed longer to Jurgis, and when he saw the familiar dingy-gray shanty his heart was beating fast. He ran up the steps and began to hammer upon the door. Marija clung to him tightly; he could hear Ona sobbing and moaning above, and he fought to get away and climb up, without waiting for her reply. “No, no,” she rushed on. “Jurgis! You mustn’t go up! It’s—it’s the child!”And then Jurgis went limp, and caught himself on the ladder. He stared at her as if she were a ghost. “The new one!” he gasped. “But it isn’t time,” he added, wildly.And then again came Ona’s scream, smiting him like a blow in the face, making him wince and turn white.
“Who’s with her?” Jurgis demanded; and then, seeing Marija hesitating, he cried again, “Who’s with her?”“But the doctor!” he panted. “Some one who knows!”
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