Brooklyn.

"Why not?" his mind said. "Any one can get work over there. You'll get
two a day."

"How about accidents?" said a voice. "You might get hurt."

"Oh, there won't be much of that," he answered. "They've called out the
police. Any one who wants to run a car will be protected all right."

"You don't know how to run a car," rejoined the voice.

"I won't apply as a motorman," he answered. "I can ring up fares all
right."

"They'll want motormen, mostly."

"They'll take anybody; that I know."

For several hours he argued pro and con with this mental counsellor,
feeling no need to act at once in a matter so sure of profit.

In the morning he put on his best clothes, which were poor enough,
and began stirring about, putting some bread and meat into a page of a
newspaper. Carrie watched him, interested in this new move.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Over to Brooklyn," he answered. Then, seeing her still inquisitive, he
added: "I think I can get on over there."

"On the trolley lines?" said Carrie, astonished.

"Yes," he rejoined.

"Aren't you afraid?" she asked.

"What of?" he answered. "The police are protecting them."

"The paper said four men were hurt yesterday."

"Yes," he returned; "but you can't go by what the papers say. They'll
run the cars all right."

He looked rather determined now, in a desolate sort of way, and Carrie
felt very sorry. Something of the old Hurstwood was here--the least
shadow of what was once shrewd and pleasant strength. Outside, it was
cloudy and blowing a few flakes of snow.

"What a day to go over there," thought Carrie.

Now he left before she did, which was a remarkable thing, and tramped
eastward to Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, where he took the car.
He had read that scores of applicants were applying at the office of the
Brooklyn City Railroad building and were being received. He made his
way there by horse-car and ferry--a dark, silent man--to the offices in
question. It was a long way, for no cars were running, and the day was
cold; but he trudged along grimly. Once in Brooklyn, he could clearly
see and feel that a strike was on. People showed it in their manner.
Along the routes of certain tracks not a car was running. About certain
corners and nearby saloons small groups of men were lounging. Several
spring wagons passed him, equipped with plain wooden chairs, and
labelled "Flatbush" or "Prospect Park. Fare, Ten Cents." He noticed cold
a