"Well," he observed to himself, "I came out of that all right."
The car was turned in and he was allowed to loaf a while, but later he was again called.This time a new team of officers was aboard.Slightly more confident, he sped the car along the commonplace streets and felt somewhat less fearful.On one side, however, he suffered intensely.The day was raw, with a sprinkling of snow and a gusty wind, made all the more intolerable by the speed of the car.His clothing was not intended for this sort of work.He shivered, stamped his feet, and beat his arms as he had seen other motormen do in the past, but said nothing.The novelty and danger of the situation modified in a way his disgust and distress at being compelled to be here, but not enough to prevent him from feeling grim and sour.This was a dog's life, he thought.It was a tough thing to have to come to.
The one thought that strengthened him was the insult offered by Carrie.He was not down so low as to take all that, he thought.
He could do something--this, even--for a while.It would get better.He would save a little.
A boy threw a clod of mud while he was thus reflecting and hit him upon the arm.It hurt sharply and angered him more than he had been any time since morning.
"The little cur!" he muttered.
"Hurt you?" asked one of the policemen.
"No," he answered.
At one of the corners, where the car slowed up because of a turn, an ex-motorman, standing on the sidewalk, called to him:
"Won't you come out, pardner, and be a man? Remember we're fighting for decent day's wages, that's all.We've got families to support." The man seemed most peaceably inclined.
Hurstwood pretended not to see him.He kept his eyes straight on before and opened the lever wide.The voice had something appealing in it.