"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
