He was a big, red-faced Irishman, coarse-featured,
and smelling of liquor. He saw Jurgis as he crossed
the threshold, and turned white. He hesitated
one second, as if meaning to run; and in the next his
assailant was upon him. He put up his hands to
protect his face, but Jurgis, lunging with all the
power of his arm and body, struck him fairly between
the eyes and knocked him backward. The next moment
he was on top of him, burying his fingers in his throat.
To Jurgis this man’s whole presence reeked of
the crime he had committed; the touch of his body
was madness to him—it set every nerve of
him atremble, it aroused all the demon in his soul.
It had worked its will upon Ona, this great beast—and
now he had it, he had it! It was his turn now!
Things swam blood before him, and he screamed aloud
in his fury, lifting his victim and smashing his head
upon the floor.
The place, of course, was in an uproar; women fainting
and shrieking, and men rushing in. Jurgis was
so bent upon his task that he knew nothing of this,
and scarcely realized that people were trying to interfere
with him; it was only when half a dozen men had seized
him by the legs and shoulders and were pulling at
him, that he understood that he was losing his prey.
In a flash he had bent down and sunk his teeth into
the man’s cheek; and when they tore him away
he was dripping with blood, and little ribbons of
skin were hanging in his mouth.
They got him down upon the floor, clinging to him
by his arms and legs, and still they could hardly
hold him. He fought like a tiger, writhing and
twisting, half flinging them off, and starting toward
his unconscious enemy. But yet others rushed
in, until there was a little mountain of twisted limbs
and bodies, heaving and tossing, and working its way
about the room. In the end, by their sheer weight,
they choked the breath out of him, and then they carried
him to the company police station, where he lay still
until they had summoned a patrol wagon to take him
away.
When Jurgis got up again he went quietly enough.
He was exhausted and half-dazed, and besides he saw
the blue uniforms of the policemen. He drove
in a patrol wagon with half a dozen of them watching
him; keeping as far away as possible, however, on
account of the fertilizer. Then he stood before
the sergeant’s desk and gave his name and address,
and saw a charge of assault and battery entered against
him. On his way to his cell a burly policeman
cursed him because he started down the wrong corridor,
and then added a kick when he was not quick enough;
nevertheless, Jurgis did not even lift his eyes—he
had lived two years and a half in Packingtown, and
he knew what the police were. It was as much
as a man’s very life was worth to anger them,
here in their inmost lair; like as not a dozen would
pile on to him at once, and pound his face into a
pulp. It would be nothing unusual if he got his
skull cracked in the melee—in which case
they would report that he had been drunk and had fallen
down, and there would be no one to know the difference
or to care.
