“Push a truck?” inquired the man, and Jurgis answered, “Yes, sir!” before the words were well out of his mouth.

“What’s your name?” demanded the other.

“Jurgis Rudkus.”

“Worked in the yards before?”

“Yes.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Two places—­Brown’s killing beds and Durham’s fertilizer mill.”

“Why did you leave there?”

“The first time I had an accident, and the last time I was sent up for a month.”

“I see.  Well, I’ll give you a trial.  Come early tomorrow and ask for Mr. Thomas.”

So Jurgis rushed home with the wild tidings that he had a job—­that the terrible siege was over.  The remnants of the family had quite a celebration that night; and in the morning Jurgis was at the place half an hour before the time of opening.  The foreman came in shortly afterward, and when he saw Jurgis he frowned.

“Oh,” he said, “I promised you a job, didn’t I?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jurgis.

“Well, I’m sorry, but I made a mistake.  I can’t use you.”

Jurgis stared, dumfounded.  “What’s the matter?” he gasped.

“Nothing,” said the man, “only I can’t use you.”

There was the same cold, hostile stare that he had had from the boss of the fertilizer mill.  He knew that there was no use in saying a word, and he turned and went away.

Out in the saloons the men could tell him all about the meaning of it; they gazed at him with pitying eyes—­poor devil, he was blacklisted!  What had he done? they asked—­knocked down his boss?  Good heavens, then he might have known!  Why, he stood as much chance of getting a job in Packingtown as of being chosen mayor of Chicago.  Why had he wasted his time hunting?  They had him on a secret list in every office, big and little, in the place.  They had his name by this time in St. Louis and New York, in Omaha and Boston, in Kansas City and St. Joseph.  He was condemned and sentenced, without trial and without appeal; he could never work for the packers again—­he could not even clean cattle pens or drive a truck in any place where they controlled.  He might try it, if he chose, as hundreds had tried it, and found out for themselves.  He would never be told anything about it; he would never get any more satisfaction than he had gotten just now; but he would always find when the time came that he was not needed.  It would not do for him to give any other name, either—­they had company “spotters” for just that purpose, and he wouldn’t keep a job in Packingtown three days.  It was worth a fortune to the packers to keep their blacklist effective, as a warning to the men and a means of keeping down union agitation and political discontent.

Jurgis went home, carrying these new tidings to the family council.  It was a most cruel thing; here in this district was his home, such as it was, the place he was used to and the friends he knew—­and now every possibility of employment in it was closed to him.  There was nothing in Packingtown but packing houses; and so it was the same thing as evicting him from his home.