Now that the winter was by, and there was no more danger of snow, and no more coal to buy, and another room warm enough to put the children into when they cried, and enough money to get along from week to week with, Jurgis was less terrible than he had been.  A man can get used to anything in the course of time, and Jurgis had gotten used to lying about the house.  Ona saw this, and was very careful not to destroy his peace of mind, by letting him know how very much pain she was suffering.  It was now the time of the spring rains, and Ona had often to ride to her work, in spite of the expense; she was getting paler every day, and sometimes, in spite of her good resolutions, it pained her that Jurgis did not notice it.  She wondered if he cared for her as much as ever, if all this misery was not wearing out his love.  She had to be away from him all the time, and bear her own troubles while he was bearing his; and then, when she came home, she was so worn out; and whenever they talked they had only their worries to talk of—­truly it was hard, in such a life, to keep any sentiment alive.  The woe of this would flame up in Ona sometimes—­at night she would suddenly clasp her big husband in her arms and break into passionate weeping, demanding to know if he really loved her.  Poor Jurgis, who had in truth grown more matter-of-fact, under the endless pressure of penury, would not know what to make of these things, and could only try to recollect when he had last been cross; and so Ona would have to forgive him and sob herself to sleep.

The latter part of April Jurgis went to see the doctor, and was given a bandage to lace about his ankle, and told that he might go back to work.  It needed more than the permission of the doctor, however, for when he showed up on the killing floor of Brown’s, he was told by the foreman that it had not been possible to keep his job for him.  Jurgis knew that this meant simply that the foreman had found some one else to do the work as well and did not want to bother to make a change.  He stood in the doorway, looking mournfully on, seeing his friends and companions at work, and feeling like an outcast.  Then he went out and took his place with the mob of the unemployed.

This time, however, Jurgis did not have the same fine confidence, nor the same reason for it.  He was no longer the finest-looking man in the throng, and the bosses no longer made for him; he was thin and haggard, and his clothes were seedy, and he looked miserable.  And there were hundreds who looked and felt just like him, and who had been wandering about Packingtown for months begging for work.  This was a critical time in Jurgis’ life, and if he had been a weaker man he would have gone the way the rest did.  Those out-of-work wretches would stand about the packing houses every morning till the police drove them away, and then they would scatter among the saloons.  Very few of them had the nerve to face the rebuffs that they would encounter by trying