The strike ended in success. Jack let go of Santa Fe to hold Katherine. His steady cartooning profit saw that he could occasionally treat all of his paper-pitching brothers. Things were looking up. All should have been well to support the happily-ever-after they had built for themselves. But the life of a newsie is never easy. And as long as they carried the banner in the blood sucking city of New York, their lives were always challenged, or worse, in danger.
Leader of the news boys, Jack Kelly had a slight hop in his step as he made his way for Pulitzer's office to show him his latest satirical doodle, certain it would knock his fancy socks off. He ran his ink stained hand across his forehead, wiping away the sweat that collected. It was the hottest day of the year so far. Waves of heat distorted the road in the distance. There was a constant smell of cooking garbage that followed each inhale. Jack had left his vest on the rooftop, only sporting his trousers and blue button-up today, and even that had three buttons unclasped to air-out his toned chest. Occasionally, he'd pass a boy hawking a passerby, and whether it be a new fellow or one who's been there as long as Jack has, he'd always get a wave. Today, Jack took a longer route, even despite the temperature, just so he could meet his favorite brother at their usual paper-selling point.
"Crutchie!" he called upon turning the corner. The small, brown-haired cripple turned slow and grinned.
"Jack," he replied. His taller counterpart stepped eagerly closer, but noticed something a bit off as he evaluated his friend. The boy's eyes were tired and half-lidded; sweat pooled and stained under his arms and on his neck.
"'Ey, Crutch," Jack approached. "Sure is a hot one ta'day, ain't it?"
Crutchie offered a paper to a passing Mrs., ultimately being ignored. "You'cn'say that again…" Jack leaned down to meet his friend's gaze.
"You's ain't lookin' so good, pal," he observed. A nod was what he got in return. "Maybe we's should go inside some place-"
"Jack," breathed the exasperated one. "Why's'there...two'a you?"
Jack furrowed his brow. "Two'a me? What-"
Crutchie swayed on his crutch, then it fell out from under him. He stood on his good leg only momentarily, then it collapsed as well and he dropped. Jack let go of his portfolio in an instant and used both arms to catch his friend, slowly lowering him to the ground.
"Whoa-Whoa! Crutch?! Crutchie?!"
A newsie stationed across the street ran to their aid. Alarm was starting to radiate from the boys, and soon enough there'd be a crowd of them. News travelled faster when it came to newsboys.
"Stay wid'him," Jack ordered. "I gotta' go find some ice or 'sumthin'." In a panic, he bolted down the street, peering into every window or each building. He constantly worried about Crutchie, his little brother figure, day and night, against the boy's wishes. His biggest fears all had something to do with losing him, and while he was confident Crutchie could be resurrected from the paralyzing heat, there was always that sickening feeling inside his stomach. Determination staying true, he finally found a pharmacy and scrambled inside.
"Ice!" He demanded, stumbling up to the counter. The short line of customers gave him a dirty look. "Please! My friend's out there dying!" He knew this to be false, but being a little dramatic never hurt anyone.
The clerk furrowed his brow. "How come I have a hard time believing that?"
"I'll pay! I have money!" Jack fumbled out a wallet, two strips of leather hastily sewn together. He overturned it and coins rained on the counter. "The heat's gettin' to him! C'mon, pal! He just needs some ice!" After careful consideration, the cashier turned around and opened the icebox, pulling out a small frozen bag. He traded it for the coins, not even bothering to count them as Jack took off. Just as he had feared, a crowd had encircled his friend, ninety percent newsies and ten percent police.
"Give 'em room, fellas!" The oldest yelled. The words separated the pack and allowed him to get through and kneel beside the overheated boy. He tore a hole in the bag and let some of it's icy contents spill out onto Crutchie's chest. Then he placed the bag on his forehead, watching, waiting, staring. The two officers standing by spoke lowly to each other, then stepped up.
"This boy should be in a hospital," he announced. Jack's head shot in the direction of the pig.
"He ain't leavin' my side."
"Are you his brother?"
"Yes." Jack rose up and crossed one arm over the other.
"Where's his parents?" The other officer inquired. A fellow newsie popped in.
"He don't got any!" The boys next to him shushed him, giving his shoulders punches as punishment. Looks were exchanged between the men in blue.
"Well then," one began, "we'll have to take him to the refuge." Jack's eyes widened, and the newsboys erupted in scoffs. "Make way!"
The leader spun on his heels to face his friends. "Boys, take him and run to Pulitz'a's. Go! Now!" A hand on his shoulder pulled him around. He shoved in response, making one officer tumble backwards. Yells of encouragement blended together, making a mob of voices. In the midst of the crowd, Crutchie was scooped up by two stronger teens and carried swiftly out of sight.
"C'mon Jack! Get 'em!"
"Get 'em, Jack! Show those pigs-!"
"Yeah, Jack! For Crutchie!"
"Just like the strike, right Jack?!"
Jack Kelly's arm was siezed mid-punch. The policeman yanked him to the concrete in the blink of an eye, bending his appendage painfully behind his back. He pinned the rogue newsie and cuffed him.
"Scram, kids!" The recovering officer threatened. "Or we'll send you all to the refuge!" While some put up their fists to fight, the right-minded boys pulled their friends away and marched down the road. Occasionally, they glanced back, helplessly watching their leader, now battered and scraped, taken away by the fuzz.
The sound of wood poking the ground echoed through the hallway and bounced into the ice cold, gray, prison cell. Jack raised his gaze from the floor to the bars, waiting for the intruder to appear. He was on his feet when they came into view.
"Crutch," he breathed, moving quickly to the entrance of the cell.
"Ohh, Jack," Crutchie replied with a frown. "Look'it what ya' did now…"
"Don't worry about me," he assured, shaking his head. "How are ya', bud? You look betta'."
"I feel betta', Jack. Except...well…" The boy lowered himself onto the bench that faced the holding cell. "I feel betta', but, I also been feelin' sick, what wid' this leg and all that…" He wiped his nose, diverting his eyes. "I think it's only a matta' a'time 'til I-"
"Don't you say that, Crutchie," Jack interrupted. "Don't you dare."
"-'till I gots to go ta'da hospital."
Jack's fists clenched around the metal poles. He pushed off of them and paced in a quick circle, taking a breath into his hands. Then he returned to the edge and looked at Crutchie.
"Are ya' sure?" He asked quietly. "Crutch, they's gonna' shove you in the refuge again, I can't-"
"S'long as I'm sick, they's'll keep me in the hospital."
"What's wrong with ya'?" Jack leaned, resting his forehead on a bar. At first, there was no reply. It was obvious he was struggling.
"My otha' leg startin' to get...numb."
Silent disbelief. Jack hit his head against the bar, squeezing his eyes shut. "God, DAMN YOU! Damn this world ta' hell!"
"Jack…"
An officer approached, his hands on his hips. "Visiting time's over, kid." The two newsies shared a sad glance.
"I'll come find ya'," Jack promised, "after they let me out. I'll stay with ya'"
Crutchie nodded, then used his crutch to stand himself up and mosie to the exit. After watching him go, Jack returned to the opposite side of the cell and fell to his knees.
"An' if they say your otha' leg's'goin', I'll start carry'in you."