Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies, sadly, they belong to Disney. Mac, however, is my own creation. I also own Kilts. Please read and review!
I am running as fast as I can. My heart is pounding in my ears and my breath is coming in short, ragged and painful gasps, but I cannot stop or slow down. If I do, they will catch me. Their cries and angry shouts are fading a little behind me, but still I run. Because I am not just running.
I am running away.
I have been running since I was 5 or 6 years old, when my father showed me how to pick pockets. I was both a natural and a very fast runner, and I soon honed my skills and put enough money on the table to feed my father and myself for days at a time. And for a while, we were happy. Until my father started squandering my 'hard earned' spoils to buy drink.
This morning, I was a happy boy. I had pulled off my biggest achievement for some time, and I had enough money to pay for my father's beer and my own evening meal. So why am I running as if my life depends upon it? Because my father has discovered that I have been keeping some of my money to feed myself and has branded me a thief. And now the cops are on my tail.
I'm terrified of my father. He is permanently stone drunk these days, and the beatings he gives me have gotten a lot worse. He has become irrational, unpredictable and incredibly violent, and has nearly killed me twice. So now I am doing the only thing – other than pickpocketing – that I have any talent for.
I am running away.
When I finally stop running and sink to the ground, weeping with rage, fear and exhaustion, I am well and truly lost. My confidence has been well and truly shattered – even my own dad has turned against me – and I know I can never go back. So, after recovering my breath and composure, I swipe some bread and fruit at the first possible opportunity, and before long I am once again doing what I do so well.
I am running away.
I continued like this for some days, sometimes daring to pick the pockets of any rich men careless enough to leave their pockets open, just ready for any fast thief, but mostly just stealing food from whatever vendors I passed. Most days, I didn't succeed at either and was forced to go hungry, and I spent most nights curled up in whatever empty doorway I could find. By the time I found myself in Manhattan, I was a scrawny, dirty and miserable wreck. Little did I know that my fortune was about to change for the better...
I sit in the alley, cold, frightened, tired and hungry. I don't know where to go or what to do. I'm tired of running. I used to enjoy it; the exhilaration of escaping at speed with my prize in my hand. But now it's merely a means of survival.
An angry shout from nearby startles me onto my feet and I poise myself for flight. A moment later, the sound of footsteps pounds towards me and I flee in terror, convinced that I am the target. As I hurtle past another alley, I am grabbed by the shirt and pulled into the shadows. I am too scared to cry out, and my attacker (or rescuer?) is crouched behind me so I can't see him (or her). I am held there until the puffing cop thunders past, chasing – to my relief – a small boy. Once the coast is clear, the grip on my shirt is released and I am able to turn around. I am somewhat surprised to find a small boy seated next to me, a cigar hanging from his lips. He looks about 10 years old – a year older than me – and he seems incredibly relaxed. He looks at my dishevelled appearance, stands and invites me to accompany him. I do so, and he introduces himself. Then he tells me about the Newsies of New York and offers to help me get a job selling the daily papers to the city's people...
The day I met Racetrack Higgins was one of the best days of my life. He got me a place at the Newsboys' Lodging House and showed me the ropes, and it wasn't long before I was a fully initiated and popular Newsie. But there was one thing I lacked; a Newsie name. However, that problem was easily solved, on the second day after Race found me.
The man's pocket is hanging open so tantalisingly. I try to ignore it – I'm a Newsie now, not a thief – but the urge is just too strong. So I push my way towards him, doing my best to stay inconspicuous. I get close enough to touch him and in a flash, my hand has grasped something small and rectangular and then I run, gathering speed and disappearing before the man even has a chance to draw breath -
I am panting hard when I finally come to a stop and take a look at my prize. It is a silver snuff box with intricate engravings on the lid. I grin with pleasure – this should help me pay for my food and board tonight – but my smile wavers as three of the Newsies (Racetrack and two others called Kid Blink and Kilts) turn into the alley. They regard me for a moment and then Racetrack loudly announces that there can be only one name for me. And then the three of them break into grins and tell me what they have come up with. And when I hear it, I know I have finally found somewhere I truly belong. I am Swifty the Rake, and proud of it.
And at the end, I am still running, but this time I am running in a different direction. This time, I am running home.