Promise
"Fifty papes," the newcomer said, flipping the coin then setting it down. The desired amount was dutifully handed over and the newcomer would likely have gone on his way had not a figure blocked his path.
"What have we here, lads?" the slightly shorter figure asked, not turning to look at those that stood behind him, some carelessly examining their slingshots.
"I could ask the same," the newcomer said. "What do you want?"
"No, no," the short one shook his head. "What d'ya want? D'ya want to leave peacefully or do y' want some reminders?" Slingshots were loaded.
The newcomer frowned. "It's a free city, isn't it?"
"Yer on our land. Brooklyn land," the shorter one explained as if to a slow child.
"And who're you? The mayor?" the newcomer snapped. "Let me by."
"Or else what?"
The newcomer dropped his papers purposefully and put up his fists. The shorter eyed him reflectively, then copied his movement. The other newsies ringed them round, linking arms to make a makeshift arena.
The shorter figure was fast and lightfooted, able to get in a good hit before the newcomer blocked. Then the newcomer fired away hard and the short one fired back and soon they were tussling on the ground. They were almost evenly matched, something neither of them had experienced before, and now it would come down to the one who had the better endurance. Or so it seemed. In rough'in tumble no rules, anything could happen.
The newcomer felt his opponent go limp and his concentration wandered for a moment- he didn't want to seriously hurt anyone- then he felt himself flying backwards, stomach hurting. That was a good trick, one he'd have to remember, if he made it. He scrambled up as did his opponent and the fight began again. Long minutes passed, each getting and giving about equally. Then the newcomer had had enough.
"This is pointless!" he shouted. "I'll fight you, I'll fight everyone here, after I sell my papes!"
"Not in Brooklyn y' don't," one of the slingshot wielders said, pulling the elastic back.
"Leave off Roe," the shorter figure said, wiping some blood from his mouth. The redhaired slinger reluctantly put the sling away. "Got a name?" he asked the newcomer.
"Anj O'Neil. You?"
"Spot Conlon. Yer not a bad fighter."
"You neither. Can I sell my papes now?" Anj asked.
"Don't encourage newbies," Spot said. "Yer not bad, Anj, but…"
Anj nodded wearily. "I understand. Look, I won't be long, just the day, and maybe the night…" If Spot disagreed, then he'd have to be bodily thrown out of Brooklyn, he was too tired to walk.
Spot nodded. "An' then y' go. Manhattan takes on some, Harlem 'n Bronx too."
Anj nodded. "Fine." He pulled his cap back over his brown hair and set off.
"Roe, how many papes d'y have?" Spot asked, watching Anj's retreating back.
"Thirty. Malloy won't loan me any more," Roe answered, mock-scowling at his best friend Malloy.
"No y' don't," Spot said briskly.
Roe frowned. "Spot- what-?"
"Give 'em t' Malloy, he won't cheat y'. More'n usual," he added, not serious. Malloy was about the most honest newsie in New York, almost never improved the headlines and made most of his sales by his face and charm.
Roe did as he was told. "Nah what?' he asked.
"Follow Anj. Everywhere. An' iffin he don't leave, tell me."
Roe nodded. "Gottcha Spot." And then he too left.
"Well don'tcha stand gawpin' lads!" Spot shouted. "Extra, extra, man found drowned."
"Where?" Malloy asked, going through a paper.
"'e's predictin' Malloy," another newsie said. "Iffin y' don't start, y'll be drownt!" Laughter all around and another day of selling began.
Review if you want more!
