"….That had been a miserable winter, the kind that dripped on into March with no end in sight. Romeo needed better shoes; Race had hollows in his cheeks. Crutchie's leg had gotten to hurting him so bad in the cold that he could barely go out to sell. He hadn't had a choice, so he'd made the only one available."
March, 1897
The cold that year was the kind of cold that seeped into everyone's bones, soaking through clothes and even slipping into cracks in the windows. It was the kind of cold that even penetrated the newsies' minds—filling them with dreams of warm fires and dry boots and the bright sunshine.
Jack was the only one not having such dreams that night. He hadn't been able to sleep, so sick he was with concern for his fellow newsies. He liked to tell himself that he had seen the signs, had noticed the chills and the sneezed and heard the aches and groans of pain before anyone else, but Jack knew that wasn't the case. He had been taken by surprise just the same as everyone else when his friends had started getting sick.
"Jack?" Whispered someone at the foot of the ladder. It was Crutchie, who only had his hand placed on a ladder rung. "Jack, can ya help me up?"
"Go back tah sleep, kid," Jack shot back, more out of worry than anger at being disturbed.
"I don't think I can—" Crutchie stopped himself, and forced a smile. "Ya see, Race sure is snorin' loud, an' nobody can sleep through that racket."
Jack sighed, leaning against the railing. "Come on up, then."
He froze at his friend's reply. "I dunno, Jack, I don't think I can do that eithah because….because….OH LOOK A SPIDER GOSH JACK I GOTTA GO."
Jack breathed a sigh of relief. Just a spider. That was good. Only a few days ago, Crutchie had been limping worse than usual, so much that the nuns had noticed. But that didn't seem the case anymore. He didn't need to worry about Crutchie with the outbreak of colds in the Lodging House.
The first few rays of sunlight broke through the clouds, creating an internal alarm for Jack that was accompanied by the ringing of the church bells. He made his way down the ladder and entered the bedrooms.
"Christ!"
Jack went flying forward as his foot snagged on something. He toppled to the ground, immediately confronted by the newsies.
"Jack, my boots ain't lookin' so good." Romeo held up a pair by the shoestrings. They looked practically like worn out gloves.
"Jack, I ain't feelin' so good."
"Jack, my finger's bleedin'!"
"Jack, I lost my hat!"
"Jack, can ya help me find my pants?!"
Jack got to his feet, waving his hands in the air for order. "Alright, alright! Tommy Boy, your pants are in the bathroom. Everyone else—get movin'. We got a long day ahead of us."
"Hey, Jack?"
Jack turned around to find out that he had tripped over none other than Crutchie, who was sitting up against the door, clutching his bum leg. Jack walked over, hauling the boy up so he could stand. He handed him the crutch, and Crutchie seemed to put all his weight on the thing.
"What's botherin' you, kid? An' I don't mean the spiders."
Crutchie didn't have the heart to tell him that there had not been any spiders. "It's my leg, Jack—I can barely move."
Jack wrapped an arm around him, walking forwards, but Crutchie couldn't get his legs to work. He stumbled, pitching forward just as Jack caught him.
"Kid, you should go lie down—"
"Jack, I—"
"Go. Sleep. Your leg will feel better after a few hours of rest. Trust me."
Jack left Crutchie sitting on the bed, and raced down the stairs. He ran into the cold March air, slowly coming up with a plan that he never would have dared to do otherwise.
He didn't have any money.
Romeo needed new shoes.
Crutchie would never get better if he didn't have proper food and blankets.
What were Jack's options? To beg? To bring Romeo with him and cart him around as the poor, shoeless orphan? Or to buy extra papes and try to sell them?
All of those would take too long.
Jack shied away from the rest of the newsies, creeping over to a regular store. He ducked inside, whistling to allay his fears and to pretend he was a normal customer. His hands quickly swiped a shining pair of shoes, and then some bread, and then a can of soup, and a bottle of medicine (For Race) and a blanket. Jack stuck the medicine in his pocket, and hid the bread inside the blanket. Taking one last lap around the store, he made a run for it through the back door.
Shouts and accusing yells followed his footsteps back to the Lodging House. He dashed upstairs, dropped the blankets and food in Crutchie's lap, and raced back outside.
This would be the first of many raids he would do—if only for his newsies. Jack was just happy no one had caught him.
Yet.