Disclaimer: All of the characters and places belong to Disney; the plot belongs to me.
A/N: I got the idea for this story from the poem "The Listeners" by Walter de la Mare, and I wrote it during study hall. Review and tell me what you think!
Jack raised his glass in the air. "To the newsies of New York, who have defeated Hearst and Pulitzer and brought the price back down to two papes for a penny!"
"To the newsies!" the newsies and factory workers cried. They had filled Tibby's and spilled into the streets and nearby shops.
"And to Jack Kelly and Spot Conlon, our fearless leaders," David added.
"To Jack and Spot!" the crowd echoed.
"And lastly, to David Jacobs for giving us the idea for a strike and lending me two bits for tomorrow's horse races!" Racetrack called.
"I'm lending you two bits?" David asked, shouting over the crowd's reply.
"You are now," Racetrack confirmed. David rolled his eyes and dug into his food, provided by Tibby's, paid for by Roosevelt. It was the day after the newsies won the strike, and they had decided to take time off to celebrate. David, Jack, Spot, and Racetrack encircled a table, drinking cokes and eating knockwurst sandwiches.
When the noise had begun to cease, Jack turned to his comrades with a serious look on his face. "You know, we won't be newsies forever," he said. "I'm really gonna miss all of you when I leave."
"We should make a pact," David suggested.
"A what?" Racetrack asked, bewildered.
"A pact," David repeated. "A promise that, no matter what happens, in ten years the four of us will meet here at Tibby's and have lunch together."
"No matter what," Jack agreed, and the four newsies spitshook on it.
Two months afterward, Sarah dumped Jack for a factory worker, and Jack finally left for Santa Fe. The next week, David's father found a job, and he and Les returned to school. Racetrack took Jack's place as the leader of Manhattan, and Spot returned to Brooklyn to lead his newsies in a territory war against the Bronx.
Ten years later, twenty-seven year old Jack Kelly arrived at the door of what had been Tibby's. He stared through the windows, but the restaurant seemed dark and deserted.
"Excuse me, sir, may I help you?" a gray-haired man asked.
"Tibby?" Jack wondered in disbelief, staring at the wrinkled face of the once-famous restaurant owner. "Tibby, do you remember me? It's me, Jack Kelly."
"Kelly?" Tibby muttered, his brow creased in thought. "Kelly? The strike leader?"
"Yeah, that's me," Jack replied, proud that he was remembered. "So, have you seen any of my friends around? Spot? David? Racetrack?"
Tibby's face grew clouded, and he slowly lowered his head. "Tibby?" Jack asked. "Are you all right?"
"They're gone, Jack," Tibby said, lifting his head to stare into Jack's worried eyes. "All gone."
"What?" Jack exclaimed. "That can't be!"
"It's true," Tibby affirmed. "The smart one---David, you called him---died in a train derailment. He was on his way to visit you in Santa Fe, as a surprise for your twenty-first birthday." Tibby took a deep breath and continued. "When Racetrack stopped being a newsie a few years ago, he couldn't find another job. He lost all his money gambling and hung himself from the lodging house rafters in 1907. And Spot was killed this past year, during a fight. He was leading a group of factory workers in a strike, much as you led the newsies a decade ago."
Jack stared in shock, peering through the restaurant windows at his favorite table, trying to picture his three best friends as he once knew them. "So I'm the only one left," he whispered.
"Yes," Tibby said, "you're the one man left awake."
A/N: I got the idea for this story from the poem "The Listeners" by Walter de la Mare, and I wrote it during study hall. Review and tell me what you think!
Jack raised his glass in the air. "To the newsies of New York, who have defeated Hearst and Pulitzer and brought the price back down to two papes for a penny!"
"To the newsies!" the newsies and factory workers cried. They had filled Tibby's and spilled into the streets and nearby shops.
"And to Jack Kelly and Spot Conlon, our fearless leaders," David added.
"To Jack and Spot!" the crowd echoed.
"And lastly, to David Jacobs for giving us the idea for a strike and lending me two bits for tomorrow's horse races!" Racetrack called.
"I'm lending you two bits?" David asked, shouting over the crowd's reply.
"You are now," Racetrack confirmed. David rolled his eyes and dug into his food, provided by Tibby's, paid for by Roosevelt. It was the day after the newsies won the strike, and they had decided to take time off to celebrate. David, Jack, Spot, and Racetrack encircled a table, drinking cokes and eating knockwurst sandwiches.
When the noise had begun to cease, Jack turned to his comrades with a serious look on his face. "You know, we won't be newsies forever," he said. "I'm really gonna miss all of you when I leave."
"We should make a pact," David suggested.
"A what?" Racetrack asked, bewildered.
"A pact," David repeated. "A promise that, no matter what happens, in ten years the four of us will meet here at Tibby's and have lunch together."
"No matter what," Jack agreed, and the four newsies spitshook on it.
Two months afterward, Sarah dumped Jack for a factory worker, and Jack finally left for Santa Fe. The next week, David's father found a job, and he and Les returned to school. Racetrack took Jack's place as the leader of Manhattan, and Spot returned to Brooklyn to lead his newsies in a territory war against the Bronx.
Ten years later, twenty-seven year old Jack Kelly arrived at the door of what had been Tibby's. He stared through the windows, but the restaurant seemed dark and deserted.
"Excuse me, sir, may I help you?" a gray-haired man asked.
"Tibby?" Jack wondered in disbelief, staring at the wrinkled face of the once-famous restaurant owner. "Tibby, do you remember me? It's me, Jack Kelly."
"Kelly?" Tibby muttered, his brow creased in thought. "Kelly? The strike leader?"
"Yeah, that's me," Jack replied, proud that he was remembered. "So, have you seen any of my friends around? Spot? David? Racetrack?"
Tibby's face grew clouded, and he slowly lowered his head. "Tibby?" Jack asked. "Are you all right?"
"They're gone, Jack," Tibby said, lifting his head to stare into Jack's worried eyes. "All gone."
"What?" Jack exclaimed. "That can't be!"
"It's true," Tibby affirmed. "The smart one---David, you called him---died in a train derailment. He was on his way to visit you in Santa Fe, as a surprise for your twenty-first birthday." Tibby took a deep breath and continued. "When Racetrack stopped being a newsie a few years ago, he couldn't find another job. He lost all his money gambling and hung himself from the lodging house rafters in 1907. And Spot was killed this past year, during a fight. He was leading a group of factory workers in a strike, much as you led the newsies a decade ago."
Jack stared in shock, peering through the restaurant windows at his favorite table, trying to picture his three best friends as he once knew them. "So I'm the only one left," he whispered.
"Yes," Tibby said, "you're the one man left awake."