It's early June. Davey—he thinks of himself as Davey now, not David—hustles his bundle on a corner near Ann Street. His sleeves are rolled up in the sticky heat, and it feels like his trousers are pasted to his legs with sweat.
Davey ain't alone. After a lot of pressure from Jack, Davey finally caved and brought little Lottie along with him to sell. Jack has taken Les with him. Jack says Les should probably start selling on his own. "He's good enough to do it," Jack always insists.
To his surprise, Mam and Pop immediately agreed when he suggested it. Lottie's too young to sell flowers on the street with Lou and them, and Lou probably can't keep track of her anyway. She already has to watch out for Essie, Ellie, and Susie. Mam is stressed out enough, between work and her pregnancy and minding Sammy. Sometimes Davey thinks his parents don't know what do with the large number of children they have. Mam's only thirty-six, and has ten—soon to be eleven—children already. Davey anticipates at least one or two more littles joining the Jacobs family after the bairn in Mam's belly.
Lottie sits cross-legged on the pavement next to him, playing with her doll. She is wearing a checkered gray dress Davey remembers Essie wearing at that age, and a washed-out white pinafore. Sarah did her hair half-up half-down this morning, tying it with a gray bow to match her dress. She wears boots that are a recent hand-me-down from Susie.
Davey bought his usual fifty papes, and is doing his best newsie's cry. "Mornin' pape, here, 'Thurman patents motorized vacuum cleaner,' you heard it here! Feed an orphan and his little sister tonight." He's gonna have to go to Confession later, God damn it. Davey winces at himself again. He is the worst Catholic ever.
However, no one seems very interested in today's headline. Davey mutters to himself, frustrated. Lottie pulls on his trouser leg, and he glances down. "Wha's wrong, Davey?" she asks.
"Nobody's buying my papes," Davey explains.
"Is tha' bad?"
Davey doesn't have the heart to tell her it is very bad. "It's nothing to worry about, Char-Lottery." She laughs at the funny nickname, even though it's a little cheesy. He supposes it would sound funny to a five-year-old. "Just gotta change tactics."
"How?" Lottie tilts her head.
Davey winks at her. "Just watch, Lottie."
Jack's always telling him, "Say anythin' you hafta to sell your papes, Davey. Your pa may have taught you not to lie, but I's gotta teach you not to starve."
So he starts crying a more exciting (and fictitious) line. "'Three dozen folks die in a London fire!' You heard the story right here!"
Davey thinks he should just make Confession with Fr. McNally a daily thing.
That gets business moving. By ten (he started selling at seven), he's sold fifteen papes. That's real good. Maybe he should've rubbed dirt on his and Lottie's faces this morning; that sometimes helps… Either way, the fifteen pennies are a comforting weight in his pocket, with the rent due next week. If the Jacobses move to a flat on a higher floor in their tenement, it would bring down their rent another fifty cents. Maybe he should suggest it to Pop…
His troubled thoughts get interrupted when a hulking man buys a pape from him. He hands Davey a nickel, and he looks like he was in a rush so Davey risks giving him two pennies back instead of four. Man doesn't suspect a thing. "Thanks, sir!" Davey says brightly as the man hurries down Ann Street, pape tucked under his arm. However, he sticks a hand in his pocket. Davey sees him stop dead in his tracks. Crap!
The man whirls around and storms back towards Davey. The boy shoves his bundle into his bag and urges Lottie to stand up. However, the man seizes him by the back of his shirt collar just as he and Lottie are getting ready to make a run for it. The man twists Davey around so the newsie's facing him and backhands the kid across the face. "You little sneak," he growled. "Give me back my money."
Davey is shaking, too panicked to say anything. The man hits him again, harder this time. Davey tastes blood in his mouth. Lottie's crying, begging for the guy to stop. The man shoves Davey into a wall. "Give me my money, you gutter rat!"
No one stops to help; Davey's just a newsie, after all…
"I'll give it to you!" Davey finally gasps out. "You don't gotta pound me; was an honest mistake, sir, I's swears!" He;s slipping into the improper speech the nuns always scolded him for. He slips his hand into his pocket and pulled out four pennies. "Here ya go, sir!"
Still furious after he seizes the pennies from Davey, the man unfurls the paper and starts to rip it. When he reads the headline, he seizes Davey by the collar again. "Lying about the headline, too? I ought to take you and your little sister to the bulls—"
Davey starts going crazy with fear. This could land him and Lottie in the Refuge for at least a week or two, and give him a rap sheet. "I gotta feed her, sir, youse knows how it is," he pleads.
The man punches him right in the stomach. Davey, the wind knocked out of him, bends over double. He's only held up by the man's iron grip. The man punches him again in the face, yelling "Get up!" Davey's seeing stars when a voice says—
"Is this boy here your son, sir?" It is a male voice. Davey's tormentor shoves him away and turns to face this newcomer. Davey's frantic, looking for Lottie all over. He spots her blubbering a few feet away, pressed against the wall in terror. His heart breaks. He tries inching away to grab her and make a run for it, but the man grabs seizes his arm. Davey swears silently.
"He's not, thank the dear Lord. Just some gutter rat who tried stealing from me. Lied about the news story, too," the man says to the new guy. "I'm probably gonna haul him an' that little waif over there to the nearest bull station. Don't need the likes of them crawling around this city." He points to Lottie.
The new guy's got two little girls peeking out from behind him. They're blond-haired and blue-eyed, one not much older than Lottie and one Ellie's age. Their clothes are somewhat nicer, though, blue dresses with pink pinafores. They're holding stacks of papers, but they aren't newspapers. Davey can't tell what they are. The man's wearing a suit made of rougher fabric, but it doesn't look mended or worn.
"What's your name, boy?" the newcomer asks. He's got a kind face, or at least Davey thinks he does.
He lies, of course. "Michael McNally, mister." He's sure he looks like hell, all bunged up and bleeding. Hopefully Fr. McNally doesn't mind him using his last name.
His tormentor shakes him. "An Irish boy, eh?"
Davey ducks his head. The newcomer strides forward and tilts his chin up. Davey flinches a bit. The little girls hang back.
"What happened, Mr. McNally?" the newcomer asks in a gentle voice.
"I's gave him two cents back instead of four. Was an honest mistake, I swear on it!" Davey's eyes are rolling, like a scared horse. The newcomer lets go of his chin.
"And can you read, Mr. McNally?"
Davey suddenly has an idea. This fellow has just given a drowning boy a life preserver. "No, sir, I can't. I was just going off what my pals said the headline was. They probably did it to pull my leg."
The newcomer turns back to the man. "I'd say the beating you gave the boy is punishment enough. Here's a dime for your trouble," the newcomer says, pressing the coin into the other man's hand.
He eyes the shiny coin and shrugs. He cuffs Davey one last time and hurries off. Davey tenses, ready to run, when his apparent savior says, "Wait just a moment, son." He takes a step forward.
Davey presses himself against the wall. Lottie suddenly runs to him and clings to his leg for dear life. He puts a hand on her thin shoulder. "I don't want any trouble, sir. Thanks for helping me, but I really gotta go—"
"How many papers do you have left?" The man's question startles him.
"I got thirty-five left." Davey winces at his awful grammar, and chalks it up to fear. Jack and them ain't rubbing off on him, they ain't.
The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a quarter and a dime. Davey looks at him incredulously. "What do you need thirty-five papes for?" he says. "Sir," he tacks on, trying to sound polite.
"I need them to stuff something," the guy says, as if that makes perfect sense. "Now, I don't feel like hauling thirty-five newspapers back to my shop, and my girls aren't nearly strong enough to carry them. For a nickel, would you be willing to drop them off?"
Davey flushes. "I'm no charity case. I don't even know you."
The man holds out his hand. "I'm Phineas Taylor Barnum. These are my daughters Caroline and Helen. What's your real name?"
"Michael McNally, like I said."
"C'mon, don't lie. You don't look one bit Irish."
"I'm half Irish!" Davey protests. At Mr. Barnum's expectant look, he sighs. "I'm David Jacobs. People call me Davey. I really am half Irish, my mam's from Dublin!"
"What's the other half?" one of the girls asks curiously.
"Polish," Davey says. He doesn't mention he's Jewish Polish. Folks don't like Jews, even if it's by blood. They don't typically like Catholics either, though. "Jacobs was Jablonski back in Poland, my pop says."
"Who's this little lady?" Mr. Barnum crouches down and removes his cap.
Lottie answers after a nod from Davey. "Charlotte Jacobs, mister. I'm five," she said gravely.
"Where am I dropping the papes off?" Davey asks.
"Just follow me. I'll show you. I'll pay you after," Mr. Barnum says. His head aching fiercely, Davey readjusts his bag so it hangs on his hip, grabs Lottie's hand, and nods. They walk down a couple blocks until they're at the corner of Ann and Broadway. There's a big museum that Davey knows just closed down. Jonny wanted to go when they were little, but Pop always said it was too expensive.
Now, there's a sign that says "Barnum's American Museum" in big letters. "Is this your museum now, Mr. Barnum?" Davey asks in awe.
Barnum grins at him. "And here I thought you couldn't read."
Davey turns redder than the blood drying on his face.
They go in a side door. Lottie squeals in excitement when they step inside. There's wax figures and stuffed dead animals in glass cases everywhere. Davey, as learned as he is, doesn't recognize half the animals.
There's a blonde woman sitting on a bench next to a stuffed monkey exhibit. She's doing some sort of sewing. A baby plays with wooden blocks at her feet. Davey and Lottie linger back while Barnum's daughters squeal, "Mama!" and run to her. The woman hugs the girls, and then kisses Barnum on the cheek. "How did putting up flyers go?"
"Good! And we met Davey and Charlotte Jacobs! Davey was getting beaten by a mean man, so Daddy helped him. They're half Polish and Irish. And in Poland their last name was Jab-somethin'!" Helen says.
Mrs. Barnum looks at Mr. Barnum in confusion, and he points at the brother and sister. She takes in their worn clothes, Davey's bloodied and bruised face. Davey holds Lottie's hand just a little tighter.
"Mr. Jacobs agreed to deliver some newspapers for me. We can use them to stuff the taxidermy lion," Barnum says. He turns to the Jacobs kids. "Miss Charlotte, Mr. Jacobs, may I present my wife Charity." Davey thinks that's the first time he's ever been called 'Mr. Jacobs' in his life.
Davey takes off his cap. "Hello, ma'am." He turns to Barnum. "Where should I put the papes, Mr. Barnum?"
"How about on the bench, next to Charity?"
Nodding, Davey pulls the bundle from his bag and moves towards the bench. Mrs. Barnum scooches over to make room for all the papes. Lottie, trailing behind Davey, crouches down to peer at the baby.
"I think 'e's cute, but not as cute as Sammy," Lottie tells her big brother. "Look at 'im, Davey!"
Davey frowns at her, but Mr. Barnum bursts out laughing. "That's my son Hallett. And who is Sammy, Miss Charlotte?"
Lottie beams at him. "You don't 'afta call me Miz Charlotte, mister. You can call me Lottie. An' Sammy's my baby brother. 'E's two." She looks at Caroline and Helen. "Where's your older bruvers and sisters?"
"I'm the oldest," Caroline says, confused.
Davey grabs Lottie's hand. "I should be getting back to work, Mr. Barnum. Thanks for buying the papes," he says real quickly. Mr. Barnum goes to dig the money out of his pocket, when Helen asks—
"Do you have older brothers and sisters, Lottie?"
"I got three older bruvers an' five older sisters. They's named Jonny, an' you met Davey, Sarah, Les, Essie—"
Davey speaks over her. "You don't have to say all their names, Lottie. We have to get back to work—"
"Where do you work, Davey?" Helen asks. Damn it—
"Davey's a newsie! He's been doin' it for four months. He used to go to school, everyone did except for Jonny, but Pop's leg got crushed by a truck. Mam says we all gotta work, even Susie an' me, so's we don't end up sleepin' on the streets an' starvin'," Lottie answers eagerly. Davey just wants to sink into the floor. He accepts the money from Barnum with a murmured "Thank you, sir," and is ready to book it.
"Hey, Davey—" It's Mrs. Barnum this time.
Davey turns around.
"At least let us clean up your face."
"Yeah, you look like Jonny did when you tripped 'im on the fire escape last summer," Lottie says.
Davey finally agrees. Mrs. Barnum goes to get some water and a rag. The three girls play with Hallett, who laughs and claps his hands. Davey smiles a bit. He loves babies.
Mr. Barnum asks him, "Do you want to see the exhibits?"
Davey shrugs and follows him. The museum is real interesting, but also a little depressing and sad, what with all the dead animals and creepy wax figures. He's not sure if he would spend a dime to get in here if he had a dime to spare.
"You don't have to be embarrassed by what your sister said, David," Barnum says when Davey's looking at a stuffed monkey with a fish tail. If it's a fake, it's an impressive fake—even for a skeptic like him. "My wife and I won't judge you. My girls are too sweet to judge anyone."
Davey tries to play it off cool. "Lottie's just a kid. She doesn't really understand what she's saying. She just repeats what my mam says, and Mam's always been a bit dramatic. My family, we're doing fine."
"Then why did you try to cheat that man out of two pennies and lie about the headline?"
Unconsciously, Davey touches the bruises blooming on his face. "My kid brother—he's a newsie, only ten—and I both make twenty-five cents a day, if we sell all our papes. We're the ones who have to get the money to pay the rent. It's twelve dollars a month. That means on at least twenty-four days a month, Les and I need to sell all our papes. So yeah, sometimes I take shortcuts." When he sees Barnum frown, Davey goes on, saying, "I don't like it neither. When I started out as a newsie, I turned my nose up at it. I know it says 'thou shall not bear false witness' in the Bible. I know it's a sin, sir, I do, but I gotta do what I have to for my family." Davey realizes he's babbling, and shuts up real quick.
"I don't judge you, Mr. Jacobs. I just wish two young boys didn't have the burden of keeping a roof over their family's heads," Barnum says gravely.
Davey shrugs. "I'm way better off than most of my newsie pals. They're the ones with the real troubles." He turns back around. "Thanks for showing me around, Mr. Barnum. Should we go see if your wife found a bucket and rag?"
The Barnums clean Davey up before sending him and Lottie back into the stinking streets of Lower Manhattan. Before he leaves, Barnum tells him he is always welcome at Barnum's American Museum, and if he ever needs help, to seek him out. Davey thanks him, knowing he will never actually seek out this man for help, or ever meet him again. Lottie hugs Caroline and Helen good-bye, and off the Jacobs siblings go.
After they've walked two blocks, Davey tells his sister, "Now listen, Lottie. We're gonna say you sold with Jack and Les today, and I went out by myself. There was a bar fight that spilled out of the saloon and into the streets. I was selling my papes in front of that saloon, and I got roughed up by one of the drunks. Sound good?"
"We's can't tell Mam an' Pop abou' the Barnums, or wha' tha' mean guy did to you?" Lottie looks crushed.
"No, it would make Mam sad, and she wouldn't let you come and sell papes with me ever again. You wouldn't want to make Mam sad, would you?"
She shakes her head fervently.
"That's a good lassie." Davey ruffles her hair. "Let's head back to Newsboy Square. We still have hours to sell papes, and I'm thinking we can sell another thirty today. Wanna see if we can do it?"
Lottie bounces up and down. "Yeah!"
He takes her hand and they sprint through the crowded streets.
In July, Phineas Taylor Barnum is getting ready to head to the museum to train the new recruits for his upcoming show. They open in a few days, and there's so much to do—
Caroline suddenly bursts in the front door. She went out to get milk for her mama. She's clutching a newspaper, waving it wildly. "Look, Daddy, the newsies who work for The World went on strike! Strikebreakers and the bulls went after 'em!"
Charity's nursing Hallett at the table. Her eyes widen. "Do you think that one newsie we met last month, Davey, is alright? He was a nice boy, and his little sister was darling."
Caroline unfurls the paper. It's a picture of a crowd of ragged boys standing in front of the Newsboy Square gate, triumphant and proud. Helen scans over each dirty, bloodied face in the picture, until—
"There's Davey! He went on strike, too."
Barnum closes his eyes. He hopes everything works out for those poor boys. Strikes are so dangerous. Are they even worth it?
His eyes snap back to the picture, to all those dirty, bedraggled boys.
Mam says we all gotta work, even Susie an' me, so's we don't end up sleepin' on the streets an' starvin'.
My little brother and I… We're the ones who have to get the money to pay the rent.
Davey reminds Barnum of himself as that age. Barnum had been a newsie for a year or two, before he headed West.
Yes, those boys do have to go strike. Not just for themselves, but for the future generations too. They need to try to prevent what's happening to them, what happened to Barnum, from happening to another kid again.