Just a note: anything with italics without quotations is translations. Anything that has italics with quotations is lyrics, unless it follows a name such as one of the newsies or other names, when it will not have quotation marks.
Okay this is a rather long chapter, and also, I will take any type of review, whether it be flame, constructive criticism, or just general 'keep up the good work!' review. Kill me now if you hate it, but just tell me your thoughts, please.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies. Disney and some of history does. I also can testify, however, that I do own Pirate Steel. I do not own Rays, she is a good friend of mine. She owns herself.
XxX
They first thing I heard when I woke up was someone yelling the name of a type of shoes at the top of their lungs.
"BOOTS!"
Ughh…Kloppman.
Now, I'm not saying I hate Kloppman. He's pretty much a father figure to all of us newsies. But in the mornings, he can just be…ughh.
He finally made it over to my bunk and started poking me.
Ughh.
"Pirate Steel! Get up, Pirata del Acero!"
I faked sleep, at least for the moment, anyway.
"Estrella del mar," he said patronizingly.
I sat up as quick as I could, my knife flashing under his chin. "No había manera de que usted va a salirse con la suya que me llama por mi nombre. Su significado, de todos modos."
There was no way you are going to get away with calling me by my first name. Its meaning, anyway.
"Llevar la bandera," he said,winking, before kneeling onto the lower bunk. Carry the banner. "Racetrack!" he said. My best friend swore something in Italian and yelled at him, "Youse sono pazzi? Si tratta di prime luci dell'alba! Ti odio!" Are you crazy? It is the crack of dawn! I hate you!
"Va tutto bene, Racetrack," I grumbled. It's okay, Racetrack. I glared at Kloppman. "La giornata non e l'unico che e stato rovinato." Your day is not the only one that has been ruined. "Portare la bandiera." Carry the banner. He then moved on.
I rolled out of bed with my clothing already on. The only thing I didn't have on was my suspenders which I simply slipped onto my shoulders. I don't own more than one set of clothing. I don't own night clothes, I don't care to, and I think they are stupid. I took my sheath that holds my knife at my thigh and fastened it. It's what I'm named for, my pirate steel. True pirate steel, not just that flimsy stuff you see scabbers toting. My knife has tasted crimson blood before. I'm just not saying whether I killed someone or the previous owner did, thank you very much.
We heard Kloppman shouting at other newsies, sometimes in various languages. I moved up to Cowboy's bunk, because it is super amusing to see Kloppman attempting to awake Cowboy.
"Hey, Cowboy, ya dreamin' about sellin' papes?" Kloppman poked him.
"Mmmmm?" he said, and rolled over. "What's da mattah wid you?"
"What's the mattah with me?"
"What's da mattah wid you? Wanna… go… back…to…"
Kloppman poked him even more insistently.
"Hey! HEY!"
I decided to poke Cowboy as well. "Get up!"
"Hey, kid!"
"Get away from me! You're MAD!"
Kloppman chuckled. "Come on, boy, come on! Carry da banner! Sell them papahs! Sell them papahs!"
Cowboy glared at me. "You have no life."
I raised my eyebrows. "Well, aren't you just a little ray of sunshine?"
Now that the entertainment was over, I went back to my bunk for a leather cord and started heading for the washroom until Racetrack started fumbling around in his cup for his cigar, but when it wasn't there, he started searching everywhere until I nudged him towards Snipeshooter.
Racetrack: Dat's my cigar
Snipeshooter: after taking it out from his mouth You'll steal another
Racetrack slapped him and stole his cigar back. He put it in his mouth, not really caring that it had been in Snipe's mouth a moment before. Which may seem gross to some of you, but, hey, it's hard to get a good cigarette.
Blink: Hey, bummas, we got woik ta do
Specs: Since when did you become me muddah?
Too right.
Crutchy: Aw, stop you're bawlin'
About three newsies snorted and said 'Who asked you?'
I walked over to Crutchy, because he's actually really sweet for someone who had such a rotten life. When he was about seven, a wagon ran over his leg. His leg had somewhat healed, but he forever had a limp. Then his parents died of some disease or other, and I don't remember what it is because I never can pronounce the darn word. Still, after our old leader, Marbles, had found him wandering around on the street, he was a born newsie.
"Heya, Crutchy."
"Heya, Steel," he beamed.
We heard some hysterical laughter from Mush. I swear that kid is so odd.
See. What'd I tell you? He's just a smiley face all the time, no matter what.
"So, how are ya?"
"Does it really look like when I'm walkin', that I'm fakin' it?" For one time, he looked anxious.
"No. Who says ya fakin' it? I've not given a good soakin' in a long time. The fists miss it."
He smiled. "It's okay, but dere's just so many fake crips on the street today, a real crip ain't got a chance. I gotta find a new sellin' spot where dey ain't used ta seein' me," he said as we did a migration into the washroom. And then, some newsies decided in their infinite wisdom that we needed actual suggestions.
Mush: Try Bottle Alley or da harbor
Racetrack: Try Central Park, it's garanteed
Jack: Try any banker, bum, or barber
Skittery: They almost all knows howta read
And here we go again. It's like their national anthem or something, and somehow we always end up going back to 'Carryin' da Banner.' Not that I mind, but it's amazing how these guys always manage to reference back every morning in a whole new way.
Oh, the joys.
Kid Blink: I smell money
Crutchy: gags You smell foul!
Mush: Met this goil last night!
Crutchy: Ow, move your elbow
Racetrack: Pass the towel
He spotted Skittery holding the towel triumphantly in the air, and Skittery shoved him away.
Skittery: For a buck I might!
I rolled my eyes and walked over to Skittery, grabbed the towel, took a swipe at his face with my knife in the same motion, before he used my head as leverage to jump down from the stool.
I tossed the towel to Race over my shoulder as I sang, "Ain't it a fine life?" And they chorused, "Carryin' da banner through it all."
"A mighty fine life-" "Carryin' da banner tough and tall." I was positively grinning. So very odd. They had actually been able to get me singing. I swear I will now start believing in miracles.
"Every morning-" "We goes where we wishes, we'se as free as fishes. Shoah beats watchin' dishes."
"What a fine life-" "Carryin' da Banner home-free-all!"
We coursed down the stairs, as Kloppman kind of counted us. He counted like the first two people, but then it was a hopeless cause. I'm sorry, but I doubt he'll ever succeed in that, unfortunately. Some of the nicer newsies like Crutchy and Rays were giving him smiles and waves.
Oh, yeah, you don't know about Rays yet. Well, her full newsie nickname is Little Rays of Sunshine but Marbles had deemed it too long, because you need something plain and simple. One day, Mush had solved our dilemma by calling her Rays, and the nickname had stuck. Rays is one of my friends as well as Racetrack, and sometimes the newsies call us the Three Musketeers.
Rays is super tall and twelve. She's the daughter of Victoria Albany, a high-class woman, who eloped with a former slave named Charles, so she's tan, though not too much, and she has jet black hair and bright gray eyes. She's really sneaky though and somewhat mischievous. She is really clever and so you do not want to get on her bad side. Specs would never forget that one time he had pulled a nasty prank on her. She's really sweet though, and doesn't truly have a bad side. Another thing about her is that she is really protective about the younger newsies.
Anyway, Rays was currently jabbering away to Crutchy about how her birthday is in a couple days. She has told everyone about how she can't wait to be thirteen because she is positively a chatterer.
Soon we were jumping over barrels until we started jumping off of a wagon. Soon the wagon owner was trying to kick us off of his wagon but we just trampled all over the wagon.
Newsies: Summa stinks and wintah's waitin'
Welcome to New Yoik
Boy, ain't natchah fascinatin'
When you'se gotta walk
It's a fine life
Carryin' da bannah with me chums
A mighty fine life
Blowin' ev'ry nickel as it comes
Crutchy: I'm no snoozah
Sittin' makes me antsy
I likes livin' chancy
Newsies: Harlem to DeLancey
What a fine life
Carryin' da bannah through the…
But we all trailed off for some nuns began singing, and that is how we get our food. We all sort of shuffled forward and tried to look as innocent as possible, as if we wouldn't steal for money. Which, honestly enough, we would.
Three nuns: Blessed children
Though you wander, lost and depraved
I lost focus for a moment of the hymn as Rays handed me a roll, and I wolfed it down.
Nuns: You shall be saved
Then, one of the nuns passed me a tin. As I drank it, I heard people start singing again, and looked up to see a lone mother singing.
Mother: Patrick
Racetrack: crosses himself Just give me half a cup
Mother: Darling
Blink: Something to wake me up
Mother: Since you left me
Mush: I gotta find an angle
Mother: I am undone
Crutchy: I gotta sell more papes
Mother: Mother
I sang, "Wish I could catch a breeze."
Mother: Loves you
Rays: sadly All I can catch is fleas
That's true sadly. Sad but true.
"—save my son!"
Newsies: If I hate the headlines, I'll make up a headline, and I'll say anything I hafta. 'Cause it's two for a penny, if I take too many, Weasel just makes me eat `em afta. Look, they're putting up the headline.
Me: Pfft, you call that a headline?
Rays: I get bettah stories from the coppah on the beat
Me: I was gonna start wid twenty
Rays: But a dozen'll be plenty
Rays and I: Tell me how I'm gonna make ends meet
Newsies: We need a good assassination. We need an earthquake or a war.
Snipeshooter: How `bout a crooked polition?
Newsies: all of us throwing hats at Snipeshooter Hey, stupid, dat ain't news no more!
Uptown to Grand Central Station, down to City Hall! We improves our circulation, walkin' till we fall! And so we'll be out there, carryin' the bannah man to man! And we'll be out there, soakin' every sucker dat we can! See the headlines: Newsies on a mission. Kill the competition, sell the next edition. While we're out there, carryin' da bannah is the—
Two boys shoved their way through the newsies. Racetrack sniffed deeply, mockingly. "Deah me, what is dat unpleasant aroma? I feah da sewah may have backed up during the night."
We all laughed openly, because insulting them is practically our favorite pastime. Well, that, and poker.
"Nah, too rotten to be da sewah," Boots said.
"Yeah, yeah, it must be—da DeLancey bruddahs!" Crutchy said gleefully. Rays grinned. "Boys, I would like you to observe these remarkable specimens known as ferrets, a close relation to weasels. One interesting fact about ferrets is that no matter how hard they clean, they generally always stink." Race looked like he was about to die from laughter. "Hiya, boys," he grinned. Oscar flashed him a phony grin, then grabbed Snipeshooter by his collar, and growled, "In the back, ya lousy little shrimp," as he threw Snipe onto the ground. Jack picked up Snipe and brushed him off. Race shook his head patronizingly. "It's not good ta do dat, not healthy." Jack straitened up, looking like a destroying angel.
Boy, are they gonna get it.
"Ya shouldn't be callin' people lousy shrimps, Oscar, `less you're referrin' to da family resemblance in ya bruddah heah. That's right," he said, as we laughed and the DeLanceys were going as red in the face as tomatoes. "It's an insult. So is this!" he yelled, knocking Morris's hat off. I raised my eyebrows. Wow, the DeLancey's are incredibly stupid.
I grinned at Rays. "Ya shoah have a way of insultin' people," I chuckled. "Da ferrets." "Yep. Ferrets."
We then hightailed it so that we could watch Jack's chasing game, until he ran straight into another boy who was about his age, and a kid who looked like he could only pass for maybe eight of so.
The older boy scowled and said, "What do you think you're doing?" His accent sounded educated.
The DeLancey brothers started pushing through the crowd, shoving Race straight into me and Rays. We righted him as Jack grinned at the older boy. "Runnin'!" he replied as he started sprinting. The DeLanceys ran into the older boy and he grimaced as they ran after Jack.
"It's a fine life, carryin' da bannah through it all. A might fine life, carryin' da bannah tough and tall."
One of the DeLanceys tackled Jack, but he kicked them away and got up.
"See the headlines, newsies on a mission, kill the competition, sell the next edition, what a fine life, carryin' da bannah-" You got `em, Cowboy!" "It's a fine life-" "Go get `em, Cowboy!" Jack climbed up on the distribution gate and surveyed the newsies.
"You got `em, Cowboy!" "Carryin' da bannah! It's a fine life-" "Go get `em, Cowboy!" "Carryin' da bannah-"
"Is a GO!"
Then, a yell could be heard.
"De'se is foah da newsies!"
And with that, the gate swung open.
As we all walked in, Jack swung down from a rope.
"Brilliant, Jackie, brilliant, bettah den yestahday's!" Race said, laughing.
"Yer too kind ta me, Race. Ya too kind," Jack said rather dryly.
"We'll play tomorrah, Cowboy," growled Oscar.
"That would be nice," Jack drawled.
"Yah late, boys," Race said to the DeLanceys, and Oscar walked into the distribution center.
"You're as good as dead, Cowboy," snarled Morris.
Jack laughed as he walked up to the distribution center's window.
"Oh, Mr. Weasel," Jack said as patronizingly as possible. He rang the bell loudly.
"All right, I'm comin'," grumbled Weasel as he walked up to the window.
"Did ya miss me, Weasel? Did ya miss me?"
Oh, Jack. Well, you certainly know how to charm someone.
"I toldja a million times, the name is Weisel. Mistah Weisel to ya."
Weasel brightly recognized the conversation was over as Jack grabbed one of the newspapers. "How many?" he asked bluntly.
"Don't rush me. I'm perusin' da merchandise, Mr. Weasel."
He slammed down fifty cents down onto the windowsill, hard. "The usual," he spat.
"A hundred papes to da wise guy."
I slammed down my cents, and Weasel immediately said, "Ninety."
I received my papes and sat down next to Jack, and rifled through the pages. One of the best articles was about a baby with genetic problems. Uggh… well, I suppose we'll just have to make up something.
I read through the article as I heard Weasel and Race negotiating.
"Mornin', Yer Honah. Listen, do me a favor, Weas, spot me 50 papes, will ya? I got a hot tip on the fourth. You won't waste your money," he said, and I heard the striking of a match.
"Shoah t'ing?"
"Oh, yeah. Not like last time."
Weasel clearly did not sound convinced as he said, "Fifty."
Race settled down next to me. "Anything good dis mornin'?"
"Ya wanna sit down?" Jack asked a kid . I smiled vaguely at him, he was new and guaranteed to be nervous. Rays joined out little group now.
"Look at dis," Race said, turning a page. "Baby born wid two heads. Must be from Brooklyn."
I snorted, but smiled. "Wondah if it's any relation to Conlon."
Race laughed at that, as well as Jack and Rays, as we imagined what the leader of Brooklyn would do if he knew we were making fun of him and Brooklyn.
We resurfaced in time to hear Weasel.
"Ya got yer lousy papes, now beat it."
"I paid for twenty, and only got nineteen." The voice was from that same educated boy we had seen before.
"Are you accusin' me o' lyin', kid?"
"N-no. I just want my paper."
"He said beat it."
Jack stood up and walked to the window. He rifled through the kid's papers.
"No, it's 19, Weasel, it's 19…but don't worry. I mean, Morris couldn't count ta twenty wid his shoes on." Morris lunged at Jack, but his hands only wrapped around iron bars.
"Pfft, he can't even tie his shoes. Dat's why he's always trippin' ovah things dat don't exist," I said, coming up on the kid's left.
"Hey, Race, will ya spot me two bits?" Jack said.
"Heah," Race said, and flicked him the two quarters.
"Anothah fifty foah my friend heah," Jack said, slamming the cents down.
"Oh, I don't want more papes."
"Shoah ya do, ev'ry newsie wants moah papes."
"I don't," the kid repeated, as Jack shoved the papes into his arms.
Can I actually believe me ears? A newsie actually turning down more papes?
"I don't want you papes," the boy said, following Jack down the steps. "I don't take charity from anyone. I don't know you, I don't care to. Now, here are your papes," he said, holding them out for Jack to take.
"Cowboy, they call him Cowboy," the little kid who had sat down next to us said excitedly, popping up in between Jack and the other boy.
"Yeah, dat and and a lot o' uddah things, includin' Jack Kelly, which is what me muddah call me. What do they call ya, kid?"
"I'm Les. This is David," he said, pointing the older boy.
"Finally, some names," I muttered.
Les continues, "He's older."
"Oh, no kiddin'," Jack said, and I rolled my eyes. Rays kicked me, because she thinks all little kids are cute, but this one seemed past the point of no return.
"How old are you, Les?"
"Near ten."
"Near ten, well, dat's no good. If anyone asks, ya say yer seven. See, younger sells more papes, and if we're gonna be partners, we wanna be the best-"
"Whoa, who said anything about partners?" David said.
I rolled my eyes.
"Well, ya owe me two bits, right?"
"Actually ya owe Race two bits," I said, and Jack glared at me, before turning back to David.
"So, I'll considah dat an investment, we sell togedder, we split seventy-thoirty, plus ya get the benefit of observin' me, no charge."
David made an odd sound that I assume was some sore of scoff, and Jack made it back at him.
"Hey, Davey, ya gettin' da chance of a lifetime heah. Ya learn from Jack, ya learn from the best," Crutchy said.
"The best," Bumlets said.
"Well, if he's the best, then how come he needs me?" David asked defiantly.
I raised my eyebrows. Davey here, when it came to the newsies, was clearly not the sharpest knife in the drawer.
"Listen, pal, I don't need ya, but I ain't got a cute liddle bruddah like Les heah to front foah me," Jack said, pulling Les near him.
We then heard Jack saying he could probably move a thousand papes a week, which was kind of annoying, since it was probably going to be all of Les's work, and not his.
"So whaddya say, Les, ya wanna sell for me?"
"Yeah!" he said.
"Wait, wait, hold it," David said. "It's gotta be at least fifty-fifty."
"Sixty-foirty, or I foget da whole thing," Jack said, pointing to David on sixty and himself on forty as a mistake. I sure hope David holds him to that.
We all added in our comments. "That's fair." "A bargain." "A golden opportunity."
Les was looking at David and nodding fervently. If it had been Rays, she would have given in immediately. David finally crumbled and held out his hand for Jack to shake.
Jack spat into his hand how we always do, and David jerked his hand back.
"What's da mattah?" Jack asked, suspicious.
The look on David's face could tell me that he was clearly revolted.
"That's disgusting," he said.
We all just laughed at him, especially me. This ought to be more interesting than I thought. We all then began our daily migration out to the gates. Race took a while, one because his legs are so short, and two because he had taken a while to get his papes fully ready.
"The name of the game is volume, Dave, ya only took twenty papes. Why?"
Crutchy only took thirty, Jack.
"Bad headline."
"Dat's da foist thing ya gotta learn. Headlines don't sell papes, newsies sell papes."
"Newsies, right," I affirmed.
"Widout us, nobody in dis city know nuttin'.'
Then a girl passed by, and almost all of the newsies took off their hats.
Someone said, "What an angel."
Rays shook her head and in a scolding voice said, "Men," like they would never learn.
And then, Rays and I just had to laugh as we heard Spec's headline. "Baby born with three heads!"
Some things will never change.
And then the streets began to echo with the voices of newsboys spreading out to every corner, carrying the banner, bringing the world the news for just a penny a pape.
And with the voices of Ray and me as well.
The voices of Manhattan's two newsgirls.