Author's Note: So when I did research for my term paper on the historical Newsboys Strike of 1899, I came across a fact that mentioned that the real Crutch Morris died in 1910. So here is that fact fictionalized. Enjoy!
Jack always thought Crutchie would outlive them all.
How could he not? Jack often laughed to himself as he watched his friend scamper off into the streets, usually accompanied by one or two of the other newsies. Crutchie, it seemed, had always been the best at anything—playing cards, being optimistic or being the best negotiator to the Bronx newsies. Despite the pitfalls, of which there had been many (see: the Refuge), Jack had always assumed his best friend would be there his whole life.
And then came the new century.
As soon as he turned 18, Crutchie took a new job in Massachusetts. He was an accountant, which was fine by him. What's more, he hadn't had anyone else secure this job for him. He had been hired through pure, honest, simple work—as honest as he could have been, being a newsie. But he was happy, which was all that mattered. He even saw Jack and Katherine and the other fellas on his days off, never missing a Christmas dinner or an opportunity to come by the old Newsboy's Lodging House.
Crutchie felt, being 26 years old in 1910, that he was on top of the world. He could do anything, and wanted to do it all. Sure, he was still crippled, but that wouldn't stop him. Maybe he could visit another country, or even buy a house. An honest-to-goodness house. But those were just dreams he entertained in his head when he took the trolley to work, and sometimes thought about when eating out.
Young, successful and a bachelor, Crutchie at least changed the last aspect of his life when he met Mary, an Irish young woman around his age. They fell in love over dinners and paperwork, and the wedding was planned for October. Jack, Katherine, Davey, Les and all the other newsies were going to come visit especially for the occasion. Jack had to—Crutchie still needed to borrow his old suit.
Jack got the call in July, three months before the special day. The doctors, when they had questioned Crutchie about any other living relatives or family besides his fiance, had only heard the name Jack Kelly come from Crutchie's mouth. So Jack had hurried to the hospital as fast as he could, desperately hoping he wasn't too late to see his friend.
Crutchie's forehead was covered in sweat, and his breathing was labored as he clenched and unclenched his hands. It was almost funny, in a way—who would have thought that a simple cold would progress into something that could kill him? Crutchie tightened his grip around Mary's palm, looking up into her blue eyes that were translucent with tears. Mary smoothed back his hair, unable to bear the thought of her fiance actually—
Well, no. She had made a promise she wouldn't say that word.
Jack rushed into the room barely a minute late. He still had time to grab Crutchie's hand and squeeze it for all it's worth (which was quite a lot) before the nurses covered his friend's body with the sheet. He stepped back, slowly uncovering his head as he stood there like a rock.
He couldn't believe it had come so soon. Only eleven years after the strike, Jack thought, his eyes distant as he was taken back to the moment after the rally—the picture that had been printed in the newspapers.
Later, when he arrived at home, Jack took out the old, faded newspaper from their scrapbook and stared at the picture of Crutchie for a very, very long time. Katherine came up behind him and put her arms around his shoulders, close to tears.
Jack couldn't believe his friend was dead—but, much like Mary, couldn't bear to say that word out loud.