It was a lonely Manhattan morning. The usual after rain haze had settled on the grey city streets. Despite the odds of slim to none for daybreaking, the Duane Street lodging house was empty and the dozen New York World newsboys were on their way to the local distribution office. Horace Greeley's pale-steel face glistened with gathered precipitation and his wet lap was oddly absent from the sleeping regular - the Brace crew had made their rounds the previous night.
Charles Loring Brace was what some people called a "Captain of Industry," but those street going folks of the time had a some-what different opinion. Mr. Brace had started the orphan trains, in which children from the streets were shipped to the west to find proper homes, not a few years prior.
The Lower Manhattan newsies had never quite accepted the fact that the great Mr. Brace was bad since the man had actually provided the lodging house as a roof over their heads. That sour taste had remained in absence for the while that his other doings did not affect them. But affect them, they eventually did - on this soggy, bitter morning.
A cool mist had begun to fall on the awaiting masses. Jack Kelly and his foe gathered on the rising slip to the payment window. He shifted his slacks, then reached up to straiten the brown hair beneath his trademark black Stetson.
Once the signal bell chimed the window's opening, the extra layer of clothes he had worn that morning seemed to be a measure of vain, for he was already soaked to the bone.
"Rough night, Jacky Boy?" Mr. Wiesle asked.
Jacks sagging eyes seemed to answer the question; no further words were exchanged. The distribution manager took the pocket change and handed he stack of papers over the windowsill.
Down by the two iron gates Jack sat down on the end of one of the empty delivery buggies that were used to reach the many independent news stands supporting The World.
Two newsies his like came also bearing their stacks of newspapers. Racetrack Higgins, a shorter man clad in a pinstripe vest and navy pants, sat down beside their leader on the tailgate. His wavy, dark brown hair shined wet in the absence of his cap.
Kid Blink Thomas leaned against the building's brick wall. "What a night," the blond said. His one blue eye echoed Jack and Race's draining.
"We shoulda come home earlier. Kloppman wasn't very happy and I know that I coulda used a little extra sleep," Jack replied.
"Nah, it was worth his hellish ways," Race added. He sighed blissfully and placed his hand on his heart. "Wasn't Medda great?"