It was as if there was an unspoken agreement amongst all of New York that every Newsie had his own neighborhood to sell papers in, though several Newsies could be found selling in one area. It wasn't typical for people to steal another's spot, but trading off, both temporarily and permanently, was common. Occasionally a Newsie would abandon his spot due to a lack of newspaper sales because the customers caught on to the Newsie's frequent "stretching of the truth" about the content of the papers and stopped buying them, they weren't interested, or there weren't enough people in the area who had enough money.
Race had taken the alleyways and back streets on his way back to the lodging house to avoid the crowds in the main roads. The walk back from the Lower East Side was longer, but Race didn't mind. He enjoyed the long, summer days, despite the sun beating down on his back. The New York atmosphere was always more relaxed during this time of year, and not as many people seemed to be in a rush so the crowds were even bigger than usual. About forty minutes passed before he turned onto the street where the Newsies lodging house was. A few older boys were leaning against the sides of the surrounding buildings, cigars in hand. A figure appeared in the doorway of the lodging house and called out to Race, "Where ya been, ya bum? I been waitin' here forever."
Race turned his head and let his eyes land on the figure in the doorway, Stitch, the infamous Manhattan Newsies leader. Race raised his eyebrows expectantly as he advanced towards the leader. All the boys saw Stitch as an average Newsie, but knew he was much more than that because of how he acted. The boy had platinum blonde hair and complementary sharp green eyes. He stood a little bit higher than the others in the Manhattan region. He had straight posture, probably a habit he got as a child, which added to his height. To the boys, Stitch was firm and fair, but occasionally he let his biased side take over. Regardless of his unyielding nature, Stitch was a good leader to the Manhattan Newsies and kept them in order when needed. His future replacement would have to be someone stellar, but for now, Stitch was not leaving anytime soon so no one was worried about having to find a new leader.
Stitch's eyes had a familiar glint in them, suggesting his teasing manner, but Race could tell that Stitch had serious business he wanted to take care of with him.
"I have to talk to you about something important." Stitch turned to walk back inside the lodging house, indicating Race to follow him. Stitch headed toward the back stairwell and he climbed the four flights up, Race right behind him, to the rooftop where he went when he wanted to have some time by himself. When they reached the top, Stitch and Race stood in silence, both taking deep breaths after their quick trek up the stairwell. Finally Race spoke.
"So what'd ya want to talk to me about?" Race asked, his breathing finally evening out.
Stitch stuffed his hands into his pocket before pulling out a cigar. Putting it in his mouth, he dug around for a lighter in his pockets. When he did, he cupped one hand around the end and let the flame lick the end of the cigar. Stitch took a deep breath of the now illuminated cigar before offering Race once, who declined. Shrugging, Stitch took another long drag on his cigar. Pulling it out of his mouth, and blowing a few rings in the air, he paused before speaking.
"You've seen the new kid." Stitch blew a puff of smoke. "He's hopeless. I'm gonna teach 'im a few ropes of sellin' papes. That bein' said, ya bein' transferred to a different selling area startin' tomorrow until the kid knows how ta sell properly," Stitch explained.
"How does helpin' some hopeless little kid involve me havin' ta sell somewhere else?" Race crossed his arms, his eyebrows raised.
Stitch responded after blowing another ring. "I need ya ta take over for me in my spot 'cause I'll be wit' him." Race frowned slightly and his mouth opened as if he were about to argue, but Stitch spoke before he could. "You gots a good spot. It's close ta home so I figured it'd be a good place for this kid to start. I don't wanna have 'im get lost or anythin', ya know?" He gave Race a hard stare.
Race was tempted to glare back but decided against it. He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked down in defeat, sighing. "Yeah, um, okay. I'll do it."
Stitch nodded. "You's a good kid."
Race looked up and shrugged. "So where is it I'll be selling?
"Prospect Park." Stitch gazed out at the city's skyline as he blew another ring of smoke.
Race's eyes widened in shock. "But...but that's in Brooklyn."
"Yeah, so?" Stitch gave him a lopsided grin. "You scared or somethin'?"
Race crossed his arms and tried to stand a little taller. "I ain't scared o' nothin'!" he snapped, glowering at Stitch. "Just confused why you'd be sellin' in a whole 'nother city."
Stitch grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. "Let's jus' say me and Chip have an understanding," he responded with a note of finality.
Race bit his lip, wondering what this "understanding" with the Brooklyn leader might be. From the stories the older boys told about Chip, Race concluded that he was a tough, but fair, leader, so Race figured anything that Chip agrees to probably benefits both him or Brooklyn altogether and the other Newsie equally. Race wasn't sure who benefited from Stitch selling in Prospect Park or what the other side of the deal was, but he was impressed that Chip had deigned to interact and even strike up an agreement with Stitch since he rarely interacted with any Newsies outside of Brooklyn.
Race suddenly became aware that someone was talking.
He'd been so lost in his thoughts that he didn't realize Stitch had been speaking to him about selling the next day.
"...so it should take ya a little over an hour to get there."
Race blinked. "Uhh...okay."
Stitch furrowed his eyebrows. "You sure you can handle walkin' all the way down there?"
Race rolled his eyes. "I'm almos' thirteen. I think I can handle myself."
"Alright then. And be careful o' them Brooklyn boys. Don't try ta pick any fights otherwise you's dead, and if anyone tries ta give ya a rough time, jus' say you's sellin' in my place. You got that?" Stitch pointed his cigar at Race.
"Yep." Race's stomach growled. He realized just how hungry he was.
"Okay. Now go on down wit' all the other fellas an' find somethin' to eat. I'm jus' gonna stay up here a little longer."
Race obeyed Stitch and made his way back down the stairwell. When his feet hit the ground, he turned his head and began looking for any of his fellow Newsies. He spotted a few of them over by the Lodging House entrance and decided to join them.
"'ey kid," one of the boys, a frail red-head named Patches, greeted Race. "Where's ya headin'?"
"Came to see if anyone's got food. I'm starved."
A boy with dark brown hair who was standing nearby turned and said, "No one's got no food here. A bunch o' the fellas went out to drink an' I was just about to get some food myself. You both could tag along if ya like."
Race recognized the Newsie who went by the name of Jack Kelly. He was young, about Race's age, maybe a little older, but he'd already made a name for himself as one of the best sellers in Manhattan. Jack had been one of Race's first friends when he joined the Newsies about a year ago, and Race felt the most comfortable around him.
"Yeah sure, but I don't got much money wit' me so it's gotta be cheap," Race responded.
"How much ya got?"
Race dug around in his pockets and came up with a nickel and two pennies. Jack looked at the coins in Race's palm and nodded. He turned his attention toward Patches.
"You comin' too, kid?"
Patches shrugged, a miserable expression on his face. "Nah, don't have enough to pay fo' no food now."
"I think I gots enough to cover all three of us," replied Jack as he stuck a hand in his pocket. He pulled out a few nickels and some pennies. "Let's see..." he murmured. "Five, ten, fifteen, sixteen...nineteen cents," he announced.
Race's mouth fell open and Patches whistled and laughed, "You's like one o' them rich folk!"
"It's called savin' then spendin'," Jack explained.
"And actually selling all ya papes," Race commented with a smile. One look from Patches sent the smile away though. Everyone knew that Patches had been selling in a rough spot, hence his lack of money compared to the other boys. Stitch had been advising Patches to change his selling area for almost a month now, but he was too stubborn to give in.
Jack elbowed Race's ribcage and gave the shorter boy a glare and a head shake as if to say "stop it". At that, Race bit the inside of his cheek and took a small step away from the group, the tension and Jack's glare guilting him.
"C'mon Patches, join us. I'll pay, no debt. Think ofs it as a treat," Jack said, hoping to ease the tension surrounding them.
For a moment, it seemed as if Patches was going to decline the offer but at last he sighed and grumbled, "Ah, fine, wha' the hell."
Jack grinned at Patches and clapped him on the shoulder. "Attaboy, Patch."
Jack glanced up at the late afternoon sky. "We should get goin' now if we want ta get back at a decent hour. 'Specially you, Race." He gave him a knowing look.
"Hey, I'm almos' as old as you. You don' need to be worryin' about me anymore than yaself," Race retorted.
Jack's face morphed into a puzzled expression. "This has nothin' to do wit' age. I'm sayin' you's gonna be walkin' a long way tomorrow which means you's gotta be up earlier than the rest of us."
"You know?" Race raised an eyebrow.
Jack rolled his eyes. "Course I know. You didn' really think Stitch woulda come up with an idea like that, did ya?"
"Um..." Race stared at him.
"Stitch's heart's in the righ' place but the fella ain't always so bright. He was goin' ta make that poor kid walk all the way ta Brooklyn wit' him to sell instead!" Jack chuckled, shaking his head, and started walking down the street, Race and Patches following suit. "So a few days ago I says to him he could jus' go 'head and trade places with ya, says that you wouldn' mind, and it saves him an hour anyways, so he goes and meets wit' Chip ta make sure he's ok with you sellin' in Brooklyn instead and he obviously is."
When they reached the end of the street, Jack turned onto the main street, opposite of the back road Race had traveled by when he'd returned from his selling spot.
As they weaved their way through the horde of people packing the street, Race shouted ahead to make himself heard, "So where's we goin', Jack?"
Jack turned his head to look at him and called back, "It's called Jacobi's Deli. Not much farther." His focus shifted past Race and he stopped a moment to crane his neck and squint into the crowd. "Where's Patch?"
Race looked behind him and was momentarily surprised that Patches was not there. "I thought he was right behind me. Ah, wait," he said, catching a glimpse of a mess of bright red hair bobbing its way closer to them, "found 'im."
Jack continued searching the crowd, still unsure of where Patches was, but he didn't have to wait long to find out. A few seconds later Patches squeezed through a gap between two nicely dressed men who seemed revolted at the sight of such a dirty, ragged boy, though Patches was oblivious to their disgust.
"Ya couldn' 'ave waited for me?" Patches demanded, annoyed.
Jack ignored his question and grabbed Patches by the arm and dragged him away from the rich men, not wanting to start a fight in the streets.
"C'mon! If we don't hurry we's gonna get back late," Jack said, smiling awkwardly at Patches and Race.
The trio continued their trip to Jacobi's Deli, Jack leading the way while also making sure they didn't run into more rich people. The rest of the walk was silent amongst the three. Jack smiled as he saw the familiar restaurant in the distance. He pointed at the deli saying, "It's right there."
Patches peeked inside the window and saw how the vast majority of the restaurant was empty, the lunch rush not striking yet. He saw a few other Newsies inside at the wooden tables minding their own business as they ate their lunch.
"Seems empty," Patches commented. Jack laughed a bit at the reaction.
"It mays not be the most popular of restaurants, but it is wit' the Newsies 'cause it ain't that expensive. We's the only thing keepin' it runnin'," Jack explained.
"Then 'ow come I never heard of it?" Patches's challenge was met with silence as the other two boys tried to avoid making eye contact with him. Race was beginning to regret Jack inviting the kid. He knew Patches had been having rough sales lately, but in his opinion, that wasn't a good enough excuse for his sour attitude.
Race grabbed the door and walked in, Jack and Patches following suit. Jacobi's Deli was a fair sized restaurant with three main wooden tables in the center of the room. The walls were white with contrasting wood paneling on the lower half. In the front of the restaurant were open windows, flyers dangling in front and in the corners of the window sill. In the back was the kitchen where a chef or two would occasionally work, but mainly Mr. Jacobi ran the restaurant since it was as quiet as it was, even in the lunch rush.
Mr. Jacobi, a middle aged man whose gray hair was starting to bald, glanced up from wiping a table at the sound of the door closing behind the three boys.
"Ah, Jack Kelly, good to see you, son. What can I get for you and your, uh..." he studied Race and Patches for moment, "friends today, huh?"
"We'll all have the regular, Mr. Jacobi, sir." Mr. Jacobi nodded and disappeared through a door into what Race assumed was the kitchen. Jack plopped down in a seat at the middle table. Race and Patches sat down on either side of him.
Race shot him a questioning look and asked, "What's the regular?"
"I ain't tellin' you, jus' wait and see." Jack gave him a lopsided grin.
"I don' care what it is. Jus' betta be good," grumbled Patches.
Race clenched his mouth shut and resisted the urge to point out that whatever was served here was undoubtedly much better than the measly food scraps Patches had been living off the past few months.
The three of them sat in silence, Patches glaring at his lap with his arms crossed, Jack slouching in his seat and staring at some distant point through the window of the deli, and Race glancing at the other two waiting for someone to make conversation. Once he realized no one was going to talk he resigned himself to drumming his fingers on the table, his head propped up on his other hand. The deli was quiet with the exception of the soft chatter amongst the Newsies seated at the table to Race's left and had a stagnant atmosphere about it as compared to the hustle and bustle of the streets outside. He heard muffled shouts and laughter through the window, and a second later, a group of nine or ten boys who looked to be in their late teens sprinted past the deli.
Race sighed and prayed for someone to say something, anything. He hated nothing more than silence and normally he would've been the one to initiate a conversation but he had nothing to talk about at the moment.
He drummed his fingers faster and louder to fill the silence until Patches finally spoke.
"Shut up before I cut off ya fingers!" he exploded.
Race stared at him along with Jack and the few other Newsies in the deli. Patches's cheeks flushed a bright red, but no one noticed because at that moment Mr. Jacobi emerged from the kitchen with three plates of food.
Race sat forward in his seat, eager to finally eat. Mr. Jacobi placed a sandwich in front of him that was made of a few slices of ham, Swiss cheese, lettuce, and tomatoes between two pieces of rye bread.
"And that'll be five cents each," Mr. Jacobi informed them.
Race was about to reach into his pocket to pull out the five cents when Jack said, "I'll be payin' for all threes of us."
Jack scooped the change out of his pockets and counted out fifteen cents. He dropped the coins into Mr. Jacobi's outstretched hand and grinned up at him. "Thank youse very much, sir."
Mr. Jacobi walked away, and Race looked at Jack. "This...looks so much better than the old leftovas I usually gets."
"Then what's ya waitin' for, kid? Dig in!" Jack exclaimed.
Patches was already wolfing down his sandwich and Jack's full attention was now on his.
Race picked up his sandwich with both hands and took a large bite into the best food he'd ever had in his life.