"Father, look what I made—"
"Not now, James."
James sullenly turned away from the dark doorway of his father's study, tightening his grip on the brightly coloured drawing of the New York City skyline he had drawn in art class. At only nine years old, James was the smartest in his grade, but his busy father didn't seem to care. James strode down the hall, taking a glance back as the figure of his father closed the door of his study. No doubt he was going to discuss more 'important matters' with the other businessmen of the city. James sighed dismally, leaving his drawing in his room where he traded it for a striped green jacket which he carefully shrugged on. He was free to wander wherever he chose for the next half hour before suppertime, although he would have gladly picked a meeting with his father rather than walking all over the city. The maids, either out of fear or respect, didn't dare to stop him as James exited the stately Victorian manor and walked out into the breezy streets of New York. He traded a penny with a newsboy not much older than he was, and took the evening edition of The World to try and seem like a proper gentleman. James took a seat on a rickety old bench on the corner in front of a bright brick building not far from the newsboy with the blue hat. James shot him a look of contempt as the boy cheerfully spat on his hand to greet a gray-capped newsie with spectacles. Crinkling open the newspaper, James had just caught sight of a particularly lovely gruesome headline when he was rudely interrupted again.
"Jack, Jack, look what I made!"
"Woah, slow down, kid. What is it?"
James threw a glare up to see a young crippled boy limp up to the blue-hatted newsboy. The newsboy (Jack, was that his name?) bent down to the younger boy's level. The small boy rested his arm on his cloth-covered crutch as he took out a piece of newspaper painted with swaths of green, pink and orange so much that the words hidden underneath were barely indistinguishable. There was a big yellow blob in the corner that might have been a crude sun.
"Look, Jack!" the boy said proudly. "I made it for you."
"Thanks, kid," Jack smiled, examining the painting as the boy held it up. "Uh….what is it?
The little boy giggled. "It's Santa Fe, silly. That place you want to go to. Specs showed me how to paint!
Jack nodded still with his smile, taking the paper and ruffling the boy's hair. The boy shook off Jack's hand and looked up at him cautiously, hoping for some recognition for his hard work. 'Thanks, kid," Jack gave him, standing up. "Yous a great painter. We'll hang it up when we get back, alright?"
The little boy beamed. "Thanks, Jack!"
"Now, come on, you!" Jack swept up the kid in his arms, ignoring his first cries of protest as he deposited him on top of his shoulders. "I'll bring ya back to the Lodgin' House, Crutchie."
Crutchie laughed, holding his crutch out in front of him like a sword. "Onwards, Jack!"
"Where'd you learn a word like that?" the pair's playful conversation died away as they left James brooding on his street corner. He stared darkly after them, wondering how two poor children (one a cripple, to boot) could be so happy when their life was so despairingly horrible. James had almost more money than he needed, yet he was absolutely miserable. James clenched his teeth, crumpling up the boring newspaper and hurling it to the ground. He stuffed his hands firmly in his pockets, stalking back to his house as rain began to pelt down from the sky. With a glance up at the mahogany grandfather clock, James entered his dining room only to find his parents seated and finishing up the last of their dinner. His father waved a careless hand at him, and James moved forward to sit down.
"Where were you, son? We agreed you must not be late for dinner."
"I am sorry, father," James began, trying to explain as he smoothed down his suit. "I was reading the newspaper and I…" he trailed off as he realized that his father nor his mother were paying him any attention. James stiffened up in his chair, turning his dark eyes to his dinner. He took up a knife, starting to cut off chunks of the steak which sat in front of him. Remembering those newsboys on the street corner sent a twinge of jealousy through him. The younger boy, Crutchie, was probably entertaining that Jack and all the other newsboy friends with the story of his painting, which, in James' opinion, was just as artistic as a rock. With a stab into his steak, James began to pin his troubles on those two boys. They were the cause of all his misfortune, James thought bitterly. And he would make them pay.