Even The Score

Chapter One

Sure Beats Washing Dishes

'This is to even the score/This ain't just Newsies no more…'

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the newsies. They belong to History/ Disney.

Jack Kelly sauntered down the cool skin of the sidewalk.

'Winter ain't waitin' no more,' he said to no one in particular, as a gust of October wind smacked him across the face. Dry brown and orange leaves skittered around his feet.

'Dontcha just want to dive into that?' said Boots, gazing dreamily at a healthy leaf pile getting swept into place by street cleaners. He tipped his cap at them, as did most of the newsies, as a good morning gesture.

'Careful now Boots,' said Racetrack in between puffs of his morning cigar. 'You're so short we'd probably never find you again.'

'Ha. Ha. You always this funny in the morning?'

'It's a full-time occupation.'

'When you ain't losin' bets, that is,' muttered Skittery, just loud enough for Race to hear and sock him on the nose.

'Ow! What is it wit' you and my schnoz?'

'Just keepin' it outta my business,' replied Race.

It was very much a typical morning. Six months on from the strike and business had largely settled back down to the familiar routine: early rise, queue up and collect, carry the banner, exist. Only now Jack was relieved of Snyder's shadow, and had gained David as a new best friend. Granted, the boy was now back at school, but he spent every moment of free time outside of it to see the newsies, and was still able to sell on weekends, with Les, just before synagogue. It was the ideal compromise.

The gates of The World swung open to greet its distributors, and Jack headed straight for the front desk, a route he knew so well he could sleepwalk it.

'How ya doin' Weas?'

'Same as I was yesterday, Cowboy,' came the surly reply. 'Nah, don't tell me -' He held up a hand to the grille. '- hundred papes.'

'You know me too well, Weasel.'

'Unfortunately,' he muttered, slamming the thick stack of broadsheets onto the wood. 'Go on, get outta here. Next!'

'Heya Mr. Wiesel,' beamed Crutchy. Jack shook his head. That boy could smile at Ebenezer Scrooge, for pete's sake.

'Morning Crutchy.' Wiesel made an expression that could in a certain light pass for a grin, but only because this was the only newsboy in Manhattan to pronounce his name correctly. 'Twenty papes? Or can I convince ya to take thirty?'

'Hm, I do like a challenge,' mused Crutchy. 'How's about twenty-five?'

'Twenty-five for Crutchy!'

'Any reason you want me to take more, Mr. Wiesel?' he asked, balancing his more modest stack on one forearm.

'Well, to tell ya the truth…' Wiesel paused to cup his hand around his permanent five o'clock shadow. 'Actually, all a' youse listen up! Hey, shut up a sec!'

The chattering newsies begrudgingly piped down. Jack frowned.

'I wanna see more papes picked up, and more effort bein' put into sellin' 'em. I have word from Mr. Pulitzer himself,' (he stopped for a moment to bask in this privilege) 'that The Journal's circulation is starting to go up again. And he don't like it.'

For once Jack paid attention. He and the other newsies exchanged uneasy glances. Pulitzer may have given in to their demands once, but no doubt he was still as competitive as ever with rival publications. The last thing Jack wanted was to go through another ordeal.

'Did Joe mention why the Journal's doin' better?' asked Jack.

'I'll be frank with ya, Cowboy,' said Wiesel. 'I don't think even he knows. He's seen the problem, but not the cause, so the general order is to outsell Hearst by hand.'

'Huh,' was all Jack had to say to that. 'Sorry Crutchy,' he added, noticing he was blocking the boy's way. The queue continued to move.

'How're the headlines?' asked Mush, sitting next to Jack as they perused the merchandise.

'We've struck lucky: South Africa Boer Republic Declares War on England.'

'Are you serious?' said Mush, excitedly turning the pages. 'We got an actual war? Yes!'

'Hey Jack,' said Swifty, tapping the leader on his shoulder. 'I just thought a' something.'

'What is it, Swift?'

'Well, wit' The Journal and all…what's the one thing Pulitzer and Hearst still don't care enough about to know what's goin' on?'

Jack and the surrounding newsies thought, before shrugging.

'Us,' declared Swifty. 'The newsies. Includin' the ones sellin' The Journal. What if they're gettin' extra help?'

'More newsies on the other paper?' said Race. 'Makes sense.'

'Well what're we supposed to do about it?' asked Skittery in his usual acerbic way. 'We can sell out with today's headline, but what about on the worse days? Then it's outta our hands.'

'Yeah, what if Pulitzer tries somethin' on us again?' said Boots, concerned. Fifteen heads turned to Jack. He shook his head in the most reassuring way possible.

'Pulitzer? Bah, after what we put him through, he ain't gonna be dumb enough to try jackin' up the price again.'

'If you say so, Jack,' said Crutchy, albeit with a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

'C'mon, let's get sellin' before the morning's out,' said Blink loudly, stirring the boys into leaving for the streets. The sun shone bright in their eyes, but without much warmth.

'Ooh, right on time…' announced Snoddy, whipping his newsie hat off faster than a dog chasing its tail. The others quickly followed suit: a pretty young schoolgirl, in a respectable uniform with a straw hat and dark blue book, walked past the newsie crew, as she did every morning, like clockwork. She half-played their game of flirtation, granting a side-glance and a smile to a different newsboy each time. Dutchy practically sank into the sidewalk when she looked his way.

'I want to put her in a picture frame and hang her in the lodging house,' sighed Specs.

'I second that,' said Race. Jack chuckled, before locking eyes with someone else: a slim boy of medium-height with a bundle of papes under his arm, following shortly behind the schoolgirl. The meeting of eyes was completely unintentional and, from the resulting expression on the boy's face, unwelcome. He ducked his green peepers back to the sidewalk, shielding his face by tilting his cap. He upped his pace.

'Well he ain't a mornin' person,' commented Race.

'Who?' asked Dutchy, emerging from his reverie. Race pointed at the retreating figure.

'That guy.'

The newsies looked, with accompanying mutters of 'ain't seen him round here before' and 'who is that?'

'First time I seen him,' said Jack.

'Oh, I recognize that kid,' piped up Crutchy. 'He's been walkin' past here for the last week. But he ain't usually so close to the goil.'

'So you know who he is?' asked Jack.

'No,' replied Crutchy. 'I've tried saying hello a few times, but he just disappears into the crowds. Don't interact wit' no one. In fact…'

The newsies craned their necks to listen as Crutchy had something of an epiphany.

'…That's the first time I noticed what papes he was carryin'. The Journal!'

'Holy Moses, the guy's part of the problem!' exclaimed Racetrack.

'Guess you was right, Swifty,' said Mush. 'The Journal's been recruitin'.'

'We gotta even the score,' said Boots. 'Or it's our heads on the line.'

'We don't know that, Boots,' clarified Jack, although the suspicious looks the newsies were casting in the kid's direction quickly indicated that he was wasting his time.

'Something's gotta be done,' decided Blink. 'What do you say, Jack?'

Once again Jack was pushed onto the leader's pedestal. He chewed the inside of his lip.

'I s'pose we should keep an eye out tomorrow mornin',' he said. 'Maybe, y'know, intercept this kid and ask who he's with.'

'What if he don't talk so easy?' asked Race.

'Jack, I don't want us to soak nobody,' said Crutchy, nervousness etched onto his otherwise cheery face.

'Well, I don't neither,' said Jack. Crutchy exhaled in relief. 'But,' he qualified, raising an eyebrow at the other newsies, 'he don't need to know that.'