Race sighed in frustration, shooting a foot out to launch a pebble onto the next sidewalk square ahead of him.
It was a slow day for the newsie. His paper bag was left with ten newspapers, when on a better day, he'd be left with three at most.
He was now walking home– er, back to the Newsboy Lodging House– because the prime selling time had come to an end, and anyone that would have wanted a paper would have gotten it from another newsboy.
He caught up to the pebble and kicked it again. What would happen if he followed it? Perhaps it would lead him to another buyer. So he kicked it, and kicked it, and suddenly, he was lost his thoughts.
/pp
Race went to kick the rock for the fifteenth time when he tripped on a human leg and found that he had ended up in an alley. Well, on the asphalt floor of an alley.
Angrily, he flipped on his back, about to shout at the guy who decided to spread his legs out on the floor, but scrambled back in shock.
He had tripped on a bloodied and bruised unconscious David Jacobs.
A low cuss fell from his lips, and he reached out to touch his friend. Race pulled his hand back when he heard his name being called. He looked up to see Les, who was now ten, with old and new tears streaming down the sides of his face. This put the older boy in a small panic, but he held his fearful actions down and portrayed his usual calm and collected look. "Les, what happened? Are you okay?"
"Yeah I'm okay," Les said, sucking in his cries. "I was hiding back there when the big guy came and soaked him." He pointed at his hiding spot– behind a few apple crates– then to his brother, which brought Race's attention to a dirty looking slash down the bicep of his arm where his flannel had been shred and profoundly bled through. The wound didn't look deep, but it definitely needed to be taken tare of urgently.
Race desperately wanted to hear the rest of the story, but he knew he had to get Davey somewhere safe and taken care of before any more talking.
"Okay, um– Les, do you think we could bring Davey to your house?" He asked. Bringing Davey to the newsie lodgehouse wouldn't be a good idea. Especially with all of the commotion. He loved his mates, but it would really be too much.
Les nodded furiously, keeping his eyes on his brother, then he looked at Race. "My ma and pop won't be home, though. They're helping my granny in Long Island for tomorrow and the next day. Z'at okay?"
"Shouldn't be a problem. You got keys?" As he asked this, he observed Davey's body using his eyes. He didn't want to touch him because it could cause more injury than the beaten boy already acquired. It was obvious that something just wasn't right about his left wrist, the same arm with the bleeding slash, and his right foot– which was missing a shoe– was huge. Swollen to the size of an orange.
"Davey has it in his vest pocket." The small boy crouched beside his brother, and without caution, he slipped the single key out of the pocket and handed it to Race. "We don't live very far," Les informed. Color was returning to his face, but he was still noticeably frightened.
"Okay." Race scrolled through his mind, trying to gather a plan as quickly as possible. Aw heck, there was no way he'd think of a good plan in time. There wasn't really anywhere else he could go. The only other people he relied on to bring safety were Jack Kelly and his new wife, but old friend, Katherine Pulitzer. But they were on their honeymoon in Florida, so there was no way of getting either of them over here. Besides, what was the point of getting someone else? Race was capable.
He carefully and slowly scooped Davey into his arms and brought himself to his feet. Davey wasn't that heavy to Race, who was one of the most physically active newsies, but his arms did strain a little. He could manage, maybe not for more than ten to fifteen minutes.
"Lead the way," Race directed. Without question, Les did.
/pp
The journey was not interrupted, despite carrying a bleeding unconscious man. It wasn't the most unusual thing you could find in Manhattan– or in all of New York. The disregard for the beaten had begun after all the strikes when too many people got hurt so often. It could be considered normal to find a hurt man to some New Yorkers.
Just when Race thought his arms were going to fall off, the two finished their climb through the apartment (three stories! Race did his best to act macho the whole time, afraid to show weakness) and he was finally able to lower Davey down on the living room couch.
While Race began to regret his decision of putting a bleeding man on a nice(ish) sofa, Les skittered across the room to flip a light switch, providing an extra light source for the living room, dining room, and kitchen which shared the same walls. The home, though, was already lit up with previously burning candles that hung from the walls, and the natural sunlight that poured from the large window above the couch and a couple other smaller windows around the house.
Race hadn't realized Les had ran off until he arrived at his side with a turkey-sized wicker box in his arms. "Doctor stuff," he answered without being questioned. "Mommy's very prepared."
Must be nice, Race thought.
Enough of that. Speechlessly, he reached up from his kneeled position on the floor, took the basket from the kid and sat it beside him.
Davey let out an unusually long breath, and Race had thought he had woken up, but he didn't. However, the idea of Davey waking up brought a new problem to Race's mind. What would happen if he woke up when he was poking at his wounds? Or how much pain would be really be in?
An unpleasant scene emerged into his head, and he had to shake it off. Things would be fine. Davey was strong, and so was he.
He rummaged in the box to see if he couldn't use anything inside of it. Pain ointment, pain pills, cotton swabs, cotton bandages, gauzes, adhesive tape, whooping cough medicine, a thin spool of thread and a small circular object which held needles. Gosh, there was a lot of stuff. He picked up a small first aid handbook and fluttered through it to find any vocabulary that may help with this situation.
He stopped at a section with a title that read wound care and he began to read.
Again, Les had ran off, and returned with a stack of different sized towels in his hands. From wash cloths to bath towels, he placed them on the floor on the other side of Race and he stood by, waiting to be commanded to do anything else.
"Hand me the alcohol." Race kept his eyes on the book and extended a palm to which Les placed a small glass canister in.
"Why do we need that? I thought drinkin' made doing things trickier," Les asked.
"Yeah," Race replied, twisting open the cap. "But–" he's pouring the liquid onto a hand towel, "it makes the cut clean. Burns all the germs, or something." When he decided the towel was soused enough, he hovered the towel a few inches from the wound and wrung it out. The sound of the alcohol hitting flesh was unpleasant. Race knew it stung real bad, and he was thankful that Davey hadn't woken up.
It looked that the wound had stopped bleeding, but there was still a lot of extra drops that trailed from the slash.
Next thing he would do, or attempt to do, is stitch him up. This was going to be a mess.
With the same towel, Race cleaned up the skin around the wound to prepare for the following procedure.
Race handed the book to Les desperately. "Can you read good?"
"Yeah. I read really good– uh, really well." Les remembered his teacher telling him about the difference between well and good. Sometimes he forgot how to use grammar properly when he was around his newsie friends, or New Yorkers in general. He didn't really see the big deal in using the right words, but he's trying either way.
"Good." Race leaned over to retrieve items in the basket beside him. "Here's what I'm gonna need ya to do. You gotta read me the instructions while I do it on Davey here, alright? Can you do that?"
"Yep! I sure can." He puffed his chest out, ready to work. Now he'd be able to boss Race around. How cool is that?
"Great." He gave Les a quick nod of approval and they began. "You ready?"
"I'm ready."
"Okay, read me the first step."