Author's Note: My goodness! Thank you for the reviews, I wasn't expecting any on a first story, lol. Anyhow, this chapter introduces our hero and a few of the other major players. I hope it keeps your attention. The next chapter will be the last one before Race confronts his new life, I promise, but I couldn't help a few chapters of newsies silliness before the seriousness all happened. Anyhow, please let me know if you have any constructive criticism, and I will try my best to maintain a story that we'll all enjoy. P.S. if you'd like to read my older work, my pen-name back then was: -'0'EmeraldEyes'0'- . It would be cool to get some feedback on old work. Anyhow, on with the story!

Disclaimer: Racetrack: not mine. Mush: not mine. Jack: not mine. Boo hoo.

It was now well after noon and our poor, dear Mush was sitting and staring at the letter the gentleman had left him hours ago. It lay on the nightstand now, innocently white and deceptively unadorned. Mush stared at it with a curious mixture of loathing and greedy curiosity. It must be understood that while Mush was, of course, the most genuine and honest of the newsboys, even he could not sit with a mystery in his hands for hours and not be driven nearly mad by the unknown. He had tried everything. First he had dragged his poor sick self out into the cold to hold the envelope up to the sun, but it was folded and the overlapping words were all a jumbled mess. He had tried holding a candle under it to melt the wax seal, but of course had nearly lit it on fire. He had even snooped around Kloppman's office in the hope that perhaps the old man had some envelopes and sealing wax lying around so he could reseal it when he was finished. But of course this course of action was too sneaky for Mush and he'd hardly begun when he'd reluctantly trudged back upstairs, shoulders slumped, his conscience scolding him the whole way.

So now, there he sat, chin in his hands, elbows on his knees, glowering over the unfortunate document before him. Mush knew the boys would be home shortly, and so there was nothing for it but to continue his staring contest with the torturous mystery letter.

Finally, finally, there came the promising sound of voices and laughter from without. The poor young man tripped twice over his blankets in his haste to fling open the street-side window.

"Jack!" he screamed, the pain in his throat protesting as he called: "Cowboy! Where's Race? I gotta tawk tah Race, now!"

Jack looked concerned, "Get back in da house, Mush, whatcha think ya doin', it's freezin'! Da fevah go tah ya head, or what?"

Mush shook his head impatiently as he watched the boys all playing in the snow and not listening to a word he was saying. Didn't they know how important this was? Less than two minutes later and Mush had snatched the letter from the nightstand and was outside waving it in front of Jack's face. "Ya gotta listen! Dis came fah Race tahday an' I gots it cause I was home sick. Da man comes tah da door and asks fah Race, an' I tells him he wasn't home. Ya know, Jack, cause you was all out sellin', an' I told him dat-"

"Mush, if it's so damn important ya gotta spit it out already, ya gonna catch ya death," said Kid Blink, who had rushed over when he saw his best friend stagger into the snow.

Mush heaved a deep breath. "He's rich, guys! Racetrack's rich!"

While the word "rich" had attracted the attention of every newsie within hearing distance, the thought of Racetrack Higgins having even a penny to his name without gambling it away was unlikely indeed, and Mush's declaration was met by a roar of laughter. Mush, however, was not so easily deterred. He held the letter as high as he could above his head and bellowed: "But it's in da lettah!"

There was a moment of uncertain silence as Mush stood, panting, holding the letter on which every pair of eyes was now resting. Then, pandemonium. A sea of hands came pushing and shoving and grabbing for the letter, while a chorus of voices rang out:

"Is dere money in dat envelope?"

"Where'd ya get dat, Mushee?"

"Why's Race da one whose gonna be rich? Can't none a' us get da money?"

"Maybe we's could all share, huh?"

"Yeah, dat's fair, dat's fair!"

Thankfully Jack got there first, and he plucked the letter from Mush's grasp before anyone else, calling over the noise: "Alright, alright! Listen, ya idiots, nobody's seein' nuttin' or gettin' no money till we all get inside and I can figure dis all out!"

So Jack Kelly, as he was wont to do, maintained order and led a gang of scraggly newsboys into the Lodging House. Blink followed close behind, helping poor sick Mush navigate the steps with now frozen bare feet.

Once inside, Jack sat in the common room in his chair, the biggest and comfiest chair, of course reserved for the leader. He sat back, put his feet up, and held the letter in close proximity to his nose, studying it from every angle. Mush, meanwhile, was setting himself up in the chair next to Jack, huffing and puffing and wiping his nose. There was absolute silence while Jack performed his examination. When he had gathered all the information he possibly could from the letter, he turned to the boys and declared: "Mush is right, it's got Race's name on da front", then he turned to Mush: "Now tell me where ya got dis again."

The boys respectfully held their peace while Mush related the morning's events. When it was clear the story was over, however, they couldn't contain themselves.

"Open it, Jack!"

"We gotta know what's inside!"

"Race ain't gonna be home fah hours!"

"We can't wait dat long!"

Jack raised his hand for quiet, and it was granted. Then he protested, in a very lofty manner: "Dis lettah ain't addressed tah us, and so we can't open it. Dat's against da law – any moron knows dat."

Specs, who had read enough to know better, snorted and said "Dey ain't gonna arrest us, Jack, c'mon. We ain't gonna steal it or nothin'."

For perhaps another fifteen minutes the boys fought back and forth over what to do with the mysterious letter.

Now it must have been providence that kept Racetrack from finding a ride to the track that day, because if he had not walked through the door at that very moment, it is a certainty that there would have been a mutiny within the four walls of Kloppman's Lodging House.

"Heya fellahs, what's up?" he asked upon seeing the large crowd gathered in the common room and yelling fit to raise the dead.

Silence again. Jack stood up quickly and said, "Alright, ya blockheads. Go on and go do somethin' so I can give Race his lettah."

The boys grudgingly obeyed, but none went too far.

Race approached Jack and shook out his snowy hat. "I gots a lettah?" he laughed, "Who in da name a' Jesus would write tah me, huh?"

Mush was still sitting in the chair next to Jack and watching Racetrack without blinking. He could not suppress the pride that welled up inside of him as he recalled how he had safely guarded that letter and its secret all day long.

Racetrack wiped his hands on his trousers before taking the letter and fell onto a sofa with only one arm, casually putting his left ankle up onto his right knee and lounging back to do his reading. Now it must be understood that while Racetrack Higgins could read, he hadn't very much practice. After all, he knew the important words to look for in the headlines: murder, war, prostitute, fire, etc. So while the letter was only a single page, it took him approximately seven minutes to get through it. The rest of the newsies were watching with bated breath as Race's posture slowly became less and less relaxed until finally he was hunched over the letter in his hands, mouth hanging open.

After he'd finished, Racetrack looked up and found every pair of eyes on him, waiting for his reaction. Suddenly he frowned, feeling bitterly betrayed. "Dis ain't a funny joke, guys!"

Mush hurriedly corrected him, "No, Race, it ain't a joke, I sweah! I was heah all day and da guy really gave me dat lettah and told me tah give it straight tah you. I wouldn't make dat up, Race, now what's it say?"

The thoughts of Racetrack Higgins were all a blur suddenly. True, the letter was written in a very legal and professional manner and so much of it was lost on the poor boy. The general idea was quite clear, however. He, Anthony Higgins, had apparently been given a whole lot a money by some very rich, very dead relation.

It might seem strange that his first reaction was not to jump for joy, to throw his hat into the air and declare that he would never sell another pape in his life. But there was a part of Racetrack, deep beneath the wit and wisecracks, that knew everything in his life had just changed. His center of gravity had violently shifted and he did not feel like yelling at all. He felt more like he needed to crawl into bed and sleep for a whole day before he could sort out the mess his life had just become.

"Jack," his voice came out as almost a whisper, "I wanna go tah Brooklyn."

It should not have surprised anyone that the first thing Racetrack would want to do would be to tell his best friend, but the agony of keeping silent was driving the other newsies mad. Jack shot them a look warning them to keep the peace, and he put on his hat. "Alright, Race, Brooklyn it is."

And so the Manhattan newsies were left to their own thoughts that evening, wondering when an explanation would be given and how soon they would be losing their friend.