Author's Note: So! I have a few things to say before we begin. First of all, forgive the lack of dialogue in this chapter. I tried to keep it moving along at a brisk pace, but by nature it must be long and explanatory. Also, this was a particularly difficult chapter to write because it strays so far from the typical newsie fic we all love to read, so if you have any criticisms, give 'em to me straight, Doc. Finally, ten points and a high-five to anyone who can tell me where the servants' names all come from (Frith, Poole, Martin, and Ellen Dean) – hint: they are all famous servants themselves. Well, that's that. Please enjoy and review, review, review.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Nothin' at all.

Racetrack stood in front of the house and tried to think of a word. Big? No, it was way bigger than big. Expensive? Certainly, but that wasn't enough. Grand? That was a good one. Elegant? Excessive? Daunting? Racetrack sighed …

He was standing on the threshold. He'd left during the night; hadn't said goodbye to a living soul; not even Jack knew he had made up his mind to come. He wasn't big on sentimentality anyhow. But he hadn't yet knocked. There was still time to turn back. Hell, he could probably still make it back before the other boys woke up. No one would be any the wiser, and he could forget about this whole mess. Put it behind him.

In front of him the intimidating wrought iron gates seemed too tall and their points too sharp. The intricately carved wooden doors seemed too thick and the steps leading to them too many. The many shiny windows were too reflective in the streetlamps and they winked at Racetrack, mocking him. They told him to follow them up, up, up the stories of the mansion and look to the chimney billowing smoke from a cozy parlor fire, to the balcony off the master bedroom on the third floor, to the weather-cock perched precariously atop it all.

The mansion was set apart from the city center. It had its own lawn, its own garden in back. It had his name written there on the stone above the main entrance: Higgins Estate. That was certainly a little unsettling …

Racetrack took a deep breath, scratched his head, and rang the bell before he could change his mind. Dat's it, he thought fatally, I'm doomed.

It was only a moment before a tall, slim man in a ridiculous bathrobe was standing on the steps. Seeing Racetrack, he began scolding immediately: "You young hooligan, have you any idea of the time? How dare you wake a respectable household in the middle of the night! Remove yourself from the premises immediately. I'll call the police, I'll call them right this instant!"

Racetrack panicked. The soles of his feet were itching, and he nearly made a dash for it, straight back to the Lodging House. He never would know what made him hold his ground. But before the man could reenter the mansion, he held the letter through the iron bars as a peace offering. "Uh, I got 'dis lettah?"

Those were the magic words. Before he could say "open sesame" the man in the striped bathrobe was at the gate and fumbling with an enormous ring of brass keys. "Mr. Higgins," he said, and his voice was suddenly full to the brim with pomp and consequence, "Mr. Higgins, forgive my insolence. I hadn't known whom I was addressing. Please," he said, as he opened the gates wide, "Please enter."

Racetrack followed the man up the steps and into the grand entrance hall. The tiled floor looked too delicate to tread upon and Racetrack wished his shoes were not so very filthy…

"Well," the tall man said, trying his best to retain any semblance of dignity while so obviously uncomfortable in his pajamas. "I must admit I hadn't expected you, sir, quite so late, or you may be assured I would have been dressed and prepared to welcome you properly. But no matter. Please let me escort you to the sitting room and I will have Ellen up to start some tea."

Racetrack said nothing.

Uncomfortable, the man coughed and asked: "Or perhaps you prefer coffee? I apologize. I will have both prepared."

Racetrack let himself be led into the "sitting room" – bigger than the entirety of the Lodging House, surely. There were couches of the finest fabrics, pillows decorated with golden thread, portraits of those long dead adorning the walls, and an elegant baby grand in the corner. Before he could turn around, Racetrack noticed the man had gone. There was no time to collect his thoughts, however, for before he could exhale, all the lights in the house were being lit. There were footsteps on the stairs, echoes of excited voices down the halls, the sounds of hurried dressing and a distinct clank of a teapot being put to boil.

In moments the man in the bathrobe was standing before him, now dressed smartly in a suit and bowtie. He looked thoroughly relieved to be out of his robe. Following the man came three other servants. One old woman with an ample middle surrounded by a maid's apron. One young boy with curly hair and sleepy eyes. And a young maid with sleek blond hair all pulled tightly back into a bun.

"Mr Higgins," the slim man addressed him, "May I present your staff? I am the head butler and your predecessor's primary caretaker. You may call me Frith. This is Mrs. Poole" (to the older maid), "Martin" (the young boy), "and Ellen Dean" (the young maid). "I do hope we will prove worthy to be in your service, Mr. Higgins." The quartet then bowed in unison – though Martin was a little late.

"Have you any luggage I might take for you, sir?" asked Mrs. Poole.

Racetrack shrugged self-consciously. "Uh," he mumbled, "I ain't got nothin', sorry…"

Mrs. Poole tipped her head courteously and followed Ellen into the kitchen to finish making tea. Martin took up residence in a corner of the room, but Frith shook his hand at the boy: "Thank you Martin, but we will not be requiring anything of you at present. You may retire." Martin, who looked as if Christmas had come early, hurried out of the room to his warm bed once more.

"Now, Mr. Higgins, I am certain you will have some questions for me …"

When Racetrack retired for the evening – or, more accurately, for the morning, as the sun was just coming up when he laid down his head – he could not seem to make sense of anything. All those questions he'd had were promptly and painstakingly answered by his new butler, Frith. And yet, while the answers made sense – fit into the timeline of his life – he could not seem to make them apply to himself. The story Frith had told him had been a fairytale.

A fairytale of a brother and a sister, orphaned early. They had parted ways. The brother had made his fortune in the south. The sister had done what any young girl abandoned must do... Years passed and the brother and sister fell out of touch.

When the brother returned to New York he built up his estate, invested his money and made more money. He never married. When finally he decided to track down his long lost sister he found a once-beautiful woman with a son not yet five years old. This son, of course, was Anthony Higgins. And when Frith described the way in which his old master would go to the Higgins shanty every Sunday morning and beg his sister to let him take the boy and raise him to a better life, Racetrack remembered these things. He remembered the man in the maroon vest with the shiny pocket watch who used to bring him toys and sweets on Sunday afternoons. He remembered his mother fighting with the man and taking back all the treats he'd given Racetrack. What Racetrack hadn't known at the time was that the man had been family, had been his uncle.

But his mother had been proud – she'd also been abandoned by this brother once already, and would not allow a man who was now completely unknown to her take her child away.

Racetrack remembered the day of his seventh birthday when his mother had left him with the nuns at the Convent of the Sacred Heart. That was one question, at least, that had been given a satisfactory answer – his mother had not abandoned him because she didn't love him, she'd abandoned him to keep him away from his uncle. A satisfactory answer maybe, but not a very good one. Racetrack couldn't think who to be more mad at – the stuffy uncle who'd tried to bribe him away from his mother, or the mother who would not let him be bribed away from her.

Frith had detailed the search that his master had undertaken to find his long lost nephew. But, of course, there were far too many rootless boys on the streets of Manhattan to find any one in particular. The first lead he'd gotten had been that picture of the newsies in the paper from the strike last year. Racetrack's uncle had tracked down Denton to get more information. He had spent months investigating.

The fairytale ended rather tragically. The orphan was located, but his uncle suffered an untimely death when the influenza had taken him that fall. The faithful servant, however, had followed his old master's orders just as they had been laid out in his will. Frith's former master had given detailed instructions: go to the Lodging House, obtain the boy, bring him back to the estate, raise him to the life of a gentleman – the life he should have enjoyed from early boyhood. And one other command that Frith knew would take a little more persuasion than just getting a street urchin to accept a large fortune. This last, therefore, Frith did not immediately share with his new master. He kept a copy of his old master's will in his file and planned to broach the subject one day. But as Racetrack lay down to sleep that night, the last request of his uncle remained completely unknown to him – the poor newsie had no idea his newfound fortune had come with conditions.

If Racetrack did not sleep well during the few hours he was in bed that morning, it was not surprising. For starters, the bed itself was intolerably soft. With all the feathers stuffed into the mattress, it was rather like sleeping on air. There were way too many pillows, and the quilt kept him quite warm. Aside from these obvious discomforts, there was the fact that Racetrack had his very own room. A huge king size bed, all to himself, and no one tossing and turning on a bunk above him. No snoring or sleep talking from the other boys. No smell of mold or smoke or anything unpleasant whatsoever. It was foreign, and unendurable.

It was nine o'clock in the morning, precisely, when Mrs. Poole whisked into his bedroom and yanked open his curtains. Racetrack sat up hastily, with the swirled remembrances of a fairytale in his sleepy brain. It is not surprising that, despite Racetrack's poor sleep, he was still a little disoriented upon awakening and rather unsure where he was for a moment or two.

"Good morning, sir," Mrs. Poole greeted briskly. She stood at the foot of his bed, her hands folded over her wide midsection. "I allowed you a few hours of extra sleep on account of your coming to us so late last evening. But rest assured, beginning tomorrow, I will never fail to wake you promptly at seven o'clock."

Racetrack nodded dreamily. That wouldn't be so bad – he was used to getting up with the sun.

"And what would the master like to break his fast this morning?"

"Uh … whatevah ya got. Don't make no trouble."

Mrs. Poole cocked an eyebrow. Doesn't sound much like a gentleman, the woman thought to herself, but Frith will just have to see to that – my concern is to keep the young master well dressed and well fed.

"As you wish, sir," Mrs. Poole answered curtly, "I have pulled your clothes for today. You will find them in the master bath."

"Where's dat?" Racetrack inquired boldly.

Mrs. Poole walked across the room and opened what Race had thought to be a closet door rather pointedly.

"Oh … ah, thanks ma'am."

Fifteen minutes later and Racetrack was sitting in the dining room at the head of a long oak dining table all by himself. Mrs. Poole had brought in eggs and pancakes, toast and jam, coffee, tea, biscuits, and bacon. Then she had left. His only company now was young Martin, who was standing in a corner trying to pick something out of his ear without being noticed by his new master.

"Hey kid," Race hissed, thoroughly more comfortable in the presence of this young rascal than his other stuffy servants. "C'mere."

Martin looked terrified for a moment, fearing he'd been caught, and he approached Racetrack's chair cautiously. He remembered only too well how harsh the old master had been. "Sir?"

"Whatcha doin' just standin' dere? Ya makin' me noivous."

"Sir?" Martin looked confused.

"Ya can sit down and eat some breakfast wid me, kid, but ya look like an idiot just standin' around in da cornah."

Martin looked uncertain, but his eyes alighted on the piles of piping hot food laid upon the table. He would have accepted Racetrack's offer had not Frith entered at that very moment.

"Martin," he cautioned dangerously, "Must I remind you that you are a servant to Mr. Higgins, and not his guest? Resume your post, lad."

Martin was back in his corner before Racetrack could wink, and Frith took up residence at the other end of the long dining table. "You mustn't fraternize with the help, Mr. Higgins, if you wish them to maintain any level of respect for you."

Racetrack bristled a little at that, but he would not yet cross such a daunting figure.

"Da kid just looked hungry …"

Frith walked along the table towards Racetrack with long, leisurely strides and motioned towards the chair next to him. "May I?"

Racetrack nodded and Frith sat down beside him.

"Sir, I believe this would be a good time to inform you of the rules and responsibilities of your new position."

As Racetrack did not object, Frith continued with what sounded like a practiced speech for this very occasion.

"Mr. Higgins, while it is unfortunate that you came to assume your position rather later in life than the old master had intended, it is my belief that you are not beyond redemption. You may yet become one of the finest gentlemen in Manhattan, perhaps even as great as that of your predecessor. However, it is of the utmost importance that you heed my advice from this moment forward – you must do exactly as I instruct. Your days will be very full, Mr. Higgins, with lessons. Mrs. Poole and I have arranged for several tutors. You will learn how to dress, speak, and conduct yourself like a gentleman. You will be well versed in literature, music, and proper societal behavior. It is my greatest wish, as it was my master's, that by your eighteenth birthday you will be able to be presented to society as the rightful and worthy heir of the distinguished Mr. Higgins Sr."

Racetrack swallowed a heavy mouthful of pancakes. Perhaps he had been naïve, perhaps just plain stupid, but he didn't think he'd signed on for all of that. Frith sensed his uncertainty.

"I understand you have been accustomed to a very different way of life, Mr. Higgins, and it is unfortunate that you were not raised here as your uncle had intended. But you are here now, and you have made the right decision. I must ask you, sir, to refrain from making contact with anyone from your former life," Frith said this with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "You have a new life now, and you will be happy here. Sir."

Racetrack sat and stared at Frith and wondered for a moment who was really master in this relationship.

Everything had just hit him like a sack of potatoes, as Mush used to say. The reality of his situation. Doomed indeed. Racetrack chuckled darkly to himself as he realized that money certainly came at a high cost. He nodded grimly.

"I'm glad we understand one another," Frith stood, "Today I will have Ellen show you around your new home. Tomorrow your training begins."