Well, only one part left! Oh sadness! But then it's on to another story. I have too much free time. No, I really don't. it's more like I have too many nights writing till midnight.
Disclaimer: if you don't know by now, I ain't tellin' ya.
Jack held his breathe as the first shot went off, then let it out when he saw both boys were still fighting, still struggling for the gun. Race was so much smaller, but he was quicker and that was good.
Jack would never really be sure what happened later, but when the gun went off a second time, they watched in utter awe as King dropped to the ground, leaving Race standing, staring, but alive.
Jack quickly leapt forward and took Race's shoulders, dragging him away. Race seemed sluggish and weak, but Jack supported him. Then he stopped moving altogether.
Jack turned to look at him and saw Race staring at his hand, which was dripping red with blood. His breathe quickened and he froze, praying that it was not Race's blood.
Race's face had turned deathly pale as he looked down and touched his side. Jack saw a sudden look of pain cross Race's face, just before his eyes rolled back and closed and he slipped out of his hands to the ground.
Jack was beside him in an instant, the rest of the boys behind him. Gently, he pulled back Race's vest, already damp and sticky, to reveal a growing red stain on his side, previously hidden by the dark vest.
"Somebody get a docta!" he yelled. Someone got up, but who Jack didn't notice, and didn't really care. Race's blood was pooling in a puddle behind him. Jack yanked open the shirt, exposing the wound and winced at the gruesome sight. He yanked off his vest, staunching the wound.
Soon his own vest was just as covered and Blink handed him a clean rag, which he pressed, praying it would stop the blood. Someone pushed the boys aside and took Jack's hand away.
He looked up to see a young man with calm gray eyes and a determined look on his face. The man was dressed in only a robe and his pajamas, but he seemed no less able than anyone else. Besides, anything to stop the blood.
"Gunshot?" he asked. Jack nodded. "Let's get him inside." Jack lifted Race gently and carried him inside. Kloppman quickly waved them in, offering the use of his own downstairs bedroom.
Race was laid down on the single bed and quickly stripped of his shirt and vest. The doctor took careful time to press heavy gauze around the wound and to clean it, all the while ignoring Jack and Spot. Kloppman ushered the other newsies outside and closed the door.
Jack watched, feeling helpless and frightened for the first time in so long. Spot must have known this, because he put his hand on Jack's shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Jack." Jack turned to him. "He slipped out cause he wus worried bout ya."
"Me?' Jack asked, confused.
"Yeah, someone started some rumoa dat you wus hoit. Race wanted ta make surah youse was okay." Jack nodded. "I'm sorry I couldn't' keep him safe fer youse." Jack shook his head, waving Spot's apology away.
"Weren't yer fault. At least he's dead now." But what about Race? It was the unspoken question between them. The doctor stood up and sighed. Jack instantly was beside him.
"Well?" the doctor looked at him.
"Well, he's lost a lot of blood. Luckily the bullet went right through him, instead of lodging inside. If it did, you'd be looking at an operation, an expensive one. But he's a lucky one. The danger is not over yet. If he survives tonight, he should make it. Wash the wound and keep changing the dressings if the blood starts to leak through. Keep him cool, and try to talk to him. He needs to fight this fever. If there is any change, please let me know immediately.' Then he left Jack alone. Spot followed him out, clapping a hand on Jack's shoulder.
Jack sat down beside Race and pulled the covers up, covering the wound. Slowly, he dabbed a warm cloth on Race's forehead, keeping him cool. The fever had already begun its course as Race began to sweat, a thin sheen covering his body.
"I'm so sorry, Race. I failed ya, ' Jack whispered. "I tried ta keep ya safe and I failed. I told ya I'd neva let anyone hoitcha. And look what happened. Youse was da one who kept yerself safe. And ya came back fer me." he titled Race's head back so the cool water could slip down his throat. "Jist live, Race. Come back to us and play yer dumb games, smoke dose huge cigars, put odds on everytin', and jist be our Racetrack again."
Jack had never been a believer, never in his life. Seeing his mother beaten to death by his father at the young age of seven was enough to led a boy to believe that the Almighty had more important things to do than listen to the prayers of street trash like himself. He had never been inside a church, not since his mother's funeral. He always thought that it was better to rely on himself than on someone sitting up in the clouds that had never given him a dime.
But that night, Jack Kelly prayed for the first time in his life. They were only four little words, but for Jack, it was his only lifeline. He whispered it over and over to himself or to some unseen power, he didn't know. Four little words that might save a life and had already saved a soul.
"Please let him live."
He didn't even notice when David's mother came in and led him out the door, up to his own room.
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September 24, 1899
Jack blinked and frowned when he found himself back in his own bunk. Groaning, he rubbed his eyes and frowned.
Then he remembered. Quickly, he leapt out of bed and dived at the bed below Blinks. There was no one in it, hadn't been for days. Jack hurried downstairs, horrified at the sight of twenty solemn and tear stained faces. He pushed past Davy to run down the hall to the door, just as Sarah, Davy's sister and his girl, closed it behind her.
"Sarah?' he asked.
"Jack!" She seemed surprised and raised a hand to stop him. "Jack, you can't go in there!" his worst fears instantly sprung to the front of his mind and Jack pushed past her. He burst in to see Spot, franticly wiping at his eyes.
"No!" Jack shook his head, praying it wasn't true.
"Hey Cowboy," a soft and hoarse voice made him look down at the bed. Race was sitting up, propped up by too many pillows, looking pale and weak, but alive. His eyes were their normal dark brown and his face no longer showed the signs of fever.
"Race! Youse alive!" He almost dove on the younger boy and would have had he not remembered the reason he was in that bed at all.
"You have prefect timing, Jack." Mrs. Jacobs said. " I was just about to send Spot up for you." Jack knelt in front of Race, grinning. He pressed his hand against the boy's forehead and was relieved to feel no excess heat.
"How ya feelin', Race?" Race shrugged than winced.
"Dey ain't lettin' me play cards, Jack." Spot laughed. If Race was thinking about cards, then he would recover just fine.
"Let's wait a bit, let ya get a bit mora rest. Den I promise ta play poka widcha." Race laughed. And at the so welcome sound, Jack had to laugh too.
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