I didn't mention my dream to Spot, but it lingered like a storm cloud above my head and weighed me down.
"Are ya alright?" he asked, figuring my sour look was my fear of what was to come with the strike. And although that wasn't the sole reason, it was enough of a partial truth.
"Yes, I'm fine."
As we approached the Brooklyn Distribution center, I tucked my hair under my cap. Suddenly, one of the Brooklyn newsies ran over to Spot, practically knocking him over. The boy was out of breath, as if he'd been running a marathon. Spot waited for him to catch his breath. "Manhattan," the boy was able to say while panting. "with banners and badges on their shirts," breath, "are gathered outside of the gates," breath, "but not with the intent to buy papes."
Spot nodded for the newsie to go on. The boy caught his breath and continued more easily now. "They was set on stoppin' the papes. Almost every boy had a badge on that said 'I ain't a scab.' In the hands of a few were thick red clubs like the spokes of a wagon wheel."
The fact that the boys felt they needed clubs put a pit in my stomach.
Spot muttered to himself again in some language. "I knew they would do this." He turned to me and grabbed my wrist. "Dammit, come on." And without warning, he pulled me down the line of newsies with him and gathered them up. He spoke to them in hushed whispers. I could barely hear what they were saying. Finally, they broke apart and before I knew it, Spot, me, and all the Brooklyn newsies were tearing off down the street and over the bridge.
We reached Manhattan, and let me tell you, it was truly a beautiful borough. Spot lead the pack to the gates of the Manhattan Distribution Center. Inside the gates, things weren't as beautiful. A fight had emersed between the 'Hattan newsies and some older men who were trying to kill the strike, and physically scare these boys into giving up.
Spot tried the gates, but they were locked from the inside. He cursed, and then signaled for some of the Brooklyn newsies to follow him up to the fire escapes. I followed closely behind. It was then that I noticed something they all had: slingshots. I gulped, and quickened my pace to catch up with Spot. We reached a roof top, and waited for a few minutes. We watched as a man with some kind of whip-chain swung at Jack. Jack barely dodged it.
I heard Race shout for Les to go home. Little Les was down there? Those men would crush him like a bug! Without any hesitation, Spot jumped down onto the fire escape, pulling me with him. The other newsies on the roof appeared as well. Spot nodded. "Never fear, Brooklyn is here!" he called. I bit my lip to keep from smirking at this.
I saw one of the newsies struggling against one of the men look up. "It's Brooklyn!"
The others down below looked up as well, renewed hope in their eyes. "Brooklyn!" they echoed.
Spot and his other newsies pulled back their slingshots and fired into the mob below, pelting the men with marbles and sharp stones. Even though it wasn't necessary, I took cover. I felt...vulnerable. I couldn't fight, I didn't have a slingshot, and I didn't really know what was going on anyway.
"Hey, Spot!" Jack called. Spot nodded, and held out his hand to me, and with his left hand he grabbed onto a cable wire above. I looked at him skeptically. "Do you trust me?" he asked, his blue eyes peering at me. I wanted to say 'no' and go back to my hiding place. But I nodded, and he grabbed onto my waist and before I knew it I was falling. Oh Lord.
I closed my eyes the whole way. I finally felt Spot's arm leave my waist, and I suddenly felt unsafe. I opened my eyes. We were on the ground. Spot spit-shook with Jack. The newsies had begun to soak the men. And then Spot opened the gate, letting all the other newsies in. They pushed the men back out of the gates. They boys jumped and cheered at their victory. A man with a camera told them to freeze. The flash snapped and I smiled.
The 'Hattan boys gave us two badges. I earnestly took mine and pinned it on.
"We'll move toward de middle," Jack exclaimed. "They are gonna release the delivery wagons, but we can't do much now until they arrive at de points."
"But we already got 'em scared," Race said with a smirk, "Weasel is pacin', shiverin' in his boots. After this, they ain't gonna open the gates again. They scared."
"We gonna follow de wagon up to Fifty-ninth, stop the delivery," Jack continued, annoyed that he was rudely interrupted. "Kid Blink was gonna take some of the newsies downtown."
"I'm not goin' uptown." Spot said flatly.
"I'll be alright," I interjected, but it seemed it had nothing to do with me.
Jack was about to speak but stopped. The two shared eye contact, an understanding between them.
"We'll rethink, then," Jack finally said. "Blink!"
Up walked Kid Blink. Spot shook his hand in a familiar way.
"Thanks for savin' the day, Spot," Kid congratulated.
Spot nodded with little pride. Spot clearly didn't show any sign of pride.
The circulation bell sounded, and the roar of the thousand boys who hollered at its toll sent chills up my spine.
A handful of boys began to file through the opening gate in a hurry, anxious to get away from the mob and take possession of their papers.
Shouts of "Scab!" echoed through the open street. To my surprise, a small group of women followed the boys.
"Oh, I see, having the ladies do your dirty work!" came shouts from the mob.
I turned to Spot. "Are they going to hurt those women?"
Spot shook his head. "I don't think so."
"Five cents a ten!" some boy shouted from the crowd. His roar spread, and the phrase grew into a chant.
"Five cents a ten! Five cents a ten! Five cents a ten!"
The scabs returned to the edge of the gate. They didn't look like hired muscle but regular newsboys. I figured they were newsies, just like me, who couldn't afford to miss one day of work. I turned to Spot. "Maybe they don't know that if we all stick together for even a day, it won't last long."
"They know," Spot said as the scabs proceeded past the open gates and onto the streets. The boys were immediately pounced upon. The flood of striking newsies descended upon the scabs, ripping their papers to shreds.
Spot held me toward the back of the crowd as Jack and the boys entered the fight. A few more delivery wagons exited the gate, and the strikers split up to follow.
Spot was right. This was not a scene I was comfortable in. The strikers flew like wild demons after the delivery trucks, howling at the top of their lungs. They lunged at the carts but only succeeded in stopping one when the shaken driver abandoned his seat and ran back into the distribution center. Boys with clubs repeatedly knocked the gates, causing a few scabs who had yet to advance them to shred up their own papers, which ignited cheers from the strikers.
Suddenly, a whistle halted from behind the crowd, and cops flooded the scene. Spot grabbed my hand and pulled me behind the side of the building.
"I thought they'd be with the trolley strikers?" I asked, confused.
Just then the 'Hattan boys flew around the corner.
"Come on!" Jack yelled as we fled with them. A delivery wagon passed us unharmed.
Once we were safely around the corner, Jack to Spot aside. "If we gonna stop the papes, we got to go to the distribution points."
A man in a top hat passed us on his way to work. "Keep up the good work, boys!"
The boys shouted and cheered, throwing their fists in the air.
The man responded by tossing a quarter high, and the boys fought over it like it was gold.
"Kill the scab!" rang out from the boys, and a kid with papers tucked under his arm ran for his life. Jack and Spot did not take notice, as they were in deep conversation.
Skittery approached and took Jack by the shoulder, breaking up his and Spot's discussion. "They gots five hundred boys up at Central Park on Fifty-ninth. That's where the action is. You comin'?"
Jack turned to Spot, whose arms were folded across his chest. He looked at me. Finally, Spot gave in and nodded.
"Yeah," Jack nodded.
I could tell this was not Spot's decision.
"Come on then!" Skittery shouted as he led a crowd up the street.
Snipeshooter must've noticed my confused look as we wandered up Broadway toward the distribution center at 59th near Central Park.
"Spot doesn't go past Fiftieth," he said casually.
"Why?" I shot back inquisitively.
Snipeshooter shrugged his shoulders.
"So why does Jack care? He can go without him."
Snipeshooter shook his head and smiled. "Jack needs Spot."
"I don't get it."
"Spot knows everyone!" Snipeshooter said, surprised I didn't know.
I didn't know what Snipeshooter meant; I had never seen anyone on the streets call out Spot by name but newsies.
"He got you into the Auburn, didn't he?" he smirked.
"Yeah, but...?"
"He knows as many people as the mayor, but he likes pretendin' he don't."
"Why, why..." Words were stumbling as I tried to understand. "Spot keeps to himself. I never see him talking to anyone."
"He doesn't have to. The people he knows are the important ones. At least it seems. They don't want to be seen talkin' with a newsie."
"Oh. Then why does Spot need Jack?"
"I ain't figured that one out yet," Snipeshooter responded tapping his head to suggest he would put his brain to it.
I watched Spot as he headed with his badge and banner, shouting with the other boys as they marched up the avenue. "Don't buy the World and Journal! Newsboys on strike!"
Now with this latest revelation about Spot, he was even more of a mystery, which frustrated me.
The numbers of the streets continued to climb: 31st, 39th, until 48th.
"Scab!" shouted Jack, pointing to a boys selling papers on the corner of 48th and Broadway.
"Wait, wait, wait!" David shouted as he held back furious newsies with one hand. "We don't know if he's sellin' the yellow kid papes."
"Look at him!"
The boy was built like a horse. In fact, he didn't look like a boy at all. His body was like a coal digger, with broad shoulders and thick, monstrous legs. Even if this boy was a scab, he was not to be messed with.
"Who is he?" the boys asked each other, but no one knew him.
"You all check it out. We'll keep goin' uptown," Skittery said to Jack.
Jack cracked his knuckles, and Race handed him a club. The boys continued up the street. I looked to Spot, expecting relief at not crossing his imaginary boundary, but he was just intent on the situation, giving me no signs that would further decode his mystery.
"I don't like this," Spot said, speaking up. "He can't be alone."
"Let's find out," Jack said, ignoring him and moving on toward the mule. "Hey, youse there!" Jack yelled.
The boy didn't turn. His ears seemed as dense as his muscle.
"Whatcha sellin'?" a kid with a crutch named Crutchy asked. Race crossed his arms at the boy, eager for a fight.
The boy finally turned and set his eyes on the six of us. He merely squinted and then said, "What do you care?"
"If ya sellin' boycotted papes, we got a problem with it."
"The Journal and World?" the boy looked around in a gloating manner. "They on strike, ain't they?"
"Then let me see." Jack eased in, close enough to smell the boy's festering sweat. "I'm lookin' to buy me a yella kid pape."
"Then it's ya lucky day."
Without a single word more, Jack and Race lunged at the boy while Crutchy and Snipeshooter swiped his papers and ripped them to shreds. I pulled my cap lower over my eyes as I watched the boy suspiciously refuse to fight back.
Suddenly, a whistle blew and a sea of cops emerged and encircled us. The thick mule of a boy smirked in pleasure as he finally flung the two boys off of him.
"It's a trap!" Spot shouted, grabbing my arm. We tried to get away, but the cops surrounded us.
I tried to keep my head down so they wouldn't recognize me as a girl, but is was hard to see where everyone was going. The boys scattered every which way. Spot and I broke out and started running down the alley, a cop hot on our tail.
We ducked around back to a fire escape. Spot hopped up and then held his hand out for me. I struggled with the rungs of the ladder, my boot lace on my left foot was untied, when he finally pulled me up with all his might.
We tucked ourselves around the stairs of the second flight and watched as the cop looked up and down the alley. In an instant he was back out on the street.
"Follow me," Spot said, signaling to climb higher.
At the top of the building, we had a clear view of the city baking in the summer heat.
I peered over the side of the building, down toward the street below. Spot joined my side. Despite our position, we could see the officers arrest Crutchy, no other boys in sight.
"We're arresting you for disturbing the peace." the policeman spoke in an official manner.
"Like I could ever beat up that mule!" Crutchy shot back.
The mighty boy shrugged his shoulders and chuckled a deep throaty laugh.
Spot shook his head. "Poor Crutchy."
"The cops set a trap!" I was shocked.
Spot shook his head. "Nah, it was Pulitzer or one of his men. They wanted to catch a newsie in action. Take 'em in, book 'em...ya know, make an example. They're just tryin' to scare us."
"But there's so many newsies."
"Yeah, it won't work. Not many cops out today anyway. The newsies were smart to start now."
"You mean 'we.'"
Spot turned to me and looked for a second, then smirked. "Yeah, sure. 'We.'"