AN: AHH! I'm back! ...after many weeks of putting this off. ^-~ Anywies, I know this is short, but it's just to explain stuff. As this whole story is just to explain stuff...y'know... or something. Anywies, from last chapter:
~No, we don't know who killed Mr. Wemmick
~No, we don't know why the ship was sinking
~Heehee, hopefully all questions will be answered in later parts. Okie? ::KI::



Tale of a Gold-Tipped Cane
Part Two
by Ki Knotts

~*Brooklyn, New York, America, 1890*~

Jem Talon, or Chaser by anyone else's standards, frowned at the shadows creeping in the alleyway in front of him. Shifting his papers to his left arm and pushing his cap back on his forehead, he made to follow them.

"Eh, Chaser!" Tooth, his selling partner, called from the corner. "What're you doing over there?" Hazel eyes, which were always smiling, glittered at him.

"I've gotta check on something." the other replied and set his newspapers on a crate. "Watch these for me, would ya?" and ran off.

Tooth cracked a huge grin and shook his head with amusement. "He's off for the chase."

Chaser leaned into the alleyway and darted quickly across it. His eyes adjusted finally to the duskiness of the place, and he saw what he was looking for. A pair of pale feet (blackened on the bottoms by filthy streets) and a loaf of bread clambered over the fence at the end of the passage. The newsie gave a grim smile, obviously pleased with his discovery. Chaser pursued still, watching the same pale feet disappear onto a fire escape. He had him now.

"Lemme go!" the pair of pale feet squealed indignantly as Chaser wrapped his hands around them. That is, the little boy who belonged to the pale feet squealed indignantly as Chaser grabbed him by the ankles and hauled him off the metal stairway. "I ain't done a thing!!" The pale hand (also blackened by filthy streets) fumbled for something at his belt.

Chaser anticipated the attack and swerved as an alarming whistle sounded in his ear. "What the...?" A flash of gold came into his line of view, and Chaser's hand shot out off of one of the boy's ankles. Chaser frowned. "Why is a little sprite like you carrying a walking stick?"

The boy was in obvious shock from Chaser's catch. "...I ain't a sprite. And this is a family hairdoolum."

"Hairdoolum?" Chaser rolled his eyes and yanked the cane free of the boy's hands. "Heirloom, you mean?"

This was received with a glare. The boy continued to his struggle against Chaser, kicking and lashing and, on several occasions, managing to mark the older boy.

"Hold it, hold it!" Chaser yelled in aggravation and gripped the child by his wrists. "Did you steal the bread?"

The boy's overcast eyes lingered on the loaf that had toppled to the ground next to them. Chaser could see the lie creeping into the child's lips. "Tell the truth," the newsie said in warning tones.

"Yes." Chaser's clutch tautened. "But... but it's not for me."

"What do you mean?" his long fingers loosened from the boy's arms.

The boy's shoulders sank in Chaser's grasp, and a sigh escaped him. "I have... a friend. A sick friend...and I can't afford a doctor." the boy's eyes went soft. "It's getting worse."

The elder let go. "All right. Let me see your friend."
***

Chaser continued after the boy through the depths of Brooklyn, far away from the newspaper distribution office, until they ended up by the docks in a little lean-to on the water.

"In here." the child pointed at a few boards meant to serve as the door. "Be quiet."

Shoving the planks of decayed wood in, Chaser took a slow breath and peeked inside. The air was thick with salt and rot, and it was cold. Darkness swamped him. His heel pivoted as he turned to face the boy again with an unspoken question.

"By the window." the boy replied, not looking at him.

With a nod, Chaser approached the single white light in the shack. And he saw the creature.

On a white blanket thrown carelessly over a mound of hay lay a young girl, half-curled against the wall. "She's so pale," Chaser murmured more to himself, bending to touch one porcelain cheek. The ginger color of her hair made her look aflame. She mumbled a slow word, and the boy stepped out of the doorway.

"I'm here, El. By the door."

Her bottle-green eyes opened in small slits and pierced Chaser. He drew back in surprise. "Who're you?" she said to the newsie in a muzzy voice.

Chaser stared down at her, the tiny body of white and red and a grimy, frayed dress of brownish lavender. "I'm Chaser." he cast a glance to the boy. "I want to help."

Through dry lips, she whispered again. "It's a pleasure meeting you, Chaser." she extended her arm slowly out to him, and he took it and shook her hand. "I'm Elena. Are you a friend?"

"I am now." Chaser held his breath. Where could he take these two to make sure they wouldn't return to the streets?

The boy stepped forward next to Chaser. "What do you mean, you want to help?"

"You two will be newsies. Like me."
***

"He just ran off?"

Tooth nodded with a half-smile. "Yup, Just off and chased his tail."

Trying not to crack a grin, Rogue took a steadying breath and leapt from his bunk. "And you don't know anything else?"

"Don't worry about him, Rogue. He's a big boy now." The reddish hair of Fly shook. "I'm sure he'll be here any minute."

The door to the bunkroom opened and Leaf, the youngest newsie in Brooklyn at age 12, peeked in. "Chaser's back."

Fly gave Rogue an I-told-you-so look.

"But you might wanna come down here." Leaf added. "He's brought us more presents."
***

The boy stared around him at the wealth of the Brooklyn lodging house parlor. The walls looked like they were cherry, even if they were really just the cheapest pine one could find in New York. He reached up to brush his fingers across the walls but jerked back as a snore came from the couch.

Chaser shifted under the girl, his arms still keeping her from toppling to the floor. Both were sound asleep, making little murmurs as they dreamed. The boy grinned broadly. This is the only time El looks little, the boy mused silently with a laugh. He turned back to the parlor.

A statue was in the corner of the room, and the boy frowned, going to investigate it. "Rogue, first newsboy of Brooklyn" read an inscription at the foot of the statue of a young boy who gripped a stack of newspapers. This boy, Rogue, looked forward in set determination.

"Chaser? You in here, mate?" a voice called from the stairway.

The young man started awake, arms shooting out to make sure the girl had not been disturbed. "In the parlor." he called groggily.

The boy turned from the statue to see a face grinning like a cat from around the corner of doorframe. The face was smooth and white, like the color of milk, and the eyes were hazel. "Heya, kid, you admiring the rock?"

"Where's Rogue? I need to talk to him." Chaser yawned.

Another face appeared, this one with a body. "Well, come on into the parlor and we'll start talkin'."

"See, I found these two kids..." Chaser began, lifting the girl and letting her drape over his shoulder.

"Hey, hey!" the boy ran at Chaser angrily, ready to protest. "She's a girl, not a potato sack!"

Silent, Tooth shook his head in mirth.

"Whoa, there, pup." Rogue dragged the boy into the lobby with a patriarchal shove. "Sit."

Fly was on the stairs, and he grinned as the boy took an obeying seat on the first wooden step. "What's your name, kid?"

"Conlon." the boy grimaced. "An' get El off your shoulder!" to Chaser.

Removing the small burden from him, Chaser set her next to the boy, Conlon. "How old are you?"

"Just turned eight" was the reply as the boy allowed the girl to lean groggily onto him. He put a thin, pale arm around her and watched her protectively.

"He reminds me of a cocker spaniel. All territory and gruff." Fly announced from the landing. "And I take it these two'll be in line at the gates tomorrow morning?"

Chaser, Fly, and Tooth all looked expectantly to Rogue, who groaned with a sweep of his hand through black locks.

"They aren't puppies, boys."

Tooth, simpering, slammed a hand down on Conlon's shoulder. "This one is. A regular ole' cocker spaniel."

In their bantering, the lobby door had opened and a middle-aged man had crept in, hearing Tooth. "I had a cocker spaniel once. Mean little bugger, but his name was Spot."

The boy's arms tightened, and his white fingers curled into fists. "I ain't a dog!"

Rogue exchanged a glance (albeit an amused one) with Fly and approached the older man. "'Eya, Webster, we've got some new boarders."

Webster smiled under his thick, black mustache. "Well, well. What are the names?"

Conlon pointed to the girl. "El Wemmick, and Spot Conlon."

~*END PART TWO*~