Chapter 7
Pride
Everyone needs to feel a certain amount of self-importance – a reason for living each day, or a feeling of self-worth. Pride was so easily thrown about on the city streets, that to actually own a sense of pride was an accomplishment in itself. It was hard to find something to be proud of while working twelve-hour shifts in a dank factory that paid entirely too little. Or while shouting out improved headlines in ragged clothes and bare feet as men in top hats strolled along to their jobs on Wall Street and regarded you with detestable eyes.
When that sense of pride was lost, eyes became vacant, life became worthless, and sometimes an early ending was sought. Children struggled with pride. It was something that parents taught their children, but when those parents were lost at an early age, pride was harder to come to grips with. Who was supposed to teach them how to take pride in themselves and their accomplishments? It was left up to the children to teach each other.
Irish Flare stomped around the stable, flinging the coarse straw in every direction. "Yer outta yer mind! Dat's what ya are! Race, how can ya even think of doin' such a thing?"
Sitting on one of the old stools, Racetrack shrugged his tired shoulders and combed a hand through his dark hair. "What else am I gonna do? I've lost every cent I ever earned. If I take dis one final gamble, if I risk da only thing I have left, I've got dat chance. I could walk away richer den I ever was before."
"Or you could walk away lucky ta still have da clothes on yer damn back," Midnight scoffed, crossing her arms defiantly over her white blouse.
Lifting his head to the sky, Racetrack silently asked why on earth Midnight just had to turn up at the races today. Strategically placing a smirk on his face, Racetrack stood and turned to Midnight, taking her hands in his. "Why, if it ain't me old chum, Middy. How's da newsie life treatin' ya?"
"So old chum is what dey call it dese days?" Irish Flare mumbled. "And here I thought it was old flame. I really need ta get wid da times."
"Can it Irish," Racetrack ordered. "Just keep a lookout for him, would ya?"
Midnight's eyes flared with anger. "Lookout? For what? Who ya watchin' out fer?"
Closing his eyes briefly, Racetrack sighed. He didn't need Midnight poking around in his affairs as well. "Now, now. No need ta get so bent outta shape, Middy."
"Yes dere is," Irish Flare interjected. "Race over here is lookin' ta get into da big game taday with Johnny."
"I said keep a lookout!" Race barked, his eyes blazing in Irish Flare's direction.
"Right… lookout," Irish Flare mumbled as she rolled her eyes before she turned her back to the arguing pair. Once again peering around the outside of the stables, Irish Flare squinted her ice-blue eyes as the early afternoon sun cascaded into the stall.
Midnight gently squeezed Racetrack's hands in the hopes to get through to the Italian. "Race, ya don't got anythin' left ta yer name besides dat ugly combination of clothin' and yer pocket watch. How are ya gonna make one final bet?"
"Ya just answered yer own question," he replied firmly, his eyes burning right into hers.
"You really have gone loony." Shaking her head, Midnight pulled her hands from his. She had never seen his eyes like that before. There was something deeper in them, some sort of fire. He was so set on doing this, there was no way anyone could talk him out of it – even if it meant he would lose his sacred possession and his dignity in one afternoon. Midnight didn't understand why Racetrack would do this to himself, but she knew no one could stop him. She was so used to figuring out people's minds, but this was beyond even her capability… and it frightened her.
Racetrack rummaged his pocket for a half-smoked cigar and lit a match. "Me luck is gonna change, you'll see." It has to. He had lost all of his earnings and was already selling papers from dawn until dusk, but today that was going to change. All his fellow betters knew how many times he had lost. They were a close group, each keeping score of one another, not so much in friendly jest, but to keep track of whom was on top, who was to beat for the day, and who was down on their luck. Racetrack had been down on the bottom of that scorecard for far too long, but he aimed to change that, and if it took betting one of the belongings he held sacred, then he would do it.
"Well, let's hope so," Irish Flare mumbled. "Here he comes," she announced. "And he's got a big group dis time."
Midnight's dark brown eyes softened as she stared into Race's once more. "Race, don't do this. Quit while ya still got somethin'."
Racetrack shook his head. "I've made up me mind. Now I gotta go through wid it." He turned his back to Midnight and walked over to Irish Flare. Outside the stable he could see Johnny, the boy who ran all undisclosed betting operations, and his followers. Today really was going to be a big game.
Irish Flare sighed. "Ya know, I'm supposed ta help keep you out of trouble… not get you in it."
"You know I gotta do this," Racetrack affirmed.
"Yeah, I know." Irish Flare pulled her raven-black hair from its bun, letting it flow freely down her back. "Well, get goin'… Dey don't wait for nobody."
Nodding, Racetrack patted Irish Flare on the shoulder once before turning to leave the stables. His face fell when he noticed Midnight had already left, but he pushed the thought from his mind. Right now winning back some of the money he had gambled away had to come first.
~~
Midnight cared deeply for Racetrack. They had been involved at one point, but Midnight had broken it off. She wasn't used to letting a boy get so close to her – especially one she really cared for. She had to maintain an emotional distance from him, and when things got to the point where she felt she couldn't do that any longer, she had let him go, explaining that a friendship would be best.
She didn't entirely leave him that afternoon, but she couldn't watch as he walked off to join the legion of boys that were ready to gamble away prized possessions. Midnight took a long walk around the tracks, waiting, and hoping that Racetrack would come out on top today. Later as she saw the boys leaving for the day, some in high spirits, and others hanging their heads, Midnight reluctantly watched as Racetrack exited the building, the familiar chain of his pocket watch missing from his vest.
Angered that he would have taken this gamble in the first place, Midnight stormed over to him. "I told you, didn't I? But you didn't listen, you just had to bet again!"
"Ya don't understand, Middy, ya just don't!" Racetrack bellowed.
Midnight flailed her arms in anger, her dark brown hair following her perturbed movements in a hectic frenzy. "What? I don't understand? Ya know what Higgins? Yer right, I don't. I don't understand why you bet da only money you got on horses dat race around in a circle for a few minutes. I don't understand why you insist on walking to Sheepshead nearly everyday of yer life thinkin' dat dis will be the day ya got a 'hot tip'. I don't understand why you thought dat bettin' da last great thing you own would help ya get yer pride back! Now where are ya, huh? Ya lost everythin'! Ya lost yer last cent and ya lost dat damn pocket watch! Now what happens?"
Racetrack reached for the pocket watch that wasn't there, and quickly placed the empty hand in his pocket. "Now I walk home wid me head held high, cause I didn't back away from dat game. I didn't hide in some damn corner wid da rest of da pansies who didn't wanna play for high stakes. It don't matter dat I lost. I played. I took da risk, and dey respect me for it," Racetrack stated. "Ya can't buy dat kinda respect. It's gotta be earned, and I earned it. And tomorrow when I go back to dose tracks, I'll earn even more respect when I play again. And dis time, I'll get me damn watch back."
"Yer nuts, Higgins, real crazy in da head, ya know dat?!" Midnight shouted at the top of her lungs.
Smiling, Racetrack turned back and nodded to her. Lighting his cigar, Racetrack pointed to her while he spoke. "Yes I am, and damn proud of it."
~~
Skittery vehemently shook his head, pacing back and forth on the creaky wooden floor. Jack had returned, things seemed back to normal, or were they? Could they honestly defeat the likes of Pulitzer? Yer just a street rat! Don't you see? We're all street rats! We ain't got nothin' but da clothes on our backs. Heck, some of us don't even have shoes! How are we gonna finish dis?!
Who needs shoes when we got pride in our hearts and fires in our bellies. We'll beat 'em, you'll see. It don't take some smart-assed rich man to beat dose newspaper giants. It takes guts. It takes a group like us. A ragged army like Denton says. We outta be stormin' his doors, chantin' strike, and nevah givin' up. We're just as important as all dose rich snobs out dere. And we're gonna show dem what real New York pride is, Jack smiled, a new, bigger flame burning within him. He was in this for the long run. He would see to it that his boys got what they deserved. Never would thoughts of abandonment haunt him again. This was his life - the newsies were his life.
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