The days turned into weeks and the air began to blow with the chill that
signaled autumn, blowing the leaves and trash about in frantic gusts. The
air grew colder and the newsies pulled their coats, if they were lucky to
have them, or if not, their shirts closer around them.
Race had given his first coat to little Snipeshooter just as the winds began to change, and so he was shivering right along with his friends. His aunt and Uncle felt that he needed to learn the value of fine things before they bought him a new one, but he knew they wouldn't let him freeze. Besides, he would probably give that one away too.
At least he was sleeping in a warm bed at night and came home to a table full of food. Sometimes, he tried to sneak into the kitchen and steal food for his friends. He succeeded several times before he was caught and scolded, but that didn't stop him.
As for his routine, he followed it every day. He would leave the house with the others, then slip off to where Jack was waiting for him, his papers in hand. His old friend would hand them to him and then set off for his own spot. Race would deposit the rich clothing behind a barrel and set up his spot.
He would sell the morning edition, hurry into Tibby's for some lunch, and then sell the afternoon edition. Then he would find his clothes, if they were still there which sometimes, they weren't, and head back.
Sometimes he would skip the afternoon edition and head out to Coney Island for the day. He would spend the day, catching up with his jockey pals and what were the best odds for that horse or this horse.
His aunt and Uncle did ask about school, but he lied easily and they either believed him, or didn't care enough to delve deeper. His aunt did pester him about his hands, still stained with newsprint ink, the ink he could never remove, no matter how hard he tried.
Yes, his routine was working fine. Rosie had a good home, a warm bed, food, and he got to do what he loved the most. Sell and spend time with his friends.
One day, late in September, there was a week of bright sun and warm air, almost hot humid breeze. It became quite unbearable, as it does in the city, and one day, as they all sat around the breakfast table, his Uncle had a plan.
"I propose a special trip." The children looked up at him, as did his wife, though her expression did not match the younger ones.
"How about we pile into the carriage and head out to Coney Island for the day?" Race almost chocked. He tried to hide his face, but his Uncle caught the look on his face.
"Well, I suppose you haven't been up there too much, it is a long way from that orphanage we found you in." Race's laughter faded and he clenched his fists.
"It ain't no orphanage!" he hissed. His Uncle glared at him.
"Right," he said, turning to the rest of the family. They nodded, excited as he hurried them off to get changed. Race slipped up to his room and pulled on his older clothes, his old plaid pants, baggy shirt, and gold checked vest, slipping his old watch into it, and feeling quite happy, as he slapped his old cabby hat on his head.
As he descended the stairs, the family eyed him, but he gave them a wide grin and hopped into the carriage, eager to make the long trek to Coney island, for the first time in his life, the whole way, without putting his feet on the ground.
They pulled away and Race leaned out the window, grinning before Uncle Alfonso pulled him back inside. The elder grandmother had opted to stay home, as had Margherita, but Aunt Natalia, Teodoro, Rosie, and Race were all packed into the crowded carriage.
As they crossed the bridge, Race slid back inside, not eager to be seen by the Brooklyn newsies, or maybe, more by their leader, Spot Conlon. Spot was one of Race's best and oldest friends. Like Jack, Spot had known him before his newsie days, but the boy from Brooklyn had a much worse temper than Jack, and he might just look on Race's choice as a betrayal on his past, at least until Race explained it to him. But still, he did not want that to happen in front of his new family.
They passed the docks with no incident, other than several pebbles hitting their windows. Race ducked back even, but his Uncle shouted out the window. Race winced as he heard familiar laughter, along with several stinging insults. But nothing came of it, the carriage did not stop and they continued on their way.
Soon, they reached the fairgrounds. They were much as Race had left them, only a few days before, crowded and dirty in the corner over by the racetracks and neat and clean in the fairgrounds. Needless to say, Race drifted towards the tracks. His Uncle held him back however.
"Now, Anthony, those tracks are not for decent children like you. They're for gamblers and ruffians." Race grinned, just the place he belonged.
"Ah, come on, Uncle? Please? Jist one race, den I promise, I won't go neah dem again taday." He begged. His Uncle sighed, then nodded. Race led the way, almost running towards the booth. His Uncle pressed a fifty-cent piece into his hands and Race's eyes gleamed.
"Oh, can I place a bet to, father? Just one?" Teodoro begged. His Uncle sighed again and handed his son the money, ignoring his wife's protest. Even Rosie got some money.
The ticket master, a tall thin man with dark hair and a cheery laugh, named Bill Collins, recognized Race in an instant.
"Heyya, Race!" He said, laughing at the boy. "Aint' seen youse around much." Race nodded, studying the sheet. Lightening was up for some good runs, she'd been winning, but there was a new horse, Home. Nothing fancy, just Home. Race frowned.
"Yeah, been busy. Hey, Bill, what's wid da new hoss, Home?" Bill glanced at the tally sheet and nodded.
"Yeah, full name is Home is where da heart is. New hoss, jist got in. She's good from what I seen, but she ain't had much experience heah. Dat's why de odds ain't so great."
Twenty-five to one, not too good at all. But Race kept glancing back at her. He had a feeling. He didn't have them much, Pop used to have them all the time, but his, more often than not, resulted in a month of pinching and saving, and eating out of trashcans.
"Ya gonna put sumdin down, Race?" he nodded, waving his hand and studying the form. Then he knelt down beside Rosie.
"Whudda ya tink?" she frowned and pointed to Home. Race smiled and gave her a hug. He always had a secret weapon when it came to Rosie, she was a natural, just like he was at cards.
"Fifty cents on Home." He said, slapping down the money. Bill eyed him.
"You surah bout dis, Race? I don't like seein' ya loose." Race nodded.
" Jist hand ovah da ticket, Bill." He did so and the family moved to watch the race begin.
Race glanced around, knowing that the tracks were home to many people, including some he owed money to. That was not something he wanted his aunt and Uncle knowing. Already, he could see several people he knew, mostly gamblers he'd played against, or bet against, some jockeys, and stable boys.
He hurried to the front line as they announced the first race was beginning. He lifted Rosie up and they watched as the runners lined up.
He saw his horse right away, she was a big black beauty, coat gleaming in the afternoon sun, mane glistening, muscles rippling as she pranced, poised and ready to run. The gun went off, and she was a blur, running by them. Race cheered as she flew by, rounding the curve already.
"Well, well, well, now who do we got heah?" Race spun around, wincing involuntarily as he saw his old friend, Spot Conlon.
"Heyya, Spot." His friend did not smile back, and Race knew he was in trouble. He put Rosie down. She smiled at Spot and threw her arms around him. She got to see him even less than she did Jack.
"Hey little girl." Spot said, patting her on the back.
"Race let me bet! And our horse is gonna win!" she said. Spot smiled at her again.
"Why don'tcha watch da race, I gotta tawk ta yer brudda." She nodded and turned to her cousin, tugging on his arm as Spot grabbed Race by the front of his shirt and dragged him off into the crowd. Race saw his Uncle move to follow them, and then decide otherwise. Smart move, he thought, he could tell that Spot Conlon was not in a good mood.
He pulled him until he found an alley that was empty and shoved Race against the wall. Race was one of the only newsies who was smaller than the Brooklyn leader, and he probably could have easily taken him in a fight, but the boy's attitude made him hard to beat, and the loyalty of his boys was rivaled only by Jack's.
Spot glared at his friend whom he had known since the age of four, when they had run into each other on the street and Race had taken him home to met his mother. Race looked at him, confusion and fear in his eyes. Spot didn't like seeing his old friends look at him in fear, but it was necessary if he wanted to maintain his position.
"Whudda ya tink youse pullin', Race?" he asked, pushing Race against the brick wall hard. Race shrugged.
"Whudda ya tawkin' about, Spot?"
"Ya know what I'se tawkin' about, Race. Leavin' da newsies!" he hissed. Race shrugged again, refusing to meet Spot's eyes.
"I ain't left, Spot. I still sell." He said, glancing up at him. Spot let him go and sighed. Race adjusted his shirt and glanced at the racetracks, wondering if the race was over.
"Dat ain't what I hoid." Race glared at him now, annoyed with his friend. Spot may be the leader of Brooklyn, but he was still Race's friend.
"And what didya heah. Spot? Dat I toined me back on ya? Dat I don't want no part a bein' a newsie no moah? Dat I'se gonna be sumdin?" he yelled, glaring at his friend, his frustration and anger pushing it's way to the front of his mind, making him care little about who he was yelling at.
"And are ya?" Spot asked, his voice soft. Race shook his head.
"What does it madda? I'se still da same, no new clothes is gonna change me." Race insisted, pushing his cap back above his hairline, letting the warm breeze cool him down a bit. Spot folded his arms across his chest.
"How couldcha? I mean, youse was always da happiest a all a us, what wid whatcha were. I bet youse happy now, in yer fancy house, and yer fancy clothes. I bet youse real happy now." Race bit back the first reply that came to his mind, begging Spot to take him home.
"I'se happy." He said, and before Spot could say another word, Race turned and walked away, before his heart broke, before he had to lie again. He wandered back to the tracks just as Rosie ran up to him.
"She won! She won, we'se gots money now, Tony!" she wrapped her arms around her older brother and he picked her up, holding her tight.
"I love ya, kid. Ya know dat." He whispered. Rosie frowned and tightened her arms around her brother. He did not say those words often, and she knew that. She was used to it.
"I love ya too, Tony." She whispered back and held him tight as he shook, though no tears fell from his eyes. She knew they wouldn't. She knew he wouldn't let them.
Race had given his first coat to little Snipeshooter just as the winds began to change, and so he was shivering right along with his friends. His aunt and Uncle felt that he needed to learn the value of fine things before they bought him a new one, but he knew they wouldn't let him freeze. Besides, he would probably give that one away too.
At least he was sleeping in a warm bed at night and came home to a table full of food. Sometimes, he tried to sneak into the kitchen and steal food for his friends. He succeeded several times before he was caught and scolded, but that didn't stop him.
As for his routine, he followed it every day. He would leave the house with the others, then slip off to where Jack was waiting for him, his papers in hand. His old friend would hand them to him and then set off for his own spot. Race would deposit the rich clothing behind a barrel and set up his spot.
He would sell the morning edition, hurry into Tibby's for some lunch, and then sell the afternoon edition. Then he would find his clothes, if they were still there which sometimes, they weren't, and head back.
Sometimes he would skip the afternoon edition and head out to Coney Island for the day. He would spend the day, catching up with his jockey pals and what were the best odds for that horse or this horse.
His aunt and Uncle did ask about school, but he lied easily and they either believed him, or didn't care enough to delve deeper. His aunt did pester him about his hands, still stained with newsprint ink, the ink he could never remove, no matter how hard he tried.
Yes, his routine was working fine. Rosie had a good home, a warm bed, food, and he got to do what he loved the most. Sell and spend time with his friends.
One day, late in September, there was a week of bright sun and warm air, almost hot humid breeze. It became quite unbearable, as it does in the city, and one day, as they all sat around the breakfast table, his Uncle had a plan.
"I propose a special trip." The children looked up at him, as did his wife, though her expression did not match the younger ones.
"How about we pile into the carriage and head out to Coney Island for the day?" Race almost chocked. He tried to hide his face, but his Uncle caught the look on his face.
"Well, I suppose you haven't been up there too much, it is a long way from that orphanage we found you in." Race's laughter faded and he clenched his fists.
"It ain't no orphanage!" he hissed. His Uncle glared at him.
"Right," he said, turning to the rest of the family. They nodded, excited as he hurried them off to get changed. Race slipped up to his room and pulled on his older clothes, his old plaid pants, baggy shirt, and gold checked vest, slipping his old watch into it, and feeling quite happy, as he slapped his old cabby hat on his head.
As he descended the stairs, the family eyed him, but he gave them a wide grin and hopped into the carriage, eager to make the long trek to Coney island, for the first time in his life, the whole way, without putting his feet on the ground.
They pulled away and Race leaned out the window, grinning before Uncle Alfonso pulled him back inside. The elder grandmother had opted to stay home, as had Margherita, but Aunt Natalia, Teodoro, Rosie, and Race were all packed into the crowded carriage.
As they crossed the bridge, Race slid back inside, not eager to be seen by the Brooklyn newsies, or maybe, more by their leader, Spot Conlon. Spot was one of Race's best and oldest friends. Like Jack, Spot had known him before his newsie days, but the boy from Brooklyn had a much worse temper than Jack, and he might just look on Race's choice as a betrayal on his past, at least until Race explained it to him. But still, he did not want that to happen in front of his new family.
They passed the docks with no incident, other than several pebbles hitting their windows. Race ducked back even, but his Uncle shouted out the window. Race winced as he heard familiar laughter, along with several stinging insults. But nothing came of it, the carriage did not stop and they continued on their way.
Soon, they reached the fairgrounds. They were much as Race had left them, only a few days before, crowded and dirty in the corner over by the racetracks and neat and clean in the fairgrounds. Needless to say, Race drifted towards the tracks. His Uncle held him back however.
"Now, Anthony, those tracks are not for decent children like you. They're for gamblers and ruffians." Race grinned, just the place he belonged.
"Ah, come on, Uncle? Please? Jist one race, den I promise, I won't go neah dem again taday." He begged. His Uncle sighed, then nodded. Race led the way, almost running towards the booth. His Uncle pressed a fifty-cent piece into his hands and Race's eyes gleamed.
"Oh, can I place a bet to, father? Just one?" Teodoro begged. His Uncle sighed again and handed his son the money, ignoring his wife's protest. Even Rosie got some money.
The ticket master, a tall thin man with dark hair and a cheery laugh, named Bill Collins, recognized Race in an instant.
"Heyya, Race!" He said, laughing at the boy. "Aint' seen youse around much." Race nodded, studying the sheet. Lightening was up for some good runs, she'd been winning, but there was a new horse, Home. Nothing fancy, just Home. Race frowned.
"Yeah, been busy. Hey, Bill, what's wid da new hoss, Home?" Bill glanced at the tally sheet and nodded.
"Yeah, full name is Home is where da heart is. New hoss, jist got in. She's good from what I seen, but she ain't had much experience heah. Dat's why de odds ain't so great."
Twenty-five to one, not too good at all. But Race kept glancing back at her. He had a feeling. He didn't have them much, Pop used to have them all the time, but his, more often than not, resulted in a month of pinching and saving, and eating out of trashcans.
"Ya gonna put sumdin down, Race?" he nodded, waving his hand and studying the form. Then he knelt down beside Rosie.
"Whudda ya tink?" she frowned and pointed to Home. Race smiled and gave her a hug. He always had a secret weapon when it came to Rosie, she was a natural, just like he was at cards.
"Fifty cents on Home." He said, slapping down the money. Bill eyed him.
"You surah bout dis, Race? I don't like seein' ya loose." Race nodded.
" Jist hand ovah da ticket, Bill." He did so and the family moved to watch the race begin.
Race glanced around, knowing that the tracks were home to many people, including some he owed money to. That was not something he wanted his aunt and Uncle knowing. Already, he could see several people he knew, mostly gamblers he'd played against, or bet against, some jockeys, and stable boys.
He hurried to the front line as they announced the first race was beginning. He lifted Rosie up and they watched as the runners lined up.
He saw his horse right away, she was a big black beauty, coat gleaming in the afternoon sun, mane glistening, muscles rippling as she pranced, poised and ready to run. The gun went off, and she was a blur, running by them. Race cheered as she flew by, rounding the curve already.
"Well, well, well, now who do we got heah?" Race spun around, wincing involuntarily as he saw his old friend, Spot Conlon.
"Heyya, Spot." His friend did not smile back, and Race knew he was in trouble. He put Rosie down. She smiled at Spot and threw her arms around him. She got to see him even less than she did Jack.
"Hey little girl." Spot said, patting her on the back.
"Race let me bet! And our horse is gonna win!" she said. Spot smiled at her again.
"Why don'tcha watch da race, I gotta tawk ta yer brudda." She nodded and turned to her cousin, tugging on his arm as Spot grabbed Race by the front of his shirt and dragged him off into the crowd. Race saw his Uncle move to follow them, and then decide otherwise. Smart move, he thought, he could tell that Spot Conlon was not in a good mood.
He pulled him until he found an alley that was empty and shoved Race against the wall. Race was one of the only newsies who was smaller than the Brooklyn leader, and he probably could have easily taken him in a fight, but the boy's attitude made him hard to beat, and the loyalty of his boys was rivaled only by Jack's.
Spot glared at his friend whom he had known since the age of four, when they had run into each other on the street and Race had taken him home to met his mother. Race looked at him, confusion and fear in his eyes. Spot didn't like seeing his old friends look at him in fear, but it was necessary if he wanted to maintain his position.
"Whudda ya tink youse pullin', Race?" he asked, pushing Race against the brick wall hard. Race shrugged.
"Whudda ya tawkin' about, Spot?"
"Ya know what I'se tawkin' about, Race. Leavin' da newsies!" he hissed. Race shrugged again, refusing to meet Spot's eyes.
"I ain't left, Spot. I still sell." He said, glancing up at him. Spot let him go and sighed. Race adjusted his shirt and glanced at the racetracks, wondering if the race was over.
"Dat ain't what I hoid." Race glared at him now, annoyed with his friend. Spot may be the leader of Brooklyn, but he was still Race's friend.
"And what didya heah. Spot? Dat I toined me back on ya? Dat I don't want no part a bein' a newsie no moah? Dat I'se gonna be sumdin?" he yelled, glaring at his friend, his frustration and anger pushing it's way to the front of his mind, making him care little about who he was yelling at.
"And are ya?" Spot asked, his voice soft. Race shook his head.
"What does it madda? I'se still da same, no new clothes is gonna change me." Race insisted, pushing his cap back above his hairline, letting the warm breeze cool him down a bit. Spot folded his arms across his chest.
"How couldcha? I mean, youse was always da happiest a all a us, what wid whatcha were. I bet youse happy now, in yer fancy house, and yer fancy clothes. I bet youse real happy now." Race bit back the first reply that came to his mind, begging Spot to take him home.
"I'se happy." He said, and before Spot could say another word, Race turned and walked away, before his heart broke, before he had to lie again. He wandered back to the tracks just as Rosie ran up to him.
"She won! She won, we'se gots money now, Tony!" she wrapped her arms around her older brother and he picked her up, holding her tight.
"I love ya, kid. Ya know dat." He whispered. Rosie frowned and tightened her arms around her brother. He did not say those words often, and she knew that. She was used to it.
"I love ya too, Tony." She whispered back and held him tight as he shook, though no tears fell from his eyes. She knew they wouldn't. She knew he wouldn't let them.