CHAPTER ONE
Summer--1899
"Ah, please, Warden, have a heart. Don't put me in dis dump!'
"Ah, get in there!" Warden Snyder growled as he shoved Racetrack Higgens into the small room.
Racetrack spun around in time to see the heavy door slam in his face. "Why you..."
Race sighed and slowly turned around. Every boy in the room was staring at him.
"What? Ain't 'cha nevah seen a poisin befoah?" Race asked.
That caused most of the gazes to be averted from him.
Race slowly made his way across the room and to the window barred with iron. He rested his forehead against the cool metal."Jack, please come and save me..."
Race's thoughts were interupted by someone asking, "Is you a new one?"
Race spun around. "Who asked?"
A daft looking boy, skinny as a rail, with bulging watery green eyes, puffy red hair, and protruding front teeth raised his hand. "I was da one dat askeded if you is a new one?"
"What, do I'se looks like a old one, ya fricking dumbass?" Race snapped, murmuring the last part under his breath.
The daft looking boy's watery eyes crossed, as trying to comprehend this question. Race rolled his eyes and shook his head, feeling very exasperated- -and also very tired. Today had been a very hectic day. It had started off well, though. He had sold his papes rather quickly and with the money sprang down to Sheepshed Races where he bet on some of the horses. But then he started giving out his own odds, and people were flocking to him. The management of Sheepshed Races din't quite approve of this and called the bulls to say that someone was illegally gambeling. In a flash, Racetrack Higgins was in the House of Refuge.
Race looked around for a spare bunk, but he really didn't want to be a bunkmate to any of the strange characters in this dump. Finally, he spotted a bunk that would have to do that was to the right to the window. A boy in a jet black clock was huddled in a corner on the top bunk, with the hood pulled over his indistinquishable face.
Race walked over to the bunk. "Hey. D'ya mind if I take da bottom bunk?"
There was no reply.
Race shrugged. "I guess dat mean no," he said, sliding into the lower bunk.
Once settled on the lumpy mattress, he fished his pockets to see what he carried. One cigar, one match, three cents, and a pack of cards was the tally. Racetrack considered playing a game of cards with the inhabitants of the room, but then thought against it.
Race lay there for what seemed like hours until someone cried, "Food!"
Race sat up to see bowls being distributed. When Racetrack got his, he realized just how hungry he was. He greedily took the wooden bowl and looked down, expecting to see a feast, but all he saw was a terribly unappetizing mixture of white and yellow mush.
"What is this shit?" Race cried, throwing the bowl against the wall. The bowl splintered but the mush stayed adhered to the wall. Not dripping, just stuck.
The daft boy looked incredulously at him. "How can you just waste the pretty gruel like that? Cook will be mad!"
Racetrack looked around the room as the other boys greedily gobbled up the gruel. He felt sick. He layed back down on the bunk, sleep overtaking him, as he realized how much he longed to be in the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House right now with the laughter of the other newsies echoing about him.
A hard shake woke Racetrack up from a deep, dreamless sleep.Still another shake to the shoulder made him roll over on his back. He let his eyes adjust and in the dim light saw the outline of a black cape.
"You!" he cried.
"Shhh!" the boy hissed.
"Whaddya want?" Race whispered.
"Whaddya have?" the boy asked.
"Whaddya mean whaddah I have?" Race asked.
"Whaddya have in ya pockets?"
"What's it to ya?"
"Whaddya have?" the boy hissed.
"Alright, alright!" Race grumbled. "I pack of cards, t'ree cents..."
"Is dat it?"
"No, dat ain't it, a match, a cigah..."
"A cigah?" the boy grunted.
"Yeah..." Race said warily.
"Give it ta me," the boy commanded.
"No way in hell am I givin' ya me last cigah..." Race cried.
"Is a cigah bettah dan freedom?" the boy asked, interrupting Racetrack.
"Freedom? How can ya give me freedom?"
"Give me ya cigah."
"Give me freedom!"
"No freedom if ya don't give da cigah."
"Alright, alright," Race grumbled, fishing for his last precious cigar. He handed it to the mysterious boy and he greedily snatched it. "Now freedom."
"The match, too."
"Fine, fine."
Race gave the boy the match. The boy then put the cigar between to his lips, struck the match, and cupped his hand over the cigar, lighting it. The embers cast a faint glow in the room.
Racetrack sat up. "I gave ya me last cigar now give me freedom."
"Alright," the boy simply said.
Race got off the bunk and watched as the cloaked boy crawled onto the top bunk and in a minute came down. Race followed him over to the barred window. "Ya kiddin' me, right? Dere's no way day we can escape from...here."
Race watched incredulously in the light of the red embers as the boy pulled out a screwdriver and undid the bars to the window except one. "Wow...now how d'ya 'spect us ta git down?"
Racetrack Higgens was once again astonished as the boy pulled out a line of bedsheets tied together. He tied one end to the lone bar and tossed the others out the window. He grabbed hold of the sheets and hoisted himself out the window and down the side of the window. The light of the cigar grew dimmer and dimmer in the dark night.
Racetrack took one last look the room. All the boys were sleeping, some snoring. He let out a sigh and followed the mysterious boy out the window.
Relief coursed through him as his feet touched the ground. He looked up at the House of Refuge. "G'bye Dump of Refuge!"
Racetrack suddenly realized that the boy that had gave him freedom was nowhere in sight. He never got to say thank you. "Hey! Hey! Where are ya? Where didja go?" Race yelled.
No reply.
"Where didja go, ya crazy bastard?" Race cried.
Racetrack finally realized his mistake, his voice had been too loud. He heard the guards of the House of Refuge start to stir. "Did you hear something, Ernie?"
"I don't know, Will. We should go see."
"Jesus Christ!" Race hissed, trying to find a place to hide. There were none in sight. And the guards were closing in on him.
Racetrack in a state of fear when he felt a strong hand clamp down on his shoulder.
"Ah, please, Warden, have a heart. Don't put me in dis dump!'
"Ah, get in there!" Warden Snyder growled as he shoved Racetrack Higgens into the small room.
Racetrack spun around in time to see the heavy door slam in his face. "Why you..."
Race sighed and slowly turned around. Every boy in the room was staring at him.
"What? Ain't 'cha nevah seen a poisin befoah?" Race asked.
That caused most of the gazes to be averted from him.
Race slowly made his way across the room and to the window barred with iron. He rested his forehead against the cool metal."Jack, please come and save me..."
Race's thoughts were interupted by someone asking, "Is you a new one?"
Race spun around. "Who asked?"
A daft looking boy, skinny as a rail, with bulging watery green eyes, puffy red hair, and protruding front teeth raised his hand. "I was da one dat askeded if you is a new one?"
"What, do I'se looks like a old one, ya fricking dumbass?" Race snapped, murmuring the last part under his breath.
The daft looking boy's watery eyes crossed, as trying to comprehend this question. Race rolled his eyes and shook his head, feeling very exasperated- -and also very tired. Today had been a very hectic day. It had started off well, though. He had sold his papes rather quickly and with the money sprang down to Sheepshed Races where he bet on some of the horses. But then he started giving out his own odds, and people were flocking to him. The management of Sheepshed Races din't quite approve of this and called the bulls to say that someone was illegally gambeling. In a flash, Racetrack Higgins was in the House of Refuge.
Race looked around for a spare bunk, but he really didn't want to be a bunkmate to any of the strange characters in this dump. Finally, he spotted a bunk that would have to do that was to the right to the window. A boy in a jet black clock was huddled in a corner on the top bunk, with the hood pulled over his indistinquishable face.
Race walked over to the bunk. "Hey. D'ya mind if I take da bottom bunk?"
There was no reply.
Race shrugged. "I guess dat mean no," he said, sliding into the lower bunk.
Once settled on the lumpy mattress, he fished his pockets to see what he carried. One cigar, one match, three cents, and a pack of cards was the tally. Racetrack considered playing a game of cards with the inhabitants of the room, but then thought against it.
Race lay there for what seemed like hours until someone cried, "Food!"
Race sat up to see bowls being distributed. When Racetrack got his, he realized just how hungry he was. He greedily took the wooden bowl and looked down, expecting to see a feast, but all he saw was a terribly unappetizing mixture of white and yellow mush.
"What is this shit?" Race cried, throwing the bowl against the wall. The bowl splintered but the mush stayed adhered to the wall. Not dripping, just stuck.
The daft boy looked incredulously at him. "How can you just waste the pretty gruel like that? Cook will be mad!"
Racetrack looked around the room as the other boys greedily gobbled up the gruel. He felt sick. He layed back down on the bunk, sleep overtaking him, as he realized how much he longed to be in the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House right now with the laughter of the other newsies echoing about him.
A hard shake woke Racetrack up from a deep, dreamless sleep.Still another shake to the shoulder made him roll over on his back. He let his eyes adjust and in the dim light saw the outline of a black cape.
"You!" he cried.
"Shhh!" the boy hissed.
"Whaddya want?" Race whispered.
"Whaddya have?" the boy asked.
"Whaddya mean whaddah I have?" Race asked.
"Whaddya have in ya pockets?"
"What's it to ya?"
"Whaddya have?" the boy hissed.
"Alright, alright!" Race grumbled. "I pack of cards, t'ree cents..."
"Is dat it?"
"No, dat ain't it, a match, a cigah..."
"A cigah?" the boy grunted.
"Yeah..." Race said warily.
"Give it ta me," the boy commanded.
"No way in hell am I givin' ya me last cigah..." Race cried.
"Is a cigah bettah dan freedom?" the boy asked, interrupting Racetrack.
"Freedom? How can ya give me freedom?"
"Give me ya cigah."
"Give me freedom!"
"No freedom if ya don't give da cigah."
"Alright, alright," Race grumbled, fishing for his last precious cigar. He handed it to the mysterious boy and he greedily snatched it. "Now freedom."
"The match, too."
"Fine, fine."
Race gave the boy the match. The boy then put the cigar between to his lips, struck the match, and cupped his hand over the cigar, lighting it. The embers cast a faint glow in the room.
Racetrack sat up. "I gave ya me last cigar now give me freedom."
"Alright," the boy simply said.
Race got off the bunk and watched as the cloaked boy crawled onto the top bunk and in a minute came down. Race followed him over to the barred window. "Ya kiddin' me, right? Dere's no way day we can escape from...here."
Race watched incredulously in the light of the red embers as the boy pulled out a screwdriver and undid the bars to the window except one. "Wow...now how d'ya 'spect us ta git down?"
Racetrack Higgens was once again astonished as the boy pulled out a line of bedsheets tied together. He tied one end to the lone bar and tossed the others out the window. He grabbed hold of the sheets and hoisted himself out the window and down the side of the window. The light of the cigar grew dimmer and dimmer in the dark night.
Racetrack took one last look the room. All the boys were sleeping, some snoring. He let out a sigh and followed the mysterious boy out the window.
Relief coursed through him as his feet touched the ground. He looked up at the House of Refuge. "G'bye Dump of Refuge!"
Racetrack suddenly realized that the boy that had gave him freedom was nowhere in sight. He never got to say thank you. "Hey! Hey! Where are ya? Where didja go?" Race yelled.
No reply.
"Where didja go, ya crazy bastard?" Race cried.
Racetrack finally realized his mistake, his voice had been too loud. He heard the guards of the House of Refuge start to stir. "Did you hear something, Ernie?"
"I don't know, Will. We should go see."
"Jesus Christ!" Race hissed, trying to find a place to hide. There were none in sight. And the guards were closing in on him.
Racetrack in a state of fear when he felt a strong hand clamp down on his shoulder.