A/N: I already have this story completely written (yay!), and it's four chapters long. I know that's kind of short, but I wrote it when I stayed at my grandparents' house for a week because I was bored. Anyways, enjoy and review!
To Sapphy: Thanks for the review! I always thought it was weird that Spot wanted a tub with boiling water (Jack's the one with greasy hair), so I just had to work it into a story somewhere! :-) And I love Race too! Everyone should love Race! BTW, your accent is awesome---I live in the Midwest, so it reminds me of how people talk around here. Again, thanks for the review!
Chapter Two
The next day, just as we were all sitting down to our meager suppers of Cokes and cold sandwiches, Spot strolled into Tibby's with a small, dark-haired boy trailing behind him like a shadow. The boy continued to cower behind Spot as he approached my booth. David, Les, Boots, Crutchy, and I were all squished into it, discussing the "improvements" we'd made to the day's headlines. Nearby, Racetrack, Kid Blink, and Mush encircled a small table. They were already engrossed in a poker game, their suppers forgotten. Various other Manhattan newsies sat around the restaurant, eating, playing cards, or just enjoying a chance to talk to their friends and rest their sore feet. Spot dragged two chairs over to the booth, falling gracefully into one, much as a king would sprawl on top of his throne. Apprehensively, the child sat in the other one, sandwiched between Spot and myself.
Now that I saw the child in full light, I could understand why Spot had taken him off the streets and into the lodge. He was emaciated, skin clinging to his bones, inkblot eyes like dark sockets in his skeletal face. He had a shock of coarse black hair, uncombed and falling into his eyes. His terror was obvious; the boy sunk back into his chair, gripping the edges with white knuckles.
"Hey, I'm Jack Kelly," I said, trying to keep my voice soft and quiet, so as not to scare the poor kid. "What's your name?" The child's only response was a shrug---either that or he was trembling so violently that his shoulders shook.
"We've been calling him Mouse, 'cause he's as quiet as one," Spot volunteered.
"Okay," I agreed. "Mouse, this is David and Les Jacobs---they're my selling partners---Boots, and Crutchy."
"Heya, Mouse," Crutchy said cheerfully, "your bunk's right next to mine!" At this announcement, the faintest hint of a smile crept on to Mouse's face. Crutchy's cheerful demeanor must have eased some of the boy's anxiety.
"I'm gonna head back to Brooklyn now," Spot decided, standing and sliding his chair into its original home at a nearby table. "See you around, Mouse." With that, the King of Brooklyn sidled out of Tibby's, leaving us with a tense, trembling, five-year-old boy.
"So, Mouse, d'ya want something to eat?" I asked. The kid definitely needed to get some meat on his bones. At first, he nodded vehemently, but then the nods slowed to a reluctant shaking of his head. "Not enough money?" I guessed, careful to keep my voice low. Although all of us live in poverty, none like to admit that they can't afford a simple meal at Tibby's. "Don't worry, I'll pay," I assured him. "What do you want?" Mouse pointed to David's hamburger.
"Here, just have the rest of mine," David offered, sliding the plate across the table to Mouse. "I'm sure Mama will have something for me to eat at home." Mouse eagerly accepted the hamburger, taking a large bite and chewing happily. In only five bites, the hamburger was gone, followed by a large portion of David's Coke.
"You're one hungry kid," I said, chuckling at the child's enormous appetite. "Well, I'm going to take Mouse back to the lodge with me. Anyone else want to come?" I didn't expect any of the newsies to accept the offer, it being only 6:30 in the evening, too early even for David and Les to return home. To my surprise, Racetrack finished up his poker and followed Mouse and me out of Tibby's.
"So, Mouse, have you ever sold papes before?" Race asked as we strolled through the crowded Manhattan streets. Mouse shook his head "no", staring up at Race, who, compared to Mouse, looked like a giant. Gosh, even Spot had seemed big when he walked into the restaurant with Mouse behind him. "Well, I'm gonna teach you how tomorrow," Race said. He glanced at me over Mouse's head, hopefully mouthing the word "tracks." Now it was my turn to give a negative shake of the head. The last thing I needed was a penniless, gambling-addicted, five-year-old on my hands. "I suppose we can find somewhere near the distribution center to sell," Race muttered grudgingly.
The three of us reached the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House a few minutes later. "This is where you'll sleep," I explained to Mouse, leading him toward Kloppman's desk. "Every night, you have to sign in and pay five cents. I'll pay for you tonight," I added quickly, before Mouse could begin to worry about where tonight's fee would come from. "Can you sign your name?" I asked, and Mouse nodded happily. I opened Kloppman's battered leather ledger and handed Mouse a dull lead pencil. He stood on his tiptoes to reach the desk, where he printed his name in proud, albeit shaky, capitols: "MOUS". I added the last letter myself, then scribbled my own name under Mouse's and dropped two nickels into Kloppman's money box. Race led the way upstairs to the bunkroom, and I chose not to comment on the fact that he had neither signed in nor paid.
"Here's your bunk," Race said, pointing to the newly installed bunk bed. Snitch and I had rifled through the lodging house closets after lunch today, finally finding a pair of thin blankets and a few well-worn sheets. Snitch had gotten half, for he would now be using the new top bunk instead of sharing with Itey or whichever other newsies were sleeping deeply enough not to notice a gangly fifteen-year-old boy crawling into their bed. I had used the other blanket and the remainder of the sheets to make a bed for Mouse, and now he clambered on top of it eagerly. His hole-filled, oversized shoes still attached to his feet, Mouse slid under the blanket and closed his eyes. A few minutes later, soft snores filled the room.
"Well, now that the kid's asleep, d'ya wanna go back to Tibby's?" Race suggested.
"We can't leave him by himself!" I said adamantly. "What if he wakes up and no one's here?"
"All right," Race said resignedly, sinking onto his own bunk. Habitually, he reached for a cigar and lit it, then grabbed the pack of cards that could always be found on his bedside table. "Ya wanna play poker?"
To Sapphy: Thanks for the review! I always thought it was weird that Spot wanted a tub with boiling water (Jack's the one with greasy hair), so I just had to work it into a story somewhere! :-) And I love Race too! Everyone should love Race! BTW, your accent is awesome---I live in the Midwest, so it reminds me of how people talk around here. Again, thanks for the review!
Chapter Two
The next day, just as we were all sitting down to our meager suppers of Cokes and cold sandwiches, Spot strolled into Tibby's with a small, dark-haired boy trailing behind him like a shadow. The boy continued to cower behind Spot as he approached my booth. David, Les, Boots, Crutchy, and I were all squished into it, discussing the "improvements" we'd made to the day's headlines. Nearby, Racetrack, Kid Blink, and Mush encircled a small table. They were already engrossed in a poker game, their suppers forgotten. Various other Manhattan newsies sat around the restaurant, eating, playing cards, or just enjoying a chance to talk to their friends and rest their sore feet. Spot dragged two chairs over to the booth, falling gracefully into one, much as a king would sprawl on top of his throne. Apprehensively, the child sat in the other one, sandwiched between Spot and myself.
Now that I saw the child in full light, I could understand why Spot had taken him off the streets and into the lodge. He was emaciated, skin clinging to his bones, inkblot eyes like dark sockets in his skeletal face. He had a shock of coarse black hair, uncombed and falling into his eyes. His terror was obvious; the boy sunk back into his chair, gripping the edges with white knuckles.
"Hey, I'm Jack Kelly," I said, trying to keep my voice soft and quiet, so as not to scare the poor kid. "What's your name?" The child's only response was a shrug---either that or he was trembling so violently that his shoulders shook.
"We've been calling him Mouse, 'cause he's as quiet as one," Spot volunteered.
"Okay," I agreed. "Mouse, this is David and Les Jacobs---they're my selling partners---Boots, and Crutchy."
"Heya, Mouse," Crutchy said cheerfully, "your bunk's right next to mine!" At this announcement, the faintest hint of a smile crept on to Mouse's face. Crutchy's cheerful demeanor must have eased some of the boy's anxiety.
"I'm gonna head back to Brooklyn now," Spot decided, standing and sliding his chair into its original home at a nearby table. "See you around, Mouse." With that, the King of Brooklyn sidled out of Tibby's, leaving us with a tense, trembling, five-year-old boy.
"So, Mouse, d'ya want something to eat?" I asked. The kid definitely needed to get some meat on his bones. At first, he nodded vehemently, but then the nods slowed to a reluctant shaking of his head. "Not enough money?" I guessed, careful to keep my voice low. Although all of us live in poverty, none like to admit that they can't afford a simple meal at Tibby's. "Don't worry, I'll pay," I assured him. "What do you want?" Mouse pointed to David's hamburger.
"Here, just have the rest of mine," David offered, sliding the plate across the table to Mouse. "I'm sure Mama will have something for me to eat at home." Mouse eagerly accepted the hamburger, taking a large bite and chewing happily. In only five bites, the hamburger was gone, followed by a large portion of David's Coke.
"You're one hungry kid," I said, chuckling at the child's enormous appetite. "Well, I'm going to take Mouse back to the lodge with me. Anyone else want to come?" I didn't expect any of the newsies to accept the offer, it being only 6:30 in the evening, too early even for David and Les to return home. To my surprise, Racetrack finished up his poker and followed Mouse and me out of Tibby's.
"So, Mouse, have you ever sold papes before?" Race asked as we strolled through the crowded Manhattan streets. Mouse shook his head "no", staring up at Race, who, compared to Mouse, looked like a giant. Gosh, even Spot had seemed big when he walked into the restaurant with Mouse behind him. "Well, I'm gonna teach you how tomorrow," Race said. He glanced at me over Mouse's head, hopefully mouthing the word "tracks." Now it was my turn to give a negative shake of the head. The last thing I needed was a penniless, gambling-addicted, five-year-old on my hands. "I suppose we can find somewhere near the distribution center to sell," Race muttered grudgingly.
The three of us reached the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House a few minutes later. "This is where you'll sleep," I explained to Mouse, leading him toward Kloppman's desk. "Every night, you have to sign in and pay five cents. I'll pay for you tonight," I added quickly, before Mouse could begin to worry about where tonight's fee would come from. "Can you sign your name?" I asked, and Mouse nodded happily. I opened Kloppman's battered leather ledger and handed Mouse a dull lead pencil. He stood on his tiptoes to reach the desk, where he printed his name in proud, albeit shaky, capitols: "MOUS". I added the last letter myself, then scribbled my own name under Mouse's and dropped two nickels into Kloppman's money box. Race led the way upstairs to the bunkroom, and I chose not to comment on the fact that he had neither signed in nor paid.
"Here's your bunk," Race said, pointing to the newly installed bunk bed. Snitch and I had rifled through the lodging house closets after lunch today, finally finding a pair of thin blankets and a few well-worn sheets. Snitch had gotten half, for he would now be using the new top bunk instead of sharing with Itey or whichever other newsies were sleeping deeply enough not to notice a gangly fifteen-year-old boy crawling into their bed. I had used the other blanket and the remainder of the sheets to make a bed for Mouse, and now he clambered on top of it eagerly. His hole-filled, oversized shoes still attached to his feet, Mouse slid under the blanket and closed his eyes. A few minutes later, soft snores filled the room.
"Well, now that the kid's asleep, d'ya wanna go back to Tibby's?" Race suggested.
"We can't leave him by himself!" I said adamantly. "What if he wakes up and no one's here?"
"All right," Race said resignedly, sinking onto his own bunk. Habitually, he reached for a cigar and lit it, then grabbed the pack of cards that could always be found on his bedside table. "Ya wanna play poker?"