To Sapphy: I'm from Iowa...the land of the corn. Yes, you can have Mouse as soon as I get done with the story. And Race always got stuck watching Les in the movie, so I thought he'd be good with Mouse. Thanks for the review!
Chapter Three
"Get up! Get up! Skittery! Boots! Bumlets! Come on, it's time to get up!" Kloppman stomped his way through the bunkroom, slapping playfully at the tired newsies and shouting especially loudly as he walked by my bunk. Eventually we all woke up, groggy and sleep-deprived by late-night poker games, as Racetrack and Snipeshooter had yet another battle over Racetrack's precious cigars.
"Hey, Jack, ya wanna come over here?' Crutchy called, staring at the bunk next to his own.
"Sure. Why?"
"Mouse won't wake up," Crutchy announced. I stumbled to the other side of the bunkroom where Mouse was lying, eyes tightly shut, oblivious to the chaos surrounding him.
"Mouse! Mouse! MOUSE!" I shouted, lowering my mouth close to his ear. Slowly, his eyes flickered open, and he sat up in bed, staring at the motley band of teenage boys that were the Manhattan newsies. To him, I'm sure, their loud laughter and arguments were as fearsome as the war whoops of a wild army, and, for a moment, I had doubts about how well he would survive on the bustling Manhattan streets. My uncertainties disappeared, however, when Mouse tossed off his covers, stood up, and walked bravely across the bunkroom and over the threshold of the washroom.
It was with this same resolute courage that Mouse followed the pack of singing, shouting newsies from the lodging house to the distribution center. When we reached the front of the line, I handed Mouse a dime and gave him a soft push forward. "Just ask the man for twenty papes," I instructed.
Mouse walked timidly up to Mr. Buresh's desk (Mr. Buresh replaced Weasel after the strike). Setting the dime on the counter, he held up all ten fingers once, then closed his hands into fists, then opened them wide again. Mr. Buresh chuckled and reached behind his desk, grabbing a stack of papers. "Twenty papes!" he announced, and Mouse beamed. He pulled the papes into his arms, almost toppling over from their weight, and staggered back to me.
"Good job, kid," I said with a smile, ruffling his hair with my hand and slapping a fifty-cent piece on the desk. "Hundred papes." I grabbed the stack, thanked Mr. Buresh, and led Mouse down the rickety wooden steps of the distribution office. Racetrack, David, and Les followed, Race toting fifty papes, David with a hundred, and Les brandishing his wooden sword. He never bought his own papes; he just helped David and me sell. I had thought about letting Mouse do that for Racetrack, but then realized that, unlike David and Les, Mouse and Race didn't have an unbreakable family bond, and that one day Racetrack would leave his life as a newsie and Mouse would be without a selling partner. It was better to start his career independent than to absorb the loss of a partner later in life.
"There's a good selling spot near here," Race commented, shading his eyes against the blazing summer sun, already climbing high in the Eastern sky. "I thought Mouse and I could go there."
"Sure," I agreed, already staring at the crowd, scouting out potential buyers. "Davey and Les and I will probably head for the wrestling area. There's usually a good crowd there." With these words, the five of us split into two groups and headed off to our respective selling spots, Racetrack already imparting vital newsie information to Mouse, such as how to improve headlines and avoid the bulls.
It seemed like they were getting off to a great start, so you can imagine my shock when, a few hours later, Racetrack came sprinting into the wrestling area, almost knocking over a number of my customers and a nearby food vendor.
"What's you hurry, Race?" I asked. As an afterthought, I added. "Where's Mouse?"
Racetrack took a deep breath, his face red from exertion. "He's gone, Jack," he said, his voice filled with panic and dismay. "He sold nineteen of his papes real fast---you know how people buy from cute little kids---and then he was selling his last pape to some rich lady, and I turned around for just a second, and he was gone! I spent half an hour looking for him, and then I thought that maybe he tried to find you, so I ran over here. You haven't seen him, have ya?"
I shook my head miserably, picturing myself telling Crutchy and the other Manhattan newsies that we had lost their new "little brother".
"Maybe we should tell Denton," David suggested. "He could put an ad or something in The Sun for us."
"Yeah," I said, brightening slightly at his suggestion. "Good idea, Davey. I'll take Les and Race and keep looking, and you can go tell Denton now. The faster this gets in the papes, the better. We'll meet back at Tibby's in," I paused to check my pocket watch, "two hours."
Two hours later, Racetrack, Les, and I dragged ourselves into Tibby's, breathless after trekking around Manhattan, shouting for the lost newsie. David was already sitting at a table, talking with Brian Denton.
"Hello, Jack," Denton greeted me, giving a small wave. He was hunched over a pad of paper, pen in hand. "Can you describe Mouse for me?" he asked.
"Sure," I said. "Short, skinny, dark hair, dark eyes, real quiet."
"All right," Denton said, furiously scribbling on his pad of paper. "And when was he lost?"
"About 10:00 this morning," Racetrack answered. "I just turned around for two seconds, and he was gone."
"Okay." Denton finished writing and placed the pen and paper back in the pocket of his suit jacket. "I can guarantee that this'll be in the paper by tomorrow morning. Good luck finding him."
A/N: Only one chapter to go! Review, review, review!
Chapter Three
"Get up! Get up! Skittery! Boots! Bumlets! Come on, it's time to get up!" Kloppman stomped his way through the bunkroom, slapping playfully at the tired newsies and shouting especially loudly as he walked by my bunk. Eventually we all woke up, groggy and sleep-deprived by late-night poker games, as Racetrack and Snipeshooter had yet another battle over Racetrack's precious cigars.
"Hey, Jack, ya wanna come over here?' Crutchy called, staring at the bunk next to his own.
"Sure. Why?"
"Mouse won't wake up," Crutchy announced. I stumbled to the other side of the bunkroom where Mouse was lying, eyes tightly shut, oblivious to the chaos surrounding him.
"Mouse! Mouse! MOUSE!" I shouted, lowering my mouth close to his ear. Slowly, his eyes flickered open, and he sat up in bed, staring at the motley band of teenage boys that were the Manhattan newsies. To him, I'm sure, their loud laughter and arguments were as fearsome as the war whoops of a wild army, and, for a moment, I had doubts about how well he would survive on the bustling Manhattan streets. My uncertainties disappeared, however, when Mouse tossed off his covers, stood up, and walked bravely across the bunkroom and over the threshold of the washroom.
It was with this same resolute courage that Mouse followed the pack of singing, shouting newsies from the lodging house to the distribution center. When we reached the front of the line, I handed Mouse a dime and gave him a soft push forward. "Just ask the man for twenty papes," I instructed.
Mouse walked timidly up to Mr. Buresh's desk (Mr. Buresh replaced Weasel after the strike). Setting the dime on the counter, he held up all ten fingers once, then closed his hands into fists, then opened them wide again. Mr. Buresh chuckled and reached behind his desk, grabbing a stack of papers. "Twenty papes!" he announced, and Mouse beamed. He pulled the papes into his arms, almost toppling over from their weight, and staggered back to me.
"Good job, kid," I said with a smile, ruffling his hair with my hand and slapping a fifty-cent piece on the desk. "Hundred papes." I grabbed the stack, thanked Mr. Buresh, and led Mouse down the rickety wooden steps of the distribution office. Racetrack, David, and Les followed, Race toting fifty papes, David with a hundred, and Les brandishing his wooden sword. He never bought his own papes; he just helped David and me sell. I had thought about letting Mouse do that for Racetrack, but then realized that, unlike David and Les, Mouse and Race didn't have an unbreakable family bond, and that one day Racetrack would leave his life as a newsie and Mouse would be without a selling partner. It was better to start his career independent than to absorb the loss of a partner later in life.
"There's a good selling spot near here," Race commented, shading his eyes against the blazing summer sun, already climbing high in the Eastern sky. "I thought Mouse and I could go there."
"Sure," I agreed, already staring at the crowd, scouting out potential buyers. "Davey and Les and I will probably head for the wrestling area. There's usually a good crowd there." With these words, the five of us split into two groups and headed off to our respective selling spots, Racetrack already imparting vital newsie information to Mouse, such as how to improve headlines and avoid the bulls.
It seemed like they were getting off to a great start, so you can imagine my shock when, a few hours later, Racetrack came sprinting into the wrestling area, almost knocking over a number of my customers and a nearby food vendor.
"What's you hurry, Race?" I asked. As an afterthought, I added. "Where's Mouse?"
Racetrack took a deep breath, his face red from exertion. "He's gone, Jack," he said, his voice filled with panic and dismay. "He sold nineteen of his papes real fast---you know how people buy from cute little kids---and then he was selling his last pape to some rich lady, and I turned around for just a second, and he was gone! I spent half an hour looking for him, and then I thought that maybe he tried to find you, so I ran over here. You haven't seen him, have ya?"
I shook my head miserably, picturing myself telling Crutchy and the other Manhattan newsies that we had lost their new "little brother".
"Maybe we should tell Denton," David suggested. "He could put an ad or something in The Sun for us."
"Yeah," I said, brightening slightly at his suggestion. "Good idea, Davey. I'll take Les and Race and keep looking, and you can go tell Denton now. The faster this gets in the papes, the better. We'll meet back at Tibby's in," I paused to check my pocket watch, "two hours."
Two hours later, Racetrack, Les, and I dragged ourselves into Tibby's, breathless after trekking around Manhattan, shouting for the lost newsie. David was already sitting at a table, talking with Brian Denton.
"Hello, Jack," Denton greeted me, giving a small wave. He was hunched over a pad of paper, pen in hand. "Can you describe Mouse for me?" he asked.
"Sure," I said. "Short, skinny, dark hair, dark eyes, real quiet."
"All right," Denton said, furiously scribbling on his pad of paper. "And when was he lost?"
"About 10:00 this morning," Racetrack answered. "I just turned around for two seconds, and he was gone."
"Okay." Denton finished writing and placed the pen and paper back in the pocket of his suit jacket. "I can guarantee that this'll be in the paper by tomorrow morning. Good luck finding him."
A/N: Only one chapter to go! Review, review, review!