DISCLAIMER: Crying beans! I don't own any of the characters from Newsies!
Seriously, now. Is this necessary? Obviously I don't! In any case, they
belong to that place called Disney that likes to ruin movies by making
sequels for them. : ) Anywho, the 52 other characters in this story are
MINE! And yes, I said 52. And then, Dimples owns herself. ^_^
A.N. Thanks for the reviews! Concerning Mute, Spot never said he was a newsboy. True most of the Brooky's in the lodging house make their living peddling papers, but some have little jobs on the side as well. Let's just imagine Mute's a shoe-shiner or a potato-peeler at Tibby's, or the kid who cleans the lodging house just as Spot once did. ^_^ w00t w00t! 2 more chapters after this and we're done! Mucho thanks to all of ya'll who've read!
*~*~*~*~THE BROOKLYN BOYS~*~*~*~*
52 Newsies, 1 Lodging House, Countless Stories
I wouldn't be surprised if this entry turned out to be quite lengthy, for every Brooky is a troublemaker at heart and it would take volumes of narration to tell you about every prank ever pulled in my notorious borough. And so, I'll save you the time and merely speak of the 'masterminds', those I hold responsible for the craziest nuisances I ever came across. No doubt Runner is the first to come to mind. I find myself mentioning him numerous times, but if you knew him as do I, you wouldn't fail to plug his name and deeds into every conversation you conducted.
In any case, Runner lived for mischief, and with his best friends Matches and Mason he made an unruly band of rogues. Matches and Mason were identical twins, this gift from nature the main basis of their jokes; they loved to fool people into thinking one was the other. I nearly broke from sanity with those two scurrying about like imps until I noticed a difference between them. Mason had a split between his two front teeth whereas his brother did not. From then on, they never deceived me again, much to their disappointment.
Matches was a pyromaniac obsessed with setting things aflame; you'd never accuse him of arson, however, for his wavy tresses and sparkling amethyst eyes deemed him a most unlikely suspect. He thrived on this defense and proceeded to wreak havoc whenever he could. Mason wasn't as infatuated as his brother with fire, but he did enjoy a good laugh now and then.
Then there was the other trio. Rascal, Hotdog, and Aleck might as well should have been born connected at the hip as inseparable as they were! They weren't related at all, but at first glance, you'd bet your bottom dollar that they were. They sold together, ate together, played games together; their friendship was indestructible. And unlike other groups of comrades, there really wasn't any leader among them, for each had a wit to match the other and each contributed to the whole's schemes as equally as the next.
Their greatest prank had been two weeks in the making, or so I'm told by Hotdog. Anyways, it was an ordinary evening at the lodging house with the elders staying up late in the main room and the younger Brooky's heading off upstairs for a good night's sleep. It was just past midnight when a blaring shriek pierced the air and set those of us lounging around on our feet immediately. We raced up the stairs three steps at a time and hastened down the main corridor.
Now because we're so great in number, our lodging house consists of two separate bunkrooms. Usually, boys under the age of thirteen sleep in the quarters to the right, while the ones over thirteen sleep to the left. Even so, we still keep the doors to both open so it really makes not a difference; I suppose the rules help with organization. Getting back on track, by the time I had reached both doorways, my boys came streaming out in their long-johns, yelling and scratching at themselves as if they were trying to shed off their skin.
I stood there befuddled, but still managed to laugh at the hilarity of it all. Soon after, the second room emptied out as well, the boys following the same suit. They scraped at their skin irritably, throwing themselves against the walls and onto the floor, practically pulling their hair out.
Runt and Blue were crying, their arms red with soreness. "Spot!" the latter whined. "There's...bed bugs!" At first I was skeptical, but when I entered one of the rooms to follow up on his claim, I saw the pestering little critters spread across the mattresses and floors like black confetti.
"Holy crap!" I ran out into the hallway, seized a broom from Mr. Scaparti's maintenance closet, and re-entered the quarters smashing the broom about as if it were a paddle. When I realized my attempts to rid the lodge of the bugs was futile, I retired to the main room where the others awaited my orders, still scratching away.
While I stood in thought, wondering what we could possibly do, I caught notice of Hotdog seated on a table without a worry on his face. Leaning on the wall beside him were Rascal and Aleck, and when I squinted my eyes through the dimness, I realized they were snickering! Also, unlike the rest their skin wasn't irritated.
Needless to say, they were rightfully punished; no eleven-year old boy considers dishwashing a water sport. Though Brooklyn has countless counterparts to Manhattan's Tibby's, we have a concept of money and choose most days to dine in our own place and devour home-cooked meals, courtesy of our lodge keeper. Rascal, Hotdog, and Aleck would have to clean up after us for seven tiring days.
The night of the bedbug incident, all fifty-two of us camped out on the docks to sleep after, of course, the majority had soaked themselves in the freezing water to soothe the bite pains. The next morning, Mr. Scaparti contacted a pest control agency, and the problem was taken care of by the time we came home from selling our second load of papers. Hotdog later told me that he and his companions had espied a trace of the bugs in a corner of the basement and rather than notifying someone immediately, they instead had decided to keep it a secret so that they could use the critters for the very prank they had successfully pulled. Sometimes I wonder why I haven't strangled these kids yet...
Then there's Con and Pirate. Con always presented himself in a high class fashion, wearing clothes that fit him well and were always clean. His short brown hair was every day neatly brushed, his face never dirty, and his boots never lacking in shine. At first I thought it his belief that appearance is what won a newsie customers while hawking headlines, but begot by my curiosity one day, I learned of the enigma that he truly was.
Although Con purchased twenty-five editions every morning, he wouldn't even begin selling them until late afternoon when all the business gents were making their way home. The other ten or so hours of his day, on the other hand, were spent elsewhere. Once, I had seen him sneak into a theatre and then come back out onto the streets dressed in a navy blue uniform. Then he would walk up to the lady in the box office, inform her that their manager- whose name I never caught-had bid her permission to withdraw from her duties early, and when she had gone would take up the selling of tickets from there!
You might be wondering how any sane woman could be fooled into believing that a young boy was told to relieve her from her work, but the theatre had been sponsoring an ongoing apprenticeship for future entrepreneurs in the arts, and so it is my assumption that the lady thought of Con as one such apprentice. Well, Con would work for hours and at the end of the day was actually benevolent enough to at least leave the theatre half of their earnings; the other half he pocketed.
I was so impressed by his fine methods that I never alerted him to my knowledge of it. Besides, it probably would only steal the fun from him if he knew his cover had been blown. His adventures were many and I won't delve into the stories of each, but on Christmas morning when our makeshift little tree was surrounded by loads of gift-wrapped boxes, each addressed to a certain Brooky, I didn't even have to think twice to know that Con had played Santa Clause this time around.
I caught up with him an hour later and saw that he hadn't even purchased a gift for himself. Filled with holiday cheer, I handed him my very own slingshot, hand-carved from maple wood with a skill I had inherited from my father as a child. This proved a mistake, though, for soon everyone was wanting a slingshot of their own and it wasn't long before every Brooky had learned how to carve the weapon from a simple tree branch. That winter, a few more of our windows shattered and everyone was always ready to duck down should a shooter zoom by their way in a deadly aim.
Pirate was an odd character that just made me wonder. Either this kid was constantly entertaining his imagination, or he seriously suffered from psychological problems. After meeting a newsie named Kid Blink from Manhattan, Pirate obtained a sudden infatuation with wearing eye patches, bandanas, and tying stuffed parrots to his shoulder. He would stumble over the words to books like 'Treasure Island' and then try to imitate his best buccaneer accent.
On occasion, he'd carry the act much too far. Living up to the great bandit legends he had read about, he took to stealing and lying. I probably wouldn't have cared as much if he had taken his treachery elsewhere, but when he started pilfering from our pockets, robbing us of the small change we had made during the day while we slept, I knew something had to be done.
None of the others were too pleased with being short of money when they shoved their hands into their pockets to retrieve payment for their papers, and when the idea that a thief was among us began to spread, I could sense dissension among us begin to grow. But as all crooks do, Pirate started to become clumsy in his work, and a mere three weeks later, I had caught him in the act. Such trouble he had caused me! And when he revealed to us that he had spent all our money gambling at the racetracks, we were enraged.
Comedy relief laid in the hands of two individuals who weren't troublemakers in as grave a sense as the others. They were Joker and Chance, close companions since their days in the orphanage. With roots in an Italian culture, Joker was always up for amusing audiences and was a master at card tricks. Chance, to put it in blunt dictation, wasn't. And so whenever he'd fumble a trick, he'd always ask the boys to give him another 'chance' in proving his sleight of hand.
Tired of childish games one day, they decided to host their own imaginary radio show, broadcasted live each Wednesday in the main room of our lodging house. They'd set up a table and chairs and read to the younger ones details about the news and such. Knowing their show was headed for boredom, then, they began integrating other things into their show. Before I knew it, Joker was suddenly a talk-show host with a live audience and guests who were battling real issues.
I remember the first 'episode' concerned Runner's belief that it was an injustice living in the same household as Maverick and Renegade-both of whom loved to torture those they thought inferior. But, oh how disarray followed when the two feared Brooky's had walked in earlier than expected only to hear others speaking curses against them. Runner fled out of that room as if hell was on his heels, and Joker stood at the head of his audience speechless. I was able to prevent a brawl that day and hoped that everyone had learned a lesson...what wishful thinking!
Chance had come up with a new proposal for the show which featured Scapegoat-oldest of all us Brooky's-teaching the boys how to stand up to bullies like Maverick and Renegade. He was indulging them with everything from great fighting moves to well thought out comebacks when a tap on his shoulder interrupted him. When he turned around, Maverick was in his face. Now you'd think something of this sort couldn't possibly occur twice, but it most certainly could and most certainly did.
The biggest in-house fight ever known to Brooklyn was encountered that day as a spirit of anarchy filled us all and moved us to fistfight with whoever happened to be next to us merely for the hell of it! You must excuse our ruffian proclivities, but events such as this just happened without warning most the time, and we desiring to better our resilience let the tides carry us. It wasn't in any form a practical joke, but by the end of the day, we were brothers once again laughing the affair over.
I remember one practical joke that wasn't humorous in any form whatsoever. The lovely Medda from Irving Hall was hosting an all out celebration for the newsies to commemorate the strike on its one year anniversary. Even those who hadn't been involved with the movement of 1899 were invited; hundreds of boys across the state showed up, as did a number of girls. Those too young to stay up so late were sent to Manhattan where an elderly man by the name of Kloppman would watch them.
It was an extraordinary night busting at the seams with laughter, merriment, drinks, and fellowship. A few poker games broke out, some of which I won, and we were even entertained with a cabaret show. It was all so very exhausting, and I didn't start the long walk back to Brooklyn until 2 in the morning. I was accompanied by some of my boys, though a good number of them had left earlier and probably were already asleep by the time I was crossing the Bridge.
My mind blasted, I decided I would do role call at dawn when I woke up everyone for the morning edition. It'd at least let me sleep some, and would also save me the trouble of having to deal with fifty-one newsies walking every which way around me. I'd already sent Scapegoat to pick up the half-pints from Manhattan, and so I really didn't have much to worry about.
Or so had been my thinking until blocks away from the docks I could already see monstrous flames engulfing the night sky, smoke looming about like a demon hungry for lives. My casual saunter became a desperate run as I dashed down the streets in a complete panic, praying that no one was hurt, but most of all, that the unlucky building was not the one that sheltered my boys.
My prayers had been denied. The Brooklyn lodging house was steadily being reduced to blackened wood, some sections of the edifice crumbling down and sliding into the river where it drifted off or sunk. I saw Runner up ahead and hurried up to him, pressing him inquiries about what had happened and whether everyone had gotten out safely.
He couldn't find the strength to answer me; in fact, he looked utterly petrified as if he thought I'd blame the matter on him! At the time, it hadn't dawned on me I had every reason to blame him. His face was pale, even his eyes taking on a pastel shade I had never seen and his gaping mouth produced not a single word.
A squad of firemen eventually came. By then I was surprisingly calm, but only because I had thrice taken a head count once Scapegoat had returned with the others and had reached fifty-two, counting myself, each time. The squad was able to save the dried out carcass of our home, which was in the end, better than nothing at all. The framework of doors and such were but bundles of splinters, the staircase collapsed in the middle, giving us no way to reach the second floor until days later, the keeper of our building- Mr. Scaparti- was able to obtain from the city several ladders.
There wasn't much to see on the second floor, though. Most of the bunks were only piles of ashes now and the floor was covered with rubbish and debris; it was a wonder it hadn't caved in as well! Months later, Mr. Scaparti would receive a loan from his bank which would enable him to have our place rebuilt, but the mystery as to how the fire had started would be kept secret...until Runner came up to me one day at Tibby's in all seriousness and asked to speak with me in private.
I excused myself from the table where I had been seated, dismayed that I would miss Jack Kelly's joke, but followed Runner to an empty booth near the back and followed suit when he had sat down.
"So, what's up?"
He diverted his gaze to the chalkboard menu placed on each table and then began playing with the salt shaker at his left. "Uhm, I wanted tah confess somethin' tah youse."
I smirked, fully expecting this to be a set-up. "It's okay, Runnah. Youse aint gotta say it. I know I'se da better Conlon." When he didn't laugh, or at least roll his eyes as he often did when I bragged, I knew something was really bothering him. I leaned in closer and lowered my voice. "You okay, kid?"
He locked his eyes on mine and spilled it all out in a jumble of words. "The day youse and the fellahs went tah see Medda and all, and I had stayed behind wid Matches and some of the others, well, we'se kinda did somethin' we shouldn't have. Ya see, we'se was darin' each other tah do different kinds of things, and when it came my turn tah dare someone I chose Matches. I dared 'im tah start a fire in the lodgin' house. It weren't suppose tah be a huge one, just a lil' one that we'd be able tah stop.
"Well, he took out one of them matches he's always carryin' around and started one up right there. We'se was in the bunkroom and didn't think it'd make a difference, but when he set a few papes on fire, the flames climbed onto the sheets of one of the beds. We freaked out and ran tah pump water from the washroom into a bucket. By the time we'se had come back tah the room, the fire was spreadin' tah the other beds. We tried to stop 'em by smacking boots and hats on 'em, but nothing was woikin'! The water would make 'em die down, but only for a few seconds.
"We kept tryin' and tryin' but we'se was beat from the foist, and when the room started gettin' too hot, we knew we had tah leave 'fore we'se was burned ourselves. I checked everywhere tah make shoah no kid had been left behind, and yelled at everyone in the main room tah get out 'cause the place was on fire. When I saw youse runnin' back from Medda's wid the others, I knew I was in for it, but I didn't wanna face ya, so I just made up a lie 'bout how we'se didn't know what had happened."
Jack's betrayal during the strike was nothing compared to this. Runner was my cousin, my own damn blood! Never would it have crossed my mind that he had been lying to me all this time, for it was a low act I never thought him capable of taking to. He went on apologizing, but I had discontinued paying attention; this was too much. I rose to my feet without a word and left him there to drown in the pool of his guilt. I just needed to get away from it all.
I've only taken my anger out on my boys less than ten times during my term as leader. Some of the other leaders don't believe in it, but being a Brooky, it's what I'm all about. Since there was still an hour left before the distribution centers would be selling the afternoon edition, I knew the majority of my boys would be hanging out at the docks, taking a relaxing swim in the river or engaging in card games around the piers.
In minutes, I located Matches and Mason, and striding up to them with that wolfish glare I had perfectly mastered, I closed the distance between us before they had time to scram. Together they jumped to their feet upon seeing me and hesitantly began to say something, but I didn't wait another moment. My clenched fist connected with Matches' cheekbone in one quick blow, his head snapping back violently as he crashed into a pile of crates. Temporarily forgetting Mason, I tackled down the first twin and holding him down with one hand, continuously struck him until his face was drenched with blood. Three boys had to hold me back or else I would have killed the damn scab!
When word got out that Matches had been the one behind destroying our home, I was no longer alone in hating him. Which brings me to remember my oldest delinquents: Maverick, Renegade, Tyrant, and Rebel. These weren't your typical problem-children; these young men were criminals with a passion to destroy. For the week that ensued unmasking Brooklyn's arsonist, this quartet chirped in my ear unceasingly about how I should kill Matches, send him to Harlem, or better yet shove him into the hands of Mr. Snyder at the House of Refuge.
Maverick and Tyrant especially pleaded with me, asking that I allow them to dispose of Matches' body in a way that wouldn't arouse suspicion. I was beginning to feel I had involved myself with the mafia! But they insisted even when I had denied them the pleasures of murder, and soon enough, they had most of Brooklyn backing them up.
A weak leader would have snapped under the pressure like a worthless twig incapable of encountering the heat of circumstances, but I was not in any aspect 'weak' and would not be swayed by the opinions of those who harbored malice-laden hearts. Surely it would take courage to stand up unembarrassed against dozens of Brooky's and proclaim that I, Spot Conlon, would not support any form of physical abuse towards Matches to justify his wrongdoings, but it would only be another lesson I'd be obliged to learn.
The others were frustrated by my straying away from cruelty, for I had reared them so harshly it had now become a way of life to get beaten whenever proven guilty of a matter. Yet I wouldn't falter in my pronouncement; I wouldn't let them tempt me into shaking fists when I knew peace would only come through shaking hands. Matches never left the lodging house unless he was in my company from then on, and numerous times had there been need for me to defend him.
Maverick was determined to have that boy's life, though I know not why for if ever there should be someone worthy of death, it was Maverick himself! He was older than me by a few months and a sheer terror to anyone whom he despised. He respected me, though, and so I really never worried much about him. But ever since I took Matches under my wing, I could already see the calculations of deceit in his eyes.
If I wasn't leader, I might have been able to afford fear into my days, but I had neither the time nor patience for such petty entities. Sometimes, I even felt as if I were reliving the times in which I was an outcast in Brooklyn, in which no one gave a damn about me. It seemed as if all my boys were against my say-so. The entirety of Runner's conversations with me consisted of apologies for not having been truthful to begin with, but I had already forgiven him the same day he had confessed.
Only time would unite Brooklyn again and while we waited for the emotional cuts to heal, I would have to remain courageous as I faced all opposition. It's not easy going against the grain as so, but for some people, it's the only thing they have left. When a group of boys dealt me scathing remarks, I would bark back with my own retort. When Maverick and his sickly company sent their crew to attack one of my still devoted loyalists, I was there to fight them off. One can't be a timid wallflower when hostility rises up against him; instead, you have to press on harder than before and prove to yourself no obstacle is great enough to keep you down.
Matches probably would have rather I simply send him to Manhattan or one of Brooklyn's other allies. It definitely would have saved me all the difficulties and riot. But I wouldn't have anything of the sort. Perhaps it was the pride refusing to succumb to Maverick's wishes, perhaps it was me wrapping about myself the garbs of total authority. However, I would be a fool to refute it also being the force of valor and gallantry taking form within me.
One mustn't quit when it seems as if all odds are against him. One mustn't leave his opponent in the boxing ring just because his adversary seems to have the advantage. What legend would I be leaving behind for future Brooky's if I submitted myself like a cowardly pup giving in to the alpha dog? How could I possibly paint glory on my mental self-portrait if I was too gutless to walk a battlefield? No, I would stand my ground and they would stand theirs, and eventually someone would give in. I made a vow that someone would not be me.
The silent war lasted a little over a month, having ended when Maverick grew weary of such nonsense and said to his minions he simply didn't care any longer what I decided to do to Matches. Breaking from his influence over time, they began to not care as well. Only then did I punish Matches, and only because I would be the one making the decision, not some immature street-rat who needed lackeys to get a point across.
I sincerely consider this lesson the most important to me, for it's something every leader stumbles upon eventually, and it's one that you either pass or fail. There have been presidents in the history of our nation who have declared war merely because they felt pressured by Pulitzer and Heart's articles and the opinion of the masses. I wouldn't be one such man. I would weigh out my options and choose that which appealed to me only because I was able to determine the matter with my own scale of right and wrong.
I didn't need to be persuaded by those I led, nor did I need to enact their wishes. Above all, I was the leader! I would always have the final say in all things! So I would remain strong, not easily pushed this way or that. I would decree orders because they were my own and never would I let anyone- no matter their class and occupation-chase away my courage with shallow threats.
~*~*~*~*~
Reviews please? ^_^ Thanks to all who have reviewed so far; I'm glad you all think this story is unique and interesting. By the way, if you have a fic finished or unfinished that you'd like to enter into my fanfic contest, leave your email address and request more info in your review. So far, I have 13 entries but I'd be glad to read more! ^_^
A.N. Thanks for the reviews! Concerning Mute, Spot never said he was a newsboy. True most of the Brooky's in the lodging house make their living peddling papers, but some have little jobs on the side as well. Let's just imagine Mute's a shoe-shiner or a potato-peeler at Tibby's, or the kid who cleans the lodging house just as Spot once did. ^_^ w00t w00t! 2 more chapters after this and we're done! Mucho thanks to all of ya'll who've read!
*~*~*~*~THE BROOKLYN BOYS~*~*~*~*
52 Newsies, 1 Lodging House, Countless Stories
I wouldn't be surprised if this entry turned out to be quite lengthy, for every Brooky is a troublemaker at heart and it would take volumes of narration to tell you about every prank ever pulled in my notorious borough. And so, I'll save you the time and merely speak of the 'masterminds', those I hold responsible for the craziest nuisances I ever came across. No doubt Runner is the first to come to mind. I find myself mentioning him numerous times, but if you knew him as do I, you wouldn't fail to plug his name and deeds into every conversation you conducted.
In any case, Runner lived for mischief, and with his best friends Matches and Mason he made an unruly band of rogues. Matches and Mason were identical twins, this gift from nature the main basis of their jokes; they loved to fool people into thinking one was the other. I nearly broke from sanity with those two scurrying about like imps until I noticed a difference between them. Mason had a split between his two front teeth whereas his brother did not. From then on, they never deceived me again, much to their disappointment.
Matches was a pyromaniac obsessed with setting things aflame; you'd never accuse him of arson, however, for his wavy tresses and sparkling amethyst eyes deemed him a most unlikely suspect. He thrived on this defense and proceeded to wreak havoc whenever he could. Mason wasn't as infatuated as his brother with fire, but he did enjoy a good laugh now and then.
Then there was the other trio. Rascal, Hotdog, and Aleck might as well should have been born connected at the hip as inseparable as they were! They weren't related at all, but at first glance, you'd bet your bottom dollar that they were. They sold together, ate together, played games together; their friendship was indestructible. And unlike other groups of comrades, there really wasn't any leader among them, for each had a wit to match the other and each contributed to the whole's schemes as equally as the next.
Their greatest prank had been two weeks in the making, or so I'm told by Hotdog. Anyways, it was an ordinary evening at the lodging house with the elders staying up late in the main room and the younger Brooky's heading off upstairs for a good night's sleep. It was just past midnight when a blaring shriek pierced the air and set those of us lounging around on our feet immediately. We raced up the stairs three steps at a time and hastened down the main corridor.
Now because we're so great in number, our lodging house consists of two separate bunkrooms. Usually, boys under the age of thirteen sleep in the quarters to the right, while the ones over thirteen sleep to the left. Even so, we still keep the doors to both open so it really makes not a difference; I suppose the rules help with organization. Getting back on track, by the time I had reached both doorways, my boys came streaming out in their long-johns, yelling and scratching at themselves as if they were trying to shed off their skin.
I stood there befuddled, but still managed to laugh at the hilarity of it all. Soon after, the second room emptied out as well, the boys following the same suit. They scraped at their skin irritably, throwing themselves against the walls and onto the floor, practically pulling their hair out.
Runt and Blue were crying, their arms red with soreness. "Spot!" the latter whined. "There's...bed bugs!" At first I was skeptical, but when I entered one of the rooms to follow up on his claim, I saw the pestering little critters spread across the mattresses and floors like black confetti.
"Holy crap!" I ran out into the hallway, seized a broom from Mr. Scaparti's maintenance closet, and re-entered the quarters smashing the broom about as if it were a paddle. When I realized my attempts to rid the lodge of the bugs was futile, I retired to the main room where the others awaited my orders, still scratching away.
While I stood in thought, wondering what we could possibly do, I caught notice of Hotdog seated on a table without a worry on his face. Leaning on the wall beside him were Rascal and Aleck, and when I squinted my eyes through the dimness, I realized they were snickering! Also, unlike the rest their skin wasn't irritated.
Needless to say, they were rightfully punished; no eleven-year old boy considers dishwashing a water sport. Though Brooklyn has countless counterparts to Manhattan's Tibby's, we have a concept of money and choose most days to dine in our own place and devour home-cooked meals, courtesy of our lodge keeper. Rascal, Hotdog, and Aleck would have to clean up after us for seven tiring days.
The night of the bedbug incident, all fifty-two of us camped out on the docks to sleep after, of course, the majority had soaked themselves in the freezing water to soothe the bite pains. The next morning, Mr. Scaparti contacted a pest control agency, and the problem was taken care of by the time we came home from selling our second load of papers. Hotdog later told me that he and his companions had espied a trace of the bugs in a corner of the basement and rather than notifying someone immediately, they instead had decided to keep it a secret so that they could use the critters for the very prank they had successfully pulled. Sometimes I wonder why I haven't strangled these kids yet...
Then there's Con and Pirate. Con always presented himself in a high class fashion, wearing clothes that fit him well and were always clean. His short brown hair was every day neatly brushed, his face never dirty, and his boots never lacking in shine. At first I thought it his belief that appearance is what won a newsie customers while hawking headlines, but begot by my curiosity one day, I learned of the enigma that he truly was.
Although Con purchased twenty-five editions every morning, he wouldn't even begin selling them until late afternoon when all the business gents were making their way home. The other ten or so hours of his day, on the other hand, were spent elsewhere. Once, I had seen him sneak into a theatre and then come back out onto the streets dressed in a navy blue uniform. Then he would walk up to the lady in the box office, inform her that their manager- whose name I never caught-had bid her permission to withdraw from her duties early, and when she had gone would take up the selling of tickets from there!
You might be wondering how any sane woman could be fooled into believing that a young boy was told to relieve her from her work, but the theatre had been sponsoring an ongoing apprenticeship for future entrepreneurs in the arts, and so it is my assumption that the lady thought of Con as one such apprentice. Well, Con would work for hours and at the end of the day was actually benevolent enough to at least leave the theatre half of their earnings; the other half he pocketed.
I was so impressed by his fine methods that I never alerted him to my knowledge of it. Besides, it probably would only steal the fun from him if he knew his cover had been blown. His adventures were many and I won't delve into the stories of each, but on Christmas morning when our makeshift little tree was surrounded by loads of gift-wrapped boxes, each addressed to a certain Brooky, I didn't even have to think twice to know that Con had played Santa Clause this time around.
I caught up with him an hour later and saw that he hadn't even purchased a gift for himself. Filled with holiday cheer, I handed him my very own slingshot, hand-carved from maple wood with a skill I had inherited from my father as a child. This proved a mistake, though, for soon everyone was wanting a slingshot of their own and it wasn't long before every Brooky had learned how to carve the weapon from a simple tree branch. That winter, a few more of our windows shattered and everyone was always ready to duck down should a shooter zoom by their way in a deadly aim.
Pirate was an odd character that just made me wonder. Either this kid was constantly entertaining his imagination, or he seriously suffered from psychological problems. After meeting a newsie named Kid Blink from Manhattan, Pirate obtained a sudden infatuation with wearing eye patches, bandanas, and tying stuffed parrots to his shoulder. He would stumble over the words to books like 'Treasure Island' and then try to imitate his best buccaneer accent.
On occasion, he'd carry the act much too far. Living up to the great bandit legends he had read about, he took to stealing and lying. I probably wouldn't have cared as much if he had taken his treachery elsewhere, but when he started pilfering from our pockets, robbing us of the small change we had made during the day while we slept, I knew something had to be done.
None of the others were too pleased with being short of money when they shoved their hands into their pockets to retrieve payment for their papers, and when the idea that a thief was among us began to spread, I could sense dissension among us begin to grow. But as all crooks do, Pirate started to become clumsy in his work, and a mere three weeks later, I had caught him in the act. Such trouble he had caused me! And when he revealed to us that he had spent all our money gambling at the racetracks, we were enraged.
Comedy relief laid in the hands of two individuals who weren't troublemakers in as grave a sense as the others. They were Joker and Chance, close companions since their days in the orphanage. With roots in an Italian culture, Joker was always up for amusing audiences and was a master at card tricks. Chance, to put it in blunt dictation, wasn't. And so whenever he'd fumble a trick, he'd always ask the boys to give him another 'chance' in proving his sleight of hand.
Tired of childish games one day, they decided to host their own imaginary radio show, broadcasted live each Wednesday in the main room of our lodging house. They'd set up a table and chairs and read to the younger ones details about the news and such. Knowing their show was headed for boredom, then, they began integrating other things into their show. Before I knew it, Joker was suddenly a talk-show host with a live audience and guests who were battling real issues.
I remember the first 'episode' concerned Runner's belief that it was an injustice living in the same household as Maverick and Renegade-both of whom loved to torture those they thought inferior. But, oh how disarray followed when the two feared Brooky's had walked in earlier than expected only to hear others speaking curses against them. Runner fled out of that room as if hell was on his heels, and Joker stood at the head of his audience speechless. I was able to prevent a brawl that day and hoped that everyone had learned a lesson...what wishful thinking!
Chance had come up with a new proposal for the show which featured Scapegoat-oldest of all us Brooky's-teaching the boys how to stand up to bullies like Maverick and Renegade. He was indulging them with everything from great fighting moves to well thought out comebacks when a tap on his shoulder interrupted him. When he turned around, Maverick was in his face. Now you'd think something of this sort couldn't possibly occur twice, but it most certainly could and most certainly did.
The biggest in-house fight ever known to Brooklyn was encountered that day as a spirit of anarchy filled us all and moved us to fistfight with whoever happened to be next to us merely for the hell of it! You must excuse our ruffian proclivities, but events such as this just happened without warning most the time, and we desiring to better our resilience let the tides carry us. It wasn't in any form a practical joke, but by the end of the day, we were brothers once again laughing the affair over.
I remember one practical joke that wasn't humorous in any form whatsoever. The lovely Medda from Irving Hall was hosting an all out celebration for the newsies to commemorate the strike on its one year anniversary. Even those who hadn't been involved with the movement of 1899 were invited; hundreds of boys across the state showed up, as did a number of girls. Those too young to stay up so late were sent to Manhattan where an elderly man by the name of Kloppman would watch them.
It was an extraordinary night busting at the seams with laughter, merriment, drinks, and fellowship. A few poker games broke out, some of which I won, and we were even entertained with a cabaret show. It was all so very exhausting, and I didn't start the long walk back to Brooklyn until 2 in the morning. I was accompanied by some of my boys, though a good number of them had left earlier and probably were already asleep by the time I was crossing the Bridge.
My mind blasted, I decided I would do role call at dawn when I woke up everyone for the morning edition. It'd at least let me sleep some, and would also save me the trouble of having to deal with fifty-one newsies walking every which way around me. I'd already sent Scapegoat to pick up the half-pints from Manhattan, and so I really didn't have much to worry about.
Or so had been my thinking until blocks away from the docks I could already see monstrous flames engulfing the night sky, smoke looming about like a demon hungry for lives. My casual saunter became a desperate run as I dashed down the streets in a complete panic, praying that no one was hurt, but most of all, that the unlucky building was not the one that sheltered my boys.
My prayers had been denied. The Brooklyn lodging house was steadily being reduced to blackened wood, some sections of the edifice crumbling down and sliding into the river where it drifted off or sunk. I saw Runner up ahead and hurried up to him, pressing him inquiries about what had happened and whether everyone had gotten out safely.
He couldn't find the strength to answer me; in fact, he looked utterly petrified as if he thought I'd blame the matter on him! At the time, it hadn't dawned on me I had every reason to blame him. His face was pale, even his eyes taking on a pastel shade I had never seen and his gaping mouth produced not a single word.
A squad of firemen eventually came. By then I was surprisingly calm, but only because I had thrice taken a head count once Scapegoat had returned with the others and had reached fifty-two, counting myself, each time. The squad was able to save the dried out carcass of our home, which was in the end, better than nothing at all. The framework of doors and such were but bundles of splinters, the staircase collapsed in the middle, giving us no way to reach the second floor until days later, the keeper of our building- Mr. Scaparti- was able to obtain from the city several ladders.
There wasn't much to see on the second floor, though. Most of the bunks were only piles of ashes now and the floor was covered with rubbish and debris; it was a wonder it hadn't caved in as well! Months later, Mr. Scaparti would receive a loan from his bank which would enable him to have our place rebuilt, but the mystery as to how the fire had started would be kept secret...until Runner came up to me one day at Tibby's in all seriousness and asked to speak with me in private.
I excused myself from the table where I had been seated, dismayed that I would miss Jack Kelly's joke, but followed Runner to an empty booth near the back and followed suit when he had sat down.
"So, what's up?"
He diverted his gaze to the chalkboard menu placed on each table and then began playing with the salt shaker at his left. "Uhm, I wanted tah confess somethin' tah youse."
I smirked, fully expecting this to be a set-up. "It's okay, Runnah. Youse aint gotta say it. I know I'se da better Conlon." When he didn't laugh, or at least roll his eyes as he often did when I bragged, I knew something was really bothering him. I leaned in closer and lowered my voice. "You okay, kid?"
He locked his eyes on mine and spilled it all out in a jumble of words. "The day youse and the fellahs went tah see Medda and all, and I had stayed behind wid Matches and some of the others, well, we'se kinda did somethin' we shouldn't have. Ya see, we'se was darin' each other tah do different kinds of things, and when it came my turn tah dare someone I chose Matches. I dared 'im tah start a fire in the lodgin' house. It weren't suppose tah be a huge one, just a lil' one that we'd be able tah stop.
"Well, he took out one of them matches he's always carryin' around and started one up right there. We'se was in the bunkroom and didn't think it'd make a difference, but when he set a few papes on fire, the flames climbed onto the sheets of one of the beds. We freaked out and ran tah pump water from the washroom into a bucket. By the time we'se had come back tah the room, the fire was spreadin' tah the other beds. We tried to stop 'em by smacking boots and hats on 'em, but nothing was woikin'! The water would make 'em die down, but only for a few seconds.
"We kept tryin' and tryin' but we'se was beat from the foist, and when the room started gettin' too hot, we knew we had tah leave 'fore we'se was burned ourselves. I checked everywhere tah make shoah no kid had been left behind, and yelled at everyone in the main room tah get out 'cause the place was on fire. When I saw youse runnin' back from Medda's wid the others, I knew I was in for it, but I didn't wanna face ya, so I just made up a lie 'bout how we'se didn't know what had happened."
Jack's betrayal during the strike was nothing compared to this. Runner was my cousin, my own damn blood! Never would it have crossed my mind that he had been lying to me all this time, for it was a low act I never thought him capable of taking to. He went on apologizing, but I had discontinued paying attention; this was too much. I rose to my feet without a word and left him there to drown in the pool of his guilt. I just needed to get away from it all.
I've only taken my anger out on my boys less than ten times during my term as leader. Some of the other leaders don't believe in it, but being a Brooky, it's what I'm all about. Since there was still an hour left before the distribution centers would be selling the afternoon edition, I knew the majority of my boys would be hanging out at the docks, taking a relaxing swim in the river or engaging in card games around the piers.
In minutes, I located Matches and Mason, and striding up to them with that wolfish glare I had perfectly mastered, I closed the distance between us before they had time to scram. Together they jumped to their feet upon seeing me and hesitantly began to say something, but I didn't wait another moment. My clenched fist connected with Matches' cheekbone in one quick blow, his head snapping back violently as he crashed into a pile of crates. Temporarily forgetting Mason, I tackled down the first twin and holding him down with one hand, continuously struck him until his face was drenched with blood. Three boys had to hold me back or else I would have killed the damn scab!
When word got out that Matches had been the one behind destroying our home, I was no longer alone in hating him. Which brings me to remember my oldest delinquents: Maverick, Renegade, Tyrant, and Rebel. These weren't your typical problem-children; these young men were criminals with a passion to destroy. For the week that ensued unmasking Brooklyn's arsonist, this quartet chirped in my ear unceasingly about how I should kill Matches, send him to Harlem, or better yet shove him into the hands of Mr. Snyder at the House of Refuge.
Maverick and Tyrant especially pleaded with me, asking that I allow them to dispose of Matches' body in a way that wouldn't arouse suspicion. I was beginning to feel I had involved myself with the mafia! But they insisted even when I had denied them the pleasures of murder, and soon enough, they had most of Brooklyn backing them up.
A weak leader would have snapped under the pressure like a worthless twig incapable of encountering the heat of circumstances, but I was not in any aspect 'weak' and would not be swayed by the opinions of those who harbored malice-laden hearts. Surely it would take courage to stand up unembarrassed against dozens of Brooky's and proclaim that I, Spot Conlon, would not support any form of physical abuse towards Matches to justify his wrongdoings, but it would only be another lesson I'd be obliged to learn.
The others were frustrated by my straying away from cruelty, for I had reared them so harshly it had now become a way of life to get beaten whenever proven guilty of a matter. Yet I wouldn't falter in my pronouncement; I wouldn't let them tempt me into shaking fists when I knew peace would only come through shaking hands. Matches never left the lodging house unless he was in my company from then on, and numerous times had there been need for me to defend him.
Maverick was determined to have that boy's life, though I know not why for if ever there should be someone worthy of death, it was Maverick himself! He was older than me by a few months and a sheer terror to anyone whom he despised. He respected me, though, and so I really never worried much about him. But ever since I took Matches under my wing, I could already see the calculations of deceit in his eyes.
If I wasn't leader, I might have been able to afford fear into my days, but I had neither the time nor patience for such petty entities. Sometimes, I even felt as if I were reliving the times in which I was an outcast in Brooklyn, in which no one gave a damn about me. It seemed as if all my boys were against my say-so. The entirety of Runner's conversations with me consisted of apologies for not having been truthful to begin with, but I had already forgiven him the same day he had confessed.
Only time would unite Brooklyn again and while we waited for the emotional cuts to heal, I would have to remain courageous as I faced all opposition. It's not easy going against the grain as so, but for some people, it's the only thing they have left. When a group of boys dealt me scathing remarks, I would bark back with my own retort. When Maverick and his sickly company sent their crew to attack one of my still devoted loyalists, I was there to fight them off. One can't be a timid wallflower when hostility rises up against him; instead, you have to press on harder than before and prove to yourself no obstacle is great enough to keep you down.
Matches probably would have rather I simply send him to Manhattan or one of Brooklyn's other allies. It definitely would have saved me all the difficulties and riot. But I wouldn't have anything of the sort. Perhaps it was the pride refusing to succumb to Maverick's wishes, perhaps it was me wrapping about myself the garbs of total authority. However, I would be a fool to refute it also being the force of valor and gallantry taking form within me.
One mustn't quit when it seems as if all odds are against him. One mustn't leave his opponent in the boxing ring just because his adversary seems to have the advantage. What legend would I be leaving behind for future Brooky's if I submitted myself like a cowardly pup giving in to the alpha dog? How could I possibly paint glory on my mental self-portrait if I was too gutless to walk a battlefield? No, I would stand my ground and they would stand theirs, and eventually someone would give in. I made a vow that someone would not be me.
The silent war lasted a little over a month, having ended when Maverick grew weary of such nonsense and said to his minions he simply didn't care any longer what I decided to do to Matches. Breaking from his influence over time, they began to not care as well. Only then did I punish Matches, and only because I would be the one making the decision, not some immature street-rat who needed lackeys to get a point across.
I sincerely consider this lesson the most important to me, for it's something every leader stumbles upon eventually, and it's one that you either pass or fail. There have been presidents in the history of our nation who have declared war merely because they felt pressured by Pulitzer and Heart's articles and the opinion of the masses. I wouldn't be one such man. I would weigh out my options and choose that which appealed to me only because I was able to determine the matter with my own scale of right and wrong.
I didn't need to be persuaded by those I led, nor did I need to enact their wishes. Above all, I was the leader! I would always have the final say in all things! So I would remain strong, not easily pushed this way or that. I would decree orders because they were my own and never would I let anyone- no matter their class and occupation-chase away my courage with shallow threats.
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