Disclaimer: All of the original newsies belong to Disney, and the chapter quotes are from the poem "If---" which belongs to Rudyard Kipling and was copied out of Read-Aloud Poems for Young People. I own Leprechaun, Sweetheart, Sketch, Demon, Refugee, Pepper, Jungle, Trickster, Newsprint, Sparrow, Switchblade, James McLaws, and Benjamin "Bricks" Saunders. Ruby and Ketchy's is an actual diner near Morgantown, West Virginia.
A/N: Sorry it took so long for me to update. School has started, so I should be getting back into the routine of posting every week or two. Reviews might speed up the process... *hint, hint*
To Morning Dew: Thanks for the review! Here's more...
"And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'"
Jungle was the first to arrive at the Manhattan Newsgirls Lodging House. With Spot slung over his shoulder, he climbed the stairs to the empty bunkroom and gently placed the unconscious Brooklyn leader on a bed. Only seconds later, he heard footsteps, the sounds of Trickster climbing up the stairs, Leprechaun cradled in his arms, her eyes closed peacefully.
"She was still at Ruby and Ketchy's," Trickster explained. "I think she's all right---just tired. And she does have a few bruises." He laid Lep on the bed next to Spot, and then sat down on another bunk, facing Jungle. "I'll stay here and watch them," he volunteered. "Maybe you could look for Pepper and Jack. They might know where we can find a doctor who doesn't charge too much."
Jungle nodded silently and climbed down the lodging house stairs two at a time. A rival of Manhattan's infamous Swifty, he could race across Manhattan in half the time it would take Trickster or any other average newsie.
Jungle strolled out of the lodge and began jogging down Duane Street. At the corner, he turned onto another street and started to speed up his pace slightly, staring at the crowds and hoping for a glimpse of a familiar newsie. After two nights in Manhattan, Jungle had gleaned a vague idea of the Manhattanites' selling spots, but he was still unsure of the leaders' exact locations.
Today, luck was with him. After only a few minutes of running up and down New York's bustling avenues, Jungle found Pepper and Switchblade selling afternoon editions to the businessmen streaming out of a large brick building.
"Pepper!" he shouted, his voice filled with urgency. She quickly handed a paper to an impatient older gentleman, then hurried over to Jungle.
"Is something wrong?" she asked, her brow creasing with worry. Switchblade followed quickly, like a bodyguard at the female leader's side.
"Yeah. Spot and Lep got beat up. They're at the lodge."
"Will they need a doctor?" Pepper asked.
"Prob'ly," Jungle affirmed.
"Go up to 47th Street," Pepper directed. "There's a small doctor's office there. Ask for James McLaws; he's an apprentice. Just tell him we need help at the lodge, and he'll come." Jungle nodded and took off, heading north.
"Give me your papes, Pepper," Switchblade offered. "I'll sell them for you." Pepper nodded and murmured a thank-you as she handed a small stack of papers to Switchblade and began a hurried walk to the lodging house.
The situation in the lodging house was much the same as when Jungle had left. Trickster was sitting on a bunk, staring glumly at Spot, who had almost bled through Jungle's makeshift bandage, and Lep, whose eyes fluttered occasionally, although she continued to sleep. Trickster stood when he heard footsteps on the stairs, and he gave a small smile when Pepper appeared in the bunkroom.
"How are they?" she asked. Trickster shrugged. He was not a doctor; all he knew was that Spot was most likely worse off than Leprechaun was. As Pepper walked across the room to the space between Lep and Spot's bunks, Lep's eyes fluttered again, this time staying open.
"Pepper?" she muttered groggily.
"Lep!" Pepper exclaimed. "Are you all right?"
"I think so," Lep said. "Just tired. And my leg hurts some." Pepper gently pulled the covers back, exposing Lep's legs. The right half of her trousers was torn away at the knee, displaying a marble-sized indigo bruise.
"I don't think that's anything serious," Pepper comforted Lep. "James McLaws is coming. When he gets here, we'll have him look it over." Apprentice McLaws, who charged next to nothing as he was not yet a doctor, had been called on multiple times by the Manhattan newsies to deal with scrapes, stomach ailments, and the occasional broken bone.
Turning away from Leprechaun, Pepper crouched next to Spot's bed, examining the cut on his leg as well as she could without lifting the bandage. She could hear footsteps on the stairs, and prayed that Jungle had found McLaws.
At least for now, Pepper's prayers were answered. James McLaws, a short, dark-haired man in his mid-twenties, walked briskly into the bunkroom, carrying a small, black leather bag.
He cast a critical eye over the two bedridden newsies. "Who's worse?" he asked.
"Spot," Pepper replied, indicating her unconscious boyfriend. McLaws crouched next to her and carefully lifted the bandage from Spot's leg. The formerly off-white fabric was now russet-colored, caked with dried blood and soaked from the liquid that continued to stream from Spot's wound.
"He's lost a lot of blood," McLaws mumbled nervously, cleaning the injury with a soft cloth and covering it with a new bandage. "How long has he been unconscious?"
"A little more than an hour," Trickster answered. "It took a while to get him here from Brooklyn."
"Well, that and the bleeding seem to be the biggest problems," McLaws said, standing and facing Pepper. "You can clean up his face yourself; it looks like he might have had a nosebleed. Hopefully, the cut on his leg will stop bleeding soon. If it doesn't, he'll need surgery, and you'll have to get an actual doctor to do that. But the most important thing is that he wakes up within twenty-four hours. If he doesn't, well...there's not much we can do." Pepper nodded resignedly, and McLaws turned to examine the bruise on Leprechaun's leg.
Later that evening, Racetrack returned from a long day at the tracks, still unaware of the harm done to his newest enemy and former girlfriend.
"Hey, Race, did you hear about Spot?" Mush asked, his face creased in an anxious frown.
"Nah. What happened?" Race asked nonchalantly.
"Him and Lep got beat up. McLaws said Lep was okay, but Spot hasn't woken up yet. Jack and Pepper are sitting with him. They won't let any of us go over to the girls' lodge."
Race bit his lip. An unconscious newsie wasn't a good thing. Without proper medical care, many never woke up. Slowly, he followed Mush into the boys' lodging house and started a half-hearted game of poker.
A few hours later, most of the newsies were asleep in their bunks, yet Race just couldn't keep his mind off of Spot. True to what Mush had told him, Pepper and Jack had moved Spot to a spare room in the girls' lodge, and then religiously guarded the doors, keeping all unnecessary newsies (namely, the boys) out.
Without warning, Race's mind drifted back to a day in late winter almost ten years ago, a day when snow slushed along Manhattan's streets, its former pristine whiteness now a dull, muddy brown. Most of the young boys in his neighborhood had been outside that day, enjoying the first warm breezes of the year, but Racetrack, then known as Anthony, had been inside a small, stuffy room, perched on a stiff wooden chair, holding his mother's hand tightly in his own. He remembered watching her breathe: the slow, labored rising of her chest as she inhaled, followed by the sigh of air leaving her body. Inhale, exhale...inhale, exhale...inhale, exhale...exhale...exhale... He had screamed as she died, as people pulled his hands from her body, as they told him that it was over, that he could let go, that she was gone. And, in that instant of remembering, Racetrack knew that he couldn't let that happen to Spot. He couldn't live with knowing that, sometime during the night, Spot had taken his final breath. No matter how much he hated Spot, they had been friends once, and Race couldn't lose Spot as he had lost his mother.
Race glanced around the lodging house at the newsies, all in various stages of slumber. Jack had returned around eleven o'clock, only half an hour earlier, but he was already sound asleep, exhausted by a day filled with hard work and worry. Cautiously, Race crept across the bunkroom and down the lodging house stairs, hugging the banister to keep the rickety floorboards from squeaking. As soon as he had passed Kloppman's office and stepped out into the cool, nighttime breeze, he began to sprint, racing past building and across alleyways, trying not to think of the terrors that could be lurking only a few feet away.
Breathless, Racetrack reached the girls' lodge and slunk up the stairs to their bunkroom. In the back corner, a tall, dark-haired figure hunched over a bunk, holding Spot's unmoving hand. Race walked over to them and found a seat next to Pepper. His experiences of ten years past meant he knew what to do: sit, wait, and pray that Spot never stopped breathing.
A/N: Sorry it took so long for me to update. School has started, so I should be getting back into the routine of posting every week or two. Reviews might speed up the process... *hint, hint*
To Morning Dew: Thanks for the review! Here's more...
"And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'"
Jungle was the first to arrive at the Manhattan Newsgirls Lodging House. With Spot slung over his shoulder, he climbed the stairs to the empty bunkroom and gently placed the unconscious Brooklyn leader on a bed. Only seconds later, he heard footsteps, the sounds of Trickster climbing up the stairs, Leprechaun cradled in his arms, her eyes closed peacefully.
"She was still at Ruby and Ketchy's," Trickster explained. "I think she's all right---just tired. And she does have a few bruises." He laid Lep on the bed next to Spot, and then sat down on another bunk, facing Jungle. "I'll stay here and watch them," he volunteered. "Maybe you could look for Pepper and Jack. They might know where we can find a doctor who doesn't charge too much."
Jungle nodded silently and climbed down the lodging house stairs two at a time. A rival of Manhattan's infamous Swifty, he could race across Manhattan in half the time it would take Trickster or any other average newsie.
Jungle strolled out of the lodge and began jogging down Duane Street. At the corner, he turned onto another street and started to speed up his pace slightly, staring at the crowds and hoping for a glimpse of a familiar newsie. After two nights in Manhattan, Jungle had gleaned a vague idea of the Manhattanites' selling spots, but he was still unsure of the leaders' exact locations.
Today, luck was with him. After only a few minutes of running up and down New York's bustling avenues, Jungle found Pepper and Switchblade selling afternoon editions to the businessmen streaming out of a large brick building.
"Pepper!" he shouted, his voice filled with urgency. She quickly handed a paper to an impatient older gentleman, then hurried over to Jungle.
"Is something wrong?" she asked, her brow creasing with worry. Switchblade followed quickly, like a bodyguard at the female leader's side.
"Yeah. Spot and Lep got beat up. They're at the lodge."
"Will they need a doctor?" Pepper asked.
"Prob'ly," Jungle affirmed.
"Go up to 47th Street," Pepper directed. "There's a small doctor's office there. Ask for James McLaws; he's an apprentice. Just tell him we need help at the lodge, and he'll come." Jungle nodded and took off, heading north.
"Give me your papes, Pepper," Switchblade offered. "I'll sell them for you." Pepper nodded and murmured a thank-you as she handed a small stack of papers to Switchblade and began a hurried walk to the lodging house.
The situation in the lodging house was much the same as when Jungle had left. Trickster was sitting on a bunk, staring glumly at Spot, who had almost bled through Jungle's makeshift bandage, and Lep, whose eyes fluttered occasionally, although she continued to sleep. Trickster stood when he heard footsteps on the stairs, and he gave a small smile when Pepper appeared in the bunkroom.
"How are they?" she asked. Trickster shrugged. He was not a doctor; all he knew was that Spot was most likely worse off than Leprechaun was. As Pepper walked across the room to the space between Lep and Spot's bunks, Lep's eyes fluttered again, this time staying open.
"Pepper?" she muttered groggily.
"Lep!" Pepper exclaimed. "Are you all right?"
"I think so," Lep said. "Just tired. And my leg hurts some." Pepper gently pulled the covers back, exposing Lep's legs. The right half of her trousers was torn away at the knee, displaying a marble-sized indigo bruise.
"I don't think that's anything serious," Pepper comforted Lep. "James McLaws is coming. When he gets here, we'll have him look it over." Apprentice McLaws, who charged next to nothing as he was not yet a doctor, had been called on multiple times by the Manhattan newsies to deal with scrapes, stomach ailments, and the occasional broken bone.
Turning away from Leprechaun, Pepper crouched next to Spot's bed, examining the cut on his leg as well as she could without lifting the bandage. She could hear footsteps on the stairs, and prayed that Jungle had found McLaws.
At least for now, Pepper's prayers were answered. James McLaws, a short, dark-haired man in his mid-twenties, walked briskly into the bunkroom, carrying a small, black leather bag.
He cast a critical eye over the two bedridden newsies. "Who's worse?" he asked.
"Spot," Pepper replied, indicating her unconscious boyfriend. McLaws crouched next to her and carefully lifted the bandage from Spot's leg. The formerly off-white fabric was now russet-colored, caked with dried blood and soaked from the liquid that continued to stream from Spot's wound.
"He's lost a lot of blood," McLaws mumbled nervously, cleaning the injury with a soft cloth and covering it with a new bandage. "How long has he been unconscious?"
"A little more than an hour," Trickster answered. "It took a while to get him here from Brooklyn."
"Well, that and the bleeding seem to be the biggest problems," McLaws said, standing and facing Pepper. "You can clean up his face yourself; it looks like he might have had a nosebleed. Hopefully, the cut on his leg will stop bleeding soon. If it doesn't, he'll need surgery, and you'll have to get an actual doctor to do that. But the most important thing is that he wakes up within twenty-four hours. If he doesn't, well...there's not much we can do." Pepper nodded resignedly, and McLaws turned to examine the bruise on Leprechaun's leg.
Later that evening, Racetrack returned from a long day at the tracks, still unaware of the harm done to his newest enemy and former girlfriend.
"Hey, Race, did you hear about Spot?" Mush asked, his face creased in an anxious frown.
"Nah. What happened?" Race asked nonchalantly.
"Him and Lep got beat up. McLaws said Lep was okay, but Spot hasn't woken up yet. Jack and Pepper are sitting with him. They won't let any of us go over to the girls' lodge."
Race bit his lip. An unconscious newsie wasn't a good thing. Without proper medical care, many never woke up. Slowly, he followed Mush into the boys' lodging house and started a half-hearted game of poker.
A few hours later, most of the newsies were asleep in their bunks, yet Race just couldn't keep his mind off of Spot. True to what Mush had told him, Pepper and Jack had moved Spot to a spare room in the girls' lodge, and then religiously guarded the doors, keeping all unnecessary newsies (namely, the boys) out.
Without warning, Race's mind drifted back to a day in late winter almost ten years ago, a day when snow slushed along Manhattan's streets, its former pristine whiteness now a dull, muddy brown. Most of the young boys in his neighborhood had been outside that day, enjoying the first warm breezes of the year, but Racetrack, then known as Anthony, had been inside a small, stuffy room, perched on a stiff wooden chair, holding his mother's hand tightly in his own. He remembered watching her breathe: the slow, labored rising of her chest as she inhaled, followed by the sigh of air leaving her body. Inhale, exhale...inhale, exhale...inhale, exhale...exhale...exhale... He had screamed as she died, as people pulled his hands from her body, as they told him that it was over, that he could let go, that she was gone. And, in that instant of remembering, Racetrack knew that he couldn't let that happen to Spot. He couldn't live with knowing that, sometime during the night, Spot had taken his final breath. No matter how much he hated Spot, they had been friends once, and Race couldn't lose Spot as he had lost his mother.
Race glanced around the lodging house at the newsies, all in various stages of slumber. Jack had returned around eleven o'clock, only half an hour earlier, but he was already sound asleep, exhausted by a day filled with hard work and worry. Cautiously, Race crept across the bunkroom and down the lodging house stairs, hugging the banister to keep the rickety floorboards from squeaking. As soon as he had passed Kloppman's office and stepped out into the cool, nighttime breeze, he began to sprint, racing past building and across alleyways, trying not to think of the terrors that could be lurking only a few feet away.
Breathless, Racetrack reached the girls' lodge and slunk up the stairs to their bunkroom. In the back corner, a tall, dark-haired figure hunched over a bunk, holding Spot's unmoving hand. Race walked over to them and found a seat next to Pepper. His experiences of ten years past meant he knew what to do: sit, wait, and pray that Spot never stopped breathing.