After lunch with Jack, Racetrack went to Irving Hall. Some newsies
preferred to spend their afternoon at Irving instead of selling papes, so
Racetrack went in search of more poker players. Racetrack entered through
the Stage Entrance door to avoid paying an admission fee. Once backstage
he found several stagehands watching a very young girl sing. Racetrack had
not visited Irving Hall since the rally during the strike because, at that
time, Racetrack realized that Medda still had feelings for him. Race had
never seen this young thing perform before so he hovered backstage for the
remainder of her performance.
"She's lovely, isn't she?" A feminine voice whispered in Racetrack's ear.
Race turned to see Medda. "Medda!" Racetrack was surprised. He had hoped to avoid her. She looked older, but little had changed. She still did not use her fake Swedish accent with Race. With everyone else, Medda was willing to put on the pseudo-Swedish façade, but Racetrack knew Medda on a deeper level that went far beyond falsehoods.
"What do you think of her?" Medda asked, gesturing toward her daughter, Melody.
"She's nice, wheah did she come from?" Racetrack asked. Medda was standing awfully close to him and it made him sweat.
"She's my daughter, Racetrack. Our daughter." Medda's gaze never moved from Melody's movements onstage. "What!" Racetrack exclaimed in a hushed shout. Medda and Racetrack had had an affair two years before the strike but had ended their relationship after two months together. "Why didn't ya tell me? How? How old is she? Are ya shoah?" "I'm sure, Racetrack." Racetrack was breathing heavily and his head was spinning. He used all of his strength to keep from passing out. "What's 'er name?" he finally asked. "Melody." Was the simple reply. Just now Racetrack noticed Les standing in the wing opposite his own. "What's Les doin' heah?" He thought out loud. "He wants to date Melody." "What? Les wants to date my daughter. I need some air." Racetrack walked outside, forgetting his original mission. He sat on the ground with his back against the building. "Wanna buy a pape, sir?" "Go away, Denton!" Racetrack shouted, he was in no mood to deal with the crazy. Denton skipped away, "Bah duh dun, I'm the king of New York." A few moments later a frantic woman stooped in front of Racetrack and raised his chin with her palm. "Patrick?" She asked. "No, ma'am, I'm not Patrick." He responded tiredly. "Have you seen Patrick?" she asked. "No." The woman left then, wandering within her own world of insanity. "Patrick? Honey? Since you've gone I don't know what to do." She sang. Not a minute later Racetrack was being approached again. "Heya, Race." It was Crutchy. Crutchy was crossing the street toward Racetrack. "What ya up to, Ra-" but Crutchy's words were silenced by the sound of a carriage trampling a young crippled boy with a crutch. Feeling less dizzy now, Racetrack stood up and headed toward Greeley Square.
"She's lovely, isn't she?" A feminine voice whispered in Racetrack's ear.
Race turned to see Medda. "Medda!" Racetrack was surprised. He had hoped to avoid her. She looked older, but little had changed. She still did not use her fake Swedish accent with Race. With everyone else, Medda was willing to put on the pseudo-Swedish façade, but Racetrack knew Medda on a deeper level that went far beyond falsehoods.
"What do you think of her?" Medda asked, gesturing toward her daughter, Melody.
"She's nice, wheah did she come from?" Racetrack asked. Medda was standing awfully close to him and it made him sweat.
"She's my daughter, Racetrack. Our daughter." Medda's gaze never moved from Melody's movements onstage. "What!" Racetrack exclaimed in a hushed shout. Medda and Racetrack had had an affair two years before the strike but had ended their relationship after two months together. "Why didn't ya tell me? How? How old is she? Are ya shoah?" "I'm sure, Racetrack." Racetrack was breathing heavily and his head was spinning. He used all of his strength to keep from passing out. "What's 'er name?" he finally asked. "Melody." Was the simple reply. Just now Racetrack noticed Les standing in the wing opposite his own. "What's Les doin' heah?" He thought out loud. "He wants to date Melody." "What? Les wants to date my daughter. I need some air." Racetrack walked outside, forgetting his original mission. He sat on the ground with his back against the building. "Wanna buy a pape, sir?" "Go away, Denton!" Racetrack shouted, he was in no mood to deal with the crazy. Denton skipped away, "Bah duh dun, I'm the king of New York." A few moments later a frantic woman stooped in front of Racetrack and raised his chin with her palm. "Patrick?" She asked. "No, ma'am, I'm not Patrick." He responded tiredly. "Have you seen Patrick?" she asked. "No." The woman left then, wandering within her own world of insanity. "Patrick? Honey? Since you've gone I don't know what to do." She sang. Not a minute later Racetrack was being approached again. "Heya, Race." It was Crutchy. Crutchy was crossing the street toward Racetrack. "What ya up to, Ra-" but Crutchy's words were silenced by the sound of a carriage trampling a young crippled boy with a crutch. Feeling less dizzy now, Racetrack stood up and headed toward Greeley Square.