Late Last Night
ch. 3
"Hey Sargent, I think I may have found something." Officer Murphy carefully lifted the small book with the stained cover up to eye level, and examined it more closely.
"Well, what is it?" Sargent O'Connor asked, becoming impatient.
"It looks like a diary, or a journal of some kind." Murphy replied, handing it to his superior.
"Let me get this strait Officer Murphy," The Sargent began. "We are here investigating a brutal murder, and all you can come up with for evidence is a notebook!?"
"I thought that the boy who wrote this might have written about the murder. They might even know who did it." Murphy argued.
"Newsboys are a very shifty group of individuals Murphy. It is very likely that they do not tell each other everything. Especially if one of them was befriending a criminal."
"With your permission sir, I would like to read it anyway. Maybe it can give us some clue as to what happened late last night."
"Alright, your right. It may very well contain the evidence we need, but it will probably end up being a waste of time." The Sargent answered. "In a case with no witnesses, and very little physical evidence, I can't believe we're pinning our hopes on a dirty, dog-eared notebook. But in any case, it's all yours Murphy, start reading."
"Yes sir." Officer Murphy answered, carefully opening to the first page of the notebook. "It starts, May 21, 1900..."
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May 21, 1900
It feels weird, opening a notebook and finding it blank. I just got this thing for my
birthday today. Boots called it a diary, and I guess that's what it is. I doubt I'll ever write
much in this stupid book. My life isn't all that exciting, and it doesn't need to be
documented for future generations. What's the point of writing how my day went? I'd
just be writing the exact same thing everyday. I woke up this morning, I sold papers, just
like every other day, I ate, I went to sleep. See? Nothing exciting. Nothing spectacular.
I guess the only reason I'm even writing now, is to make Kloppman happy. After all, this
was his birthday present to me. I'm seventeen today. I can't really say that this will be the
only time I'll ever write. I might write again, if I can ever think of something interesting
which is worth the effort to write down. Until then, it's late, and I'd better get some sleep.
Morning comes early for the newsies of New York City, and I have to sell tomorrow.
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