August 8, 1899, 6:00 A.M.
"Get up, boys! Up, up, up! C'mon now! The ink's wet an' the presses are rollin'! Wake up! Get out there an' carry the banna'! Sell the papes, sell the papes!"
Secret's eyes popped open as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on her. What da...? Then a flood of memory came back. Casino...Flick won a pokah game...Racetrack Higgins...Manhattan...Flick soaked da leadah... Secret swore softly. Flick soaked da leadah! Someone remind me again why I hang around wit dis goil.
'Cause she's yer best friend, her conscience replied. An' ta keep 'er from gettin ha'self killed.
"Hey, Cowboy, what happened? Youse boys ain't been fightin' again? Or was it those Delancey rogues?"
Ah, da owna o' da lodgin' house. Lovely. Now we's in fer it, Secret predicted silently.
Meanwhile, while the other boys, moaning and whining, dragged themselves out of their bunks and headed to the washroom, Jack answered Kloppman's question. "Nah, I jist fell down an' got a bruise. It's nuttin'." (Saved, thought Secret in relief, by masculine pride.) "But, uh, Kloppman, we 'ad a couple o' su'prises show up heah las' night an' announce dat dey was gonna stay an' sell papes 'round heah."
"I noticed the new signatures in the registration book," Kloppman replied. "Flick an' Secret, huh? These kids' names get strangeh all the time. So where're these newcomas, Cowboy?"
Jack grinned eagerly and pointed at Flick and Secret's bunk. Kloppman followed his gaze and raised his eyebrows when he saw the sheet. He began to stride over to the bunk. Hearing his footsteps, Secret sighed. May as well get it oveh wit. She leaned forward and peered timidly around the sheet.
There was the expected shocked pause, and then the old man gasped. To Secret's amazement, he began to laugh, a deep, scratchy, friendly laugh. "So, Cowboy," he called in the direction of the washroom, into which Jack had disappeared along with the other boys, "ya got yerselves a couple o' newsgoils!" He grinned at Secret and winked. "An' which one might you be, m'deah?"
Secret decided she liked Kloppman. "I'se Secret, sir. Flick up dere is still asleep," she explained, motioning toward the top bunk. "I wouldn't bodda tryin' ta wake 'er if I was you. She's a real 'eavy sleepa. At our old lodgin' house, I useta dump watah on 'er or roll 'er outta bed, but now da boys are all in da washroom, so I can't get watah, an' she's in a top bunk heah."
Kloppman laughed again. "Well, welcome ta the lodgin' house, Secret...an' tell Flick I said the same to 'er, if ya eveh manage ta wake 'er. Don't dazzle my boys too much, or they won't get any papers sold." With another wink at the unamused Secret, he left the bunkroom, whistling to himself.
Jack came out of the washroom, glaring at Kloppman's retreating back; he'd been sure the old man would throw the girls out. Wanting revenge, he marched over to the girls' bunk, brushed the sheet aside, grasped the frame of the bed, and hauled himself up so he was level with the top bunk.
Face smooth and pale, rather than flushed in anger, eyes closed, with the blanket pulled up to her chin and her dazzling red hair fanned out on the pillow, Flick looked a lot less intimidating when she was asleep. Leaning over her ear, Cowboy shouted at the top of his lungs, "WAKE UP, YA LOUSY LIDDLE SCABBA!!!"
Secret leaned against the wall by the washroom door, waiting for all the boys to get out, and making a mental note to get herself and Flick in first from now on. She ignored Jack's noisy attempt to wake Flick, knowing it was hopeless. Sure enough, the girl didn't even twitch. Stunned, Jack hopped down off the bunk and rounded on Secret. "What is she, some kinda mutant?!"
Secret's frosty eyes narrowed, but before she could reply, a wave of boys came pouring out of the washroom. She saw that Racetrack was among them, flanked by the blonde boy with the patch over his left eye who she remembered from last night, and a cinnamon-skinned kid with curly brown hair. He blushed when he saw Secret, and the boy with the patch smiled, but Racetrack's attention was on Flick.
"Hey, Blink, two bits says I can wake 'er up, whadda ya say?"
"Deal," Blink agreed, grinning.
He betta win, Secret realized as the two boys spat in their palms and shook on it. He ain't got two bits. Lost it all ta Flick las' night.
Race brushed past the sheet and scrambled up to the top bunk as Cowboy had, but didn't scream in Flick's ear. Instead, he removed the cigar from his mouth and held the glowing tip a millimeter from her face.
"Hey, Sleepin' Beauty, I t'ink I smell smoke!" he hollered.
A quarter of a second later, Race had leapt down off the bed to land on his feet, staggering before he steadied himself, and just in time; Flick sat bolt upright in bed, and her fist shot out in a blur, connecting with the exact location Race had just vacated. Either the heat of the cigar or the taunt had done the trick.
"Liddle kids wit big mouths ain't got long life lines," Flick shouted after him as he snatched from midair a quarter palmed to him by Blink, and disappeared out the door of the lodging house. Flick then silenced the laughter of the newsboys crowded around the bed with a wild wave of her fist. She vaulted down from the bunk and probably would have run out of the lodging house in her nightgown and soaked Race within an inch of his life if the other newsies hasn't distracted her with introductions.
"Mornin', Flick, Secret. I'se Kid Blink. Dis heah's Mush Myers, and da bum dat jist ran off is Racetrack Higgins. Race, get back heah, 'less ya wanna sell by yaself t'day!"
"Pie Eata, an' dat oveh dere's Bumlets. 'E's too shy ta introduce 'imself."
"Am not!"
"Da glum-lookin' guy in da pink shoit is Skittery..."
"My name's Swifty. Fastest newsie in New Yawk..."
"I'se Jake," announced a strange-looking kid in overalls and a bright red vest.
"Crutchy Morris. Pleased ta meet youse," said, unsurprisingly, the boy with the crutch, grinning at Flick and Secret.
"Snoddy," another volunteered. "Wheah're da rug rats?"
"We's right heah, an' we ain't rug rats," piped up an indignant little kid with curly brown hair, puffing on a cigar that Flick was willing to bet he'd stolen from Racetrack. "I'se Snipeshoota," he informed Flick and Secret, "an' dese guys," he turned to a gaggle of little kids gathered around him, "are Boots, Tumbla, Slida, Shadow, an' Odds." Boots, a young black boy, spitshook with Flick and Secret, and Tumbler and Slider grinned cheerfully; Shadow, a shy black-haired kid, looked at the floor. Odds nodded a greeting. Flick noticed that he closely resembled Snipeshooter, and guessed they were probably brothers.
"I'se called Snaps," laughed a black boy who looked about Flick and Secret's age, "'cause I'se known ta snap my fingas in my sleep. Lessee...da one suckin' 'is thumb...well, not anymoah, now 'e's glarin' at me...is Snitch."
"An' dis's Itey," Snitch added, snatching the hat of the boy standing next to him, who proceeded to chase him out of the lodging house, shouting protests.
"My name's Specs," a black-haired boy with glasses told them with a smile, "an' dat guy tearin' da drawer apart is Dutchy."
The blonde Dutchy finally pulled a pair of glasses out of the drawer and jammed them onto his nose, glaring at Specs; Flick supposed that Specs had hidden them there.
"A'right, ev'ryone, I t'ink dey get da pitcha. If yer not at da distribution centa by da time da bell rings, I 'ave a feelin' Trout ain't givin' ya any papes," Jack announced. He was scowling; he hadn't expected his boys to be so friendly to the girls, one of whom had given their leader a huge shiner just last night, and he wasn't at all happy about it. At his words, the newsies let out various exclamations of dismay and crowded around the door, and Jack wormed his way to the front and led them out. Flick and Secret glanced at each other, shook their heads, and dashed into the washroom. There they hurriedly dressed, splashed water on their faces, and headed out of the lodging house to catch up with the boys and follow them to Newspaper Row.
The square was already teaming with Manhattan newsies who lived at home rather than in the lodging house, plus Snitch, Itey, and Racetrack. Snitch and Itey were climbing around on the statue of Horace Greeley while Race sat on its base, smoking a cigar as always, and playing Solitaire with his worn deck of cards. While the other newsies swarmed around the square, talking, laughing, and mock-fighting, Flick and Secret perched together on the opposite side of the statue base from Racetrack. To Flick's intense annoyance, however, they were quickly surrounded by newsboys wanting to talk about the events of the previous night, as well as everything else under the sun. The news of Flick's punching Jack had spread like wildfire; Flick wondered idly if Jack would find out who had gossiped and punish the offender. Though the endless streams of questions were all met with stony silence, Flick formed answers in her mind.
Wouldn't they please tell where they were from? No. How long had they been selling papes? A lot longa den all o' youse...ten yeahs, as if ya really care. Why had they left their last borough? Ya don't wanna know. How long would they be staying in Manhattan? Not long, I hope ta God. Did Secret have a fella? Da foist one o' youse dat volunteers ta fill da position gets a broken arm. Where the he** had Flick learned to fight? It ain't wheah, it's when. If you'd been frequentin' da streets since ya was four, ya'd o' picked up a few tricks too. Were Flick and Secret going to sell together? (Flick did give a curt nod to this query.) Why, WHY, did Flick dress like a boy? (This was brought up again and again.) I'd like ta see all o' youse try sellin' papes in dresses. Ask Secret an' I promise she'll tell ya it's no picnic. Besides, fer da las' time, I ain't dressed as a boy, I'se dressed as a newsie. And, most common of all, even asked by some of the newsies who lived in the lodging house, as if they hadn't been able to believe their own eyes: Had Flick REALLY punched Jack Kelly and gotten away with it!?!? Yeah, an' I'll punch youse too if ya don't shuddup.
Finally, Flick couldn't take it anymore. Secret, noticing the fire in her eyes a moment before the explosion, shook her head adamently, but Flick ignored her best friend. Leaping to her feet so suddenly that the closest boys jumped back, she bellowed at the top of her lungs, "All o' youse shuddup an' leave us alone!!!"
At this startling outburst, and the sight of her flashing eyes and threatening fists, the newsies fled, tripping over each other in their haste to get away from the statue and the psychotic newsgirl. At that moment, a loud clanging reverberated through the air: the distribution bell.
"T'ank God," Flick exclaimed, extending a hand to Secret.
"Dat was completely unnecessary, y'know," Secret pointed out sternly, letting Flick help her up and following her toward the distribution window. "We's already got da leadeh against us afta ya went an' soaked 'im last night, an' now da rest o' dem are gonna hate us too, or at least be afraid o' us."
"Who cares what dey t'ink?" Flick demanded, viciously kicking an innocent stone out of her way. "We ain't gonna be heah long. Anyway, dey ain't got any reason ta hate or be afraid o' you. Dat's deyre loss. I'se da one dat causes all da trouble."
"Ya always have been," Secret agreed. "You an' dat tempa." She sighed in exasperation. A moment later, the full implications of her words bounced back at her, and she stopped short and turned to look at Flick, an expression of horror on her face.
"Flick, I'se real sorry, I din't mean...y'know..."
"Dat's a'right," Flick replied quickly, though at Secret's words, she had gone slightly paler than usual and her eyes had darkened a shade. "C'mon. Let's get our papes."
Jack, of course, was first in line, as usual. The man behind the window was tall and skinny, with frizzy grey hair. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a moldy-looking suit. His name was Mr. Trotwood, but it quickly became apparent that most of the boys addressed him as "Trout".
"Hey, Cowboy, where'd ya get the shinah?" he chuckled.
"None o' yer biz'ness, Trout," Jack growled, his ears reddening.
"Did ya maybe cross some blind old lady?" Trout suggested innocently, eyes twinkling behind his spectacles as a teenage boy counted Jack's papers. "Or make the mistake of tryin' ta soak a five-year-old? No, no, don't tell me; it was a lover's quarrel!"
"Shut up an' hand oveh my papes!" Jack snarled. Trout grinned, shook his head, and obediently handed them over.
When Flick reached the window, Trout glanced at her, grunted, "How many?" and then did a double-take. He raised his eyebrows and laughed loudly.
"Wait, wait, wait," he protested, waving his hands theatrically at Flick, then glancing at Secret behind her and laughing harder, shaking his head furiously. "Since when have goils been sellin' papes 'round heah?"
"Since we showed up las' night," Flick replied through clenched teeth. "Fifty papes."
"Feisty, are we?" Trout stared Flick straight in the eye. Flick stared back, seething; the old man's a face was the same mixture of amused and dubious that Jack's had been the night before, when Flick announced that she and Secret were staying.
The newsboys watched without much interest; they were fairly certain of what the result of the confrontation would be. Sure enough, Trout's weak eyes soon began to tear over, and it wasn't long before he was forced to blink.
"A'right, a'right, you win," he laughed, and finally accepted Flick's quarter, shoving a stack of fifty papers into her arms, then filling Secret's order for the same number.
As soon as they were well away from Trout and their fellow newsies, Flick breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, Secret, wheah d'ya wanna sell?" she asked, using a much lighter tone than she'd been accustomed to lately, thoroughly glad to be rid of the boys. Unfortunately, it was not that simple.
Not one of the Manhattan newsies had ever seen a girl selling papers before. All of them had met the Brooklyn girls at one time or another, but never during selling hours. So they were all very keen to find out such essential pieces of knowledge as how they improved headlines, whether anyone would bother the girls, whether they could stand up to anyone who did (though there wasn't much doubt in their minds about Flick by now), and, most crucial of all, whether the lazy summer breeze, with just a mild warning of autumn bite in it, would ever lift Secret's skirt.
At first, it seemed as if all the newsboys in the borough were stalking them. Jake and Swifty popped up first while they were still on Newspaper Row, then Itey and Snitch showed up on Mott Street, followed by Bumlets and Pie Eater on Broome. Specs and Dutchy were hiding behind a docked sailboat at the Harbor, Snoddy haunted Bottle Alley, and Skittery, Tumbler in tow, lurked hopefully outside Irving Hall. Even the rugrats showed up, selling by the pond in Central Park, though this seemed more like coincidence than any of the other encounters, and quite likely Snipeshooter and Slider did not deserve being chased off by Flick.
Finally, these "random" incidents dwindled, probably because most of the newsies were by now in no condition to stalk anyone, and could, in fact, barely muster the strength to sell papes. Black eyes, split lips, and bloody noses were at first nursed with handkerchiefs and whimpers of pain, then hopefully revealed to attract sympathy from customers, or proudly displayed as badges of heroism to passing girls almost as pretty as Secret and less violent than her selling partner.
The incidents continued to dwindle until only three stalkers remained. Try as they might, Flick and Secret could not seem to shake the Three Musketeers. Long after all the others had given up and gone off to sell their papers and nurse their wounds, Race, Mush, and Blink persisted in showing up at every selling spot the two girls tried. The girls travelled all over the borough, even hawking a few headlines near the boxing ring, before they fled in alarm and disgust at the sight of none other than Jack, selling with a curly-haired boy and his younger brother who they had not yet met. It was not Flick's custom to run away from people; between fight or flight, she invariably chose the former. But these three newsboys...these three only, out of the thirty who lived in the Manhattan lodging house and any others Flick had ever met...seemed literally impossible to soak. They were forever dodging, weaving, ducking, slipping from her grasp, hiding, disappearing, only to reappear again just when the newsgirls had truly believed they were gone for good. After this had gone on for quite some time, Flick did something completely against her principles: she gave up. After all, the three boys really didn't seem to be doing any harm. They didn't taunt or bother the girls as some of the others had done; they didn't shadow their footsteps, imitate them, steal their customers, flirt with Secret, or pretend to trip in front of her and try to see up her skirt. They simply seemed to enjoy popping up in random places and greeting the girls cheerfully; and Flick, though thoroughly exasperated and vowing with all her heart to give them her best soakings when they returned to the lodging house, ignored it for the moment. She concentrated instead on selling her papers, as Secret has been doing all along; for they would have to sell if they wanted to eat, and pay for their nights in the lodging house.
Around 2:00 in the afternoon, a crowd of filthy, ragged, exhausted newsies sat around the tables of Tibby's, eating a very late lunch and comparing bruises. None of them thought to miss the presence of three normally indispensable personalities; they figured they were probably still out selling, and had bought or stolen lunch from a street vendor. Or perhaps they were still persistently following Flick and Secret. As for the girls, no one had expected the antisocial pair to show up at the restaurant, so their absence was no surprise.
The girls had indeed never considered eating with the boys; they'd bought sandwiches and apples from a vendor, and sat eating on a bench back on Duane Street, near the lodging house once more. At last, their trio of stalkers had given up their stupid antics. Most likely, Secret mused, they had gone to eat lunch at that restaurant the boys had been chatting about that morning.
It was in this way that no one, neither the injured newsboys or the aggrivated newsgirls, missed the Three Musketeers that fateful afternoon. They were too busy concentrating on their troubles. And it was truly a pity, for the Three Musketeers were now having troubles of their own.