Looking around at all the pairs of eyes that had just swiveled away from Jack, Flick, and Secret to focus on him, Race gulped. What in God's name possessed me ta say dat? Jist when did I develop suicidal tendencies widdout noticin'?
"Race...?" Jack peered questioningly at him, as if suspecting he hadn't heard right. Race cleared his throat. Well, I'se gone an' started it, may as well go t'rough wit it.
"I said I can. Confoim deyre from Harlem. Well, not really confoim it, but tell ya why dere's a real good chance dat it's true."
"Yeah?" Jack narrowed his eyes. "How's dat?"
I am possessed. Dis is not me tawkin'. Dis is some sadistic evil spirit dat's controllin' me an' attemptin ta get me killed. An' it's doin' a real good job. "Well," Race began with a quick sigh, "ya know I was out gamblin' last night. It 'appened ta be at a casino in Harlem. An' ya know da goils got heah right afta I got back. Well, actually dey got heah because I got back. Ya see, it went like dis..." And the story was out: his poker game with Flick (though he left out her victory; revealing that would be just too painful), her questions about Manhattan, her announcement that she and Secret would become Manhattan newsies, and finally, the inevitable conclusion: that the two of them had followed him back to the lodging house. Although he was careful to explain the various ways he had tried to dissuade them, he realized that the story still dumped most of the blame for their being here at all on him. An' all ta convince Jack dat deyre tellin' da truth an' dey really are from Harlem. What if dey ain't tellin' da truth? What if Jack's right an' dey are spies from Queens? It'd make sense; it'd fill in all da blanks in deyre basic'ly nonexistent explanations. Why, WHY, am I doin' dis? Why do I believe deyre tellin' da truth? What do I care 'bout dese da** goils anyway?
When Race had finished, he glanced around at the newsies once more, then looked at Jack and shrugged. "Well, dat's it. So if dey was in a Harlem casino, it makes sense dat dey'd be Harlem newsies."
Jack stared at Race. "An' ya jist decided not ta mention any o' dis las' night?" His anger seemed to be turning away from the girls and dangerously close to Racetrack, but Flick's voice broke in. "S'all true, 'bout da pokah game an' ev'rytin'," she informed Cowboy in a voice rather quieter and more controlled than usual, "but it ain't da kid's fault. Ain't like we'd neveh 'ave found da place widdout 'im." (Race suppressed a frustrated protest at being referred to as "kid" by someone no older than he was for the second time that day. She was, after all, sticking up for him.) "Anyway, I hope now yer reasonably shoah dat Secret an' me ain't spies. I jist want ya ta know," she continued, standing up straight and squaring her shoulders, "dat if dere's any trouble 'tween Manhattan an' Queens, we'll do anytin' we can ta help. An don't say dere's nuttin' we can do; it's absolutely pointless fer any o' youse ta deny dat we, or at least I, can fight. If dere's a war, we's in. As Manhattan newsies."
Surprised at her words, Jack regarded Flick for a long moment. Then, slowly, to everyone's surprise and relief, he smiled.
"I'se glad ta heah it. I'd shoah hate fer ya ta be on de odda side, Flick."
And so the evening ended rather better than anyone could have hoped. No blows were landed, no one went to bed angry, and Flick and Secret were, in a way, accepted as Manhattan newsies. Though everyone knew that the peace couldn't last forever and the conflicts were far from over, it was a step toward some semblance of calm, friendship, and normalcy.
Racetrack fell asleep relatively content. He fell asleep again around three A.M., groggy and shaken, troubled by what had woken him. Secret was crying again.
October 3, 1889, 11:00 A.M.
It was a cold autumn morning. A little girl, bony and dirty, only about five years old, walked down an unfamiliar street. She did not know where she was, but did not appear lost or scared. Shivering as a chill breeze played with her long mane of silky red hair, the child continued to explore her surroundings as the city came to life. Men in business suits caught trolleys to work, and women carrying parasols or with babies on their hips entered dainty little cafes for breakfast. The girl ignored them; she had no use for the rich. The steady cadence of hooves clip-clopping on the road drew her attention. A moment later, a wagon loaded with newspapers came into view, driven by a gnarled old man wearing a sullen scowl. The child watched it idly until it passed out of sight. Suddenly a strange sound met her ears. Stopping, the girl closed her eyes and listened. Yes, there it was again. Music, soft and sweet, enticing, hypnotic. Intrigued, the little girl followed the sound to a dim, narrow alley. There, against a rough stone wall, sat another girl. She was perhaps three or four years older than the redheaded child. She wore a faded dress of cheap navy-blue fabric, and her long, straight white-gold hair glittered in the sunlight. The young child who approached this stranger did not notice the stack of newspapers or shiny deck of cards that sat on the ground beside her, nor even the small crowd of people gathered around the lovely girl, tossing pennies, nickels, and even the occasional dime into the small grey cabbie hat that she held in her lap. No, the skinny, pale youngster was oblivious to everything except the blonde girl herself. She too seemed to take no notice of her audience; her eyes were closed, and she was holding to her lips a simple, rough wooden flute, blowing gently as her fingers played effortlessly over the holes. The melody that she produced was like the seductive music of a band of faeries playing in an enchanted forest on Midsummers Night. Unhesitating, the little girl sat down beside this fascinating human being and listened contentedly, losing track of time. Eventually, there was a lull in the knots of people wandering in and out of the alley, listening to bits and pieces of the girl's music and tossing coins in her cap. The sun had risen high and bright in the frost-blue sky, indicating the time to be somewhere around noon. It was not until now that the girl lowered her flute and opened her eyes, turning at once to her young companion, as if she had known she was there all along.
"Is dat what ya do fer a livin'?" the child asked at once, the harsh New York slang softened considerably by a strong, charming Irish lilt. The flute player grinned.
"Part-time musician, part-time newsie, kid. Mostly newsie, actually, but I does a bit o' playin' now an' den when da papes ain't sellin' too good. An' when dere ain't no market fer papes or music..." She winked conspiratorially and patted the deck of cards beside her stack of papers.
"What's yer name?" demanded the bold little lass.
"Dey calls me Song. Listen, kid, I gotta get ta peddlin' dese papes." She paused for a moment, as if considering. "Ya know, I has some trouble hawkin' headlines on me own. Ya wanna come along an' find out what kinda newsie ya makes? Sometin' tells me a kid like you'd be good fer biz'ness. Whadda ya say?"
August 8, 1899, 6:10 A.M.
"Racetrack."
Race turned in surprise at the sound of his name spoken by a seldom-heard voice.
"Yeah?"
Secret sighed. She hated to do this, but she didn't feel like selling papers by herself today.
"Ya wanna try yer liddle trick again ta wake Flick? At yer own risk, mind ya." Though neither her face nor her voice betrayed her, Secret was deeply worried. She had managed to get into the washroom first this morning, filled a cup with water, and dumped the whole thing over her sleeping bunkmate. Flick always slept like the dead, but even she had her limits. Water had never failed before. Yet this morning, she hadn't stirred.
Race raised one eyebrow, a habit that was apparently unique to him. "Ya want me ta threaten ta boin yer best friend's face off wit a cigar?"
"I want ya ta wake 'er up. Do whateveh woiks as long as ya don't scar 'er fer life or nuttin'. An' as long as ya realize she'll prob'ly kill ya da second she's awake."
Race was quite impressed. This was the most he had ever heard Secret say. He glanced at the door to the washroom, which was filled with newsboys; he'd happened to finish getting ready a little early today. Now he was starting to regret this. But if he was the only one capable of waking Flick, he felt he really was obligated to do so. It was a duty, a good deed, a favor to her and Secret. Scrambling up to the bunk, he hoped, without much real hope, that Flick would see it that way. "Hey, dragon, heah's some fiah ta match yer poisonality!"
A moment later, Race was once again fleeing the lodging house, as Flick hit the floor. But this time it wasn't just her fist that had scared him off. In the brief moment between the time he had held his cigar next to her face and taunted her and the time he had leapt off the bunk, Flick's eyes had snapped open. And they had been a blue as dark as the midnight sky.
Flick and Secret were in line to buy their newspapers when they were approached by none other than Mush, Blink, and, yes, Racetrack, although he was bringing up the rear and eyeing Flick warily. If there was a moment during Flick's short stay in Manhattan that she had felt less like being chattered to or teased, it was now. Her eyes shot sparks at the Three Musketeers that dared them to come a step closer or say one word. Nervously, Mush cleared his throat.
"Listen..." He glanced back and forth between the two girls, his eyes settling on Secret, the far safer choice to make eye contact with, although he was addressing both of them. "Youse two know all 'bout da liddle skoimish we had wit da kid from Queens yestaday..."
"Be hard not ta," Flick interjected acidly, "seein' as we was accused o' bein' mixed up in it."
"Yeah, well," Race muttered, holding his cigar behind his back for fear it would offend her at this point, "we all know youse had nuttin' ta do wit it." Flick, who had been plotting murder for him from the moment she woke up, softened slightly when she remembered how he had defended them yesterday.
"Anyway," Blink picked up. (What are dey, Siamese triplets? Flick wondered. Ya can't have a convasation wit jist one o' dem widdout da odda two jumpin' in.) "Anyway," Kid Blink was saying, "an' don't do anytin' befoah ya let me finish, Flick...we was wond'rin' if da two o' youse wanted ta sell wit us. I said, let me finish," he pointed out hurriedly as Flick shouted a disbelieving exclamation and took a step forward, fists clenched. Blink took a step back and spoke very quickly. "It-ain't-like-we's-tryin'-ta-protect-youse-or-nuttin'-we-all-know-poifectly-well-dat-ya-can-take-care-o'-yaself-an-ya-prob'ly-fight-betta-den-most-o'-us-an'-we-jist-t'ought-we-should-all-be-travellin'-in-big-groups-so-we'd-be-able-ta-take-care-o'-any-trouble-real-fast-but-it's-completely-up-ta-youse-'kay?"
That said, the trio swiftly disappeared back to their place in line, being prominent enough newsies that the same three places were held for them every morning, like Jack's secure position at the head of the line.
Flick whirled to face Secret, cheeks flushed. "Can ya believe it? Sell wit dem...God presoive us...as if I hadn't given practic'ly all deyre friends shinahs jist yestaday, not ta mention deyre leadeh on our foist night heah...what is it wit dis masculine superiority!?!"
Secret was holding up one hand, palm out, in that annoying gesture of hers. Next she would say 'Calm down an' tink 'bout dis rationally, Flick'.
"Calm down an' t'ink 'bout dis rationally, Flick," Secret ordered firmly. "Shoah, da offa seems a bit insultin' at foist, an' believe me, I don't wanna hang 'round dose t'ree idiots anymoah den you do. But consida dis. If Queens really is plannin' an attack on Manhattan, dey ain't stupid. Dey know da newsies heah ain't e'zactly pushovas, so dey'll be comin' in big groups. Dat means it'll take big groups o' us ta fight 'em. We both know da two o' us can handle 'most anytin'...heck, you alone can handle most anytin'. But sellin' in groups won't hoit our chances, an' Flick, what dey said is true. Dey know we can fight real good, an' dey need us jist as much as, if not moah den, we need dem."
Flick stared at her friend. "I hate yer mind, Secret. It's way too sensible. Sometimes I doubt if yer even human."
An' you ain't got any sense at all, Secret thought. Ya jist act widdout t'inkin' o' da consequences. Dat's why I worry 'bout ya. Once she would have said these words out loud. But now she held her tongue. She knew that she could no longer make such comments; they would hurt Flick far more than they would help her. Such advice now would be coming too late.
"Okay, wheah d'ya wanna sell?"
Racetrack raised an eyebrow expectantly at Flick and Secret, who were facing Blink, Mush, and him several feet from Trout's window. Each newsie cradled a bundle of papers in his or her arms. Race still couldn't believe the two girls had agreed to sell with them. From Flick's highly reluctant and rather antagonistic expression, he was willing to bet (and, being Racetrack, probably would have bet if he'd had any money) that it was Secret's doing.
Flick shrugged. "Why don't da t'ree o' youse decide? Secret an' me don't know Manhattan dat well yet. We really din't get ta check out da sellin' in any one place...dat's one o' da inconveniences o' fleein' stalkehs all oveh da borough, y'know." She said this so pleasantly and conversationally that it took Race a couple moments to realize what she was talking about. He glanced at Blink and Mush, who had both gone slightly pink.
"Yeah, well..." Blink shrugged. "Let's jist let bygones be bygones, shall we? Y'know, start oveh wit a clean slate an' all dat?" (Had Flick snorted? Race could swear she had.) "Anyway, 'bout da sellin' spot...hmm..."
All of a sudden, Blink spun around, a mischievous grin on his face, and swooped off Mush's hat. With a yelp, Mush leapt to reclaim it, but Blink jumped back, swinging the hat out of reach. Twirling it above his head like a lasso, he took off down the street, Mush in hot pursuit. Laughing, Race charged after them, not yet sure whether he would join Blink in a game of keepaway with Mush's hat, or take Mush's side and gang up on Blink to help him rescue it. This was nothing new to him. The three of them played games like this practically every morning. The games took them all over the borough, so that none of them had a fixed selling spot like most newsies. At key locations, they would stop and call a truce so as to get some papers sold. As he struggled to catch up with his two best friends, Race glanced over his shoulder. Flick and Secret were still standing where the Musketeers had left them, staring after their three new partners, faces utterly perplexed. Race grinned, choosing not to worry about it. They were smart girls; they'd catch on soon enough.
"What da...what are dey...wha..." Flick blinked, nonplussed, as first Kid Blink, then Mush, disappeared from sight. The figure of Racetrack was growing steadily smaller, and would soon turn the same corner as the other two and be gone as well.
"God knows, Flick," Secret replied, "but whateveh dey t'ink deyre doin', we seem ta have jist one choice: follow 'em!"
And so they were off. Down the street, around the corner, down another street, and through an alley they raced before the three boys came into view again.
"I can't believe we's doin' dis," Flick announced, sweat glistening on her face, though she was not the least bit out of breath. She ran steadily in smooth, easy strides, and Secret's matched hers. Both were in very good shape, and both were quite fast.
"Neidda can I," Secret replied, a good deal more mournfully than Flick, because running in a dress was pure torture. "I neveh t'ought I'd encourage ya like dis, but soak 'em fer me when we catch up, a'right?"
"Will do," Flick replied grimly.
"Jist look at how da situation's revoised," Secret griped as she hiked up her skirt and leapt over an overtuned garbage pail. "Yestaday dey was chasin' us all oveh Manhattan, an' taday deyre makin' us chase dem! No matta what, it seems dey can always manage ta make us run."
"Liddle exacise neveh hoit anyone!"
Flick and Secret both spun in the direction of the voice. Racetrack, perched on the fire escape of a nearby apartment building, saluted cheerfully. He seemed to have gained the lead; a moment later, Mush shot by with Blink chasing after him. Apparently Mush had recaptured his hat and taken Blink's in retaliation.
"You----!" Choosing the closest target, Flick hoisted herself onto the lowest branch of a gnarled elm tree, and swiftly and skillfully scrambled up toward the fire escape. Secret, meanwhile, had gotten fed up and pulled a length of rope from her pocket. Hoisting up her skirts, she tied them firmly around her waist, then shot off after Mush and Blink.
Race jumped back just as Flick leapt nimbly from an overhanging branch onto the fire escape.
"What are youse t'ree doin'?" she demanded as she sprang forward and swung at him, missing by an inch when he ducked. No matter; she had him cornered now, being between him and the only accessible tree. But there was one route she had failed to cover.
"It's called fun, Flick!" he answered, dropping to his knees and quickly wrenching open the window of the apartment that opened onto the fire escape. "Get useta it!" And with that, he dove in through the window.
For a moment, Flick stared aghast at the open window. Then, shaking her head and muttering curses, she ducked down, tossed her bundle of newspapers in ahead of her, and wriggled through herself, promptly tumbling headfirst onto a living-room floor that was, quite luckily, carpeted. Rising to her feet, knees throbbing, she found herself staring straight into the eyes of a tall, balding man in a grey tailcoat standing beside a green couch, a pipe dangling limply from one hand and a newspaper from the other. From his expression of startled amazement and horror, it was clear that he had just seen Racetrack come through that very window. Race must have taken advantage of the man's shock and barreled on through the room and out of the apartment; Flick was privileged enough to find the man right when he had recovered his wits.
"Street rats!" he bellowed, face reddening, tossing his pipe aside and rolling up the newspaper. "Burglars! Rogues! Get over here, you little--"
And he charged at Flick, brandishing the rolled-up newspaper like a sword. Groaning, Flick ducked the wildly waving paper and took off, through a door, then another room that looked like a kitchen and a third which she only glimpsed in blurs, the stately gentleman with his bizarre weapon close on her heels.
Finally, the door was in sight. Practically bursting into tears of relief, Flick thrust both hands around the door handle and tugged it open. It apparently opened onto a staircase. Slipping through and slamming the door behind her in the red face of her pursuer, Flick charged down the stairs, sides heaving, planning for Racetrack Higgins the most elaborate deaths she had ever planned. Tearing around a bend, she ran head-on into a tiny maid who was on her way up the stairs with an armload of clean laundry. With a startled cry, the maid stumbled against the railing, frilly white cap askew, and the entire load of laundry spilled from her arms and flew helter-skelter down the stairs.
"Sorry!" Flick called without looking back, tearing down the rest of the stairs, trampling pants, shirts, socks, and ties underfoot, the only comforting thought being that they belonged to her newspaper-wielding friend.
And there it was, the door out of the apartment building. Flinging it open, Flick half-expected goblins to come flying at her and attempt to tear her apart. With the luck she was having, it seemed a logical enough expectation. But something far worse than goblins awaited her. Racetrack, Kid Blink, and Mush were outlined in a row against a fence across the street. Eyes spelling "murder" as clear as day, Flick had crossed the street in an instant, and got a close-up view of the situation.
The three boys were leaning against the fence, gasping for breath. Racetrack's hair was swept completely upward, like black ferns shooting out of the top of his head. Everyone seemed to have regained his rightful hat. Facing the Three Musketeers was Secret. Her skirts were still tied up, and quite ripped and filthy from when they had been dangling. One thing had changed, however, since the last time Flick had seen her. She was absolutely sopping wet from head to toe, her dress heavy and drenched, drips forming a huge puddle around her feet. She was tapping her own cabbie hat against the opposite hand like a club. Her eyes were narrowed to slits; she looked like she was deciding whose skull to smash first. When she saw Flick, Secret whirled to face her, opening her mouth and then keeping it open for several seconds while she surveyed her friend's ripped pant cuffs, flapping vest, drooping suspenders, and the lone polka-dotted tie draped haphazardly over her shoe. Flick followed Secret's gaze to the tie. So dat's what kept trippin' me afta I ran inta da maid.
Composing herself, Secret cleared her throat and gestured with a lethal finger at two of the three very nervous-looking newsboys. "Dey...dey...d'ya know what..." she sputtered.
"I take it ya caught up ta dem?" Flick surmised. Secret's eyes bulged.
"Oh yeah, I caught up ta dem a'right. So den dis one..." she flapped a furious hand at Blink..."grabs my hat an' takes off wit it. An' he," (Mush flinched), "takes off afta him, an' da two o' dem toss my hat back an' forth while I chase 'em down da street, comin' dis close ta gettin' t'rown in da Refuge at one point when da bulls decided I must be a runaway thief, an' finally endin' up..." Secret's eyes were ready to shoot razor-sharp ice beams..."in da pond in Central Park!!"
Having gotten this off her chest, Secret turned back to the Musketeers and went back to calmly, logically planning their demise.
Flick blinked. Secret's story seemed to have a few holes in it; Flick couldn't quite figure out how she had been chasing Mush and Blink in pursuit of her hat and ended up in a pond. She decided it was beyond her comprehension for the moment.
"Well," she countered in a voice coming close to scorching the leaves off nearby trees, "at least ya din't hafta escape a maniacal guy wieldin' a newspapa club, den smash inta a maid bogged down wit laundry, an'...Secret, wheah're yer papes?"
Secret glanced at her. "Take a guess."
"In da pond."
"Yep. Wheah're yers?"
Startled, Flick glanced at her hands; then realization dawned. "In da psycho's livin' room. Actually, prob'ly feedin' 'is fiah by now."
And with expressions of purest rage, the two newsgirls turned to face their unlucky prey.
Trading glances, Race, Mush, and Blink gulped loudly.
"Er..." Blink cleared his throat. "C'mon now. Be reasonable. So Mush an' me kinda borrowed Secret's hat, jist fer fun, an' Race 'appened ta crawl inta an apartment. Ev'rytin' else dat 'appened was jist a bit o' bad luck..."
"We's all real, real sorry an' we beg yer f'giveness an' it'll neveh 'appen again," Mush quickly contributed.
"Ya wouldn't soak guys dat 'ave been runnin' around all mornin', wouldja?" Race pleaded, staring at Flick with huge brown puppy eyes.
At Tibby's that afternoon, the three were forced to entertain their fellow newsies with outrageous stories explaining why they all looked like they had been run over by a carriage or thrown off a high building. They kept the stories short, however, and ate quickly. They had a lot of selling to do if they wanted to reimburse a hundred newspapers and a ruined dress.