Good God, it was early. Do you understand how early 6:15 is? And I mean 6:15 in the morning. That's way too goddamn early.

It was also way too early for that scab Snipeshooter to be stealing my cigar. Where does the kid get off?

"You'll steal another," he shot back when I snidely informed him of who owned the cigar he held in his mouth.

"Hey!" I exclaimed angrily, swatting him like the little bug he was. Kid pulled me away, caroling on about having work to do.

But I did get my cigar back.

The washroom was, as usual, devoid of any elbowroom, so Mush and I were squeezed together on one side of the sinks while Jack and Crutchy shared the other.

Crutchy, worried about the 'fake crips on the streets' asked us all where he should sell. Not wanting to give away my prime spot, the tracks, I told him to go to Central Park. He'd have good selling there—that is to say, good selling unless a regular decided he was unworthy of sharing the Park.

Spot hogs.

As we all poured out onto the streets, yelling and laughing, the sun hit me squarely in the face. I blinked rapidly, my gut telling me that by the end of the day, it was going to be hot as all get out. I hate summer. Hate winter more.

I hate weather.

As we stood in line at Newspaper Row, we were, how do you say, graced with the presence of two of the most hotheaded bastards in the whole of New York City. And let me tell you, there are a whole slew of hotheaded bastards in the City, so the Delancey brothers were making quite the impressive accomplishment.

Now, when they pushed Snipes to the ground, I can't exactly say I was all that angry or anything. I mean, the kid slobbered all over by last cigar. Granted, he was right—I stole another (or two) at the tracks. But that's irrelevant—he still got his spit all over my cigar!

But either way, Snipes is small, and Oscar isn't exactly tiny, so that was pretty low. As Jack helped him up, the quick, smooth delivery of his quip made us all snigger, smirking.

"Hey, hey, five-to-one the Cowboy skunks 'em ah? Who's bettin'?" I couldn't resist. Call it the gambler in me.

"Nahh, bum odds."

Damn scabs always said that.

I only snapped back to attention as Jack whipped the hat off Oscar's head and ran. As he sprinted gleefully around the Square, I saw him ram into some scab kid with a cute little brother. Now that kid's face would sell papes.

After all the drama had drawn to a climatic end, and I had thoroughly congratulated Jack on his victory, we moved in to buy our papes.

As my turn arrived, an idea came to me. No paying, not today. Call it the gambler in me, but scamming Weasel is always fun.

As I lit up my slightly slobbery cigar, I muttered, "Hey your honor, do me a favor will ya? Spot me fifty papes." As my plan took shape, I smiled inwardly. "I got a hot tip in the fourth, you won't waste your money." Call it the gambler in me, but I even took bets for Weasel, much as I hated him.

Placing a bet is exciting in itself, and it gave me a rush I never had when doing anything else.

The asshole had to remind me of last time, where I lost him his money—and my own—but in the end, the papes were mine, no charge.

Weasel is such a naïve bastard.

Technically, I did have a hot tip. But it was in the fifth. Weasel didn't have to know that. Call it the gambler in me, but I didn't always feel the need to be honest. And he would never know.

Like I said, naïve bastard.

But anyway, I sat down next to Jack with my papes, scanning the headlines to see if I could actually use them today. The front-page headline sucked, but who uses those anyway? Call it the gambler in me, but I like headlines that are sure to win you a sell.

"Baby born with two heads. Must be from Brooklyn." I murmured, and I could have sworn I felt my dead mother slap me upside the head. Born and bred in Brooklyn, she was.

As Jack snickered, the cute kid approached, leaving his older brother behind. Jack asked him to sit, but before he could, Weasel was yelling again.

I wasn't really paying attention; the bottom of page nine had just caught my eye: it was quite the fixer-upper, but it could work…with the right finesse.

Next thing I knew, Jack was asking me to spot him two bits. As I flipped the quarter up to him, I vaguely realized that two bits would have bought my fifty papes.

Smiling to myself, I knew that Weasel was too dumb to notice.

Idiot. That's why he got fired.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

So, after Jack had struck up a deal with the new kid, Dave, we all went about our business.

Specs improved an already decent headline, yelling that the baby had three heads, not two.

Smart kid.

I made my way to the tracks, selling lightly along the way.  Had my regular customers at the races, I did, and they needed their papes too.

As I approached the track, the pounding of horses' hooves on the ground greeted my ears, sweet as the sound of birds in the country.

Not that I know what birds in the country sound like or anything, but I hear it's good.

Anyway.

Ah, the yells of the spectators, the horses' running feet, the vendors, the lone newsboy in the distance already calling out headlines—wait.

Some kid was scamming on my spot.

Call me a hypocrite, but I'm a spot hog too, you know. And nobody, and I mean nobody, scams on my spot at the tracks.

As I approached the kid, I noticed he looked small, kind of petite.

As I neared him, I halted.

Oh, hell no.

A newsgirl, no less, was scamming my spot.

Damn, now I couldn't even skunk the scab. And call it the gambler in me, but I get pretty competitive about kids who think they can sell better than I in my own spot.

She wasn't even cute; hell, I'm way cuter, and I don't consider myself all that attractive.

She had short, tangled light brown hair, a pale face and big watery brown eyes. Her thin lips stretched as she called out unimproved headlines in her squeaky, weak voice unfit for a newsy.

I rolled my eyes as I walked by, and she gazed at me.

I sold my papes quickly, and noticed that she still held hers in her hand. Serves her right, I thought maliciously.

But as I walked away, I felt kind of sorry for the girl. I mean, she couldn't help it that the people at the tracks knew me as 'their' newsy, and not her.

Call it the gambler in them, but they get hooked on things (gambling for instance) and they don't want to let go. They had come to familiarize me with the buying of papes, not her. So they came to me, not her.

Wasn't her fault, not really.

Except for she had scammed on my spot at the tracks.

Anyway, it wasn't important.

I didn't help her; I didn't talk to her. And it didn't really matter.

I lost my money on the so-called 'hot tip'.

I should learn one of these days: I never win at the tracks.

I'm addicted, what can I say, call it the gambler in me.

I headed back to the Lodging-house that night as the sky darkened. As I approached, I spotted Jack leaning on the pole of a streetlight.

He snapped himself out of his reverie and looked at me.

"Heya Race," he murmured as he walked next to me.

"Heya Jack," I said softy, as way of reply.

"So how was your day at the track?" He asked, still speaking in that same soft, dreamy, almost sad way.

"Remember that hot tip I told ya about?" He muttered his recollection. "Nobody told the horse."

He laughed softly and we signed in with Kloppman, both of us strangely quiet.

I was still thinking about that girl, and how maybe, she was like me a few years back—when I was new, and small(er) and I didn't know anything about being a newsy. And yet I had people to teach me, people who gave me the knowledge they had, and in return, I found my own spot.

I grinned as Jack and I ascended the stairs to the bunkroom. Jack was going on about being chased by Snyder, a big deal in itself, and then moved on to dinner at Dave's house—dinner and his 'beautiful' sister. 

But I was grinning not about the way Jack, clearly taken with the girl, Sarah, was describing her every move; I was grinning because I had decided to help the newsgirl learn the ropes.

And in exchange, she would use her newfound talent as a newsy and clear off the tracks. Call it the gambler in me, but I like deals that get me what I want.

But the next day, my plans were devilishly thwarted by news that hit us like hail in the face as soon as our feet reached Newspaper Row.

Pulitzer is gonna burn, I swear it.

{EndNotes}

So, what do you think? You like Race, and his constant phrase "Call it the gambler in me…"? Should I continue on with this?

Now, who to go next?

Review me please!!!

Disclaimer: "Newsies" is not mine, it is Disney's and any and all of these characters belong solely to Disney/themselves. Any OC's are mine. Gracias.