I like this chapter much better. It's not as dramatic as the last one. In case you were wondering.
Jack awoke the next morning to the usual sound of Kloppman's cries: "Boys! Up! Time to get up! It's a beautiful day for sellin' papes! Mu-uuush!" he sang out as the boy tried covering his head to block out the noise, "It's morning!" He turned to Jack's bed and began poking him. Jack moaned in protest, but he was awakened sharply by Kloppman's next words. "Where were you last night, Jack? You were late for curfew."
Jack sat up quickly. "Wh-what?" He stammered articulately.
Kloppman started to laugh, "C'mon Jack, did you really think that I didn't know that the fire escape runs up to the bunkroom window? It creaks right over my room." Jack smiled uncertainly back. "So," Kloppman asked in mock sternness, eyes twinkling merrily, "where were ya?"
"I went to see Medda, an' den, on da way home, dere was dis goil –"
"Oooh, a goil, Jacky-boy?" Race's head popped up next to Jack's bunk, "You movin' on from Candy already? I know she's been hard to get over." He nudged Mush, who had come to stand next to him, and the two smirked as they recalled Jack's last girlfriend, a breathtaking beauty without a single bit more brain than necessary. Jack had finally had enough of her over two months ago, when her idiotic questions and scorn of knowledge had gotten to be too much for him, and the boys had been teasing him about her ever since.
Jack rolled his eyes. "Knock it off, you bums, it's too early for dat. Now, as I was sayin'," he turned to Kloppman with an exaggerated air of frustration at having been interrupted, "I heard dis goil cryin', so, me being da carin' fella dat I am, I stopped to see what was wrong."
"Yea right," Race muttered in an audible aside to Mush, "he probably was lookin' to score."
Mush gave the expected snigger, and Jack groaned, "Shut it, smarta—"
"No cussin' in dis Lodgin' House," Kloppman cut in smoothly. Then, catching sight of Racetrack's gleeful face, he added, "and no disrespectful talkin' 'bout goils, eidder. Now, don't you have papes to sell?" he suggested as he set about waking the rest of the boys.
Mush, Race, and Jack glanced at each other then raced for the washroom sinks, all thoughts of Annie or any other girls driven from their minds by the beginning of the daily struggle for survival.
Three streets down and two blocks over, a frail, sickly-looking man leaned over a dark-haired girl who would have looked exactly like him had he been a girl and the picture of health. He gazed down at her tear-stained face, its woes erased by sleep, and wondered desperately what had caused them and how he could fix it. He cast his mind back to the night before, but he couldn't recall anything that would have made his daughter cry. In fact, he realized, furrowing his brow, he couldn't clearly remember anything at all. After a few moments, he shrugged and shook her shoulder. "Annabelle," he called gently, "it's morning."
Her eyes opened slowly and another deviation from her father's looks was revealed; she must have inherited her startling green eyes from her mother. She stretched, yawning out, "Mornin' Da."
"You got time fer a bite o' breakfast wit' yer ole man dis mornin'?"
Annie smiled sadly, "No, Da, I don't. I never do. An' you don't eidder, remember? You gotta get down to da docks dis mornin'."
Her father suddenly looked nervous. "Oh, uh, about dat..." he began fidgeting, tugging on his shirt, then looked up at her hopefully, brown eyes meeting green in a helpless plea.
It was not answered. "You got fired? Again?" Annie exploded incredulously, "Da, that's the thoid time in t'ree months! You gotta be more responsible."
He looked down, abashed, "I know, Annie, I know," he sighed heavily, "I know I'm not da fadder I should be, but –"
Looking suddenly ashamed, Annie cut him off, "No, Da, I'm sorry." She put a hand on his shoulder, "you're a wonderful fadder, da best, an' I'm sure you'll find a new job. A better one! An', in da meantime, I'll work harder. But I gotta go now." With that said, she stood up, grabbed her dress, and hurried into the bathroom.
Her father stared after her for a moment, then put his head in his hands with a desperate wail, "Oh, Caroline, why did you leave me?"
"Factory's policies unfair! Officials object! Extry, extry!" Race smiled as he was swarmed by interested citizens hoping that their jobs would get better if politicians took on factory policies as an issue. Race scurried away before he had to see disappointment register on the hopeful faces as they saw the real headline: "Visiting Official Objects to Factory's Narrow Doors," depicting a rotund fellow scowling as he squeezed sideways on an inspection. As he ambled away, Race wondered how people could be so gullible as to believe that maybe this time the newsie they were buying from wasn't "improving the truth," as it were.
Suddenly, the tracks were looming before him. Race stared at them, wiping his forehead and mentally calculating how much longer it would be before he had finished selling his papers and could watch the races. He looked down at the twenty-seven papers he was still holding, considered his growling stomach, and, shrugging, decided that he could skip lunch and sell them later. That way, he realized, smirking, he couldn't bet all of his money on the horses. Holding the smirk and hoping that the confidence he felt wasn't ill-founded, he headed to the booths to place a bet.
Two hours later, Race stumbled out of the tracks, a crushed, defeated look on his face. "When am I gonna learn?" he muttered, "Why do I always gotta bet on da long shot?" He grimaced. He knew why.
FLASHBACK
A tiny, dark-haired Italian boy gazed adoringly at his father as they walked, trying to match his short, trotting steps to the older man's smooth, lengthy stride. "Papa," the boy panted, "where are we going?"
The man smiled down at him. "You'll see soon enough, Anthony," he replied, the Italian accent heavy on his tongue.
"I bet I can guess," the little boy drew himself up. "Um...the zoo? I like the zoo. Especially the monkeys..." And so, punctuated by Anthony's guesses and dissertations on each guess, the walk continued. "...and I've always liked ice cream, and –"
"Anthony," his father interrupted, "we're here."
Anthony looked around, skepticism of the fun to be found in this place warring on his features with blind trust in his father's judgment. "Where are we?" he asked slowly.
"The Sheepshead Races," his father replied, "You'll like it, I promise." The two headed for the stands, Anthony staring around, quietly absorbing information to chatter about later, as was his wont. After explaining the standings and odds to his son, Anthony's father said, "Whaddaya say we root for 'Silver Bells?'"
Confused, Anthony stared at the race stats, "Papa, all the odds are against him."
"I know," his father chuckled, "but I've always had a weak spot for the long shot. Reminds me o' me when I first came to America."
Anthony grinned in response, and his father swung the boy onto his sturdy shoulders as they excitedly sheered Silver Bells to victory.
END FLASHBACK
Race shook himself abruptly, raised a paper, and shouted, "Factory Policies Unfair! Officials Object!" then shook his head in disbelief as people rushed to buy from him.
He rounded the corner, exalting in the fact that he only had fourteen papers left, when Jack's grinning face appeared before him. Race cursed as he stumbled backward, and Jack started to laugh. Scowling, Race turned to leave, but Jack easily fell into step beside him, asking, "Y'know what the problem is wit' headlines like dat?"
Without looking at him, Race sarcastically replied, "Dey sell out too fast?"
Jack barked out a short laugh. "No, dey attract all da wrong people."
Race stared at him incredulously, "What, da kind who wanna buy 'em?"
"No, stupid," Jack rolled his eyes, "da kind who don't have money to burn. Factory workers are da only people who wanna read articles like dat, an' dey don't got a single penny more dan da one sey're spendin' already. You don't get no tips dat way."
"Is dat so?" Race asked nonchalantly, lighting a cigarette.
"Sure it is!" Jack exclaimed, "Dat's why I always got more money dan you." He looked slyly at Race out of the corner of his eye, "or maybe dat's because yer always blowin' it on yer 'hot tips' at da tracks."
After thwacking Jack soundly over the head with his papers, Race scurried off a few steps, and, with a meaningful look at Jack, yelled, "Robberies abound! Streets unsafe fer da wealthy!"
Jack laughed and walked away as Race was surrounded by wealthy businessmen pressing nickels into his hands.
Thankyou to all of my wonderful reviewers who...um...reviewed. To everyone else: become a faithful reviewer! That is all.
AngryPrincess: Thanks for reviewing, mon amie! Here is an update just for you.
koodles: my faithful reviewer! I'm so glad you're back. Writing fanfic wouldn't be the same without you! I managed to get some of it done in homeroom, so that's good.
bitemytoe: Yea, I thought that was sweet, too. How pathetic, I review my own story and I'm touched by it.
Lisa: That's a really nice compliment! I'll try to keep it up. Thank you for reading.