Damp air blew across the river and into the Brooklyn Lodging House,
mingling with the usual clamor that filled the boys' bunkroom. Gull was
playing a merry tune on his tin whistle, although some of the players
involved in an intense game of five-card draw were protesting the tune.
Some of the younger newsies dashed around the hallway, pretending to be
pirates on the high seas in search of buried gold. Downstairs, Gellar was
smoking a rather thick cigar (a potent aroma which could be smelt from
miles away) and skimming through the news as he searched for the results
from the track.
"Best lookin' guy I evah saw," gushed Rabbit as she twisted Cardinal's locks into a long, flaming red braid. "Too bad he's in da Bronx. We need some good guys ovah heah, I sweah."
Overhearing this, Grin lifted his head from the card game and adopted an affronted expression. "Dey make 'em all right in Brooklyn."
Rabbit flashed her best smile, the one she commonly used when she wanted someone to loan her five cents. "Of coise I didn't mean you, Grin. You'se my favorite outta everybody, really."
Grin beamed with pride and winked at the newsgirl, and yelped in pain when Wager whacked him over the back of the head. "Ante up already. We ain't nevah gonna finish dis game if ya keep flirtin' wid every goil dat walks in heah wid a pulse."
"Hey, I resemble dat comment," Grin replied, laughed lightly, and tossed two cents into the rather large pile.
Roxy, who had been listening to the conversation with half a mind, smiled and giggled under her breath. She was sprawled out on her bunk, leafing through a dank, tattered copy of A Tale of Two Cities that she had found in a trashcan behind an ivy-encased private school. For most people who desired a peaceful time to read, attempting to even glance at the slightly damp pages would have been nearly impossible in this din. The newsgirl, however, would have found it odd to read in any other environment. After spending years in the Brooklyn Lodging House, she was inured to Peach's high-pitched laughter, Duck relating tall tales with his thick Irish accent, and Cardinal bolting after Smoke when he stole her treasured necklace just to see if she would notice.
"So anyway," Rabbit continued," He's da greatest. We gotta t'ink of any excuse ta go visit da Bronx newsies dis week. Maybe we can say we hoid dey was havin' a big pokah game or somet'ing and-"
Her narrative was cut shot when she saw that all of the other newsies had suddenly become statues. Their eyes had all turned towards the door with feigned nonchalance and didn't dare to cast each other curious glances. Everyone held their breaths and refused to even blink. Recognizing the tense situation, Wager cleared his throat and tossed down his cards, revealing a straight in spades (beating out Leap's three sevens), an action that took most people's attention off of their leader, who stood in the doorframe.
Spot appeared not to have noticed the momentary lapse in conversation; and if he had, he apparently had no wish to comment on it. Without even so much as a glance at any of the newsies, Spot tossed his cap onto his bunk, marched to the window, and leapt onto the fire escape. Several newsies began whispering about his odd behavior, making sure to keep their voices low enough so that they wouldn't carry to the window.
From across the room, Wager and Roxy eyed each other solemnly. The newsgirl shut her book while Wager collected his winnings and shoved them into his pocket. "Deal me out," he told the others and rushed over to Roxy's bunk.
"He's gettin' woise," the newsboy whispered. "If dis keeps up, Brooklyn's gonna lose everyt'ing it's got."
She nodded gravely. "Jackal's getting restless. He's not going to wait around much longer, especially not with rumors flying around that Spot's losing it." She paused for a moment, and then continued in a more hopeful tone, "Has Spot mentioned anything to you about where he's been going or what's bothering him? Anything at all?"
"Not a woid. He jus' drops a scrap of paper on my hat in da mornin' if I need ta take ovah for a liddle while. And dat's been happenin' more and more often."
"I know. And he makes sure he's never seen, at least by anyone this side of the East River."
Wager sighed heavily and absently adjusted his cap. "Well, I guess we'd beddah head ovah ta da oddah side of da East Rivah and see what we can find out."
*****
"…t'rew her against da wall, looked like she was gonna break in two. Soives her right; woulda got moah, if dat oddah newsie hadn't shown up ta attack me when I wasn't lookin'."
A large group of Debler Street newsies were seated on the narrow, shadowy stairway of their lodging house, most smoking poorly made cigarettes and all smirking at Bulldog's escapade. One of the younger, more daring newsies rolled his eyes and drawled, "So I guess only two of da Brooklyn newsies are too much for ya, huh? Well, one, 'cause da oddah's a goil and all. Maybe ya outta get somebody ta go wid ya next time you'se in deir territory- ya know, for protection."
The boy had just opened his mouth to laugh when Bulldog silenced him with a single punch. The younger newsie tumbled down several stairs before he grabbed the railing and caught his balance. Blood streamed from his nose and trickled onto his perspiration-stained shirt.
"Ya broke my nose!" he exclaimed.
Bulldog chuckled and drew a long drag from his cigarette. "Ya'll live."
A lanky boy with bad skin and a long nose sneered, "So, Toad, maybe you'se da one who needs protection, even around you'se down lodgin' house."
All of the newsies save Toad (who was rushing up the stairs in search for a rag or stray piece of newspaper to stop the flow of blood) fell into fits of laughter. The owner of the lodging house, an icy-eyed man named Mr. Felter, banged on the wall with a large fists and bellowed, "Shut you'se traps, ya buncha lazy bastards, ya…" His voice trailed off into an incoherent mumble as he scanned the newspaper in his hands, while the newsies rolled their eyes.
"So Bulldog," the lanky boy, called Dash, said, "did ya see Spot anywheahs in deir territory tahday?"
The large newsie shook his head triumphantly, as though his presence alone had kept the infamous leader at bay. "Not a trace of him. Rumors are beginnin' ta fly around dat he's cracked. It's gonna be a synch ta take ovah deir territory. I say we jus' do it now and get it while da gettin's good."
"Dat's why you'se ain't da brains of dis lodgin' house, Bulldog," a voice snarled from the bottom of the staircase. The Debler Street newsie glanced up from their clouds of smoke to see their own leader standing there, glaring up at them with eyes of granite. Like Spot himself, Jackal didn't seem physically intimidating. He was shorter than most of the newsies of his age and had skin that seemed too pale, as though it were more appropriate for a corpse than a young newsboy. His lips were thin and nearly bloodless, giving the appearance of shriveled mushrooms. He had a slight hunchback, not noticeable from a distance but which caused him to walk in an odd manner. Yet his form exuded power and malicious mental strength. A wicked light danced in his eyes, even as he glowered at the newsies seated on the staircase.
Bulldog glanced at his fellow newsies for support. "Jackal, I didn't mean ta say dat ya- what I mean is dat I t'ink-"
"Dat'd be a shock ta us all," Jackal snapped, yellow teeth flashing in the dull gas light. "If ya evah come up wid a real t'ought dat would actu'lly help us out, lemme know. Until den, ya shut up unless I say oddahwise." He didn't feel the need to wait for a reply. "Of coise we can't jus' go take deir territory right away. Spot's gettin' less like hisself ev'ry day; and if we wait for jus' a liddle longah, we'll be able ta take deir territory widout breakin' a sweat. If we try now, deah's a good chance dat da Brooklyn newsies are gonna be ready for us. So if anybody wants ta get da crap kicked outta dem and stay in dis goddamn place for da rest of our lives, den follow da genius Bulldog."
Not even the constantly creaking staircase made a sound.
A snakelike grin crept around Jackal's thin lips. "Good. Ya gotta keep watchin' for ev'ryt'ing dat goes on ovah deah, and soon we'll get deir territory- or kill 'em tryin'."
*****
Five people, not including the yawning, elderly undertaking or the portly priest, were present at the funeral. The morning sunlight enveloped the group and mingled with the distant sounds of laborers marching to their jobs. Silent teardrops rolled down the cheeks of Spot's mother as they had those thousands of times above the kitchen sink. The three younger children squirmed uncomfortably, not knowing whether they should break down in wild sobs as they had seen their friends do when a parent passed away or remain stoic as their oldest brother way. Anyone studying the Brooklyn newsie would have believed him to be solemn or indifferent to the entire affair, as if he had accidentally stumbled onto the scene and felt obligated to stay there out of mere politeness. The only thing possibly expressing his true feelings was the sight of his hands clutching the cane so fiercely that he wondered if it would snap like a Twig.
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit," the priest's gentle baritone voice resonated against the tombstones, "Amen."
The Father, the Son… Those words echoed throughout Spot's mind so loudly that he imagined his family could hear them as well. He felt his throat tensing up and blinked back both memories and tears. The undertaker was lowering the coffin into the ground. Spot prayed that he would not slip into unconsciousness and fall into the grave as well…and yet as he tightened his eyelids shut, he could see a vision of himself falling faster and faster.
The sensation of a small arm slipping through his own brought him back to reality. He gazed down at Lily, whose sparkling blue eyes were filled with confusion. He steadied his breathing and forced color back into his pale cheeks. "It's okay," he murmured softly to his youngest sister.
She stared up at him and leaned her head against his side. "Are ya gonna come home wid us, Ethan?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Spot saw that his other two siblings were studying him hopefully. He felt his heart press against his chest and was forced to turn his head so that he could no longer see his family members. "I'll come visit ya soon," he vowed in an unusually tight voice. He drew away from Lily and took several steps back. "See ya around." With that, he whirled around and began to march out of the cemetery, his heart pounding madly.
"Ethan!" his mother, voice chocked by tears, called out to him. But he didn't dare turn around, lest he see the expression on her face.
"Best lookin' guy I evah saw," gushed Rabbit as she twisted Cardinal's locks into a long, flaming red braid. "Too bad he's in da Bronx. We need some good guys ovah heah, I sweah."
Overhearing this, Grin lifted his head from the card game and adopted an affronted expression. "Dey make 'em all right in Brooklyn."
Rabbit flashed her best smile, the one she commonly used when she wanted someone to loan her five cents. "Of coise I didn't mean you, Grin. You'se my favorite outta everybody, really."
Grin beamed with pride and winked at the newsgirl, and yelped in pain when Wager whacked him over the back of the head. "Ante up already. We ain't nevah gonna finish dis game if ya keep flirtin' wid every goil dat walks in heah wid a pulse."
"Hey, I resemble dat comment," Grin replied, laughed lightly, and tossed two cents into the rather large pile.
Roxy, who had been listening to the conversation with half a mind, smiled and giggled under her breath. She was sprawled out on her bunk, leafing through a dank, tattered copy of A Tale of Two Cities that she had found in a trashcan behind an ivy-encased private school. For most people who desired a peaceful time to read, attempting to even glance at the slightly damp pages would have been nearly impossible in this din. The newsgirl, however, would have found it odd to read in any other environment. After spending years in the Brooklyn Lodging House, she was inured to Peach's high-pitched laughter, Duck relating tall tales with his thick Irish accent, and Cardinal bolting after Smoke when he stole her treasured necklace just to see if she would notice.
"So anyway," Rabbit continued," He's da greatest. We gotta t'ink of any excuse ta go visit da Bronx newsies dis week. Maybe we can say we hoid dey was havin' a big pokah game or somet'ing and-"
Her narrative was cut shot when she saw that all of the other newsies had suddenly become statues. Their eyes had all turned towards the door with feigned nonchalance and didn't dare to cast each other curious glances. Everyone held their breaths and refused to even blink. Recognizing the tense situation, Wager cleared his throat and tossed down his cards, revealing a straight in spades (beating out Leap's three sevens), an action that took most people's attention off of their leader, who stood in the doorframe.
Spot appeared not to have noticed the momentary lapse in conversation; and if he had, he apparently had no wish to comment on it. Without even so much as a glance at any of the newsies, Spot tossed his cap onto his bunk, marched to the window, and leapt onto the fire escape. Several newsies began whispering about his odd behavior, making sure to keep their voices low enough so that they wouldn't carry to the window.
From across the room, Wager and Roxy eyed each other solemnly. The newsgirl shut her book while Wager collected his winnings and shoved them into his pocket. "Deal me out," he told the others and rushed over to Roxy's bunk.
"He's gettin' woise," the newsboy whispered. "If dis keeps up, Brooklyn's gonna lose everyt'ing it's got."
She nodded gravely. "Jackal's getting restless. He's not going to wait around much longer, especially not with rumors flying around that Spot's losing it." She paused for a moment, and then continued in a more hopeful tone, "Has Spot mentioned anything to you about where he's been going or what's bothering him? Anything at all?"
"Not a woid. He jus' drops a scrap of paper on my hat in da mornin' if I need ta take ovah for a liddle while. And dat's been happenin' more and more often."
"I know. And he makes sure he's never seen, at least by anyone this side of the East River."
Wager sighed heavily and absently adjusted his cap. "Well, I guess we'd beddah head ovah ta da oddah side of da East Rivah and see what we can find out."
*****
"…t'rew her against da wall, looked like she was gonna break in two. Soives her right; woulda got moah, if dat oddah newsie hadn't shown up ta attack me when I wasn't lookin'."
A large group of Debler Street newsies were seated on the narrow, shadowy stairway of their lodging house, most smoking poorly made cigarettes and all smirking at Bulldog's escapade. One of the younger, more daring newsies rolled his eyes and drawled, "So I guess only two of da Brooklyn newsies are too much for ya, huh? Well, one, 'cause da oddah's a goil and all. Maybe ya outta get somebody ta go wid ya next time you'se in deir territory- ya know, for protection."
The boy had just opened his mouth to laugh when Bulldog silenced him with a single punch. The younger newsie tumbled down several stairs before he grabbed the railing and caught his balance. Blood streamed from his nose and trickled onto his perspiration-stained shirt.
"Ya broke my nose!" he exclaimed.
Bulldog chuckled and drew a long drag from his cigarette. "Ya'll live."
A lanky boy with bad skin and a long nose sneered, "So, Toad, maybe you'se da one who needs protection, even around you'se down lodgin' house."
All of the newsies save Toad (who was rushing up the stairs in search for a rag or stray piece of newspaper to stop the flow of blood) fell into fits of laughter. The owner of the lodging house, an icy-eyed man named Mr. Felter, banged on the wall with a large fists and bellowed, "Shut you'se traps, ya buncha lazy bastards, ya…" His voice trailed off into an incoherent mumble as he scanned the newspaper in his hands, while the newsies rolled their eyes.
"So Bulldog," the lanky boy, called Dash, said, "did ya see Spot anywheahs in deir territory tahday?"
The large newsie shook his head triumphantly, as though his presence alone had kept the infamous leader at bay. "Not a trace of him. Rumors are beginnin' ta fly around dat he's cracked. It's gonna be a synch ta take ovah deir territory. I say we jus' do it now and get it while da gettin's good."
"Dat's why you'se ain't da brains of dis lodgin' house, Bulldog," a voice snarled from the bottom of the staircase. The Debler Street newsie glanced up from their clouds of smoke to see their own leader standing there, glaring up at them with eyes of granite. Like Spot himself, Jackal didn't seem physically intimidating. He was shorter than most of the newsies of his age and had skin that seemed too pale, as though it were more appropriate for a corpse than a young newsboy. His lips were thin and nearly bloodless, giving the appearance of shriveled mushrooms. He had a slight hunchback, not noticeable from a distance but which caused him to walk in an odd manner. Yet his form exuded power and malicious mental strength. A wicked light danced in his eyes, even as he glowered at the newsies seated on the staircase.
Bulldog glanced at his fellow newsies for support. "Jackal, I didn't mean ta say dat ya- what I mean is dat I t'ink-"
"Dat'd be a shock ta us all," Jackal snapped, yellow teeth flashing in the dull gas light. "If ya evah come up wid a real t'ought dat would actu'lly help us out, lemme know. Until den, ya shut up unless I say oddahwise." He didn't feel the need to wait for a reply. "Of coise we can't jus' go take deir territory right away. Spot's gettin' less like hisself ev'ry day; and if we wait for jus' a liddle longah, we'll be able ta take deir territory widout breakin' a sweat. If we try now, deah's a good chance dat da Brooklyn newsies are gonna be ready for us. So if anybody wants ta get da crap kicked outta dem and stay in dis goddamn place for da rest of our lives, den follow da genius Bulldog."
Not even the constantly creaking staircase made a sound.
A snakelike grin crept around Jackal's thin lips. "Good. Ya gotta keep watchin' for ev'ryt'ing dat goes on ovah deah, and soon we'll get deir territory- or kill 'em tryin'."
*****
Five people, not including the yawning, elderly undertaking or the portly priest, were present at the funeral. The morning sunlight enveloped the group and mingled with the distant sounds of laborers marching to their jobs. Silent teardrops rolled down the cheeks of Spot's mother as they had those thousands of times above the kitchen sink. The three younger children squirmed uncomfortably, not knowing whether they should break down in wild sobs as they had seen their friends do when a parent passed away or remain stoic as their oldest brother way. Anyone studying the Brooklyn newsie would have believed him to be solemn or indifferent to the entire affair, as if he had accidentally stumbled onto the scene and felt obligated to stay there out of mere politeness. The only thing possibly expressing his true feelings was the sight of his hands clutching the cane so fiercely that he wondered if it would snap like a Twig.
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit," the priest's gentle baritone voice resonated against the tombstones, "Amen."
The Father, the Son… Those words echoed throughout Spot's mind so loudly that he imagined his family could hear them as well. He felt his throat tensing up and blinked back both memories and tears. The undertaker was lowering the coffin into the ground. Spot prayed that he would not slip into unconsciousness and fall into the grave as well…and yet as he tightened his eyelids shut, he could see a vision of himself falling faster and faster.
The sensation of a small arm slipping through his own brought him back to reality. He gazed down at Lily, whose sparkling blue eyes were filled with confusion. He steadied his breathing and forced color back into his pale cheeks. "It's okay," he murmured softly to his youngest sister.
She stared up at him and leaned her head against his side. "Are ya gonna come home wid us, Ethan?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Spot saw that his other two siblings were studying him hopefully. He felt his heart press against his chest and was forced to turn his head so that he could no longer see his family members. "I'll come visit ya soon," he vowed in an unusually tight voice. He drew away from Lily and took several steps back. "See ya around." With that, he whirled around and began to march out of the cemetery, his heart pounding madly.
"Ethan!" his mother, voice chocked by tears, called out to him. But he didn't dare turn around, lest he see the expression on her face.