Author's notes: Thanks for all of the rockin' (my cousin says that it means that something was bad; but if something rocks that means it's good. So rockin' means good) reviews!

Anyways, nothing to comment on this time!

Chapter Two: Two Pasts in One

Racetrack looked around again. Was this girl's murderer still lurking? He didn't hear anything.

He looked at the girl again. Her clothes weren't rags, but it wasn't like she was wearing a full gown. Just a simple dress, nothing much. Race noticed something in her left hand. He pried a piece of paper out of her cold, limp fingers. He looked at the scrawled handwriting, and attempted to read the crumpled note.

To whoever finds this:

If you are reading this, I must be dead. The story of it is a long and complicated one, and I do not have the time to write the entire story. However, I will tell you that it was my own relative who killed me, over an argument that could have been avoided. I will not name my killer, because I still love him, even now.

I must warn you: trust no one. Even someone as close as a family member or best friend might one day be the cause of your death. Trust no one, and keep on your guard.

I also must ask one more thing of you: Take care of my daughter. She is barely two weeks old, and she is currently hidden under the stairs in front of Irving Hall. Her father died before her birth. Her name is Irene and she was born on September 5, 1899. She is not yet baptized, but I would like it if she was.

Also, please take the necklace from around my neck. I would like my child to have this one relic of me.

Thank you for reading this… please take care of Irene. She's all that's left of my deceased lover and me.

Race was in awe. What was the full story of this young woman who had left him the instructions? What was the story of Irene's birth? What would become of Irene? Was the same man that had killed her mother going to find her and attempt to repeat history?

It didn't occur to him that the child might be in danger. He stuffed the note into his pocket, untied the necklace from the girl's neck, and ran as fast as he could to Irving Hall. He stuffed the necklace into his pocket with the note.

Sure enough, Irene was sound asleep in a small basket, not unlike the one Sam slept in when he was a few weeks younger. He scooped up the basket and looked at the child.

What little hair she had was a dark shade of brown. It was evident that she was at least some part Italian; you could see it in her looks. Race knelt next to the basket. With a shaking hand, he touched the small girl's head. She woke up almost instantly. A small whimper erupted from her tiny mouth.

"Oh… no, don't cry…" he whispered, hoping to settle her down.

He looked deep into her brown eyes. Racetrack didn't know a baby could have so much concentration; she stared back with such intensity. Irene started to cry, but she didn't wail. Just a few silent tears rolled down her pale, rosy cheeks.

It's almost as if she knows that her mother is dead, Racetrack thought. "Shh… bambina," he whispered, using the Italian word for child.

He himself was Italian; but everyone knew that. Although, few people knew that he could speak two languages. Few people knew much about Race. They didn't know that he witnessed his entire family be slaughtered before his eyes; they didn't know that he had barely got away with his life. They didn't know how frightened he was to leave Little Italy, where he had lived for years. They didn't know how scared he had been at the time, hardly even six years old, when one of the older newsies found him wondering in the street, semiconscious.

Maybe that's why this small child captivated him; they had something in common.

Irene took his finger in her tiny hand, and brought it up next to her face.

After pondering for a moment, Race decided to take her to the lodging house for the night. In the morning, he would sit down with Kloppman and decide what the fate of that tiny child would be.

---

"C'mon, Kloppy, lemme in!" Racetrack was getting impatient.

"You know the rules, Mister Higgins," the old man said through the door, "no one comes in after the doors are locked."

"But you let Spot in all the time!"

"Mister Conlon isn't a Manhattan newsie, Race. He's a special exception."

"Aw, an' here it was that I thought that Kloppy was just afraid of him."

"Racetrack Higgins, you little son-of-a-"

Irene, who had just woken up again and was crying, interrupted him.

"Shhh… quit cryin', little goil… it's okay. I'se here; 'S okay Irene," Racetrack whispered. Irene settled down almost instantly.

A wide-eyed Kloppman thrust open the door. "Anthony Higgins! What the hell are you trying to do? Where'd you get her?"

Irene started crying again. Race set down the basket and lifted the baby girl out of it. He started to gently rock her back and forth.

"Oh, damn it Kloppman… I just got her to shut up!"

Kloppman had a look of udder shock on his face. A thunder-like sound erupted from behind him as Jack, Mush, and Kid Blink ran down the stairs.

"What's all the commotion, Kloppy?" Kid Blink asked.

"Yeah, what's-" Mush was cut off by Jack, who gasped at the image before him, of Racetrack cradling a baby in his arms.

"First Spot, now Race? Race, we'se know you like to gamble, but this…" Jack trailed off.

Race just shook his head. Irene had finally drifted back to sleep in his arms.

He walked into the common room, gently stroking the tiny girl's head. The other men followed him. He sat on the tattered chair.

"She ain't mine…" he whispered, hoping that the babe would stay asleep. "I found her mother dead, wit' this note." He handed Blink the note, who passed it around.

"Well, Racetrack," Kloppman said when he was finished. "What are you going to do? You found her; it's your choice."

Race pondered for a minute, still looking at the sleeping child in his arms. "I guess… she'll stay for the night, an' then… we'se gonna figure out what to do wit' her tomorrow."

There wasn't a reply from anyone. Race wondered if they were at a loss for words or if they didn't want to wake Irene.

"You can have the back room again, Race," Kloppman said, somewhat distraught. "So that you can take care of her for the night, I mean."

Race gently carried the sleeping child up the stairs. He walked into the bunkroom, while ignoring the stares, gasps, and ramblings of the other newsies.

---

"This here's where she'll stay if she comes here," the woman said, turning into a room full of babies in beat up cribs. The stench was bad- like no one had ever changed the children's diapers.

Racetrack had gone to the orphanage the next day, while everyone else sold their papers. He looked around the dump that they called a home for orphans, and thought about how he had almost been sent there.

He was reluctant to give the child up, but Jack told him that there was no way he was going to be up all night listening to a little girl cry. Kloppman, on the other hand, completely left it up to Race, saying it was his choice. He knew that Race was emotionally attached to Irene, because he was the only one who knew about the fourteen-year-old's past.

Race thought about when was brought to the Manhattan Lodging House eight years before. When they brought him in the door, he passed out. A few days later, he woke up, recovered a bit- except for his mind. No one could get him to speak. They couldn't even get his name out of him.

"We'se found him soaked right outside of Little Italy," the newsie that found him had said. "He ain't said nothin' since he woke up. Somethin's wrong wit' this one, Kloppman. Maybe it'd jus' be best to take him to the orphanage."

But Kloppman would hear none of it.

Racetrack, or Tony as he was called at the time, suddenly found himself in Kloppman's office.

"You got a name, kid?" he was asked, gently.

Tony nodded.

"Will you tell me?"

He shook his head.

"Are you a runaway?"

He shook his head again.

"Are you an orphan?"

Tony started crying. This was the first time he had really thought about the fact that he had no family, no one at all in the world.

"Aww, kid, don't cry… I'm trying to help you, can't you see?" the man had said. "I'm sorry- I didn't mean to bring back any bad memories. C'mon, just tell me your name."

"M-my n-n-name is A-A-Anthony," young Racetrack stuttered.

"You got a last name?"

"Higgins. My name is Anthony Higgins," he said, a lot clearer this time.

"Well, Mister Higgins, would you please tell me about what made you cry?" Kloppman replied.

Tony told the slightly younger Kloppman his story. "An'… they jus' left me there. Didn't even care. An' I looked around an' saw Mama, an' Papa, an' my brother an' sister- they was all dead." He started sobbing again.

Kloppman pulled the six-year-old into a hug. "I'll be here if you need me. Now, Tony, you have a decision to make. Would you like to go to the orphanage? Or would you like to stay here and work as a newsie?"

"A newsie?" the confused little boy had said in his innocence.

"Yes, a newsie. A newsboy? The boys who sell newspapers?"

"Oh… yes. I guess. I'll be a newsie."

And he had been ever since, and would be until the day he died. His nickname came a little later, when one of the newsies took him to the races one day.

"Umm…" Race pondered. "Actually," he said, "I'm going to keep her."

And with that, he walked out the door and headed back to the lodging house. Who cared about what Jack thought? For once in his life, he wasn't going to bother listening to his leader.

"Well," he said to Irene, who was cooing in his arms, "hello, Miss Irene Higgins."

Author's notes: That chapter was a little shorter than usual… Well, I hope you guys liked it, though… I'm going to try to update once a week, but I'm not making any promises! By the way, tell me later if Irene or Sam sounds Mary Sueish… I'm really scared. I don't think they are… but you never know…

The Third Fate: Hehe… dead girl… Anyways, she is always known as "the dead girl" to everyone… hahaha. Okay, I guess it's not funny. Anyways, thanks for the review!

Cakes: Yep, my AIM is the same as my penname. And you already figured out a tiny bit of the plot! But only a tiny bit…

Gamble7: Yeah, umm… my Spot!muse wasn't exactly happy about having a kid to take care of… the only thing he likes about Sam!muse is the fact that he craps on Skittery. Race!muse likes Irene!muse, though. I have lots of muses.

Silky Conlon: Ooh… Spot!muse is flattered… and Race!muse is mad… Thanks for the review!