Mr. Trenton had turned out to be one of Cara's best customers; he asked her employer specifically for her twice a month, paid her extra, and fed her on occasion. After a few visits, Cara couldn't help but wonder if this apparent do-gooder was hoping for something more in return than just conversation and chimney sweeping, but Trenton never gave any type of sinister impression, and so Cara could only conclude that he was simply a wealthy, generous man. And there was certainly no harm in that, was there?
The newsies fared well adjusting after the strike; the deal that had settled the strike was that the newsies still paid 60 cents per one hundred papes, but they could sell back the papes they didn't hawk each day to retain what little money they had. This had pacified the angry boys, and had so far kept them under control. Cara had thought about adding an evening stint of selling papers to earn some extra money, but the later editions of the paper were already claimed by current Newsies, and newcomers were rarely welcomed. So she stuck to her screeving for extra cash, and collected a couple coppers and the occasional silver every other day. Weeks went by and Cara noticed the leaves beginning to change. She could hardly believe it was October already. And with October came cooler weather, and scarcer food. And even worse, less people on the streets to see Cara's screever works of art. She balked at stopping, even with the threat of cold and snow for no profit. So as autumn began, so did an inward battle of Cara's decisions. However, while her screeving may bring in less, with colder weather came a higher use of chimneys, which meant more work for chimney sweeps.
As Cara chewed on her morning bread, she frowned, thinking about this. While being a chimney sweep was probably the best job she could ever ask for as a minor worker (even at 16, she was still considered minor), it wasn't always pleasant when one was trudging about in the snow and constantly going in and out of warm houses to unstop their bleeding chimney. Cara swallowed and lifted her brushes to her shoulder, looking down at the scrawled note containing her addresses for the day. A chilly wind swept across the street, still shadowy and murky. A poster skittered across the cobblestones and settle against Cara's boot. She leaned and picked it up, peering at the picture. A smile curled on her pale features. On the poster was a picture of a beautiful woman dressed in a mock-Victorian outfit, her arms spread wide as she sang. Her hair was curly and red (though you couldn't see it in the black and white photo) and below the photo, in large, winding script, was the name MEDDA, THE SWEDISH MEADOWLARK. The poster went on to say that all newsies, sweeps, and any other child workers were invited for a benefit performance at the Irving Theatre that night. Cara stuck the poster in her pocket and did a small dance on the sidewalk, giggling. She, like any other sophisticated child of the age, loved Vaudeville shows. She could very easily remember using her supper money to see her first few shows; a free one was one heck of a boon. She clicked her heels together and set off down the street, eager to finish her day's work and draw a little before she departed for Irving Theatre.
It wasn't the first time that Cara had found herself stuck in a chimney. Or rather, her foot was stuck in a bleeding crack in the brick. It also wasn't the worst time, but it was still annoying. Muttering curses under her breath, the sweep tugged on her foot while still trying to balance herself, placed as she was a third of the way up the chimney stack. Wrinkling her nose, she grunted and pulled again, but to no avail. Leaning back against the chimney wall, she untied her boot and pulled her foot out. Suddenly realizing her mistake, she grabbed at the walls but ended up on her rump in the ashes. Coughing and spluttering, she staggered out of the fireplace, blackened with soot and her hair in her eyes. Cara pushed her hair away so she could see, and wobbled a bit before sitting down with a frown on her face.
"What'n the world are you doing?" said a voice from behind her. Cara turned her head a little to see the butler of the house staring at her.
"I got a bit stuck," she replied, blinking soot from her eyelashes.
"And you've made quite a mess of it!"
Cara rolled her eyes. "That's what the sheets are for, sah. I don't usually do this, just so y'know. Me boot's stuck, that's all."
"Well hurry up. The master will be home within the hour," said the butler snootily, and marched back to where he came from.
"Hmph." Cara stood back up and stuck her head inside the chimney stack, spying her boot rather quickly, and snatching it decisively from its resting place. She dumped the soot and debris from the inside and put it back on, lacing it quickly. Cara looked around and sighed. She had a bit of cleaning to do. Thank God the chimney was done.
At the next house the maid actually screamed when she opened the door to a charcoal-black faced Cara, who stood and took the hysterics, ridiculous as they were. The children of the house, however, had no qualms about letting Cara in, since they were used to getting dirty. The job went quickly, and the children babbled the entirety of the time it took for Cara to clean out the chimney. They paid her happily and asked her to come and play again sometime.
Skipping lightly down the street, Cara swung her brushes in circles, humming what she could remember of her last Vaudeville show and smiling through her sooty face. People stared, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. She passed a line of blackfoot boys, and they turned to glare at her; she frowned ever so slightly. Blackfoot boys worked all day shining shoes for next to nothing, and they hadn't received much compensation or labor relief since the strike, and nobody really seemed to notice. Not that it was her job to.
Cara spied a carriage on her side of the street and looked about for police. Spotting none, she darted out onto the cobblestones and caught a hold of the back of the carriage, tipping her hat at the staring gentlemen on the sidewalk. A few of the ladies covered their mouths and tut-tutted, and Cara laughed, despite herself. She'd never be like them if she could help it. She couldn't stand the idea of corset for one thing, and she had a certain dislike for dresses. She'd wear them, but she preferred trousers or breeches when it came right down to it.
A raindrop landed squarely on her nose, and Cara frowned up at the sky, which had begun to turn an ashen-gray color and bunch up with clouds. Yes, it was October, after all. She tucked her hair behind her ears and fixed her cap a little tighter over her head. Luckily, only a few drops peppered the ground, and the clouds remained full and sagging, waiting to dump their contents at a different time, or perhaps on a different part of town. Cara jumped off the carriage and blew a kiss to the sky; she still had a dry sidewalk to draw on, and she set to it with zeal. Scenes blossomed from her meager pieces of colored chalk, from summer in Central Park, to a bright day in the harbor, and another of some fictional fair she'd never been to in her life, but there it was, plain as day. She was starting her fourth drawing, one of a little girl in a blue dress, when she heard the first clink of change. She looked up, hair falling her face as she beamed at the young woman.
"Thank yah, miss," she said, and went back to her work. A few people stopped to watch her work, a few more threw in coins, and Cara spotted a large, silver coin in her hat after another twenty minutes. She smiled and kept drawing diligently, looking up every so often if she ran out of ideas. The girl in the blue dress now had auburn hair, about the same color as Cara's own hair, and a lovely little bow on her plait. The pinging sound of bouncing chalk caused Cara to jerk up from her work, looking about for the chalk in question. A man wearing shiny black shoes and carrying a cane had kicked the chalk out of his way, causing it to land about five feet away and out of Cara's reach. Knowing better, Cara said nothing, and picked up her cap of coins, keeping it tight in her hand as she retrieved her chalk, lest it be stolen. She placed the chalk back into line and continued her now-scuffed sketch. This like this happened often, and no longer bothered her. Another plink announced another happy customer, and Cara flashed another smile in return.