There were a few things that Mitts was good at. He was a damn good newsie, he could coax information out of almost anyone, he could tail someone across the whole city without being seen and, despite the fact that he was the skinniest of all four of his closest friends, he could drink them all under the table.
The thing he was best at, however, was relieving innocent passers-by of their valuables. Mitts was a master pickpocket. He stole wallets, pocket watches and hand bags. In short: he lifted anything that wasn't nailed down. He would do it with a slight bump, a smile and a hasty apology. His marks never felt a thing; never knew what hit them.
Spot, his best friend, had been the one to nickname him Mitts. Of his four friends, Spot was the only one that knew his real name and he preferred it that way. Plus, he liked the name Mitts. It suited him and his talents. There were some things that came naturally to some people and Mitts had been born to steal wallets.
He and Spot had been friends since the age of seven. Over the years Mitts had taught Spot how to pickpocket. It wasn't so much that he had devised a lesson plan and taken Spot to the streets for hands-on experimentation, it was just something he had picked up from being around Mitts so often. It was difficult to stay terrible at something your best friend was so good at. Spot had watched Mitts steal so many wallets that he could lift a few himself, though Mitts' skill was unrivaled.
At the same time, Spot had taught Mitts how to fight. When they were younger, it had seemed like Spot had gotten in as many fights as Mitts lifted wallets and he had always won. Now that they were a bit older, there seemed to be fewer fights for Spot. Maybe it was because he had matured a little and punched away some of the anger, or maybe it was because he had punched it away so many times there were few people left who wanted to face him down.
Unfortunately for Mitts, his skill at fighting rivaled Spot's skill at pickpocketing. He was mediocre at best. Mitts would never have counted himself as one of the best fighters in Brooklyn. Spot certainly, but not him. He wasn't the worst by a long shot, but at this very moment it all meant very little.
Currently, Mitts had seven of the biggest and meanest newsies in Brooklyn staring down their noses at him, cracking their knuckles and smirking at each other. Mitts had thrown everything he had at them. He had turned on his charm and tried talking and coaxing. Hell, he had even offered to buy them all a drink, but these boys had not come to talk.
These were boys who were loyal to the currently leader of the Brooklyn Newsies: Casey Finch. Finch was their leader simply because there was no one else to do it. He was not particularly well-respected outside of his small core of friends. He was not smart or well-spoken. In fact, he seemed to lack almost all the necessary qualities a good leader should have had, except that he was big, muscular and mean. Mitts was not even sure that was a characteristic of a good leader, it just made him more intimidating.
Naturally, Finch seemed to attract the same kinds of boys as he was. The big, mean, stupid kind. It was this kind that had him out-numbered seven-to-one in a deserted street, with his back to a metaphorical and physical wall. What he would not have given for Spot to turn up about now.
After five minutes of so of non-stop smooth talking, without so much as a grunt in response, Mitts gave up. His back was to the bricks and these boy's heads were full of the same. With nothing left for it, when they attacked, he fought back.
But there were seven of them and one of him. It was not a pretty sight.
