Disclaimer: This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from Newsies belongs to Disney and not to me.


Chapter 9: Taking On The World

Davey awoke with an unusually clear head and without the slight irritability that typically found him after a short night of rest. Pushing himself into a sitting position, he looked over and was surprised to see that Les, habitually an early riser, was still asleep in the bed beside him.

Rising gingerly so as not to wake his brother, Davey quietly got dressed and ready for the day. All was quiet in his parents' room, so he decided to leave the apartment for a bit so that he wouldn't disturb anyone.

Placing a note on the kitchen table and grabbing a few biscuits from the bread box (his mother was always complaining that he didn't eat enough), he left the apartment and made his way downstairs to the street, just as the sun was beginning to rise on another day.

He set a brisk pace, munching on the biscuits as he walked and letting his long strides carry him towards nowhere in particular. His thoughts were already going a mile a minute, as if he'd woken up from an especially vivid dream to find that it wasn't a dream after all.

It was the trolley strike that consumed his attention. He'd mentioned it to his mother before retiring the evening before, had fallen asleep with it on his mind, and now found it again the locus of his thoughts as he made his way through the city streets. The headline he'd been hawking yesterday hadn't been particularly riveting, but it was the idea behind it that had captured him: the disadvantaged trolley workers, though insignificant on their own, were a force to be reckoned with when standing hundreds strong, and they had made their voices heard, striking for better wages and working conditions so effectively that the entire city was forced to sit up and take notice...not just for a fleeting moment, but for weeks.

Davey shook his head, still a little amazed at the thought. Who would have guessed that that kind of power rested in the hands of the faceless laborers who toiled thanklessly for their privileged bosses?

But the union aspect - now, that was the key. It was like the wild dogs that he'd read about one time in an animal encyclopedia: small and scrappy beasts, they were able to take down prey far larger than themselves by working together as a pack to surround and harass their target before they eventually wore it down, weakening it sufficiently to deliver the killing blow. It was the strength in numbers principle played out.

It was what his father had lacked when the accident had befallen him.

Davey massaged the back of his neck, trying to reign in his restless thoughts. There was nothing to be gained from wishing for what could have been. The accident had occurred, the layoff had followed, and here they were now with nowhere to go but forward.

Still, the fascinating thought refused to leave his mind.

Davey walked. He walked and walked, maybe for a mile, maybe two. He walked until the sun had risen in the sky and the streets were beginning to buzz with activity. He didn't stop walking until he'd fully circled back to the tenement, climbed the stairs to the apartment on the second floor, and pushing the door open just in time to see Les sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes sleepily. It was only then that Davey finally ceased his restless movement.

But his thoughts continued to rush and tumble on.

He and Les ended up leaving late for the distribution center. Their mother needed help moving their father into the main room of the apartment so that he could sit up and enjoy a bit of fresh air from the only window in their living space, and the transfer had been a bit trickier than they'd expected. Once it had been done and their father was comfortably settled, Davey hurried Les out of the tenement and down the street, sorely tempted to order his little brother to climb onto his back so that he could carry him instead of having to slow his pace for the smaller boy's shorter strides. But he knew that Les would have balked at being treated like "a little kid," and Davey was too wrapped up in his thoughts at the moment to bother arguing.

A kind of restless energy had gripped him, and he found himself eager to get to the distribution center. He wasn't really sure where this sense of impatient expectation had come from. Maybe it was the combined effect of his mother's encouraging words from the night before and the unusually sound sleep that he had enjoyed, or maybe it was something else entirely, but the feeling of anticipation had been growing inside him ever since he'd woken up that morning, and with it came an uncharacteristic sense of excitement that he'd only felt a few times before in his life. He felt ready to face whatever challenges the day had in store, ready to surmount any obstacle that came his way, and ready to think his way out of any problem that surfaced (or at least to try for thirty papers this morning instead of the twenty he'd gone with yesterday).

He felt ready to take on the world.


"Sadie, something's burning!" Abby yelled.

Sadie, who had been chatting with her father, quickly raced into the kitchen. A faintly scorched odor hung in the air, and she quickly grabbed a pair of kitchen mitts and opened the oven door, wrinkling her nose as the smell of burnt chocolate hit her full in the face.

"You really should just stick to soup, Sadie," Abby remarked from her seat at the kitchen table where she had been reading. "It's the only thing you make that's any good and doesn't end up being burnt to a crisp."

Sadie placed the tray of ruined brownies on the stovetop, grimacing at the blackened mess. "The Sears catalog said this was an easy recipe," she muttered.

"I don't think the catalog's to blame for this," Abby jabbed. She gave her sister a curious look. "Why are you even trying to bake this early in the morning?"

"It's Margaret's birthday," Sadie answered as she scraped at the pan with a turner, resigned to the fact that this batch of brownies was headed directly to the garbage bin. "I wanted to make something special to share with everyone at lunch today."

There wouldn't be enough time before school for another attempt, so she'd just have to make it up to Megs on another occasion, perhaps with a box of candies from the confectionery, or something that didn't involve quite so much...baking.

Sighing, Sadie dumped the burnt brownies into the garbage bin and put the pan into the sink to soak. "Abby, you'll have to go along with Margaret to school this morning if you don't want to be late," she said. "I need to finish cleaning up the kitchen; you know how Mama hates it when things get left half-done, and I already know that this pan is going to give me a difficult time."

"Not as difficult a time as Mr. Crowell will give you when you show up tardy for class," Abby reminded her, closing her book and reaching for her slate and lunch pail. "Wouldn't you rather risk Mama's displeasure than our schoolmaster's?"

"I think Sadie is doing the right thing by finishing what she started," their father said, poking his head into the kitchen. He grimaced a bit at the burnt smell, but didn't remark on it.

"Abby, why don't you go along with Margaret to school?" he suggested. "I'll help Sadie clean up here, and she'll be along in a jiffy."

Abby nodded, bidding her father farewell, then left the apartment to join Margaret at their usual meeting spot.

"Hand me a wet rag, will you, Sadie?" Philip asked. "I'll tackle the stove while you get to work on that pan."

"Papa, you really don't have to do that," Sadie protested. "I can take care of it."

"I know, Sadie," he answered. "But your schooling is important, and I don't want you to be any later to class than you need to be." His daughter reluctantly handed him the rag, and he added, "besides, don't you have a classmate who's depending on you to recap the lesson for him tonight?"

Sadie sighed. Yes, there was that.

"I know that school isn't your cup of tea, Sadie," her father said gently. "But an education is a luxury, and it's going to open doors for you in the future. I don't want you to take that for granted."

"Yes, Papa," Sadie acquiesced. "I'm trying..."

"I know you are." Philip gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "And I'm proud of you for offering to help your classmate who can't be at school. It isn't easy to learn something new and then have to turn around and teach it to someone else."

"No, it isn't," Sadie agreed with a laugh, thinking of her struggles the night before. "And I'm certainly quite ill-equipped for the job."

"You have a good heart, Sadie," Philip reassured her. "That's the most important thing." He smiled at his daughter, then began rolling up his shirt sleeves. "Now," he said briskly, "let's get this kitchen cleaned up so we can get you along to school."


If Davey had thought that his first day of being a newsboy was eventful, the second one proved to be even more astonishing.

"They raised the price of papes overnight!" exclaimed a redheaded newsboy, his voice alarmed and incredulous. "Ten cents more per hundred!"

The other newsies began clamoring in shocked disbelief as Davey stared at the elevated blackboard proclaiming: "New Newsie Price: Sixty Cents Per Hundred." Apparently, this headline was astounding news - the increase in price had the boys around him nearly in a frenzy of angry indignation.

As the agitated newsies continued to talk frantically amongst themselves, Davey slowly began to get a picture of what this increase in price meant. It wasn't just indignant outrage he was hearing in the voices of the boys around him: it was fear. Real and outright fear.

The newsboys were hard-pressed as it was to eke out a living, but this increase presented a possibly insurmountable obstacle to their survival. The fact that the newspaper owners could raise the price of papers seemingly on a greedy whim incited a despair that bled into the voice of every single newsie who feared the very real consequences of this decision. And Davey found himself caught up in the familiar feeling of desperate frustration as the anger that he'd kept so tightly tamped down over the past few days suddenly flared to life.

This was the same cold-hearted avarice that had been at play when his father was laid off. This was the same selfish work of men who saw their employees as nothing more than tools to be used until they were no longer useful. This was the same merciless, unfeeling disregard for humanity that put the profits of the powerful above the survival of the poor.

Davey's hands clenched involuntarily as his anger grew.

This was the same vile form of injustice that had devastated his family only days ago...and he hated it.

His heart was pounding. Was the restless anticipation that he'd felt all morning a harbinger of this surprising and unfortunate development? His thoughts began racing again as the newsies' anxious chatter continued to swirl around him.

"Hey, what are you bummers sulkin' around for?" Jack demanded, suddenly sauntering onto the scene.

The newsboys all began clamoring at once, eager to apprise their leader of the situation. Jack listened, seemingly unconcerned. "Calm down," he said assuringly as the circulation bell sounded. "They gotta be playin' with us.'"

Ambling up to the window which had just been opened, Jack declared loudly, "Good one, Weasel! You really got the fellas nervous!" He set fifty cents down on the counter. "I'll take a hundred like usual."

Wiesel gave Jack a smug look. "Didn't you read the headline, Kelly?" he asked, pointing to the blackboard. "A hundred papes will cost you sixty."

Davey held his breath.

Jack scowled, his previously affable expression darkening almost instantly. "I ain't payin' that price," he growled at Wiesel.

Wiesel shrugged indifferently. "Then take a hike."

"You bet!" Jack snapped. "Me and the fellas will head on over to The Journal." He motioned to the rest of the newsies, who shouted their agreement and eagerly fell in behind their leader.

Davey didn't move. It couldn't be that easy...could it?

His suspicions were confirmed when a breathless newsie ran up to Jack, informing him that The Journal had raised their prices, too.

"You'll find the prices raised all over town," came Wiesel's satisfied voice from the window. He smirked at the newsie leader, clearly pleased to have the upper hand for once. "So it's your move, Kelly. Step up and buy your papes...or beat it. If you're not purchasing, you're trespassing."

Jack turned away without answering, motioning for the newsies to gather some distance away from the circulation window where Wiesel couldn't overhear. Davey joined them, hovering a bit at the edge of the group as Les jostled in, trying to get as close to Jack as possible. Then the deliberating began.

"They can't just raise the prices like that, can they?"

They can, Davey thought, wishing that it wasn't true.

"They's holdin' all the cards here! We's completely sunk!"

"How're we gonna make ends meet at them prices?"

"Ain't we got no rights?"

"Come on, fellas!" Crutchie, one of the few newsies whom Davey had met the day before, sounded unnerved as he urged, "Let's just get our papes while we still can, or we's all gonna be sleepin' on the streets!"

It was probably the wisest course of action, Davey agreed. But still, there was something galling about giving in, going along with what the newspaper owners were bullying them into. And then, of course, there was the financial problem of the ten cent increase...

"Hey, hey, hey! Hold on!" Jack broke in, halting the deliberations. "We ain't payin' no new price!"

Once he'd gotten all of the newsies' attention, he motioned them closer. "Alright, here's the deal," he said fiercely. "If we don't sell papes, no one else sells papes, either." His gaze swept around the group, looking each one of the newsies in the eye. "You got that? We ain't budgin' until Pulitzer puts the price back where it was before!"

You mean like a strike? Davey thought.

"Yeah, you heard Davey!" Jack declared. "We's on strike!"

Davey's mind went blank. He hadn't said that last part out loud, had he?

"Wait, wait, hold on!" he protested frantically. "I didn't say - "

"We'll shut down The World same as the trolley workers shut down the trolleys!" Jack continued over Davey's panicked objections.

"And we's gonna be in for a soakin' from the cops if we do!" one newsie blurted out. "Half them strikers got their heads busted for their trouble!"

Jack waved off his concern. "The cops won't bother comin' after us...right, Davey?"

How had he suddenly become the authority here? The situation was unraveling fast, too fast for Davey's liking, and his natural instinct to choose the predictable and safe course of action was grappling with the burning anger inside of him that said that acquiescence in this case would be wrong, so very wrong.

He had a responsibility to sell papers and feed his family. But he also had a responsibility to fight for the justice that had been denied his father. So which responsibility had to take precedence when they came into conflict with one another? Suddenly, things weren't so simple anymore, and Davey found himself trapped in a confounding dilemma, very much like he had on the day before when Jack had advised him to "improve the truth."

Davey's father had taught him not to lie, so he hadn't - but he'd also told Davey that he needed to be the breadwinner of the family, which meant that Davey needed to sell papers. How could he do that if he wasn't willing to exaggerate the headlines to make more sales? It had seemed like a big problem at the time, but the stakes were even higher in the situation confronting him this morning: if he didn't sell papers, his family would go hungry, but if he did sell papers, giving in to the greed of the newspaper owners, he would be perpetuating the very same injustice which had landed them all in this mess in the first place.

Neither course of action was straightforward or appealing. But, after agonizing for a moment, Davey's cautious instinct won out, and familial obligation tenuously gained the upper hand.

"How should I know?" he demanded, turning away from Jack and grabbing Les' hand to pull him towards the circulation window. He couldn't get roped into a strike right now, not when other people were depending on him. "I'm here to feed my family, not to go on strike!"

"Oh, yeah, I forgot about that," Jack scoffed sarcastically. "I guess the rest of us here is just messin' around for kicks. We ain't worried about goin' hungry or anything like that, no way."

Davey winced, involuntarily stopping in his tracks. There really was nothing he could say to that.

"Look," Jack said, walking over to stand in front of Davey, "Just because we's a bunch of penniless kids don't give no one the right to treat us like we's nothin'!"

"I know," Davey said, his eyes meeting Jack's. This wasn't an easy decision for him, and he hadn't meant to sound like he was callously deserting the newsies, leaving them to their fate.

"I know…" he repeated softly, hoping that Jack could hear the conflict in his voice. "But...we can't just go on strike like that. We're a bunch of kids. We don't have a union to protect us like the trolley workers did when they shut down the trolleys."

That really wasn't the crux of the matter - at least not where Davey was concerned - but perhaps it would deter Jack from pursuing this reckless course of action and from hounding Davey in the process. The decision was hard enough as it was without the newsie leader adding further doubts to Davey's already-burdened conscience.

Jack folded his arms across his chest. "Well, what if we make ourselves a union?" he asked.

Davey frowned at this confounding use of logic. "Jack, just because you say...I mean, you can't…" he floundered. "You have to put a lot of things in place before you can call yourself a union, all right?" he declared finally, trying to sound as severe as possible.

"Like what?" Jack questioned.

"Like membership, for example."

"Well, what do you call these bummers?" Jack asked, gesturing to the newsies. A few of them waved cheerfully at Davey.

"How about officers?" he persisted.

"Jack for president!" came the shout as several boys in the group applauded enthusiastically and Jack took a modest bow.

"What about a statement of purpose?" Davey asked, desperately throwing out whatever objections he could think of to convince the irrepressible Jack that this really wasn't as easy as he was making it sound.

"What's a statement of purpose?" a curious Race broke into the exchange.

"It's your reason for forming the union," Davey replied. "You have to have some kind of goal that you're banding together to achieve."

"We's unionizing for fair treatment and fair prices," Jack stated simply. "Ain't a newsie here who don't need that!"

Davey fell silent.

He was suddenly tired - tired of being asked a barrage of questions, tired of being forced into hasty decisions, tired of having to choose between two equally unappealing courses of action - tired of Jack's relentless persistence. It was the same feeling that had come over him the day before when Jack was trying to convince Davey to become selling partners: the realization that he was being methodically worn down, backed into a corner, and would inevitably be disarmed.

"Hey," Jack said softly when Davey didn't answer. "I bet if your father had a union, you and your brother wouldn't need to be out here sellin' papes right now...yeah?"

And there was the knockout punch.

"Yeah," Davey responded. "We wouldn't."

His eyes met Jack's in defeated resignation, expecting to see the other boy's confident, gloating smirk, but to his surprise, there was something unexpected in Jack's face: an unmistakable look of appeal, as if for some reason he needed Davey to get behind this crazy scheme that was unfolding faster than either of them was comfortable with.

It didn't make sense, Davey thought to himself. Why would the charismatic, swaggering Jack Kelly need the approval of a newcomer who had practically no experience selling papers, let alone organizing a strike? The realization that Jack wanted (needed?) his support was oddly empowering. But before Davey could ponder it further, the look was gone, and Jack was once again back to his cocksure self.

"So," he said, addressing the rest of the newsies, "our union is hereby formed for protection against unfair treatment by the likes of Pulitzer and his kind. Union'd we stand!" He paused dramatically, then added, "Hey, that ain't a bad start - someone put that in our statement of purpose!"

"I've got a pencil!" Les offered helpfully.

"Then you's gonna be our Secretary of State!" Jack declared, patting the younger boy on the back.

"The membership has to vote before you can officially strike," Davey broke in, trying to bring them back to business.

Jack looked a bit exasperated at Davey's insistence on protocol, but he agreed. "All right, we'll vote then." He looked over the crowd of newsies. "What do you say, fellas?" he called out. "It's up to you: do we roll over and let Pulitzer treat us like we's nothin'? Or do we fight back and strike?"

"Strike!" came the unanimous cheer.

"Done - what's next?" Jack asked briskly, the formalities having been dispensed with.

"Well, shouldn't we make sure someone in charge knows we's goin' on strike?" Crutchie proposed.

Jack nodded his approval at the suggestion. "What do you say, Davey?" he asked. "Who tells Pulitzer, huh?"

"I don't know!" Davey exclaimed, caught off guard at once more being looked to for the answers.

He wasn't any less conflicted about this road that they were heading down, but, oddly enough, a growing sense of excitement was beginning to override his fear. Though the worry of how he was going to make ends meet for his family continued to hum in the back of his mind, it was relieving to unleash the anger that had been building inside of him, to let it come to the forefront and to channel it into something constructive rather than letting it consume him in helpless frustration.

If they did take their demands to Pulitzer, would he listen? Could they appeal to the man's benevolence, convince him to see reason, and negotiate a return to the original newspaper prices? If they succeeded, then everything would go back to normal, and Davey could get back to the business of selling papers to feed his family. And if there was anyone who had a chance of convincing Pulitzer, it was Jack. (Jack, Davey admitted ruefully, could talk you into anything and make you believe anything before you even knew what he was doing). The newsie leader, then, should naturally be the one to talk to Pulitzer.

Davey felt a faint flicker of hope.

Catching Jack's eye, he answered, "I guess that would be you, the president of the union."

"Or even better, us," Jack grinned. "We'll tell the old man together." He glanced at Davey. "So...what do we say?"

"Well…" Davey took a deep breath.

There was no turning back now.

"The newspaper owners need to treat us fairly as their employees."

"Pulitzer and Hearst have gotta respect our rights!" Jack hollered, his strong voice carrying through the crowd.

"Yeah!" yelled the newsies.

"They can't just decide to raise their prices without considering the impact on their workers!" Davey added, feeling the anger grow behind his words and not bothering to reign it in.

"That's right!" Jack agreed. "Newsies sell the papes, so newsies get a say!"

"Yeah!" came another resounding cheer.

Davey looked around at the crowd of newsboys, taking in their restless energy and the fervency on their faces as they hung on every word. They were a zealous army ready to be unleashed, set to march into battle against foes more powerful and cunning but without right on their side.

To be in the middle of it was exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

Had the feeling of impatient, eager anticipation this morning been to prepare him, to galvanize him for this moment? Davey wondered. He didn't know; he would probably never know - but he would ride this wave of courage for as long as he could.

"We've got a union!" he hollered.


Even with her father's help, it took some time to restore the kitchen to order, and Sadie found herself hurrying along to school rather tardily, hoping that her schoolmaster would be in a forgiving mood that morning (it wasn't likely, but she could hope). She knew that she would deserve whatever consequence was handed down to her, and she'd done her share of copying sentences and cleaning blackboard erasers, but she really didn't want to forfeit her lunch recess on Margaret's birthday, so she fervently hoped that her punishment would not take on that form.

Lost in her thoughts, she was hastening past the distribution center of The New York World, when a familiar voice rang out, immediately arresting her attention.

"They need to understand that they do not control us. We have rights, and we will use them!"

Sadie stopped abruptly, her eyes searching for the owner of that voice even as her mind stumbled in confusion.

It couldn't be…

But there he was, standing tall above a crowd of newsboys with an authority in his voice and a fiery look in his eyes that she had never seen before and certainly never would have imagined that he possessed. As he continued to address the company in front of him, Sadie blinked, still not sure of what she was seeing.

Davey Jacobs, what in the world…?

"We're a union now," he was declaring emphatically, "the newsboy union, and we are not backing down until our voice is heard!"

The newsies roared their approval, cheering and shouting as they moved as one, stomping off en masse towards the offices of The New York World and leaving the distribution center quiet and deserted.

Sadie stood there for a moment longer, still bewildered at what had just taken place. Clearly, some kind of protest was brewing, and reserved, cautious Davey Jacobs was right in the middle of it.

Not just right in the middle of it - catalyzing it.

She remembered remarking only the day before that she was sure there were quite a few things she didn't know about him. But what she hadn't realized was just how true that statement really was.


A/N: In Newsies proper the strike plays out over the course of just a few days, but historically, the strike lasted for around two weeks, so this story's pacing will follow that two-week stretch of time. Thanks for reading my version of this pivotal scene from the source material - Davey seems to go so quickly from hesitant to on board with the strike that I wanted to try my hand at fleshing out what might have been going on in his mind during that time. I'd love to hear what you thought of my attempt. :)