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


Chapter 59: High Times and High Jinks

Race sauntered down the street in the direction of the newsboy lodging house, whistling as he went. The sun had barely begun its slow descent in the west, and the shadows were just beginning to lengthen, but there was still plenty of daylight left, and this pleased Race to no end.

Normally, he'd be about two-thirds of the way through selling his stock of the afternoon edition, but today he'd been lucky: he'd been able to move his wares quickly that morning and had exhausted his supply of papers well before noon, which meant that he'd had some time to kill, so he'd eaten an early lunch, and then had made his way over to the distribution center to wait for the afternoon installment of The World.

On his way there, he'd caught sight of Morris Delancey loafing around about half a block from his destination, and had decided on a whim to see if his luck would continue to hold. After all, he had nothing better to do, and the younger Delancey brother had looked a bit off his game. So Race had cordially invited him to sit down for a hand of poker. The newsies would have been astounded at the sight: one of their own kind taking up a seat opposite Wiesel's surly second nephew like they were friendly acquaintances and not adversaries who openly despised each other - but Race had learned long ago that Morris had a weakness for cards, and he'd plied this to his advantage, inveigling Delancey into the occasional game of poker and almost always coming out on top (though he let Morris win every once in a while, just to keep him hooked).

That day had been no exception.

Morris, true to form, had taken the loss in a rather unsportsmanlike manner, but in the end, he'd paid up, and the winnings were now jingling in Race's pocket along with the money he'd made from selling his papers.

He sometimes wondered if Morris really didn't have anyone else to play cards with - his losing record seemed to indicate that he didn't play often (or maybe he really was all brawn and no brains). Was he truly that desperate? Oscar, Race knew, abhorred gambling - Morris had accidentally let that slip during one of their very first games - so maybe the younger Delancey brother only accepted Race's invitations due to a complete lack of other options. He certainly seemed to be intent on making sure that his brother didn't find out - he'd threatened on no uncertain terms to make Race's life a living nightmare if he ever mentioned a word of it, and Race had duly complied, more out of a desire to continue emptying Morris' pockets than anything else...but every once in a while it made him wonder what kind of existence the churlish Delanceys led when they weren't throwing their weight around at the distribution center.

The lodging house came into view, and Race jogged across the street, his pockets pleasantly heavy with his earnings. Opening the door, he saw that Kloppman had dozed off at his desk (as the elderly man was wont to do on warm late afternoons when things were slow and he'd finished his task of tending to the lodging house for the day).

Race cleared his throat, first quietly, then a little louder when the sound failed to rouse Kloppman from his slumber. "Hey..." He leaned over the counter to nudge the lodging house superintendent on the shoulder. "Mr. Kloppman...I gotta pay ya for the rest of this week."

The elderly man woke with a start. "What? Oh - oh, Racetrack. It's you." He shook his head, fumbled for his glasses, then set them clumsily on his nose before he began flipping through his ledger. "You're all paid up through next Monday," he said, looking up at Race.

Another pleasant surprise. "Any of the fellas behind?" Race inquired, flipping a dime into the air and catching it deftly.

Kloppman consulted his notebook. "The new boy, Artie - he's a day late. Romeo owed me two cents, but Jack already paid that off."

Race set the dime down on the counter. "This'll get Artie squared away, and put the change towards his fee for tonight. Don't tell him it was me, all right?" Kloppman nodded, making the notation in his ledger.

"You get lucky at Sheepshead today, Racetrack?" He put the dime into his money box. "You're here early, and it seems like you've got cash to burn."

"The papes moved quickly," Race shrugged. "And I guess you could say I hit a stroke of luck."

"Well, it's nice of you to spread the wealth around," Kloppman remarked. "Anonymously, too."

"If the fellas knew I was loaded, they'd be houndin' me right and left," Race grinned. "Can't let 'em think I'm goin' soft either, ya know?" He gave the lodging house owner a little nod. "Thanks, Mr. Kloppman. I'll be headin' up for a bit." He started towards the stairs, but before he'd reached them, he suddenly remembered something. Maybe it was because he'd just seen Morris, or maybe it was some kind of internal instinct that had tipped him off - he didn't know - but he turned back eagerly towards the counter.

"Hey, just makin' sure," he said, "today's the seventh, right?"

Kloppman nodded. "That's right."

Race smirked to himself. The day just kept getting better and better.

Thanking the lodging house owner, he nearly sprinted up the stairs, eager to reach the bunk room. He'd only been planning to relax a bit and maybe take a nap, but now his mind was already scheming, and he was impatient to withdraw to the newsies' living quarters to plan and to announce the good news to whomever happened to be there. Most of the boys would probably still be out selling, but if any of them had returned, they were about to be on the receiving end of Race's barely-contained excitement.

Today was the seventh, which meant that tomorrow would be August eighth, also secretly known among the lower Manhattan Newsies as…

Delancey Day.


"Hey, Racer!" Albert hissed. "They must've known we was comin' - the back gate's locked!"

Race crept quietly over to where the ginger-haired newsie was crouched half-hidden in the shadows. Upon closer inspection, he saw that the other boy was right; a padlock now secured the rear entrance to the distribution center. Formerly there had only been a latch that could be manipulated with a little know-how, but clearly someone had decided that another deterrent was necessary.

This would make things a bit more difficult.

"You want me to run back to the lodging house for some picks?" Albert offered.

Race was about to reluctantly take him up on it when Artie broke in.

"Before ya do that, let me try somethin'." He made his way over to the gate, reached into his pocket to pull out something too small to see, then began prying at the lock. In a matter of minutes, Race heard the telltale click of the shackle disengaging, and then Artie was pulling the bolt free.

"How'd ya do that?" Albert demanded.

Artie shrugged. "Hairpin," he said, sticking it back into his pocket. "Works better than a pick sometimes, and it's a lot easier to get your hands on."

Race clapped him on the back. "Knew there was a reason why we brought'cha along!" He pushed the gate open, peering into the darkness. "Hold here a moment while I take a look," he said, looking over his shoulder to address the other three newsies. "Probably ain't anyone here since they had that lock on the gate, but it can't hurt to check."

"I'll back you up," Finch offered, and Race nodded silently in agreement.

Finch handed over the rucksack he'd been carrying to Albert before he and Race crept through the gate, skirting the backlot of the distribution center where the wagons normally pulled in through a side entrance to deliver their goods. Everything seemed deserted, and their reconnaissance was completed soon enough without running across a single soul. Race gave a low whistle, and he heard the sound of Albert and Artie making their way quietly through the gate, Albert grunting a bit as he hefted the two rucksacks onto his shoulders which contained the newsies' implements of havoc-wreaking.

Members of the lodging house had been observing the impertinent tradition of Delancey Day for the past three or four years, ever since Jack had stepped into his role as leader. Though he generally discouraged pranking amongst the newsies themselves (for reasons having to do with the mess they made more than anything else), with the Delanceys it had always been a different story. The first time it had only been Jack and Race involved in the hijinks, and there had been no plan for future capers, but the payoff of seeing Oscar and Morris' reactions the following day at the distribution center had been too gratifying to pass up the chance of a repeat performance. Accordingly, they'd dubbed the event "Delancey Day," and the following year had managed not only to pull off an encore but to completely outdo their initial success, even by their own high standards.

Albert had been first to want in on the action, and the year after that, they'd added Finch to their number, and not a moment too soon - the Delanceys, by that time, were suspecting the annual prank, and they'd been lying in wait for the newsies with a few of their brutish friends. If it hadn't been for Finch's quick work with his slingshot, Race doubted any of them would have walked away from the ambush, but as it was, they'd escaped practically unscathed (and had still managed to sneak back several hours later to rig the distribution center as planned, though after that they never set foot on the property after hours without the sharp-shooting newsie at their side).

Race had had all year to think up the prank they would be pulling tonight, and he was unduly pleased at its cleverness. The Delanceys, he knew, would be on their guard, but that would only make it more gleefully satisfying when the newsies managed to outwit them anyway.

The only rub had been Jack's refusal to come. Well, it hadn't exactly been a refusal, to be fair. More like a half-hearted apology as he'd been on his way out the door to meet Katherine for who knew what kind of sappy occasion. Race had been more than a little shocked; this was Delancey Day, after all, and he and Jack had been the founding members of the event. It had been something they'd looked forward to and laughed about every year. But, Race told himself bitterly, he shouldn't have been surprised. Jack was out of the lodging house more often than he was in it these days, and the newsies' humble shenanigans probably couldn't compete anymore with the high-falutin' company he seemed to now prefer.

Race had hidden his disappointment, and the other members of the Delancey Day Task Force (as they called themselves) hadn't said much when he'd announced Jack's absence, but it had still felt odd for only the three of them to be making their plans, packing the rucksacks, and waiting silently in their beds for night to fall.

Artie had caught them sneaking out of the lodging house and had innocently asked to tag along, and Race, still smarting from Jack's indifference, had agreed without thinking too much about it, but, he supposed, the younger newsie had proven his worth already, so maybe they had a replacement for Jack on their hands if the newsie leader was going to continue to blow them off for his recently-acquired ladylove.

Shaking off his bitterness, Race rubbed his hands together in anticipation as Albert and Artie drew near, the former crouching down to open up the bags of items they'd been procuring over the past several months in preparation for their annual caper. In the dim light of the moon, Race couldn't see the faces of his cronies, but he could tell from the quickness of Albert's movements and the eager tension in Finch's shoulders and the barely-audible exclamations of delight from Artie that they were just as excited as he was, and the thought made Race grin to himself as he knelt down to help unpack the rucksacks.

Jack or no Jack, this was going to be a Delancey Day to remember.


The prank went off without a hitch, and the next morning, the newsies were treated to the annual spectacle of two outraged, cursing Delanceys as they lined up to purchase their papers for the day. Of course, no one ever admitted to doing the deed (there was a reason why they kept the number of newsies in the Task Force small), but Race knew that the Delanceys - Oscar at least - had an idea of who was behind it all.

He and Jack had always dropped hints that they were the instigators, wanting to ensure that if any retaliation did take place it wouldn't be directed towards the younger (and more vulnerable) newsies, but they always stopped just short of acknowledging culpability. They were good liars, after all (that whole bit about improving the truth was a euphemism, and they both knew it), so it wasn't difficult to deny their involvement or even to throw out an innocent-sounding question with a straight face. The Delanceys could bluster and threaten all they wanted, but they could never prove who'd been responsible, and so they generally settled for behaving a little more churlishly than normal to anyone who stepped up to the circulation window.

From his place at the back of the line, Race watched, smirking a little as the unsuspecting Davey walked forward to pay for his papers and nearly had his head bitten off by Oscar who was working the window that morning. He ought to have warned the older Jacobs brother that it was generally advisable to simply set your money down on the counter, wait for your papers, then take them and walk away on the morning of Delancey Day, but he had to admit that it was rather amusing to see the bewildered look on Davey's face as he retreated with his copies of the morning edition, no doubt entirely confused as to what he'd said that would warrant such an irate response.

Race had just finished paying for his own stack of papers (after indulging in some heated banter with Oscar) and was walking off in the direction of the Polo Grounds, when Jack fell into step beside him.

"Hey," the newsie leader said, "ya got a moment to talk?"

Race slid his copies of The World into his newsboy bag. "Sure, Jacky," he said nonchalantly. "What's eatin' ya?"

They hadn't spoken privately since the strike's conclusion, and Race wondered if Jack was going to broach the subject of his recent (and frequent) absences from the lodging house, or maybe express some regret that he'd passed up the Delancey Day pranking in favor of yet another date with Katherine.

"I ran into one of the new boys in line this mornin'," Jack said. "Auggie...Arnie…"

"Artie?" Race supplied.

"Yeah, that's it," Jack nodded. "Artie. Anyway, he was goin' on and on about how he got to go with you and Al and Finchy to rig the distribution center."

"He ended up bein' our fourth," Race acknowledged, trying to keep the implicit criticism out of his voice.

"Well...that's what I wanted to talk to you about." The newsie leader sounded hesitant.

A tiny flicker of hope sprang to life in Race - was Jack finally going to apologize for his negligence and admit that he'd seen reason, maybe confess that he missed their old camaraderie as much as Race did, and that he was willing to do whatever it took to get it back?

"Racer," Jack began uneasily, "it's one thing takin' Albert or Finch or one of the older boys along when you's goin' prankin'...but takin' one of the younger ones along was just plain stupid, 'specially one of the new boys who don't know any better. I thought you was clear on that. Only the older ones is allowed to participate in these kinds of things. If it comes to a brawl, they can defend themselves, but younger ones like Artie ain't gonna stand a chance. We's responsible for them, and they's under our protection."

The unexpected reprimand stung.

"Who do ya think was protectin' them the whole two weeks you was off hidin'?" Race muttered angrily under his breath.

Jack gave him a sharp glance. "What's that?"

"Nothin.'" Race grit his teeth. "Guess I forgot about that little detail."

Jack didn't say anything for a moment, and Race pointedly took a copy of The World from his bag and began to peruse the headlines, even though he was too irritated to really take in what he was reading.

"Look, I know you was probably just bein' friendly invitin' the kid along," Jack allowed, and Race could tell that he was trying to make amends. "You's always been good at that. But you gotta use your head and think about things first, all right?" He paused, and then added, "I'm dependin' on you, Racer."

"Yeah, sure Jacky. Won't happen again." Race snapped the paper shut.

"All right, well…" Jack scratched his head. "I'm gonna get to sellin' then." He gave Race an uneasy look, but when Race didn't say anything in return, Jack turned away and strode off down the street.

Race continued walking. He called out a headline, not even sure if it even bore any semblance to what was in the paper, but not really caring in the moment. He was far too riled up to be worried about the possibility of a duped customer carping about being sold fake news.

Jack sure had a lot of nerve, he thought to himself. After skipping out on them for weeks, leaving them to bear the brunt of the fallout, he'd simply sauntered back onto the scene, conveniently reappearing near the strike's conclusion and taking all the credit for its success besides. Sure, it had been Jack (with Katherine's help) who had masterminded the final push that had brought Pulitzer to his knees...but Race knew the truth: that Jack would have never been able to bring the strike to its end or receive the Governor's praise or see his name in the papers or secure a place in history without the help of those who had quietly kept the strike going behind the scenes.

Not that Race cared who got the credit - he was more than happy to relinquish his role as de facto leader and get back to the gratifying business of cracking his jokes, selling his papes, and riling up the Delancey brothers. He didn't need the applause or the adoration or the cushy job at The World. Jack could have it all, and Race wouldn't begrudge him it a single bit; the newsie leader had started the strike after all (though now that Race thought about it, even that was debatable), and credit should be given where credit was due.

But would it have hurt for Jack to cut Race a little slack sometimes, especially considering that it was Race who had stepped in to save the newsie leader's sorry hide while Jack had been off licking his wounds at Irving Hall? It wasn't like Race was the only one who'd made errors of judgement...

A lady in a ridiculously large and gaudy hat hailed him for a paper, and Race pasted on a smile and made the sale, not returning to his bitter thoughts until he was well away from her and any possible objections she might make regarding the artistic liberties he'd taken with the headline.

He had to admit that Jack was right about one thing - it hadn't been a wise decision to let Artie come along for the Delancey Day shenanigans. And Race should have warned the younger boy not to talk so openly about his involvement if the victims of their pranking were within earshot. It wasn't Artie's fault - he was only excited about being a part of things, and, in truth, he'd played an important role in the success of their efforts - but he had to learn that letting your guard down could be dangerous, and that it was always important to keep your adversaries within sight so that they couldn't catch you unaware. The Delanceys might have limited themselves to posturing and insults during work hours, but Race and the other newsies knew that they were dangerous enough when encountered outside of the distribution center, and the little ones especially needed to be careful.

Race decided that he'd pull Artie aside and speak to him about it later that night at the lodging house. It would be simple enough, and then he could clear his conscience of Jack's criticism.

Hopefully that would finally be enough to get the newsie leader off his back.