Part One of A Newsie's Tale

Part One

The muscles on my shoulders and back protested as I slammed my shovel into the coal mound, trying to loosen up the tightly packed nuggets. Coal dust tickled my nose and I held my breath, trying desperately not to sneeze. It was no use. I wiped my nose on my shirt sleeve and once again took hold of the shovel handle. Walking carefully back to the furnace, I flung the coal into it. The flames died down briefly as they were smothered by the blanket of coal, but they lept even higher as they consumed the new source of food.

Somewhere, a whistle shriek pierced the smoky gloom and everyone stopped what they were doing. Heaving a sigh of relief, I hung my shovel on a hook on the wall next to the others and headed towards the door.

"Hey, Peter!" A voice yelled. "Dontcha wanna get paid?"

I turned around and saw Michael waving at me from his place in line. I ran over and slipped in behind him, ignoring the glare that the boy in back of me gave me for cutting.

"Didya forget what day it is?" Mike asked me with a grin.

"Yeah, I guess so," I replied sheepishly.

The line crawled forward slowly as Mike and I waited our turn. Mr. Morrison stood at the front of the line and handed out the envelopes with our wages in them. He was a short man, with a fringe of wispy gray hair that clung to his balding head and a pair of tinted glasses perched on his beaky nose. He blinked at me, resembling an owl as he did so, then began shuffling through the packet of envelopes muttering my name.

"Peter. . . Peter. . . Ah! Here it is!" He announced and held out a white envelope. My callused fingers closed around it, smudging the crisp, white paper. I darted outside, once more filled with energy as I left the smoky of the factory behind me. Apparently, the other boys felt the same way, for they ran through the streets of Brooklyn, weaving through the crowd and making enough noise to raise the dead.

I shielded my eyes from the late afternoon sun slanting in them and opened the envelope. A dollar bill and several coins lay in it. As I always did, I removed nickel and dropped it in one of my pockets, then stuffed the envelope in the other. My parents didn't know how much I made, and the amount wasn't on the envelope. They'd never miss one little nickel.

Besides it was my money, I was the one who worked for it, so I should get to spend some of it. As I turned my feet homeward, I wondered what to get my money. I saw a candy store, but since I wasn‘t particularly hungry, I passed it by. My friends shouted at me from the nickelodeon where they were busy spending a week’s salary in the span of five minutes. I waved back, but made no move to join them.

I thought about getting something for my sisters. They had to stay home and help my mother. Of course, getting them something would just make Maria and Tiffany, my two youngest sisters, complain even more about how they couldn’t go out. Izzy would appreciate it though.

Izzy, short for Isabell, was the oldest of my three sisters and was only a year younger than me. Mama always commented that we were like two peas in a pod, in both temperament and appearance. Izzy was unlike my other sisters. She didn’t complain and whine, and she always loved anything I bought her. That made me remember, her birthday was coming up soon and I still need to get her a present.

What could I get her? It had to be something special. I began looking in the store windows for something I could afford. I stopped in front of one displaying ribbons, lace and bolts of cloth. A satiny ribbon, as pink as clouds during sunrise, caught my eye. It was perfect! The only hair ribbons Izzy had were dull colored browns and grays and blues. She would love this!

I dashed in the store and went up to the man behind the counter.

"Dat ribbon in da window," I pointed, "how much is it?"

"This one?" The man asked, bringing the ribbon over. I nodded.

"Five cents," he announced, giving me a slightly odd look.

Five cents, it was all of my spending money, but I reached into my pocket and hauled out my nickel without hesitation. The man held out the ribbon as I dropped the coin into his hand. Reaching for it, I saw the soot on my hand and gave it a quick swipe on my pant leg before grabbing the ribbon. The man was still giving me that odd look as I left the store, he was probably wondering why a boy was buying a pink hair ribbon, but I didn’t care.

The sun was beginning to set as I walked down my street. The heat that the street had soaked up during the long summer day was still radiating from the pavement and leaked through the soles of my shoes. Little kids were running around the street, playing some game, while their older sisters stood in a circle chatting and keeping a watchful eye on them. I saw my sister Tiffany watching over my twin brothers, Thomas and Benjamin, who were two years old. Their names seemed ridiculously long for two small kids, but I supposed that they would eventually grow into them.

A man selling slices of watermelon came by, peddling his cart.

"Fresh watta-melon! Penny a piece!" He yelled. A couple of children ran up to a building yelling,

"Mama, Mama! Can I have a penny?"

A woman appeared in the window and tossed down two pennies. They fell glittering through the air. One child caught his, the other missed, and the coin landed at his feet with a clink. He was quick to snatch it up, however, and ran over to the peddler. I glanced up at our window and I knew that Tiffany was doing the same thing, but there was no mother there to toss down pennies. She was in the back room sewing. With heavy feet I climbed the wooden steps to our floor.

Mama and Izzy sat at the table sewing shirts from the pile of cloth that sat before them. Mama sewed the shirts together and Izzy did the hems and buttons. I could hear Maria in the kitchen starting dinner. Izzy looked up at me and smiled.

"Did ya get paid today?" My mother asked as she paused in her sewing. I nodded and held out the envelope. Mama looked at me before counting the money. She knew that I had been taking some, but since she couldn’t prove it, she didn’t say anything. As she went to go put it away, she called to me,

"Go wash up, it’s almost time fer dinner and you’re so black y’look like a Negro."

Grabbing a rag I ran outside to the rain barrel that held the water that came from the roof gutters. It wasn’t the cleanest in the world, but that didn’t matter. I plunged my hands and the rag into the lukewarm water. I scrubbed my face with the rag, which was soon gray from the dirt and soot. Rinsing out the rag, I repeated the process, then dunked my head completely under. Water streaming from my hair, I wrung the rag out and dried my face as best as I could and brushed my hair back with my fingers. Looking down, I saw my reflection on the surface of the water, distorted by the ripples from the droplets that dripped off of my hair.

I was always startled when I saw my face. I never knew what I expected to see, but it certainly wasn’t the face that gazed back up at me.

Dark brown eyes that seemed too large for my face stared back at me from the barrel. My equally dark brown hair was nearly black from the water and an errant lock fell across my face. I certainly didn’t look 15 years old, I looked like I was around 13.

The rumbling in my stomach took a hold of my brain then and I pounded up the steps and through our door. Tossing the washrag in the sink, and ignoring Mama’s disapproving look, I pulled out a chair and sat down at the table next to Izzy. Mama brought dinner in from the kitchen and set the pot down in the middle of the table. Sweet smelling steam curled gently away from the surface of the soup. I bowed my head as Papa began saying a prayer of thanks to the Lord for the meal.

Something hit my shin. It was Maria, who accidentally kicked me while swinging her legs beneath the table. I kicked her back. Glancing up at me, she kicked me again, harder.

"Children!" Papa’s stern voice commanded us to behave. Maria and I glared playfully at each other across the table. When both Papa and Mama were looking the other way, she quickly stuck out her tongue at me. I responded by making horrid faces at her. Tiffy and Izzy snickered, the babies grinned and giggled.

"Papa!" Maria cried. "Peter’s makin’ faces at me!"

"Peter," Mama scolded. "Behave y’self! I swear, I don’t know where youse get dese uncivilized manners!"

I bowed my head, feigning shame, but smirked in Maria’s direction. After all, I had won the last battle.

Dinner continued uneventfully until I decided to ask my parents the question that had been swirling through my brain for the past few days.

"Papa, Mama, I’ve been thinkin’." They both looked over at me. "I wanna quit my job at the fac’try." They stared at me in astonishment, and then began talking at the same time.

"Absolutely not!" Papa’s voice boomed.

"Peter, we have seven mouths to feed, we need the extra money!" Mama declared.

"I’d get anudder job," I assured them quickly.

"Where?" Was the simultaneous response.

"I’d be a newsie," I said. The words had barely left my lips when my parents again began their tirade of refusals.

"Peter, I will not have you bein’ associated with street rats and juvenile delinquents!" Mama admonished. "You’d probably end up in Jail, and who knows what trash you’d learn from dem liars!"

"The answer is no, Peter," Papa told me. "You have a safe, well-paying job right now and I’m not gonna have you throw it away!"

I stood up, furious at them for not letting me do what I wanted to, to be what I wanted to be.

"If it’s so well payin’ then youse take it!" I yelled at them. "And whaddaya mean by safe?" I held up my left hand. " Remember dis?"

A few months ago, there had been a slight accident at the factory. I still didn’t like to think about it. My hand had healed, but my fingers were still slightly crooked and I couldn’t quite bend them all the way.

"An’ where do youse think I got dis cough?" I added. I had inhaled so much smoke at the factory that I had a chronic cough. Some days all I could do was lay in bed hacking until blood flecked my lips. Safe job indeed!

I turned and stalked away from the table and out of the room, my sisters watching the spectacle with wide eyes, Izzy looking after me worriedly. I ignored my parents’ calls to come back to the table and behave myself and left our apartment, slamming the door with as much force as I could muster.

People in the stairwell glanced at me as I flew down the steps and out the door. I took off running down the street and around the corner. I didn’t stop running until I knew that I was far enough away. I doubted that anyone would come looking for me. I had stormed out of the house quite a few times and once I hadn’t gone back for several days.

This time I wasn’t coming back, though. I decided, then and there, that I was going to run away. But where would I go? I couldn’t stay in Brooklyn. Papa was a delivery man and had to go all over the place. If I stayed here he’d find me. I decided to head over the bridge and into another part of New York City.

I shoved my hands in my pockets and felt the ribbon I had bought earlier. I couldn’t leave without giving it to Izzy. I figured that I could sneak back into the apartment tonight when everyone was sleeping and slip it under her pillow. While I was there I could also grab a few things for myself. I had a small stash of money that I kept hidden behind the stove. It wasn’t that much, only about 30 cents, but it was something.

It was rapidly growing darker as the sun set, bathing everything in a reddish glow. Settling down by the side of the road, I leaned against the building next to me. The rough brick was harsh against my cheek, but the warmth radiating from it felt good. One by one, the street lamps were lit, illuminating the darkness into an artificial twilight.

I don’t know how long I sat there. I waited until no more people were on the streets. I waited until I knew my parents had to be asleep before I got up and began to find my way home.

* * *

All the windows were dark as I silently climbed up the fire-escape on the back of the building. I cringed as an alley cat knocked over a trash can. It seemed to me that the racket would wake the entire neighborhood, but nothing happened. Stealthily crawling through the window into the bedroom that I shared with my sisters, I crept over next to my bed, the sheets still neatly folded. I began creeping towards the door, carefully counting four steps and one giant step over the creaking board. I scurried into the kitchen and over to the stove. Behind the stove there was an old mouse-hole. The mice weren’t there anymore, the cat took care of that, making it an ideal place to stash things.

I kept my pennies wrapped up in an old hankie which I dragged out and held onto. Heading back into the bedroom, I took out the ribbon and tucked it under Izzy’s pillow. She’d find it tomorrow morning when she made her bed. Along with it I slipped in a hastily scrawled note which read:

Izzy,

love,

Peter

I then went to the corner of the room and opened the clothes chest. Pulling out a clean shirt, knickers and vest, I stripped down to my long underwear, tossed my dirty clothes under the bed, and pulled on the clean ones as fast as I could. I shoved my money in my pocket and pulled on my shoes. With one last fond look at my sisters, I jumped out the window and quietly went back the way I came.

* * *

The Brooklyn Bridge; my road to freedom.

The bright rising sun reflected off of the water and into my eyes. Squinting, I inhaled deeply. The fresh morning air was tainted by the smell of fish and a pile of trash nearby, but I didn’t mind. It smelled great to me; it smelled like freedom.

I began to head down the street, my eyes on the bridge. Pretty soon I’d be across it and on my way to being a newsie and no one was going to-

"And where are youse goin’?"

I whirled around, my heart pounding. Spot Conlon stood behind me, a bundle of newspaper under one arm and his hat pulled low over his eyes to shield them from the sun’s glare.

Spot was one of those "street rat, juvenile delinquents" as my mother had scoffed at dinner last night. I don’t know what happened to his parents, but we had been great friends when we were younger. Then he had joined the newsies and I had started working at the factory and we didn’t see as much of each other. I don’t know how he had gotten the nickname "Spot" and I couldn’t even remember his real name. I think it was William, but I’m not sure.

Spot generally used the pathetic little waif act to sell his papes, playing on people’s sympathies. That’s all it was ,though, an act. Those who knew him knew better than to believe it and those who didn’t learned fast. Despite his short stature, Spot could soak the skin off of anyone who messed with him, and everyone knew it.

I do remember one kid who believed Spot’s little kid act and decided to pick a fight with him. He woke up the next day in the hospital.

"Sheesh, Spot!" I sighed. "You scared me!" A half grin flashed across his face.

"Sorry, Pete, but shouldn’t youse be at yer job?" he asked.

"I’m runnin’ away," I told him flatly. "I’m gonna go join da newsies." I cast a significant look at the papes under his arm.

"Yer leavin’ Brooklyn?" He inquired curiously, flicking a glance at the bridge.

"I gotta, Spot! If I stay here someone’ll find me fer sure!"

"I believe ya, Pete!" he assured me. "Here’s a bit of advice: when y’get over da bridge, go find Jack Kelly. He’ll teach ya everyting you need ta know an’ den some ‘bout bein’ a newsie."

"Thanks, Spot," I yelled as I began walking towards the bridge. "And don’t tell no one dat y’saw me!"

"I won’t tell a soul! Say hi t’Jacky-boy fer me!"

* * *

It was around noon by the time I had got to where I was going. I wandered aimlessly for a long time, just walking through the streets, watching the people, and becoming completely lost. Where was I supposed to find this Jack Kelly? It was a big city and I didn’t even know what he looked like. I saw countless newsboys, all yelling the headlines and selling the different newspapers. The World, the Journal, the Sun, the Times, the Tribune, there were so many! How would I know which one to pick?

Someone shoved past me, knocking me into a fruit stand. Apples and oranges went rolling everywhere.

"Hey, you! Kid! Get away from my stand, y’lowsy street rat!" The irate peddler scowled and shook his fist at me. Scrambling to my feet, I took off, dodging through the crowd, down the street, and around the corner. Grinning to myself, I pulled an apple out of my pocket that I had managed to grab in the confusion.

Munching contentedly on the apple, juice dribbling down my chin, I decided to wait until tomorrow to find this Jack and the other newsies. I strolled into an open area and glanced around. A statue of a seated man stood in the center, several small children climbing over it. Glancing at the plaque on it, I sounded the words out silently in my head.

Horace Greely. Journalist and publisher.

"Horace Greely, huh?" I looked at the emotionless bronze face. "Ne’er heard of him." I walked away.

* * *

I was startled awake the next morning by a group of boys pouring out of the building near me. Laughing and yelling, they ran down the street raising a ruckus. One of them yelled something about buying papes and I jumped up.

The newsies!

Rubbing sleep out of my eyes, I ran after them. I reached into my pocket, making sure that my money was still there. I had 27 cents exactly, I knew. It was still there. The boys got in line to buy their papers. I stood with them, not exactly sure what to do.

"Hey, kid, you new here?" the newsie in front of me asked. One blue eye stared at me curiously. The other, if there was one, was hidden by a patch.

"Yeah," I responded.

"Ever sold papes before?"

"No."

"Well," the one-eyed boy told me, "you buy yer papes fer 50 cents per hundred and sell ‘em fer a penny a piece. Just shout out da headlines, an’ if their ain’t any good one den make one up."

"Got it" I assured him.

"My name’s Kid Blink, an’ dis is Mush," Blink told me, jabbing the curly-haired boy next to him who was watching a couple of boys taunting the delivery man.

"Huh?" Mush turned around. "I didn’t do it!"

"No, scab-brain, I’m introducing ya!" Blink mock punched him. Turning back to me he said, "As I said, dis is Mush, an’ you are...?"

"Peter," I was disgusted as my voice squeaked on the last syllable. It had been doing that lately.

"You’ll need a nickname," Mush grinned at me. "Jack’ll think of one."

"Jack? Jack Kelly?" I asked, praying it was.

"Da one an’ only." Blink stated. "Y’ve heard of him?"

"Yeah, someone told me t’look fer him. They told me he’d teach me how ta be a newsie." I told them.

"Where’ya from?" Mush queried.

"Brooklyn," I said, jerking my head in the general direction of the bridge.

By then the line had moved forward and Mush and Blink each paid for a bundle of papers. Then it was my turn. I dug out a handful of coins.

"20 papes," I told the unshaven man behind the window and put down my only two nickels.

"20 papers!" He yelled over his shoulder. Another boy slapped down the pile of newspapers in front of me. "Next!" He hollered.

Mush grabbed my arm as soon as I got down the steps and dragged me across the courtyard.

"Hey, Cowboy! We got a new one here!" He called out to a tall newsie who was leafing through the paper and muttering about the lousy headlines. Mush walked me over to him. "Jack, dis is Peter. He just joined us dis mornin’."

I looked at this Jack, wondering what made him different from the other newsies and why Spot had told me to seek him out from all the other newsies on this side of the bridge. There wasn't anything unique about his appearance. He had brown hair and hazel eyes, but so did a lot of other people that I knew. And he dressed in the same type of worn mismatched clothing that many of the boys around me were.

Despite this there was something... His confidence, maybe, that made him a leader in a sea of nameless faces.

"Hello, " Jack looked away from his papers at me. "How old are ya, Pete?"

"I’m 15." Again my voice cracked. I felt the blood rushing to my cheeks.

"If anyone asks you, tell ‘em that you’re..." He squinted at me, "Tell ‘em yer 12. If ya look young an pathetic, you’ll sell more papes." He gave me a friendly whack on the back. "Welcome t’da New York World Newsies." He turned to look at Mush and Blink. "Blink, Mush, why don’tcha take dis squeaker ‘round an’ show him da basics, " Jack grinned.

"Sure thing, Cowboy," Blink said. He, Mush and I headed out and down Park Row, dubbed Newspaper Row.

"O.k.," Mush told me, "da foist thing ya gotta learn is dat each newsie has der own sellin’ area, or beat. Stay in yer own area an’ you’ll be fine."

"Why?" I asked. "What could happen?"

"Well," Blink replied, "some of da newsies, like me or Mush or Jack, wouldn’t mind too much, but there are some newsies dat would like nutin’ better den ta soak ya."

"Yeah, like dem Delancy brothers." Mush agreed. "We have our own areas basically so it’s easier t’sell papes widout too much competition."

Blink had gone a little ways ahead of us and was yelling,

"Extra, extra! Read all about it! Bank robber holds clerk hostage at a robbery! Hundreds of dollars stolen!" Several people came up to him, buying copies of the paper. I glanced inside at the story. A bank had been robbed, but the police had easily arrested the crook and the money was returned. There was nothing about a hostage.

"What’s Blink talkin’ ‘bout?"

"Dat’s anudder thing you gotta learn." Mush explained to me. "If da headlines ain’t good enough, you hafta improve ‘em a bit. Murders, wars, fires, disasters all grab peoples attention an’ make ‘em wanna buy yer papes, but don’t make yer stories too wild or no one’ll believe‘em." I nodded.

Blink walked back over to us, grinning. He held out a palmfull of pennies.

"Eight cents in a few minutes!" He proclaimed. "Business is good t’day." A man came up behind Blink.

"Hey, kid! You sellin’ newspapers?"

"Yes, sir," Blink turned around and held out a paper.

"I’ve only got a nickel. You wouldn’t happen ta have change, wouldja?"

"Sorry, sir," Blink’s face fell. I just had t’give some other people change an’ all I have now is nickels. If y’wait justa second I can run into dat store an’..."

"Never mind!" The man handed him the nickel and took his paper.

"Dat’s anudder good trick." Blink announced after the man had left. "Early in da mornin’ youse can pretend dat you ain’t got any change. Most of the time they’ll give ya da larger coin, but if dey do ask youse t’go get change, go in da store, out da back and start sellin’ yer papes on da next street over fer a while."

So it went for the rest of the day, and the next few days. I got tips from all the newsies and got to know them all. Jack, Mush, Blink, Racetrack, Crutchy, Boots, Dutchy, Skittery, Bumlets, Pie Eater, Snipeshooter, Specs and all the others helped me out. Pretty soon I got used to the newsie life. Sleeping in the alleys and stealing food if necessary, although I usually had enough left over to buy my own meals.

The newsies began to take the place of my family, and that’s how we felt, like we were all family. We helped each other out, we had fun together, pulled together through the hard times. Jack was our leader. He always knew what to do, what to say, and could sell more papes than any other newsie.

I saw how dull my life was back in Brooklyn. Even though I was still assailed by bouts of homesickness once and a while, I knew that my life here held a brighter future for me here than back at home.

Jack dubbed me "Squeaker" because of my changing voice and the name soon stuck. After a while I didn’t respond to any thing but that. I thought about my old home and family once and a while, wondering how they were doing. Of course, with one less mouth to feed, they were probably doing pretty good.

Sometimes I think of them. I wonder how they are doing or if Izzy ever found the ribbon, or how big the twins must be by now. I sometimes think that I didn’t do the right thing by running away, but then the pain in my hand flares up and Mush kicks the underside of my mattress and tells me to quit rolling around and go to sleep.

Part Two

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