by
Spitfire
"EXTRY! EXTRY! GIANT DEN OF CRIMINALS CLEANED OUT!" Prob'ly a
rat's nest. Porter thought cynically, passing the newsie by and looking for
a stand where she could get something to eat. She found a likely prospect, a
cheese and sausage stand. The vender loudly proclaimed the virtues of his
wares, making Porter's mouth water. Not that it would have taken much to whet her
appetite. The last time she'd eaten was two days ago? T'ree? No, wait, I had
a apple yestidy mornin'. An' I gotta drink on dat bet earlier today. I'se not
dat bad off. A rumble from her hollow stomach loudly refuted her last
thought.
"EXTRY! EXTRY! MAYOR TAKES A NIGHT ON DA TOWN WIT FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD
GOIL!" Porter snorted, drawing odd looks from a few passers by. C'mon.
Even I know 'is daughter's back from Europe. She had to hand it to the boy,
though. He was good. She eyed the sausage cart, licking her lips. It didn't
have much business at the moment. She'd have to wait for a crowd. Porter didn't
usually condone stealing, but her pockets were empty even of lint and her
stomach (even emptier) was arguing much more convincingly than her conscience.
A scrap of blue uniform near the sausage cart caught her eye. She swore. Da
bulls! The two newsies had noticed, also and were moving slowly, but surely
off. The officer scanned the crowd. Porter flattened herself out against a
brick building and edged along until she reached the mouth of an alley. She
heard a whistle shrill and took off down the alley. It was fenced off at the
back, but she hadn't lived 8 years on the streets for nothing. She scaled the 8
foot fence and swung herself over minutes before he caught up with her. Terrific!
Couldn't dey a-waited till I'd eaten ta find me again. Dis ain't fair, God.
The divine being, however, did not appear to agree with Porter. So where do
I go, now? I'se been ta da Bronx, Queens, midtown, Harlem . . . Dere ain't no
way I'se goin' back ta Brooklyn! Da on'y place I ain't been is
Manhattan. I never t'ought New Yawk would seem too small!
She glanced over her shoulder. She'd lost him, but didn't stop running until
she found herself in Central Park. It was a typical Sunday afternoon. A band
was playing in the bandstand. The park was filled with high class ladies and
gentlemen out for a stroll in their Sunday best, young couples whispering and
giggling together, rich children running about, plaguing their governesses -
all of them people with plenty of money and time to spare. Bet none a dem
are worryin' 'bout where deir next meal's comin' from. Porter thought. She
felt out of place with her ragged clothes and dirty face. Oh, well, dere's
prob'ly some newsies aroun' heah somewhere. I ain't dat unusual a sight.
Wherevah dere's rich folks, dere's pore folks, too.
She hoped the street kids in Manhattan weren't as zealous at defending their
territory as Brooklyn. She snorted aloud. Ain't nobody as serious about
territory as Brooklyn. In a swift mood change, she kicked a tree in
frustration. She'd been running through New York almost nonstop for a week. Ya
might give me a break, God. She cursed Snyder, the bulls, her father, her
own stupidity at being caught in being caught in the first place, and the
circumstances in general. Her stomach growled again, reminding her once more
that she hadn't eaten for a very long time.
"EXTRY! EXTRY! HEIRESS COMES TA NEW YAWK!" Porter looked up at the
small crowd near the bandstand. Not great lies, but the boy seemed to be doing
as good business as his colleagues in Queens. She got a glimpse of the boy and
saw why. Tall, skinny, and curly-haired, he had a stack of newspapers slung
over his left arm and held a cap with a reasonable number of pennies in it with
the same hand. Under his other arm was a crutch. A crip. Real or fake?
she wondered idly, searching the area for a possible meal. There was a fruit
vender on the far side of the bandstand - but she gave up on that idea as she
watched the vender grab a would-be thief she hadn't even seen.
Frustration and anger overtook her. Less than a week ago she'd been contentedly
living in Brooklyn, now- She would have complained to God again, had she not
been fairly sure by this time that He wasn't listening.
Time for desperate measures. she thought. She looked back at the
crippled newsie. He'd sat down against a tree with a pinched look on his face
as if he was trying not to show pain. His cap with its coins lay beside him,
and his crutch leaned against the wall behind him. Real. she concluded
irrelevantly. Normally, she wouldn't even have considered doing what she was
about to do. But I done a lot of t'ings I ain't used to lately. And
desperate circumstances . . .
Porter waited patiently while two passers-by dropped pennies into the boy's
cap and picked up newspapers. He did look pretty pitiful she had to admit. She
hesitated, but hunger drowned out conscience once again. Besides, it argued,
she'd pay him back - if she ever got any money. She crossed the park casually,
at an angle. As she passed the newsie who was beginning to get up again, she
leaned down, grabbed a penny and took off.
At least, she started to take off. Five seconds later she was sprawled in
the grass in a very undignified manner, wincing at bruises that were going to
hurt for a long time. She'd been tripped. The boy she'd tried to rob, da one
dat tripped me, she realized, was standing over her. He held out a hand.
She rose, brushed the dirt out of her eyes and handed him the penny. He seemed
slightly surprised, but she didn't know why.
"I'd a given it to ya if ya'd asked." he said. "Ya aw
right?" Porter looked at him blankly for a moment. Then humiliation,
frustration, hunger, pain from her bruises, and the stress of being on the run
for far too long finally overcame her. She began crying. After a few minutes,
she realized what she was doing. She hadn't realized she was so upset as to cry
in public. She hadn't even cried when her mother died. She hadn't cried at the
worst of her father's beatings. She hadn't cried when they arrested her.
Appalled, she tried to stop the tears. The boy was still standing over her,
saying something she couldn't understand. She gulped and managed to hold down
the tears, finally. Imagine what he must think of her!
"T'ank you, sir. Do ya know what time it is?"
The man nodded and checked his watch. "Two o'clock."
"T'ank you, sir." Crutchy slid to the ground in relief. His leg
had been hurting all day, but he refused to allow himself to sit down more once
every three hours. He leaned against the tree behind him and tried not to
remember that in two minutes he would have to stand up again. A couple of
passers-by dropped pennies in his hat and took papers. He had about a minute
left. He watched the people listening to the band. Everyone once in awhile he
detached himself like that for a few seconds, even from his friends, observing
but not participating. He enjoyed it. A governess walked by pushing a baby
carriage. Two girls followed her, giggling despite her lectures on lady-like
behavior. A boy and a girl about his age (16) passed in the other direction.
The boy whispered something in the girl's ear and she blushed. Crutchy felt a
twinge of loneliness, but ignored it.
He saw another girl approaching - one who didn't fit the upper-class, Sunday
afternoon festivities. She was black, but much lighter skinned than Boots or
Snaps (so called because of his tendency to snap his fingers in his sleep - his
parents had been performers in a cafe). He wondered if she was mixed. She had
short, dark brown hair and was not dressed to fit the scene. Of course, neither
was he. In fact, she dressed a lot like a newsie.
His two minutes were up. He sighed and reached for his crutch, forgetting
about the girl. Or he would have forgotten about her if she hadn't
chosen that moment to grab a penny out of his hat and run. People had tried to
rob Crutchy before, mistaking his disability for helplessness. He already had
his hand on his crutch and held it across the girl's path. He winced when she
fell, and quickly stood and held out a hand to help her up. She looked at the
hand blankly and returned his penny, wincing a little. Crutchy felt guilty. He
hadn't meant to hurt her. She was probably just hungry. Snitch had stumbled
across the newsies in much the same way. "Ya aw right?" he asked.
To his dismay, she began crying. He felt even guiltier. "I'se sorry. I
din't mean ta hurt ya. Ya aw right?" When she finally stopped crying, he
dug into his pocket and came up with a rag that passed for a handkerchief. He
handed it to her, along with the penny.
"I don't take charity." she said harshly, accepting the
handkerchief, but not the money.
"Neidder do I. Look, ya can owe me." He gathered his things while
she dried her eyes and wiped her nose, then turned back to her. "Ya got a
name, so's I can apol'gize?"
She stood up, watching him suspiciously. "Porter. Apol'gize for
what?"
"Trippin' ya. Pleased ta meet ya, Porter. I'se Crutchy." He spit
in his hand and offered it to her. She considered him a moment, then shook,
laughing suddenly. "What is it?"
"I tries ta rob ya, an' your apol'gizin' ta me?" He shrugged,
and she laughed again. He offered her the penny again, but she refused it.
"How's I s'posed ta pay ya back?"
"Become a newsie." Crutchy answered, handing her half of his
remaining papes. "Start wit dese. Dat's ten papes, ya owe me six
cents." He added as casually as possible. "I'se gettin' an apple,
now. Hungry?"
He watched her trying not to look too eager. "A liddle." She
answered, finally accepting the penny.
They paid the fruit vender, and took their apples. Porter devoured hers in
less than a minute. Crutchy wondered how long it had been since she'd last
eaten. "Ya wanna sell now?" He asked when he'd also finished. "I
ain't much of a teacha, but-"
She nodded, waving her papes at the next passer by. EXTRY! EXTRY!
MILLIONAIRE GIVES DAUGHTER TA ORPHANAGE TA SAVE MONEY! T'ank you, ma'am. T'ank
you, sir."
"Hey, Porter, what page is dat?" Crutchy asked.
"Six." she answered. "T'ank you, ma'am." She nodded to a
woman who walked off with a friend, gossiping about the state of the world.
"Rich Man Donates Rare Doll ta Children's Home, Claims
Tax-deduction." Crutchy read. He grinned. The girl was as good as Jack!
"EXTRY! EXTRY! HEIRESS COMES TA NEW YAWK!"
"I shoulda given ya all me papes." Crutchy joked. "I coulda
slept all afternoon! Ya sure ya never done dat before?"
Porter grinned. "I useta know a lotta newsies." It was the truth,
if not all of the truth. She handed him six cents back.
He shook his head. "Keep it for now. Ya gonna need ta buy some more
papes tamorra. 'Sides we'se partners now." She frowned, but agreed
reluctantly. "Ya got a place ta stay?" he asked. "Dere's room in
da lodgin' house."
"How much?" She asked. Staying in one place wasn't that good an
idea. She didn't want a repeat of Brooklyn. On the other hand, the bulls didn't
even know she was in Manhattan yet. And the idea of a real bed was tempting.
"Two cents a night." Crutchy was surprised at how much he was
hoping she'd say yes. He'd gotten to like her.
"I'll try it for t'night. Where is it?"
"Right heah." They turned a corner, and she saw a shabby looking
building. The peeling sign said Newsboys' Lodging House. "Don't let da
sign fool ya. Ya ain't da on'y goil. Da name's ta fool da bulls. C'mon!"
The perfect day had turned into a rainy night. They ran (as well as they
could) for the door, laughing, almost falling through when an old man opened
the door. "Watch it!" he grumbled, unconvincingly. "Runnin'
around in the rain, knockin' people over! Bet ya din't even get any work
done!"
"Good evenin', Mr. Kloppman." said Crutchy, hiding a grin.
"Dis is Porter. She's gonna stay heah t'night. She's me new partner."
"Eh?" The old man looked at her. "Fine, fine. First night's
free. Two cents after that. Get up at six. Be in by midnight. T'ink you can
handle that?"
She nodded. "I can pay, though." she said, pride stung.
He shook his head. "First night's free. Aw right then. Go on upstairs.
Sleep. Up past midnight an' they wonder why they can't get up in the
mornin'." He walked away grumbling. Porter looked after him, blinking.
Crutchy pulled her arm. "C'mon. Da odders are upstairs. 'Sides, we
gotta tell Jack yer joinin' us."
Kloppman watched them go. He'd observed them both with each other. Funny how
alike they were. He wondered whether Crutchy knew he was in love yet. He didn't
know the girl well enough to judge her feelings. Oh well, that situation would
work itself out. Things like that always did. He returned to the door to check
for the other stragglers.
Several people looked their way when they reached the top of the stairs.
They were met by two boys, a blond with an eyepatch over one eye and a taller,
dark-haired boy.
"Who's dis?" the taller boy asked, nodding at Porter kindly.
"I'se Skittery."
"I was wond'rin." agreed the boy with the eyepatch. "Ya
finally got a goil, Crutchy?" He took Porter's hand and raised it to his
lips. "Charmed." he said in what Porter guessed was his best 'high
class' voice. "Kid Blink's da name."
"Heya, fellas. Dis heah's Porter. She's joinin' us. Where's Jack?"
"I dunno." answered Kid Blink. "Anybody seen Jack?" he
yelled to the others.
"He an' Dave an' Race was s'posed ta be sellin' down at da Sheepshead
races taday." A blond boy with glasses called back. "Race tawked
Cowboy inta spottin' 'im on a hoss. But dey shoulda been back by now."
As if on cue, the sound of feet pounding up the stairs caught everyone's
attention and two more boys entered. The first, a short, black-haired Italian,
sported a black eye. A cigar, apparently a permanent part of him dangled from
the corner of his mouth. He was followed by a tall, dark blond boy wearing a
red bandana and a black cowboy hat. He also had a few bruises. They were
greeted by loud yells and mock punches.
"Cowboy! Ain't youse a sight for sore eyes?" exclaimed a blond
girl, the first one Porter noticed.
"Hey, Race, nice shina!" someone else called.
"Yeah, Race, what happened? Somebody tryin' ta collect on a bet?"
laughed Crutchy.
"Nah, we ran inta da Delancey brudders." The tall one, Cowboy,
answered. "Deys blamin' da newsies cuz Pulitzer fired 'em after da strike.
Race and me had ta 'explain' deir mistake."
This brought laughs and cheers from everyone.
"Pore Oscar an' Morris." broke in Race, grinning. "I feel so
responsible." He, Blink, and a third boy, darker-complected with curly
hair, laughed and traded mock punches.
Cowboy grinned back, but added seriously. "Yeah, well, ev'body jist
watch out for 'em, aw right? Dey ain't too happy about da soakin' we gave 'em,
an' dey might try somebody else."
Da Delancey brudders. It sounded vaguely familiar to Porter, and she
glanced at Crutchy in question. She was surprised to see a look of fear cross
his face for an instant. He met her eyes and looked away.
Crutchy had a bone-deep fear of the Delanceys that he'd never confided in
anyone, not even Jack. They reminded him of the worst parts of his childhood.
He usually hid it behind smart remarks, but it had been worse since they caught
him during the strike. He'd been trying hard to forget that soaking. He saw
Porter looking at him and averted his eyes.
"Hey, Jack. Crutchy's got a new pet." Dutchy said elbowing Crutchy
with a grin.
Jack groaned. "Crutchy, Kloppman said no more strays, rememba? Da last
one nearly tore 'is arm off when 'e tired ta pet it."
"She's a bit larger den a cat, Jack." said Truth winking at
Porter.
"Oh no, not a dog! Dere's no way Kloppman'll let us keep one after
Shakes had puppies in 'is bed an wouldn't move for two weeks.
"It ain't a dog, eidder." said Boots.
"What is it a hoss?" Jack asked with a comically frightened look
on his face. He caught sight of Porter for the first time. "An' who're
you?"
Crutchy grinned. "Oh, dis is me new pet, Jack. I found 'er in Central
Park. Can we keep 'er?"
Even Porter had to laugh at the dumbfounded expression on Jack's face. She
spat in her hand and held it out. "Da name's Porter. I'se da new
newsie."
To give him credit, Jack was only surprised for a moment. He spat in his own
hand, and they shook. "Welcome ta da fam'ly, Porter."
Jack was welcoming, but he had responsibilities as leader. As soon as
Firefly, Truth, and the other girls, had shown Porter the girls' sleeping
quarters, he pulled her and Crutchy away from the others to talk. "We'd
betta take da roof - no, it's rainin' ain't it - Kloppman's office den, odderwise
we won't have no privacy."
Once they'd taken his advice, he turned to Porter. "Aw right," he
began, "Ev'y newsie has 'is secrets, so I ain't askin fer dose. I jist
wanna know so's I can protect ev'body. Why're ya heah?"
She looked at Crutchy, embarrassed. "Well, I-"
"She tried ta rob me, so I ast 'er ta join us." Crutchy supplied
as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Seeing Jack's face, he took
pity on his friend and explained.
Jack stifled a laugh. "Aw right. Where'd ya lose yer money?" he
asked after he recovered enough to speak.
Porter eyed him suspiciously. "Whaddaya mean?"
Jack gave his expert analysis. "One, ya ain't used ta stealin', or ya
wouldn't a been caught. Two, ya ain't used ta starvin', even if ya have been
lately, cuz ya don't look it. T'ree, ya used ta da streets, an' don't ast me
how I know dat. I jist do. So ya had money, but lost it - where?"
She studied him carefully. Crutchy she already trusted almost without
thinking, but Jack . . . "Da Refuge." she answered finally. "I
'ad a chance ta get out, an' I din't feel like stoppin fer it. Speakin a which,
I'se got a lotta people lookin' fer me. I don't want anybody else in trouble,
so if ya don't want me heah, I unnerstand."
"Da bulls?" Jack asked.
"Some a dem." she answered, waiting for him to turn her out.
"Don't worry about it. Dere ain't a single newsie, 'cept maybe Dave,
dat ain't had da bulls lookin' for dem at one time or anudder."
"Who's Dave?" she asked. The boy hadn't been among those she'd
met.
"Davey don't live heah." Crutchy answered. "He's got a
fam'ly. He an' Les live wit deir parents an' deir older sista." He watched
Jack go starry-eyed, thinking a particular member of that family and whispered
to Porter. "Davey's sista's Jack's goil." He edged around behind Jack
and shouted in his ear. "Hey, Cowboy! Where are ya?"
Jack jumped a full foot in the air, and came back to earth. He grinned
mischievously. "Heaven. Sorry 'bout dat."
At that moment, Kloppmann entered. "Aw right. Ev'body ta bed. Ya gotta
sleep, so ya can get up an' eat an' work all day an' come back here an' sleep
again. C'mon! C'mon." He herded the three of them upstairs, where he began
shouting at the others. "Ta bed! Ta bed! Lights out. Finish da game.
Ev'body ta bed!"
Race, who was on a winning streak in his card game with Truth, Blink, and
Snoddy, protested loudly. The others were only too happy to comply. Slowly, but
surely, everyone sought their beds.
As she settled into her first real bed in a week - Dis feels good.
T'anks, God. Ya not dat bad after all. - Porter listened to the girls
around her.
"G'night, Pounce!"
"G'night, Truth!"
"Hey, Firefly. Ya owe me five cents."
"I'll get it in the mornin'."
"Night, Jack!"
"G'night, Crutchy!"
"Hey, Blink! Betcha a sandwich at Tibby's dat Mush snores
tanight."
"I don't snore!"
"I'se more careful wit me money den dat!"
"T'anks, Blink - Hey!"
And Porter's last thoughts before sleeping were not (as they had been for
the past few week) of that awful day in Brooklyn, but of the lodging house and
her new friends, Jack - and Crutchy.
Crutchy's thoughts were all of Porter. As soon as the girls had all left for
their room, the teasing had begun. Blink had immediately labeled the two of
them a 'pair', and everyone was trying (unsubtly) to find out if it was true.
Since he was not yet sure of his own feelings on the subject and didn't dare
try to guess Porter's, he'd ignored them. This had of course been taken as
confirmation. It occured to him that he hadn't noticed his leg hurting all
evening.
"Truth! Firefly! Pounce! Nickel! Grins! Get up! Get up! Carry the
Banner! Ya got work ta do! Ya gotta get up! Ya gotta get up! The ink is wet!
The presses are rollin'! C'mon! C'mon!"
Porter woke to the sound of Kloppman yelling, and about ten girls grumbling.
Truth, who slept in the bunk above her swung down and shook her shoulder.
"C'mon. Ya gotta get up before da guys do, or ya'll never get inta da
washroom."
Kloppman could now be heard shouting at the boys. There was a loud THUD!
from the other room as one of the boys, not yet quite awake, fell out of bed.
Pounce snickered at the sound and bounded out of bed across the room,
looking far too awake for this time of day. She seconded Truth's warning.
"Dey take forever! Greasin' deir hair an' shavin'-"
"An' da funny t'ing is, most a dem don't got nothin' ta shave!"
Nickel added, laughing. She slid out of bed, then stood up and shouted in her
bunkmate's ear. "Firefly! Wake up!" The redhead grumbled and pulled
her pillow over her ears, then threw it at her friend when Nickel refused to
stop shouting.
"C'mon!" Truth, the blond girl who'd teased Jack the night before,
pulled Porter out of bed and dragged her to the washroom. She'd taken a liking
to the newest girl and decided to adopt her. She whispered. "Gettin'
Firefly outta bed is like trying ta sink Long Island! Watch 'er be foist ta da
food once she's up though!" She laughed. "I'se Truth, in case ya
don't rememba. An' youse Porter, right?"
Slightly overwhelmed, Porter nodded. Even in Brooklyn, even in the Refuge
where she'd been used to having a lot of people around, they hadn't been this -
enthusiastic - about everything. "Aw right, dis is Pounce." Truth
introduced each girl as she entered the washroom. "Cuz dat's what she
does, ya should see 'er in a fight - heah, take a towel. - Dis heah's Nickel -
da pumps are over dere, in case ya wants ta wash - cuz she claims she can get a
nickel for ev'y pape she sells (she's lyin, don't believe 'er) an' da goil
chasin 'er wit da pillow - would youse two quit it! - is Firefly."
As they were introduced, each of the girls waved and smiled. "Where'd
ya get your name?" Porter asked the tiny blond.
"It's cuz she can make da biggest lie sound like da truth."
Firefly answered, having given up her pursuit of Nickel. "Don't believe a
woid she says."
Truth looked at her innocently. "Me, lie? I ain't told a lie since I
was da day I was born." She turned to Porter. "Ya know how I was
born, right? Me fam'ly lived upstate. Me mudder was walkin over a bridge, an'
dropped me in da river dere - just like dat - an' I swam all da way heah ta New
Yawk." She grinned. "Truth." Porter laughed. "So, Porter,
ya got a sellin partner?" she asked.
"Crutchy, I t'ink." Porter answered, a little shyly.
"Yeah, weren't ya lissenin ta Blink, las night, Truth?" asked a
girl Porter didn't know. "Dey's our newest couple."
Porter looked up from washing her face and protested, but no one was
listening to her.
"When he's got somethin' woithwhile ta say I'll lissen to 'im."
Truth retorted. She splashed water on her face, finished dressing, grabbed
Porter's hand again, and dragged her back to the girls' sleeping quarters as
the boys began to invade the room. Porter reflected that her name should have
been Whirlwind.
"So, ya like any a da guys?" Pounce called after them, following.
"Pounce!" exclaimed Nickel, also following them, and rubbing her
face with a towel she'd managed to snatch before Skittery started playing Keep
Away with them. "She ain't even been heah a day, yet. How's she s'posed ta
know?!"
"Oh, c'mon, Nickel." Firefly protested. "I know for a fact
dat youse fell head over tail for Skittery da moment ya saw 'im."
"Shaddup!" hissed Nickel, turning pink as she looked anxiously at
the door to the washroom. "He'll heah ya!"
"As if all a New Yawk din't know awready!" snorted the redhead.
She was having her revenge for being woken up, and was not going to let go of
the subject easily. "An' as if ya had a chance wit 'im."
Nickel's temper flared. "I'se gotta better chance wit Skittery den
youse got wit Spot."
Porter nearly choked. "Spot?" she asked, then mentally kicked
herself for the slip of the tongue. The last thing she wanted to talk about was
Brooklyn. Most of the others didn't notice her nervousness however, since her
interruption had the benefit of ending the fight.
Truth looked at her sideways. "Spot Conlon. Ya ain't met 'im, t'hough.
He don't live heah. He's da leadah a da Brooklyn newsies." She grinned,
pointing at Firefly. "'Bout half da goils in New Yawk are gone on him.
She's da woist of 'em."
Anxious to change the subject, Firefly called out. "C'mon, don't youse
wanna get somethin' ta eat, before ya get yer papes?" She raced out of the
room. "Hey, Nickel?" she called over her shoulder.
"Truce!" Nickel called back, following her. By the time the others
reached the bottom of the stairs, the two were gossiping like best friends
which, Porter realized, they were.
"Hey, Porter, didja sign in las' night?" Truth asked, flipping
through Kloppman's registration book to find a fresh page.
Porter shook her head. She hadn't thought it was a good idea. She didn't
want her name written down where it might be seen by the bulls or her father or
- anyone else. "Den ya better noww." Truth saw her expression and
added: "If ya worried about da bulls, dat's why we have nickname's. Got
any ideas?"
Before Porter could answer, a flood of about twenty boys came charging down
the stairs. Truth and Porter backed out of the way and flattened themselves
against the wall. "Now, ya knows why we goils gotta get up foist! C'mon we
gotta eat!" Truth pulled her into the stream of boys. They overflowed into
the street, where the other girls were waiting. "Dere's some nuns dat feed
us, if we gets dere early enough." she explained.
"Good mornin', miss." Porter turned to find Crutchy next to her,
grinning. "How do ya like da odders?" he asked.
"Mornin', Crutchy. Dey's great." The three followed the others
down a few streets to the Catholic church. Three nuns stood behind a cart,
handing out food.
"Take off yer hat," Crutchy advised. "but I betta warn ya.
Dey don't like goil newsies much. Dey'll prob'ly lecture ya on da sinful life
ya leadin'."
"Dey should lecture Pulitzer!" Porter snorted. "He's da one
sleepin in, while we're out heah. Still, if dat's all it's gonna cost me for a
decent breakfast, den I ain't complainin'!" She eyed Truth who was
laughing. "What's da matta?"
"Ya sound like a newsie awready!"
"She sells like one, too." said Crutchy. "I din't hafta do a
t'ing afta I ran inta her, yestidy."
"Aw, ya makin' me blush!" joked Porter.
They took off their hats, and received the food respectfully. The sermon
fell on deaf ears, however. Porter was making the most of the cup of coffee and
roll she'd been given. "I ain't eaten dis good in weeks!"
When they reached the closed gates of the World building, Porter saw two
boys greeting Jack. The older one looked about fifteen. He had curly hair and
the faint, but unmistakeable signs of 'education'. Since learning was unusal
among the newsies (most of whom could read their papes and count the pennies
they earned and no more) Porter realized he must be Dave, and the little boy
gazing up at Jack with obvious hero-worship must be his brother Les. Her guess
was confirmed when Crutchy pulled her over to be introduced.
"Heya, Dave! How ya doin'?"
The older boy turned, smiling. "Hey, Crutchy! Is this the new girl I've
been hearing about?"
"Yeah, dis is Porter, me new partner. Porter, dis is Dave."
"-Odderwise known as da Walkin' Mouth." added Jack, slapping Dave
on the back as the other boy glared at him. "An dis is Les." He
gestured at the little boy, who wore a cowboy hat identical to his own.
"I'se seven." piped up Les.
"He's nine." said Dave, rolling his eyes. Jack laughed, and Porter
looked from one to the othr of them in confusion.
"Dave, younga sells more papes, rememba?" Les protested. Unlike
his brother, he seemed to have acquired the accent of most of the newsies.
"Yeah, well, Porter's a newsie, too, so yas don't need ta tell her
dat." Jack advised. Porter noticed that Les listened to him. Poor
Dave. she thought. I'd be mad. But Dave seemed used to it.
The huge, iron gates swung open, then. "C'mon, we gotta get ta
woik!" said Jack, dragging them all into the crowd of newsies. Somehow
they found themselves at the head of the line. Porter suspected that was Jack's
work, wittingly or unwittingly. He led da strike, after all. It's a toss up
for who's more famous - him or Spot.
As they left the gates with their papers, Porter suddenly felt incredibly
happy. After all, she had a place to stay, friends, money, and a job. And she
didn't have to worry about so much, now. For a moment, Brooklyn seemed like the
other side of the moon, and the threat from the law equally unimportant. She
laughed out loud, dropped her papers and did a cartwheel down the street,
drawing more than a few strange looks.
"What're ya so happy about?" Crutchy laughed when she ran back to
him and picked up her papes, grinning broadly.
"It's wonderful!" she said breathlessly.
"What is?"
"Freedom!"
"EXTRY! EXTRY! RIOT ON MAIN STREET! MAYOR INVOLVED!" Porter called
as she and Crutchy walked down a busy street on the way to Central Park. It
wasn't that much of an exaggeration. A spooked horse had caused a traffic jam
outside the City Hall the previous evening. They past a bookstore with several
beautifully bound books in the window, and she slowed down to see if any of her
favorites were among them.
"Porter?" She started guiltily. Crutchy was looking at her,
grinning. "I called ya t'ree times, awready." He followed her gaze to
the books in the window. "Ya like ta read?" he asked, nodding at it.
"Yeah, me mudda taught me." she gave the store one last regretful
look. "Ev'y time I see a bunch like dat, I gotta stop. It's silly, I know.
Got me more den a few beatins, too." She thought aloud, before realizing
what she was saying. "C'mon, we betta get goin'." she added
hurriedly. I can't believe ya jist said dat aloud! To a almost stranger, no
less! Crutchy, ain't a stranger . . . contradicted another thought.
"Hey, what's silly about it?" Crutchy asked. "I'se done it a
few times meself. Gone inside, too. If ya don't look like ya got money, though,
dey kick ya out. So I stopped. I like books, too. Din't have much else ta do
when I was little, 'cept read." He started, remembering he was supposed to
be working, and called out a headline.
"Yeah, well, me Pop din't t'ink too much a it. I got useta hidin'
it." she admitted.
He looked other his shoulder at the bookstore, thinking, then turned back to
her. "I'se got a few dat I saved for. If ya evah wanna borrow one."
Porter thought about that. "I might." She shifted her stack of
papers. "EXTRY! EXTRY! RIOT ON STEPS A CITY HALL! MAYOR IN HOSPITAL NEAR
DEATH!"
"Not bad!" said Porter, tossing a few coins and stuffing them in
her pocket.
"Yeah, meetin' you was da best t'ing ta happen ta me!" said
Crutchy, grinning.
A huge, embarrassed smile crossed Porter's face, even though she knew he
didn't mean it that way. She wasn't sure how to reply, and jumped at the chance
to change the subject when they reached the lodging house and saw Race
approaching with a hangdog look on his face.
"Bad day?" she asked. He didn't hear her. She sighed. She never
meant to talk that softly.
"Bad race?" called Crutchy.
He looked up. "Actually, I won, for once. I'se got - I had four
dollars in me pocket before da Delancey's showed up. An' Jack wasn't dere dis
time. Now I'se completely clean."
"For once." joked Kid Blink, approaching, meaning it an entirely
different way.
"Yeah, shaddup." Race retorted as the third of the three
musketeers ran in.
"Heya, fellas we gotta tawk. I jist seen-"
"Lemme guess," interrupted Kid Blink, rolling his eyes at Racetrack.
"'Da most beautiful goil in da woild'."
Mush blushed, but shook his head. "Naw, I saw Snyda'!"
Race looked as if his bad day had just gotten worse. "Dat still gets
me! We get Teddy Roosevelt hisself on our side, an' what happens?"
"Acquitted!" completed Snoddy. He and Pie Eater were next to
arrive, followed closely by Truth and Pounce. "Dey din't even indict 'im,
for goodness sake. Youse tawkin' 'bout Snyda'?"
"Who else?" snorted Race. "C'mon let's go in. It's time for
some serious poker playin'."
"I t'ought ya was clean, Race." teased Blink.
"Hold it!" said Truth as they all paid their two cents at the
desk. . . "Ya usin' markers? I'm out!"
"C'mon, me credit ain't dat bad!" Racetrack protested. From
the looks exchanged by the others, Porter guessed it was. "Anyway, I said
I'se clean, now. Cowboy, owes me two bits-"
"I do?" replied Jack, meeting them at the top of the stairs, newly
combed and so clean he was almost shining. He raised his eyebrows.
"Hot date, Cowboy?" teased Porter. Several people looked at her
with surprise. They'd almost forgotten she was there until she'd spoken. It was
just that she was on familiar ground with Jack.
He looked smug, and turned back to Race. "So what's dis about me owin'
ya two bits?"
"From about a month ago, rememba, Dave's foist day, da day before da
strike," he got a wicked grin on his face, "da day ya met Sarah? Cuz
if ya don't rememba, I can always tell 'er-"
"Aw right! Ya got yer two bits." Jack dug into his pocket and
tossed a couple of coins at him. "An' now, if youse'll excuse me leavin'
ya - I'se gotta hot date." He glanced at Porter, grinned, then almost
frowned. She reminded him of someone . . . Oh, well.
Porter noticed the faint look of recognition and worried. She frowned after
him for a minute.
"Hey, Porter" called Truth from where the poker game was
beginning. "Ya in?"
She shook her head. "Naw, I ain't got enough money, dat I can risk
losin' it." An' if Race' plays anyt'ing like Cards at poker, I'd lose.
she thought, then snorted. If Race plays anyt'ing like Splitz at
poker, I'd lose. I ain't a card player.
She sat by the window and looked out, restlessly. She hated being indoors at
sunset. It just went against the grain. She watched Jack leave for the Jacobs'
yelling promises to Kloppman that he would return on time (promises he would
undoubtedly break), and several minutes later heard Race cheer as he won a hand
a poker.
"What'cha t'inkin' about, Porter?" Crutchy had come up behind her.
"One a da few t'ings I miss about B-back home is watchin' da sun rise
an' set. We had a great view where I lived."
"Well, I can't getcha a sunrise at nine at night, but dere's a great
view a the sunset from da lodgin' house roof, right now."
Porter looked around. "Dis is great. T'anks, Crutchy."
Crutchy shrugged, sitting next to her. "It ain't da Woild buildin' or
da Statue of Liberty, but it ain't bad. Ya should see it from da Brooklyn
Bridge."
They watched the sky turn slowly pink, then red, then purple, then black as the
sun set. "Guaranteed ev'y night, an' always on time." Porter said
softly. "Dat's what me mudda useta say. Somethin' ya can depend on."
"It ain't none a me business, but what was ya life like before?"
Crutchy asked. Somet'in about da way she said dat . . .
"Before I showed up in Central Park an' tried ta rob ya, ya mean?"
Porter answered wryly.
"If ya don't wanna tawk about it-"
"Naw, dat's okay. As ya might've guessed, me mudder was black an' me
fadder was white. I din't have any brudders or sistas. Pop din't want anymore
after me. Always said marryin' me mudder was da woist mistake 'e evah made. I
was da second woist. She died when I was about nine, an' her fam'ly'd disowned
her when she married him, so it was just me an' Pop who couldn't stand ta look
at me."
"An' dat's all da fam'ly ya had?" Crutchy's voice was warm with
sympathy. Strangely, it didn't bother Porter coming from him, almost as if he
had a right to sympathize.
"Aw, we got on fine. I just stayed outta his way. An' I had a cousin on
Pop's side who played wit me sometimes when our fadders' wasn't lookin' - Pop's
fam'ly din't like da marriage any more den Ma's - but he moved away da same
yeah Ma died. Last spring I got arrested an' dey t'rew me in jail. I got out,
an' I'm heah What about you?" she asked uncomfortable about sharing so
much.
"I lived wit me parents and me brudder till I was nine. Den I ran away.
Met Jack, an' he got me ta join da newsies." His face took on a sad,
serious look, and Porter wondered what he hadn't told her. Somet'in' dat
hoits. she guessed, from his expression. I know dat feelin'.
Impulsively, she edged over and gave him a one-armed hug.
He looked up at her, and smiled. "T'anks. I needed dat."
"I t'ought ya looked like ya did." She looked up at the stars for
a moment, then stood. "We betta go in before da others start gossipin'
anymore."
He laughed. "Dey's like dat. Dey 'ad us paired off, da minute we walked
in yestidy."
She laughed in agreement, but underneath she was a little hurt. It ain't dat
strange an idea. whispered a treacherous thought.
"Heya, Crutchy." said Blink when they came down. "How's you
an' ya goil, doin'?" They looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
"Nice goin', Crutchy!" said Blink, after lights out, when the
girls had left. The others laughed, making similar (and in some cases, less
polite) remarks.
"I was jist showin' her da sunset, Blink." said Crutchy.
"Ain't she evah seen it before?" asked Race. There were laughs.
"Or ain't dat what ya was tawkin' about?" Pie Eater snickered.
"Do us all a favor an' wash ya mouth out, Pie?" Crutchy retorted.
"An' while ya at it wash out dat filthy mind a yers." She'd never
t'ink a me dat way, anyway. he thought. The thought was just the slightest
bit wistful.
"An' jist what was youse two doin' up dere?" Truth asked, eyebrows
raised and ready for gossip.
"Jist tawkin'."said Porter.
"Oh, tawkin'?" repeated Nickel giving Firefly a knowing look.
"About? Or is dat a polite term for-?"
"Tawkin!" repeated Porter. "We's friends, aw right? Can't a
guy an' a goil be friends?"
"Dat's debatable." replied Pounce, settling into bed. "An'
I'se too tired ta debate it right now. Ya can give us da details in da
mornin'."
"Dere ain't any details ta give!" exclaimed Porter with
exasperation. "He don't t'ink a me dat way, anyway."
"An' you t'ink?" asked Firefly.
Porter faked a snore so she wouldn't have to answer. She wasn't sure
herself.
"Anyt'ing good, taday?" Porter asked Crutchy, looking through the
day's paper. He shook his head.
"Naw. About the usual. You find anyt'ing?"
She frowned at the dull news. Politics, politics, a new yacht for the mayor,
Teddy Roosevelt to run for president - Big surprise! she snorted - then
a story about shoplifters in a grocery market caught her eye. She grinned.
"Dis has possibilities."
"Oh, uh, Porter." Crutchy added, trying to sound casual.
"Hmmm?"
"Ya said ya liked ta read, so I t'ought ya might want dis."
"What?" She took the book he handed her. "Oh - ah - t'anks.
When da ya want it back?"
"Oh, ya can keep it. I'se read it a million times." He said,
despite the fact that it was obviously new, he hoped she wouldn't notice.
"T'anks." Porter said again, unsure how to deal with gifts. She
couldn't remember getting one. "Ya sure?"
"'Course! Anyways, it ain't like yer gonna be runnin' off anywhere wit
it." he laughed.
"Yeah." she said quietly. "Hey, look da line's done. Let's
go. EXTRY! EXTRY! RASH OF ROBBERIES LEAVE POLICE BAFFLED!" she called. The
'rash' consisted of three cases, but she decided not to mention it.
"MYSTERIOUS CORPSE MAY BE CONNECTED!" Well, da story 'bout da dead
horse is on da same page. She thought, giving Crutchy the page number. He
didn't stop laughing for another five minutes.
Porter, sitting in the window, finished the first chapter of her book and
looked around the lodging house. It was surprisingly quiet when you knew that
over thirty boys and girls lived there. Firefly and Nickel were giggling about
their respective crushes, while, on the opposite side of the room, Mush and Kid
Blink whispered about the girl Mush had met that day. Pounce, Race, Specs, and
Skittery were off playing craps somewhere, Boots was downstairs playing marbles
with Snipeshooter and Les, and the rest of the newsies were involved in quiet
conversations around the two rooms. She stood up, crossed the room, and waited
for Crutchy to finish talking to Jack and Dave.
"It's sunset." she said shyly. "Ya wanna watch wit me?"
Crutchy, looked up, trying not to show how surprised (and thrilled) he was
that she'd asked. "Shoa." Jack and Dave exchanged knowing glances.
More than a few pairs of eyes followed the two up the stairs.
"Are dey a pair or not?" asked Snaps. With Porter and Crutchy up
on the roof, the newsies had decided to solve the mystery once and for all.
"I t'ink dat's pretty obvious." said Blink. "I'se seen it
before." he added wisely
"An' how many time's ya been wrong?" said Itey. "'Memba when
ya t'ought Clouds an' me was a couple?"
"It was a honest mistake!" Blink protested.
"We'se sista an' brudda, Kid!" protested the girl in question.
"Yeah, well, how was I supposed ta know?"
"We'se twin sista an' brudda!"
"Yeah, well." He changed the subject quickly. "Has Crutchy
said anyt'ing?" Everyone shook their heads.
"An he would have if dere was anyt'ing goin' on." said Mush.
"C'mon, Blink. Crutchy ain't 'xactly the most secretive poison in da
woild."
"Porter is." said Nickel, at which all the girls rolled their
eyes.
"She's as shy as a mouse." said Clouds. "She barely says a
woid ta anyone 'cept youse two," she gestured at Jack and Truth. "-an
Crutchy." she added, grinning. "Maybe, ya ain't wrong,
Kid."
"Don't call me dat!" Everyone laughed.
"She jumps like scared kitten whenever anybody mentions Brooklyn."
Truth commented.
"The place or the person?" asked Dave, since Spot was sometimes
called that.
"Eidder. I noticed da foist day." Truth shrugged, then grew speculative.
"Ya t'ink Spot knows anyt'ing about 'er?"
"Maybe. Speakin' a Spot - he ain't been ta Manhattan since da
strike." added Jack. "Anybody know what's goin' on wit dat?"
Everyone shook their heads again, and the conversation changed focus.
"Um, where ya from?" Crutchy asked. They'd been sitting in silence
for nearly fifteen minutes and he felt the need to say something.
"Brooklyn." Crutchy nodded. He'd wondered about that accent.
"Why'd ya leave? I mean, most kids there they stay there. 'Cept Jack, ya
know Jack's from Brooklyn? Grew up wit Spot, in fact. Ya know, Spot, da leadah
a the Brooklyn newsies?"
"I t'ink ev'y body in New Yawk has hoid a Spot Conlon." Porter
smiled. "Ya gonna stop tawkin', so's I can answer ya?" She asked, not
unkindly.
"Yeah, sorry. My tongue kinda runs away wit me sometimes. Part a me has
ta." He joked, then blushed, realizing he was doing it again. "I'll
shut up, now."
"Dat's okay." Porter lay back and looked up at the stars that were
just beginning to fade into view. "I told ya dere's a lot a people lookin'
for me? Da bulls, mostly, but some a dem - me pop, he's lookin' for me, an
S-some odders - dey'se all in Brooklyn, an' I just don't want 'em findin' me,
dat's all." She ended in a rush, mentally kicking herself. She come
perilously close to telling Crutchy about that day. He was just so easy
to talk to! And she wanted to tell someone. But the newsies would throw
her out in a second if they knew - after they'd soaked her within an inch of
her life. It was the first time she realized how much she wanted to stay
in Manhattan. She had a family here, like Jack had said, thirty brothers and
sisters. An' maybe - she glanced at Crutchy, and crushed the thought as
soon as she realized where it was heading. Maybe more den dat?
"What about you?" Porter asked aloud. "Ya ain't from
Manhattan, eidder, an' I know ya ain't from Brooklyn."
"Da Bronx. I came heah cuz da newsies dere (back den, I mean, 's
dif'rent now) din't want a gimp woikin' wit dem." No one did. His
mind added silently.
He sat up abruptly. "We betta get in, now. Kloppman'll be yellin'
lights out soon."
It wasn't that soon, just past nine o'clock. "Crutchy, youse
okay?" Porter asked, concerned for her friend, and sat up as well.
"Coise." he lied. She knew he was lying, but could tell she wasn't
going to get anything else out of him. She stood up and helped Crutchy up,
also, knowing he wouldn't ask for the help.
"Heya, Crutchy," Kid Blink called as usual as they came down from
the roof. "How's you an' ya goil doin?" The other newsies laughed.
"Shaddup, Kid." Crutchy said shortly. He knew Blink was only
teasing, but the words rubbed against certain raw wounds on this particular
night.
Blink was taken aback. Crutchy was never short with anyone. Heck,
he'd even been polite to Weasel, to Snyder, to Judge Monahan, for
goodness' sake! He looked at Porter in question, but got no help.
"Lovers' quarrel?" Bumlets teased. "I was jokin'!" he
protested when Porter showed him her fist.
"Hey, Crutchy, youse aw right?" Firefly called.
"I'se fine." came Crutchy's muffled reply from the washroom where
he had retreated to change for bed, since the girls were still in the room.
They others were still looking at him doubtfully when he emerged. "I'se
jist tired, aw right?"
The newsies exchanged worried looks, but did not pursue the matter any
further. "Don't pay attention ta Blink." Porter said, glaring at the
aforementioned. "His mudda dropped 'im on 'is head when 'e was born, an'
'e ain't been da same since."
This brought a laugh from most, and they settled back to their former
occupations. Race's arrival, fresh from a big win at the track and ready to
challenge all who dared to a game of poker while his luck still held, served to
completely erase the incident from everyone's mind. Porter returned to the
girls' side fairly soon, but she wasn't missed.
Crutchy lay back in bed and closed his eyes, listening to Race describe the
horse that had won for him. "It was a long shot, but I had a hot tip.
She's small an' stocky. She don't look like much, but can she run! Ya shoulda
seen 'er, guys . . ."
"Ya shoulda seen it, Scottie! It was great! We was runnin' like
anyt'in'. Andrew nearly beat me, but I passed 'im at da las' minute."
"Aw, 'e never had a chance." Eight year old Scottie sat on his
bed in their shared room and laughed at his older brother's modesty.
"Nobody can beat me brudda."
"I wish you'd'a come." Thomas sat down by the window, next to
his brother. "What'cha been doin'?" He looked at the book Scottie
held up. "It good?"
"Yeah! Some a da parts I don't get, but it's really funny! Dere's
dese four guys in England, an' dey get inta all dis trouble, travelin' aroun'.
Da head guy's named Pickwick, an'-" he blushed when he realized he'd been
babbling. He tended to run on when he talked to his brother. Their father never
looked at him, except to yell at him, and their mother was always too busy to
talk. Tom was the only one who listened. He closed the book and put it aside.
"Anyways, I don't hafta go ta da race, cuz ya'se gonna tell me all about
it - now." Fourteen years old, tall, strong and handsome, Tom was
Scottie's idol, and Scottie secretly wished he had been able to see his brother
run. The neighborhood races were held every week, and the winner won the right
to lead the neighborhood kids until the next race.
Scottie remembered the first and only time he had watched one. Tom had
carried him to the street where the races were held and set him on one of the
crates that had been set up as seats on the curb. Scottie had been born with a
weak right leg, and at four years old he still couldn't walk. He'd been
watching Tom and the other boys get ready when something hit his back, knocking
the wind out of him and sending him flying off the crate into the dirty street.
"C'mon, get up." Scottie rubbed the dirt out of his eyes and
looked up. The boy, a big boy - at least eight years old - jeered. The others
gathered around and joined in. Scottie pushed at them ineffectually, crying. It
seemed forever before Tom shoved his way through the crowd, lifted him up and
took him home. They were followed the whole way by taunts about the gimp who
had to be carried. Scottie had decided then and there that he would learn to
walk, that he would never go back to the races, and that no one would ever
carry him again - ever.
Sixteen years old, Crutchy opened his eyes, blinking away tears at the
memory. The lodging house was dark now; most of the others had fallen asleep.
He heard Jack come in from seeing Sarah, and heard him argue with Kloppman
about it being after hours. He closed his eyes again.
"C'mon, Scottie." Tom coaxed. "I gotta present for ya, but
I ain't givin it ta ya till ya get down here." Eight years old again,
Scottie clutched the railing and hopped down the stairs of the tenement
building, refusing to take the easy route and slide down the steps on his rear.
Tom waited at the bottom in the doorway, smiling encouragingly and holding
something behind his back. Scottie made it to the bottom and stumbled. Tom
grabbed him and supported him. Then he brought out his gift, a wooden crutch
just the right size for an eight year old.
"Hey, t'anks, Tom!" Scottie gave his brother a one-armed hug,
slipped the crutch under his right arm, and tried to walk. He fell face
forward, with the doorframe approaching at an alarming speed. Tom reached out a
hand, but Scottie caught himself on his own and managed a short, unsteady step.
He grinned up at his brother and tried another step.
Tom grinned back. "Okay, try it outside."
"Dis is da day." Crutchy whispered to the wooden slats of the bunk
above him.
"Dis is da day." Tom had said. "Meet me at da factory when
I'se finished."
It was Scottie's ninth birthday, and Tom had promised a surprise, so
Scottie was making his way toward the rubber factory where Tom worked -
"Till ya's old enough ta leave an' we can go ta sea." - and trying to
ignore the taunts that followed him down the street. Invisible hands shoved him
into a storekeeper who had just come out with a broom to sweep out his store.
The man cursed his clumsiness. He just tipped his hat, apologized, and moved on
quickly. He didn't protest his innocence or look around to see who had jostled
him, knowing from experience that it would do no good. It was impossible to
tell in the crowd. He didn't cry, either. He saved that for late at night,
after a long day of the same thing over and over, when even Tom was asleep, and
no one could hear him.
He saw the factory ahead and sped up, looking for his brother in the
evening shadows. A clod of mud, hard from baking all day, hit him in the back
of the head as he was crossing the street, causing him to lose his balance
completely and see stars for a second. He fell at a strange angle, and the
street twisted around him, all of it - people, buildings, and traffic, seeming
to rush in on him. He started to get up, searching for his crutch, heard his
name, felt something - someone? - twice his size slam into him, knocking him to
the ground even as he started to rise. He felt like he was being stomped on and
kicked, for several seconds he couldn't breath. He heard the clatter of hooves,
a rattle like cart wheels, four quick thuds, that seemed to matching with the
stomps, and all this shouting. Within a minute it was over, all except for the
shouting. He couldn't see a thing.
"Dey aw right?"
"Where'd ya t'ink ya was goin' so fast?"
"What happened?"
"Come along, dear, it's just a few street rats."
"Get dat cart outta da way!"
"Dey aw right?"
Finally, he realized he was not blind. There was just something lying on
top of him. He pushed gently. At his movment, strong arms lifted it off of him,
and he could see it clearly. It was Tom.
"Ya awright?" A man asked, kneeling down next to him. Scottie
nodded distractedly, craning his neck to see where the other two men had placed
his brother.
"How's Tom?"
"Tom? Da odder boy?"
"Me brudda, yeah. How is 'e?" Scottie was becoming anxious.
"He's dead, son." One of the other men walked over.
Scottie was home again. He didn't quite remember getting there, didn't
remember telling the men his address, didn't remember them telling his parents
what had happened. He could hear his mother crying in the next room - she never
cried. And his father was yelling, but at least that wasn't unusual. He kept
trying to wake up from the nightmare. This couldn't have happened. Things like
this just didn't happen. And it was his fault.
"It's aw da fault a dat boy a yers! Yer fault fer havin' 'im!"
"Half yers!" his mother screamed back, still sobbing.
"Dat t'ing in dere don't have my blood in him!"
Scottie had always known his parents were ashamed of him, but he'd never
thought that they hated him. He'd thought that nothing could hurt after
Tom died.
He'd been wrong.
Four years old again. "Gimp!" "Freak!" "C'mon
get up!" Tom shoved his way through, and Scottie looked to him in relief,
but instead of picking him up, his brother joined in the jeers. And his parents
were behind him. More faces joined his tormentors. Faces unfamiliar to Scottie
at four or nine, but ones that Crutchy knew. His best friends, Jack, Race,
Truth, Mush, Dutchy, Porter . . .
"Crutchy! Crutchy! Wake up!" He started awake in the pitch black
lodging house. "Ya was havin' a nightmare." said Jack. "Must a
been a bad one, too. Ya awright?"
Finally, Crutchy realized where he was. He looked around the room, but no
one else was awake.
"Ya din't wake up anybody, but me." Jack confirmed. "Ya
wasn't screamin', but ya was tossin' so much, I nearly fell of da bunk."
He laughed at that. "Sorry. Yeah, I'se aw right."
"What was ya dreamin' about?" Jack asked.
"Da Bronx." Jack had been the first Manhattan newsie he met, and
was just about the only one who knew what 'da Bronx' meant for Crutchy.
"Oh. Sorry. Ya know, I been meanin' ta tell ya - goin' dere fer da
strike last month. Was pretty brave a ya."
"I had ta do somet'in." He said uncomfortably.
"Ya ready ta sleep now, or ya gonna stay up?" Crutchy's silence
was answer enough. "Aw right, den I got da best prescription for ya."
He launched into a series of hilarious stories, half exaggeration, half
completely false that soon had them both laughing, and Bumlets waking up to
tell them to shut up and go to sleep. "Dere." he said at last. "Betta
now?"
"Yeah."
"Aw right. G'night."
"G'night. An' Jack?"
"Yeah?" he yawned.
"T'anks."
"Sorry, 'bout bein' late." Porter ran up to join her friends who
were standing just inside the gate of the distribution center. She'd seen a
familiar face she definately did not want to run into hanging around outside
the lodging house that morning, and had convinced the others to go on without
her. It had meant missing breakfast, but she hadn't considered one stale roll
and a cup of coffee worth getting soaked over. Not in this case, at least.
"I gotta get me papes. Wait heah for me, aw right?" She ran off
and joined the newsies still on line. Crutchy watched her go, letting out a
sigh that was just barely audible.
Jack looked up from his paper, saw the direction of his friend's gaze, and
hid a grin. He'd never seen Crutchy wearing quite that moonstruck expression
before. That was usually Mush. Apparently, Blink had been right, for once.
"She's pretty, ain't she?" he said aloud.
Crutchy started and looked at him. "Who?"
"Porter." Jack rose and stood next to him, watching the line of
newsies progress - slowly, since it was unwritten law that each newsie do his
or her utmost to annoy the heck out of the distribution officer.
"Porter?" repeated Crutchy with badly feigned indifference.
"Yeah, I s'pose so."
"Smart, too." The grin was becoming harder to hold back. Jack
looked away for a moment to hide his expression. "She reads. Books, I
mean, not jist papes."
Crutchy nodded. "Yeah." That look was coming back to his face.
Crutchy stiffened and his spirits sank. He didn't have
a chance, anyway, but if Jack was interested in Porter . . .
"An' what a newsie!" Jack teased further, then noticed his
friend's replies were becoming less enthusiastic. "Crutchy?"
"Yeah." Porter had gotten her papers and was coming toward them
with a large stack.. Crutchy moved to meet her, trying to hide his dismay.
He was a bad actor; Jack noticed immediately that something was wrong.
"Crutchy," Crutchy looked back. "Ya know I was on'y teasin',
right? I mean," he finally allowed his grin to show. "Ya was lookin'
at her like Race wit a winnin' hoss, or Blink when da mayor's daughter rides
by."
Crutchy blushed, but he was secretly relieved. "Um, ya ain't gonna tell
nobody, are ya?"
Jack raised his hands. "Me lips are sealed."
"On what?" asked Porter who had just reached the two.
Jack turned. "Oh, heya, Porter. How's da headlines?" he asked.
"Bad as usual. An' don't give me dat, Kelly. Spill!" Porter hefted
the stack of newspapers onto her shoulder and glared at him.
Jack gave her his most innocently charming look. "Spill what?"
"Dat one's Truth's trademark. Now what is it?"
"Did I heah my name?" Truth approached and joined Porter,
presenting a solid front. "What's new?"
"Heya, Truth. I'se waitin' for dese two ta tell me what deir hidin'.
T'ink ya can help?"
"Shoa." Truth smiled at Jack sweetly - and dangerously. "Now
why don't ya jist do what Porter, heah, tells ya ta before I tells Sarah how
ya's been cheatin' on 'er, hmmm?"
"I ain't been cheatin' on Sarah!" Jack yelped indignantly.
"No, but I can make 'er believe ya has." she smiled.
"Truth."
"You wouldn't." Truth smiled. Jack looked at Crutchy helplessly.
"I'se sorry, Crutchy, but-"
Porter saw her friend's face and relented. "Aw, fergit about it. If
it's Crutchy's secret at least I know it's a honest secret."
"Dat hoit, Porter." said Jack. "Dat really hoit!" He
would have said more, but Truth's gasp distracted him. "What's da
matter?"
"Honest!" The girl exclaimed dramatically. "Woids dat
burn!" They split up, still laughing, to sell their papers.
"T'ank you, sir." Porter smiled at her last customer, then noticed
a policeman eyeing the two newsies. She whistled to Crutchy and nodded in the
officer's direction, while thanking another customer. He looked up curiously,
then noticed the object of her attention, and nodded, shifting his stack of
papers on his arm in preparation for a quick exit.
"Hey, dere's a fight ovah dere!" Porter exclaimed, pointing. As
the people in the park (led by the police officer) ran off in the direction she
pointed, the two newsies quietly left the scene in opposite directions.
Porter waited near a boxing ring 2 miles from the park, hawking the
headlines. She knew Crutchy would find her from the code they'd invented - a
fight meant meet at the boxing ring, Teddy Roosevelt, at City Hall, an actress,
at Medda's. Indeed, she saw him coming even as she thought it. As he reached
her, a little boy came up to them, coughing. "Buy me las' pape?" Then
Les recognized them. "Oh, heya, Crutchy! Heya, Porter! I sold fifteen
papes today! Ya wanna see how?" He repeated his routine.
"Dat's great, Les! Heya, Dave! Heya, Jack!" The two were close
behind the boy.
"Mind if we sell heah taday?" Porter asked. "We had a liddle
- uh-" She looked at Crutchy and grinned. "-legal trouble in Central
Park." It wasn't that funny, but they all laughed anyway (Dave
figuring it out about 30 seconds after the others, but that was normal).
"Shoa." said Jack. "Les was tellin' da truth for once. We're
almost outta papes, anyway. We was jist watchin' da fight mostly."
"EXTRY! EXTRY! DROWNED CORPSES WASH UP IN BROOKLYN!" The 'corpses'
belonged to seven rats, a story Porter had dug up from the bottom of the back
page, but she didn't think it necessary that she tell her customers that. She
wished she'd had money to buy more than thirty-six papes that day. Jack had
been right. They were selling well. But it takes money ta make money.
she reminded herself. At least, wasn't as broke as she'd been a few days ago.
She smiled and thanked a man as he dropped a penny in her hand, then called out
another 'improved' headline.
God, it's hot! She wiped her forehead and looked around for the
others. Jack was leaning against a building, his cowboy hat pulled down over
his eyes, fast asleep, an expression of absolute and utter contentment on his
face. She called to Crutchy and pointed. They both laughed.
"What's so funny?" Dave asked. They gestured at Jack who chose
that moment to release a huge snore. All three nearly collapsed with laughter.
Porter was literally rolling on the ground. "Hey, Jack!" Dave called.
Jack woke with a start, his hat falling off his head. This doubled their
laughter. "Enjoy yer nap?" asked Crutchy.
"Ya know," Porter attempted to sound annoyed and failed miserably
because she was laughing so hard. "Ya makin' it really hard for the rest
of us ta be virtuous an' woik."
"Since when've you an' 'virtuous' belonged in da same sentence,
Porter?"
"Watch it, Cowboy." Porter warned. "I got one last pape, an'
den let's go, huh? 'Less youse guys are really dat fond a watchin' two guys
beat da crap outta each odder?"
"Fine."
Jack had been wondering about Porter even before the newsies' conversation
the previous night. He couldn't shake the feeling that he knew her from somewhere.
He pulled her aside on the way home, resolving to find out once and for all who
she was. "Hey, Porter."
Porter sighed - she'd noticed that speculative look in Jack's eyes more than
once and guessed what was coming. Why don't 'e jist give up? "Yeah?"
"I was jist wond'rin about ya. I nevah fergit a face, an' yers looks
real familiar. I been tryin' ta rememba where I seen it before?"
"I'se lived in New Yawk all me life, same as you." she replied,
supplying no more information than he already knew.
"An' how would ya know I'se lived heah all me life?" he asked,
feeling clever.
"Did it evah occur ta ya dat someone might a told me?" she
retorted. "An' whatevah happened ta not astin' fer secrets?"
"Porter, I ain't gonna tell nobody, if ya don't want. I jist wanna
know."
She suddenly felt tired. "Yeah, I bet ya do, Frankie, but jist fergit
about it, aw right? Please?" She pushed away from him and rejoined
Crutchy. Jack, his jaw moving soudlessly, let her go.
Dat was a stupid t'ing ta say, Porter. she told herself. He was
gonna figure it out sooner or latah. Another part of her retorted. Yeah,
an' ya jist had ta make it sooner, din't ya? May I remind ya, dat if Jack
remembas, den he's gonna tell Spot, an' where will you be, den, huh? Ya been
heah too long, anyways. If Spot don't find ya, den Pop will, or da bulls - an'
need I remind ya what happens den? Ya want a repeat a Brooklyn?No!
She nearly sobbed, drawing a concerned look from Crutchy. She shook her head
when he asked what was wrong, and looked over at Jack. He still couldn't seem
to formulate a reply. She couldn't help, but laugh. Same old Frankie.
She could just see him and Spot . . .
"Hey, Evan, watch dis!"
Porter and her cousin both looked up to see their friend balancing on a
gate, making faces at the ugliest, meanest lookin' bulldog, any of them had
ever seen. "Hey, 'e looks like ya, Frankie! Youse two related?" Evan
asked.
The other boy jumped down from the wall. "Naw, I t'ink he looks more
like one a yer relatives. Huh - Spot?" He'd forgotten, however, that to go
after one Conlon, automatically made him an enemy of the other. And for a five
year old, Porter could pince. "Hey!" He grabbed her, and
started tickling her in revenge, trained for as long as Porter could
remember, never to hurt a younger kid.
Evan watched them for a while before picking a side, his own. He went
after both of them equally. Never mind that Porter had started out defending
him. They soon formed a ball of flailing arms and legs and laughter. "Hey,
kids, get out of my yard!"
They untangled themselves. "We'se on dis side a da gate!"
Frankie yelled back, ready even at seven to take on the odds. However, when the
man started to loose his dog, the future strike leader opted for the better
part of valor and ran. They all did.
By the time they'd stopped, they were outside a fairly ordinary-looking
tenement building. A tall, blond came down the steps. Porter ran around the
side of the building to get out of his sight. "Francis! Evan!" She
saw the boys wave at her before they followed him away. Patrick Conlon had no
use for his brother's family, and Evan would be in for it, if his father knew
he'd been playing with her. She climbed on a trash can, and made it to the fire
escape, through the open window to her room. She could hear loud arguing
through the door.
"I don't know why ya bother teachin' her dat stufff. Ain't like
she'll evah use it!"
"Her grandparents couldn't read, by law! She can, an' she's
gonna!"
Porter sighed. Ma and Pop were at it again, about her, no less. Uncle
Patrick had probably been talking to Pop, nothing else would get him started.
She honestly could not figure out what had brought her parents together. Naw,
I can guess. It was a cynical thought for a five year old, but one grew
cynical quickly in New York. Pop was drunk, an' Ma wanted ta teach da woild
a lesson. Problem is, da woild don't wanna loin. Knowing the 'ways of the
world' hadn't stopped a small bit of her mother's idealism from infecting
Porter. It was just well hidden.
The argument reminded Porter what she was supposed to be doing - he
reading lesson. She opened her mother's heavy Bible that she'd left on the
window sill, and began reading just as her mother walked in. I-N, in.
T-H-E, the. In the be-gin-ing. "In da beginnin' . . ."
"In da beginnin' was da Woid, an da Woid was wit God, an' da Woid
was God-"
"Porter!"
Porter looked up, then closed the Bible and handed it to her mother who
lay in the bed next to her. At the age of nine, she knew better than to ignore
her father. "Time ta woik." she said, a sick feeling in her stomach.
She sighed.
Her mother mistook the sigh. "Porter, we needs ya ta woik, ya knows
dat. Da Bailey twins can't be dat bad."
Porter winced inwardly. "I know. Dey ain't. Sorry."
"Goil." Her father appeared in the doorway, looking
impatient. "I ain't waitin forevah."
"I'se comin'." She grabbed her hat off a bedpost, kissed her
mother quickly, and ran out after her father. She also picked up a sack that
lay just inside the door, glancing back at the bedroom door guiltily. Her
mother was under the impression that Porter babysat for a neighbor's twin boys
in the evenings while her father worked at a factory. This was a lie. Porter
"Sorry, Pop." Porter mumbled. She picked herself up and ran
after him. She wasn't sure why she still went along with this. It was a mixture
of fear of her father and hope that he'd someday admit she actually did
something well - even if it was stealing. Not dat dere's much chance a dat.
she snorted. Her father turned abruptly at the sound and glared at her
again.
"Ya laughin' at me?"
"No, sir."
"Well come on. An' be quiet."
"Yessir."
The jimmy scraped the paint on the windowsill, but it got the window
open. Porter's father boosted her up roughly, and practically threw her through
the window. Jon Conlon was not one to be gentle. Experience had taught her how
to fall, so she was able to minimize the sound of her landing and her bruises.
She crept through the house, looking for jewelry boxes, valuable decorations,
money stashes, in case the owners of the house were the kind that didn't
believe in banks. She moved along the walls, but carefully, not wanting to rip
her clothing on some stray hook or nail. That was why she wore her hair short.
Her father had insisted she cut it more than a year ago. She filled her sack,
slowly, then returned to the window. She handed the sack out first - it would
mean a beating if she tried to carry it out herself - then climbed down.
As they walked home she prepared a story to tell her mother the next day,
about the escapades of the Bailey twins.
"Skip! Skip! As fast as ya can! Stop on da letta a youse future man!
A! B! C! D!"
Porter sat on the front steps of her building, watching some girls
jumping rope in the street. She'd been invited - once - to play. Then been
delibrately tripped into a mud puddle. She'd never asked again. The book she
was reading was much more interesting, anyway.
"Hey, Porter!" The girls and a few boys stood at the bottom of
the steps. "Hey, Porter!" She ignored them. They'd get her attention,
then they'd - one of the boys grabbed her book out of her hands. "What'cha
readin', huh?" she didn't answer, but kept her eyes on the book in his
hands. "It a good book? Got lotsa pictcha's, huh?" The last time
they'd gotten a hold of one of her books, her father had been passing, noticed,
and grabbed it back. Then he'd beaten her for reading it in the first place. Speak
a da devil. At that moment Jon Conlon came walking up the street. She turned
to go inside. "Hey, thief!"
She whirled around, forgetting about the book, and her father.
"What'd you say?"
"Ya t'ink nobody knows where ya goin' ev'y night! Da whole neighborhood
knows about you! Yer nothin' but a theivin' liddle-" Porter very rarely
got angry enough over anything to express it in public. This was one of those
times. It was all the worse for being true. She jumped on the boy, never mind
that he had three of his friends with him.
It would have been a losing fight even if she hadn't been outnumbered.
Fighting had never been one of her best skills. Still, she scratched,
kicked,and bit without mercy, until some adults nearby intervened and stopped
the fight, blaming her, of course, for hurting their poor innocent children.
"Porter!" Her mother had seen the entire fight through her
bedroom window. Her father hadn't even stopped. "Come heah!" She was
angry. Dat's all I needed, God. Porter thought. T'anks a bunch!
She picked her book off the step and started inside, dragging her feet. She
could just imagine what her mother was going to say.
"Porter, I know ya gets angry. But ya gotta loin ta control yer
tempa." There was as much weariness as anger in her mother's voice. Bess
Conlon lay back in bed and examined her daughter closely.
Porter stared at the knots in the wood floor, tracing the lines in the
grain with her toe. "Yes, mama. I know." She wanted to shrink down
and sink through one of those knot holes. Of all the things her mother hated,
fighting was at the top of the list.
"Jist cuz some stupid children lie about ya ain't no reason ta hit
dem. It makes ya as bad as dem."
"Yes, mama."
Her mother sighed and relented just a bit. "Honey, don't let dose
lies get ta ya. You know an' I know da truth. An' who cares what dey
t'ink?"
The knot hole became even more interesting. Porter was silent.
"Porter, honey?" A small, round spot appeared in the dust on the
floor between Porter's feet. "Porter, dey is lies, ain't dey?"
Porter sniffed and studied the floor even more closely. She could feel
her mother's eyes on her. Stealing ranked even above fighting on Bess's list of
deplorable acts.
"Porter Margaret Louise Conlon, look at me!" Porter looked up
finally to meet her mother's disappointed eyes, then ran from the room.
I'se sorry, Mama. She'd curled up on the fire escape outside their
apartment. She couldn't face her mothr again. She didn't think she could face
anyone again. Strangely, she wasn't crying. She was too full of shame to cry.
Hadn't her mother once said that tears were sacred, too precious to waste on
trivial things she'd called them. An' too good fer a thief like you! She
thought at herself angrily. She didn't believe she would ever be able to look
her mother in the eyes again.
She heard loud voices from inside the apartment, but ignored them at
first. Her father must be home with his drinking buddies. Although, he never
brought friends home, now that she remembered it. Jon was too ashamed of his
black family to let anyone else meet them. So who . . .? She climbed through
the window and saw a man dressed in black talking to her father.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Conlon, but you must know she was weakening. Her
heart, I suspect, was never strong in the first place. Any shock could have
killed her." He looked around nervously and with slight distaste at the
dirty tenement. "Shall I tell the girl?"
"No need, docta. She should heah from me dat 'er mudda's dead."
Porter's eyes widened and she pulled back from the doorway, backing up
all the way through the window. She's dead? Still, she didn't cry. Too
precious for a thief. Too precious for a murderer.
She was still sitting there on the fire escape, against the wall of the
tenement building, tearless, when Spot came three days later to tell her his
family was moving.
"Porter?" she looked up to see Crutchy watching her worriedly.
"I'se aw right." she answered before he could ask.
"Hey, guys?" Dave said, disregarding gender. "I've gotta get
something for my mother, how about I meet you at the lodging house around nine?
Oh, and Jack you're invited to dinner tonight. Sarah's cooking and she said
specifically to ask you."
Jack's eyes lit up. "'Sound's great. We'll see ya latah, den."
"Bye." David and Les ran up the stairs of a building, Porter
assumed was theirs, and the other three continued on to the lodiging house.
"Ya know all deir names?" Porter asked, getting lost in the sight
again.
"Yeah, Tom - me brudda - wanted ta be a sailor an' he taught me. See
dat?" He pointed. "That's the Big Dippa. An' if ya follow dose two
stars dere, ya find da North Star. It's da on'y one dat nevah moves. All da
odder stars move around it."
"I t'ink me mudda told me about dat one. Da slaves used ta follow it
north ta freedom. Dey's anudder kinda sailors, I guess." Porter could
almost here her mother singing her to sleep.
"Follow da
drinkin' gourd!
Follow da drinkin' gourd!
For da ole man is a-waitin for ta carry ya ta freedom
If ya follow da drinkin' gourd!
When da sun comes up an' da foist
quail calls,
Follow da drinkin' gourd!
For da ole man is a-waitin for ta carry ya ta freedom.
Follow da drinkin' gourd!
Da river bank will make a mighty good
road.
Da dead trees will show ya da way.
Left foot, peg foot, travelin' on.
Follow da drinkin' gourd!
Follow da drinkin' gourd!
For da ole man is a-waitin' for ta carry ya ta freedom,
If ya follow da drinkin' gourd.
Da river ends between two hills.
Follow da drinkin' gourd!
Dere's anudder river on da odder side.
Follow da drinkin' gourd!"
Crutchy gazed up at the stars, spellbound. "Dat's
beautiful."
"What?" Porter hadn't realized she'd been singing aloud. "Uh,
I'se sorry. I din't mean ta bother ya." She scrambled to her feet.
"Ya ain't botherin me!" Crutchy got up to follow her. "Youse
got a beautiful voice." He blushed as he said it, and silently blessed the
darkness. "Sing somet'in else."
She shook her head. More recent memories than those of her mother singing
intruded on Porter's thoughts. "Ya squeak like a ole carriage wheel!
An' don't sing dose slave songs, eidda!" SLAP! Pop never could get used ta
da fact dat 'e married a black woman. She thought.
"Porter, ya aw right?" Crutchy asked anxiously. It was the second
time that day she'd gone distant.
She shook her head to banish the memory. "Yeah, I'se aw right."
"Den youse gonna sing?" he asked tentatively. She half-smiled and
shook her head shyly. "C'mon. Da odders are gonna wanna heah ya." he
coaxed, encouraged that she hadn't refused outright. She continued shaking her
head as he put a hand on her back and propelled her through the door, and down
the stairs.
"No! No! Crutchy, no! I'm not goin' ta!" she protested laughing.
In the boys' bunkroom below, the others heard her and exchanged bemused
glances. "Jist what are dey doin' up dere?" Nickel whispered to
Firefly.
"Ah, youse two aw right?" Race called up the stairs. Blink
snickered. There was silence from above at the question as the two realized how
they sounded, then they both burst down the stairs laughing and red-faced.
"So," said Blink, eye brows raised. "how's you an' ya goil
doin, Crutchy?"
Porter stopped giggling long enough to glare at him. If on'y. she
thought.
As if. thought Crutchy, pretending to ignore him. "We gots a
singer, heah." he said. "Porter-" he gestured at Porter who was
now shaking her head frantically. "- is gonna sing for us." He looked
at her expectantly.
She shook her head a few more times, then sighed when it became obvious he
was not letting her off the hook, and no one else was going to come to her
rescue. She picked another song she'd heard her mother sing, closed her eyes
and began.
"Shall we gather
at da river
Where bright angel feet have trod
With its crystal tide forever
Flowing by the t'rone of God . . .
. . . Soon we'll reach da shining
river
Soon our pilgrimage will cease
Soon our happy hearts will quiver
Wit da melody of peace."
As soon as the applause began, Porter dove for the first unoccupied corner
(which happened to be Jake's bed) and hid her face. Crutchy followed and sat on
the bed across from her. "Dat was wonderful!"
"T'anks." came her muffled voice. She emerged a few seconds later,
grinning slightly.
"Do you know any odder -" The sound of approaching voices
interrupted him.
"Heya, Spot." came Jack's voice from the stairs. Crutchy turned to
greet the visitor, so he didn't see Porter tense and shrink back into the
corner. "What'cha doin' in Manhattan?"
"Heya, Jack. I was lookin' for somebody - little boid told me dey might
be around heah - an' t'ought I'd stop by." Spot's voice - as well as his
face when he came up the stairs into view - was cold. Most of the younger
newsies involuntarily shrank back as he entered. Several of the older
newsies even moved away. Everyone was watching the guest, with the sole
exceptions of Race, who was busy checking the next day's scratch sheet, Pounce
and Clouds, who were discussing a guy, and Crutchy, who had just noticed Porter
hiding and was trying to find out the problem.
"Who're ya lookin' for?" Jack frowned at the smaller boy. The last
time he'd seen Spot this angry was - he wasn't sure if he remembered seeing
Spot this angry.
"Hey, Spot!" said Snoddy. "Ya met our newest newsie? Her
name's Porter."
"Porter?" repeated Spot sharply. Porter's heart sank.
"Yeah. Hey, Porter, come meet -"
"Spitfire, get out heah." Spot's voice cut through the other
boy's. All chatter in the room died, then resumed as Porter uncurled and
emerged from her corner hesitantly.
"Yeah, Spot?" she answered, her voice a shade higher than normal.
Spot advanced on her dangerously. She held her ground, although her eyes
flickered nervously. Jack, standing just behind Spot, gave her points for
bravery, if not for intelligence. Not many newsies could stand up to Spot when
he wore that expression. Of course, she didn't have much choice with the
night stand at her back and beds to either side of her. Spot poked the handle
of his cane against her chest. "Ya got one minute ta tell me why I
shouldn't soak ya."
The room was dead silent again. Even Racetrack looked up at that.
"Spot-" Jack began.
"Spot, I know why ya's mad-" started Porter at the same time.
"Oh. Yeah?" Spot interrupted them both. "Tell me."
"It ain't-"
"I'se mad cuz Splitz, Cards and Pickles all spent da las' 2 weeks in da
Refuge, an' dey tell me youse da one as got 'em t'rown in dere." He
stepped back and looked over his shoulder. "I din't know ya was in da
habit of welcomin' scabs, Jacky-boy." The newsies not immediately involved
in the drama, looked at Porter, who winced when Spot said 'two weeks', but
showed no other sign of surprise at his words, and began whispering. She heard
them and bit her lip, then saw Crutchy looking at her earnestly and shook her
head. He nodded.
Jack looked from Spot to Porter and back. "Ya sure, Spot?" he
asked finally.
In answer, Spot turned back to Porter. "Da same day you disappear,
dere's a raid on da lodgin' house, an' dose t'ree get caught. Da boys walk inta
court da next day, an' who da dey see, standin' by da door wit Snyda', gettin'
congratulated on da 'fine woik' she done-?"
"-An' den gettin' t'rown in da Refuge after dem." Porter
interrupted. "C'mon, Spot, yer smarter den dat-"
He ran right over her. "-Unless youse got a twin sista da rest of us
don't know about, it was you, Spitfire."
"Was it you, Porter?" asked Jack quietly.
"Yeah, it was me." she answered. His face hardened. "But it
ain't da way it looks!" She saw doubt or outright anger in every face
surrounding her. "Snyda's a sadistic bastard, youse all know dat! I
escaped twice, an' he wanted a way ta get back at me." She looked at Jack
pleadingly - he, at least should understand that. She turned back to
Spot. "Ask Pickles who got da key for 'em."
"An if dat's true, why'd ya leave Brooklyn?" Spot asked
contemptuously.
Porter took a deep breath. She was terrified and trying not to show it.
"Two reasons. Ya believe a woid I'se said?"
"No."
"Yeah, well, dat's one reason." Spot was not amused. "I din't
want da bulls followin' me back, aw right?" she added quickly. "I
din't want it happenin' again."
"Once was enough." Spot shifted position slightly, as if growing
restless. "Da clock's tickin' an' I ain't convinced yet, Spitfire."
"Leave her alone, Spot. She din't do it." The voice belonged to
Crutchy who stepped between the two. The surprise in the room was tangible.
Porter pushed him aside. "Stay outta dis!"
"Dat's dangerous ground, Crutchy." Spot warned.
"Let's take dis outside." Jack interrupted quickly, stalling for
time. "Kloppman'll kick us all out if dere's fightin' in heah."
All thirty newsies, male and female, trooped down the stairs, Spot keeping a
hand on Porter's arm - "I'se comin' aw right!" - while Firefly gave
her murderous glances. Race was giving odds ten to one on Spot with no takers.
Jack and Crutchy were last. Halfway down, Crutchy caught Jack's sleeve and
whispered. "Do somethin', Jack!"
Jack sighed. "I know ya likes her, Crutchy -"
Crutchy looked around furtively to see if anyone had heard. "Dis has
nothin' ta do wit dat!" Not much, anyway. he amended silently.
"She din't do it."
"But she says herself she was dere." Jack protested. "It don't
look good."
"T'ings ain't always da way dey look, are dey Jack?" Crutchy
stopped on the landing and stared his friend in the eye. He hated to do this,
but . . .
Jack nearly fell the rest of the way down the stairs when he caught
Crutchy's meaning. He met his friend's eyes for a moment, then dropped his own.
"No, dey ain't." He looked up again. "Ya sure?" Crutchy
nodded seriously. "Aw right."
They emerged on the street in front of the lodging house and joined the
others under the streetlight where a circle had formed around Porter and Spot.
Jack pushed his way to the center with Crutchy behind him. Everyone was
talking. "Hey! Hey! Lissen up!" The clamor began to die down,
and he continued. "Now, I been t'inkin -"
"Dat's a foist!"
"Shut up, Truth. I been t'inkin, an' dere's anudder newsie heah dat's
been in Porter's sit-too-asun." There were questioning whispers and shrugs
from the group. "Wasn't dat long ago, eidder. T'ings looked as bad for him
den as dey do for her now - woise. But dere was anudder side ta da story, an'
we all know dif'rent now." He turned to Spot. "So I say we give
Porter da benefit a da doubt, cuz if ya wanna soak her, ya gonna hafta soak
him, too - ya gonna hafta soak me." Porter gaped at him, then looked at
Crutchy who had pushed his way through the circle to her side as Jack crossed
his arms and waited for the whispers to gain coherence.
"What's 'e tawkin about?"
"Don't ya rememba?"
"Jack's right."
"If Jack trusts her-"
"Yeah, let 'er go."
"So, what da ya say, Spot?" Jack asked.
The Brooklyn newsie looked back at him, at the other newsies in the circle,
at Crutchy, and finally at Porter. "Ya got lucky, Spitfire." he said
softly, blue eyes unreadable. He turned back to Jack and smirked. "I say
dat what you say . . . is what I say." He replied. He turned to go and the
newsies cleared a path for him. "But don't say ya wasn't warned." he
added over his shoulder. He walked (to the amusement of many who did not dare
show it) right into Dave who had come looking for the newsies.
"Hi, Spot." greeted Dave, stepping back quickly when he saw the
expression on Spot's face. He looked around at the other newsies, all of whom
had turned to look at him. "What-?"
Jack shook his head. "Tell ya latah. C'mon, ev'ybody inside." The
others followed them in. Crutchy and Porter were left behind, Crutchy waiting
for Porter who had taken a moment to be sick in the back of a nearby alley.
"Ya aw right?" She nodded. "Da Delanceys scare me like
dat." he confessed.
She smiled weakly. "I just don't like fightin'." Then relief made
her angry. "Dat was a stupid t'ing ta do!"
It stung. "Ya welcome, but I din't do anyt'ing." answered Crutchy,
turning his back on her and following the others.
She swore silently. "I din't mean dat, aw right?" she called after
him. "Look," she caught up to him. "It was a stupid t'ing ta do,
but t'anks for doing' it?"
"T'ank Jack. I told ya. I din't do anyt'ing." said Crutchy,
wishing he had been the one to convince the others.
"Yeah, well, he wouldn't a said a woid, if ya hadn't tawked ta him.
What didja say, anyways?" She opened the door of the lodging house, and
held it open for him.
He shrugged. "Ya din't do it."
Porter marveled. "Ya know, youse da on'y one back dere dat believed
me." An' ya act like it's nothin'! she thought in frustration. On
da odder hand, for him it is nothin'. Ain't one in a million dat t'inks like
dat an' trusts like dat. "Ya crazy, ya know dat?"
"Ya know somebody tells me dat at least once ev'yday?" They
both laughed.
"By da way," said Crutchy as they walked up the stairs.
"Spitfire?"
Porter laughed self-consciously. "Yeah, I gots a bad temper. Got mad
'bout bein' teased one too many times, an' chased Spot off da pier. When he got
outta da water dat's what he called me, an' da name stuck."
"Our Porter?" exclaimed Race incredulously, who had heard the end
of the exchange. "A bad temper?"
"Porter, ya ain't lost ya temper yet." Nickel, famous for her own
temper, scoffed.
"She ran Spot off da pier?" repeated Mush wide-eyed.
"I pulled him out again." she said defensively. Everyone laughed.
They all seemed to have forgotten or forgiven or both. Our Porter. she
thought. I likes da sound a dat.
"So what was Spot so mad about?" David asked. He and Jack were
walking to the Jacobs' home.
"Ya want da long version or da short version?" replied Jack.
Dave looked at him sideways. "I better say short."
"Okay, basic'ly Spot's mad cuz he t'inks Porter got t'ree a da Brooklyn
newsies t'rown in da Refuge an' I wouldn't let him soak her for it."
"Did she?"
Jack shrugged. "She says no. 'Course she admits she was standing
dere wit Snyda when dey was tried. She blames it on Snyda'-"
"-Which is believable." interrupted Dave.
He nodded and continued. "-but dat ain't good enough for Spot."
"The last I heard, that wasn't good enough for Jack Kelly,
either." David said shrewdly. "So why're you standing for her?"
His eyes narrowed. "Personal reasons?"
Jack laughed. "Don't worry Dave, I ain't cheatin' on Sarah." He
grew quieter and said seriously. "But yeah, ya could call it a poisonal
reason. Crutchy reminded me a how - well, durin' da strike . . an' Pulitzer . .
. an' I . . . ya know?"
It took Dave a few minutes to figure out what his friend was talking about.
"What? Oh! I see." He saw something else, as well. That Crutchy would
challenge Jack and Spot for Porter bespoke a more than impartial
interest. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind for now. "But how
does Crutchy know about that? He was-"
"In da Refuge. Yeah, but so was I dat foist night. He wanted ta know
what was wrong - an' he can be damned persistent - so I told him." He
laughed. "Ya know, da las' poison I evah t'ought would t'row dat in me face
again was Crutchy." They reached the Jacobs' building and ran up the
stairs to their apartment.
"Yeah, she got da keys for us." said Pickles a huge boy of about
seven feet. He was munching on one of his namesakes while answering Spot's
question. "T'ought she was feelin' guilty."
Spot swore silently. It woulda been nice ta know dat earlier.
"Tell me what happened."
"Wit da keys?" asked Pickles.
Spot opened his mouth for a sarcastic retort, then changed his mind and shut
it again. "Naw, start wit da raid." Might as well heah it again
from da beginnin'.
"Kay. Since Spitfire'd jist disappeared, most a da gang'd been out
lookin' fer her all day, an' what wit dat an' sellin' we was all tired. You was
still out dat night when da bulls showed up. Hosses, carts, tons a cops - jist
like at da rally las' month when dey came after Cowboy. We got da liddle kids
out an' Legs went lookin' fer you. Mighta got ev'ybody out, 'cept Cards - well,
ya know Cards! He was fightin' mad, an' when Splitz an' me tried ta get 'im
calmed down an' outta dere, dey got us all.
"Dey was takin' us ta da court da next mornin' an' Splitz digs me in da
side, an' tells me ta look. I look 'round ta tell 'im ta watch where he's
puttin' his elbow, an' maybe ast one a da bulls dat don't seem so bad if he'll
give me a pickle, when I sees Spitfire standin' at da back a da courtroom,
starin' at us. I'se about ta ast 'er what she's doin', wit us all worried about
'er an' practically tearin' da city apart lookin' fer her, when Splitz digs me
in da side again, an' I sees Snyda' wit 'er. He's tawkin' loud 'nuff fer us ta
hear 'im across da room, 'T'ank youse.' an' 'What a good job!' an' 'What a
great help' she been.
"Well, dat jist set Cards off, an' dey gots ta hold him down, an' him
yellin' da whole time dat he's gonna soak her. He got t'ree months more'n
Splitz an' me jist for 'tempt a court, or whatevah dey calls it. An' Spitfire
goes white an' won't look at any a us straight, jist drops her eyes ev'ytime
anybody looks her way - but I see her outta da corner a me eye, watchin' us
till we leave."
"What was dat about da keys?" Spot asked.
"Oh, well, we's in jail fer almost a week, when she shows up at me
room. Splitz was somewheres else, cuz I made ten, an' da room was full, an'
Cards was on his lonesome cuz 'e started a fight wit someone. Anyways, dere's
da key in da lock, an' we all jumped up, waitin' fer Snyda', but it ain't him! She
pokes her head 'round da door an' looks around, sees me, tosses me da keys an'
a piece a paper, says 'I'se sorry. Dis is da best I can do.' - an' disappears!
"Wit da keys in me hand, I din't spend too much time scratchin' me
head. I was outta dere once I saw dat da paper's got Cards an' Splitz's room
numba's on it. I got Splitz out foist, an' tell 'im how I got da keys while
we's lookin' fer Cards. Den I tell Cards while I'se woikin on his door. I
dropped da keys once, an' I'se tryin' da door again, when Splitz goes real
quiet. Now, he ain't one ta say much anyways, so I jist keep woikin' da lock. I
opened da door, but Cards don't come out, jist looks ovah me shoulda, so I
turns around an' see Snyda' standin' dere wit his hand on Splitz's shoulda, an'
Splitz jist looks like he's about ta cry.
"So we all gets anudder six months for 'tempted escape, an' we's
wond'rin' why Spitfire goes so far, an' don't get us all out. She got off home
free. Us gettin' caught was da best t'ing fer her - an' maybe it jist wasn't an
accident. After all, we knowed she snitched on us, so she had ta pretend ta
help us, Cards says. Or maybe she
"Yeah, I know." said Spot, keeping all sarcasm out of his voice,
since it would only roll off Pickles like water off a duck. He polished the
handle of his cane distractedly. Spot Conlon dis has gotta be one a yer
all-time blunders. he thought. So proud a gettin' all da facts, huh? An'
den ya let yer temper run away wit ya. Ya shoulda known -
"Den when ya got us out, da odder day, we told ya about it." added
Pickles.
"'Cept fer dat one small piece a information." Spot was glad of
one thing, at least. "An' I told youse ta look for her, but leave 'er till
I gets ta tawk to her. An' ya might be interested ta heah dat I'se tawked ta
her - an' yeah, it's still hands off, Cards, so don't ask." he added over
his shoulder to the crowd he knew had gathered at a respectfull distance.
"But-" That was Cards himself, an incurable gambler who
always had an ace of diamonds tucked in his hat - for luck, he said - and
carried a grudge until doomsday.
Spot slid off the barrel he'd been sitting on, turned lazily, and pinned him
with a glare. "Yeah?" He was proud of that glare; it had taken years
to perfect. It certainly had the desired effect on Cards who gulped once, and
shook his head.
"Nothin', Spot."
"It ain't none a me business-" began Crutchy.
"-But yer gonna ast anyway, so ast, awready." Porter completed
with a slight smile.
"If ya can run 'im off a pier fer teasin' ya, why's ya so scared a
Spot?"
She looked down. "I ain't nevah had 'im dat mad at me before, ya know?
I mean I love 'im, but he gots a temper, an' even I can't say he don't have a
right ta be mad. It was me da bulls was afta. An' Spot when he's
angry-" Da Conlon tempa. Runs in da fam'ly, I guess.
Crutchy didn't hear the last half of what she said or he would have
protested. Three of her words had hit him like a bucket of cold water. She
loves 'im. He didn't know why it bothered him. He'd already known he didn't
have a chance. But now it's official. Signed and sealed with the mark of
Brooklyn.