"You eva' been ere'?" I asked him, removing my cap, squeezing the water from it, and sending an extra stream of water to flow over my shoes.

"No." William answered, his eyes wondering from place to place, as he quietly observed his surroundings.

"Alright den, ere's da rules." I said, grasping his attention with ease. The rain pounded on the roof, causing me to holler over the noise.

"Les' see...No drinkin', no smokin', no tabbaca', no cussin', no dice, no carryin' ons, no cards, no stealin' from da otter fellas, no fightin', no-" The list went on and on as I strained to remember all the laws of the lodging house.

When I finished, Will looked completely lost. He gave me a blank stare as I completed my review. My shoulders slumped in frustration.

"Ere'." I said, taking him firmly by the wrist, "Jus' follow me, an don't get inta' no spats." The thick wooden door opened with a low creak, and a few flakes of old paint crumbled off around the doorknob, as we entered the musty home for boys.

Mr. McCrary looked up inquiringly at William, as I sauntered over to the front counter.

"Dis' is Will." I explained, jerking my head in the direction of the boy, as a puddle formed beneath our feet. "He's lookin' fer a place ta stay."

"William." The boy corrected, chagrined at my fitting nickname.

The old man scribbled down William's name in his chicken scratch handwriting, and then stretched his leathery hand out toward Will.

"Six cents for board." He said with a toothy grin. Will paid his rent and smiled faintly.

"You might want to get into some dry clothes, and if you have any belongings, we can store them in a locker for extra."

"That's fine." Will told him, digging back into his pockets for extra money.

"Jus' rest upstairs." I whispered in his ear. "Ol' McCrary will take care a ya, an don't botha' me no more."

I dashed up the long creaky staircase and into the huge, noisy room. All sorts of boys were in the room: short, tall, restless, exhausted, dirty, clean...filling every corner with activity. Some pondered over faded checkerboards, or wrestled on the floor, while others simply spoke to a pal about what they would do with the extra money that he had made that day.

"Hey fellas." I greeted the distracted multitudes, striding briskly between the clean white bunk beds with their tightly folded hospital corners. A couple dozen voices echoed my salutation with yawns and giggles as I scanned the familiar faces, returning smiles and avoiding enemies. When I reached the fifth row, exactly in the middle of the room, I staked my claim for the night by scrambling up the slippery structure, and flopping down onto the spotless white sheets.

I grinned at my impractical peers and watched them all settle down for the night. They were a close-knit group. I felt lucky to be a part of this ragged gang of boys, no matter how impoverished or distasteful they were. William would have to work hard to be accepted by these rag-tag gangs of boys. I doubted if he would make it. My peers shunned the uncorrupt, rich, and spoiled; disgusted with their polite and spineless manner. They would not take to the new boy very easily.

These beliefs impaired them from improving their lives, or seeking higher employment. Only a few boys had ever scrambled up the rungs of the ladder to success. Almost all of them remained poor, but enjoyed themselves in their dreary lot in life. Only Page and Sly Allen, living legends in our community, had ever made it to a somewhat powerful position of authority. They knew every poor boy in the city from nine years old to eighteen, and from the lowliest youngsters to the most infamous bullies. Even they were penniless most of the time.

I turned my attention to Dice, my one true friend in the group. Sticks and Freckles were nice, but Dice was my one true friend. He was the only one that stood by me in good times and bad, along with his raucous sense of humor, that was sure to generate a smile. Dice was widely known as my best friend, and it was a rare sight when one of us was seen without the other close by.

There he was, flipping his hat onto a bedpost and bragging loudly to a couple of amazed kids about one of his many great feats as the cheating scoundrel he was. He must have told those ragamuffins his stories at least twice a day, but he never got tired of it, and neither did they. Each time he told them, the story got increasingly exciting as he exaggerated the truth, spinning daring tales of murder and deceit.

We locked eyes, him and me, from across the room, and he paused in his tale to give me a quick wink and sweep a lock of hair out of his eyes.

"So he pulled out this knife see," he continued, turning back to the boys at his holey shoes. Their eyes were wide with anticipation as they gazed up at their idle. The roomful of chattering guys drowned out Dice's voice as they swapped conversation, and prepared to fall into their much-anticipated beds.

"Dat's it Rob! I ain't searchin' no more!" Lefty shouted, exasperated at his friend. They had been rummaging around the room for that one lost domino for days, and still it had not turned up.

"Aw, ferget it!" Rob cried back, pulling out a pack of cards, and kicking his box of dominos under his bed. "Les' jus' play a few hands a poker fore' bed."

A few boys were already asleep; lying sprawled out on their bunks, still wearing their day clothes. They were undisturbed as they rested in utter exhaustion. A pile of papers lay at Freckle's feet as he curled up on the floor, unnoticed. Passersby took care in stepping over the scrawny figure so as not to disturb him in his slumber. The poor kid worked his life away, but then again, we all did.

At this moment, Sticks entered the room, hard to miss for his immense height. Will stood by his side, looking annoyed and uncomfortable.

"Hey Pockets!" he called out. With his smart aleck smile smeared on his gaunt face, he led Will up to my bunk and asked, "Whar'd you eva' find dis' fop?"

"His name is Will." I said, glad to see that Sticks disapproved of the boy as much as I did.

"My name is William!" The boy retorted, his hands balling into fists, " And I'm not a fop, I just have more money than you, you ten foot tall string bean."

A couple of guys nearby turned around on their top bunk perches, pausing in their poker game to snicker at Will's well-aimed comment, but Sticks ignored the blow.

"So whar'd ya find him?" he asked again, resting his palms on his hips and looking over at the bold newcomer with narrowed eyes and tight lips.

"Jus' ran inta' him." I answered. "He's rich, natraly. Needed a place ta stay, an I'm gonna 'elp him out, If he don't drive me crazy. You wanna know more, you can ask him yerself, actually, how bout' you deal wit' da little scamp?"

("What?" Scamp asked from across the room, his attention hooked by mistake.)

"Nah, I could neva' do dat. You look like yer enjoyin' yerselves too much."

"Please..." I begged my muscular pal. Sticks smiled and shook his head.

"Not on you're life."

I glared at Will, who was turning a little pink from all the attention, but still holding his ground. You could tell just by looking at him that he was shy around strangers, yet brash when provoked.

Sticks smiled brightly as he extended one of his long bony hands towards the boy, looking friendly and pleasurable at the fact that I was perturbed.

"I'm Sticks," he said, crunching Will's hand between his fingers and shaking vigorously, "You already met Pockets. He's a good guy ta know. Got friends in high places." He pointed his thumb over his shoulder at me and let his friendly, foolish expression spread throughout his well-sculpted face.

"Don't you guys have any real names?" Will asked, pulling his hand free of Stick's strong grip and gently massaging his knuckles.

"Only da names we wanna have." I answered, sitting up on my roost and letting my feet dangle down over the edge of the bed," Only da runaways got names...an' even somea' dem forget. Mosta' ours are jus' made up cuz' we got no otters."

"Geez, yous gotta lot ta' learn." Sticks commented, aghast at Will's unawareness. Then he leaned over and spoke to me softly, "You betta' start teachin' him soon, 'fore he gets inta' trouble."

"I will, but yer payin' fer cornerin' me wit' dis un."

"Good luck kid...Enjoy yerself, Pockets." he said, cuffing Will on the arm and walking away with his giant, carefree strides.

He vanished into the rowdy crowd of boys, now attempting to play baseball inside the enclosed walls. It was illegal to play baseball on this side of town, so most of the guys enjoyed the sport inside, although they were hauled over the coals when they broke a window. The room seemed to be getting smaller by the minute as more and more boys flowed through the doorway without restraint. They used a broomstick as a makeshift bat, but it broke on the first pitch. The small leather baseball still flew, ricocheting off several sculls, then causing it's unfortunate victim to stumble mid-stride, and fall flat on his face. An eruption of laughter followed, with hoots and jeers intermixed.

The crowd broke loose in an eruption of joy. Every corner of the room seemed to brighten as the sound of laughter filled every doorway, hall, and bed. I diverted my attention from the comical scene, only to see Will lying in the nearest bed, the one directly across from me.

"Whaddiya doin'?" I exclaimed, upset that the little brat was going to sleep so close.

"Gettin' ta bed." He mimicked, trying to hide the fact that he was not accustomed to sleeping with fifty other boys.

"You can't sleep dare!" I shrieked.

"It's a free country."

"But..."

"I'm not sleeping here by choice." he protested, "There aren't any beds left. They're all saved for the other guys, except the one next to your friend Sticks. "

"Sticks ain't all dat bad." I said, protecting my close friend.

"He smells."

"We all smell."

"Why's that?"

"Cause' if we wash, we'll only get dirty again, yer highness."

"That makes no sense whatsoever, your lowness."

"You're jus' too much of a runt ta fight fer a bunk." I grumbled, bitterly surrendering the duel of words.

Will leered at me and pulled off his suspenders, as Dice slumped onto the bunk below me. The gambler dropped his coat to the floor, fumbling with his shoelaces.

"Dat Will looks like a nice kid." he whispered, tugging at a thick knot, but only worsening the stringency of the stubborn cord.

"Yeah, but you ain't talked to him yet." I answered back in a low voice, so that Will would not hear. "He bites like a pit bull. I don't think he's from roundabouts, but he tough all da same, even if he don't ever fight. He ain't all dat smart, though."

"Waddiya think?" Dice asked, giving up in his venture to untangle the laces, and pulling off the shoe, still knotted. He dropped it to the floor, ignoring the muddy mess it spattered on the nearby blankets, coats, socks, and one enormous cyclopedia that a kid named Smarty (His real name was Marty) owned and protected with his life.

"I think he's got money."

"How much?" Dice asked, beginning his struggle with the other shoe.

"Lots."

"Ya think?"

"I know."

"Is dat why yer puttin' up wit him, den?"

"No! He's followin' me."

"It don't look dat way ta me-"

Our conversation ended abruptly when the horde parted, and our magnificent leader entered. A respectful silence followed his dramatic entrance. He was a short, thin boy, with a smart look on his face and a wad of paper in his hand. The threshold made him look tiny and weak, but his looks were far from the truth. His keen emerald eyes flickered in light of the nearby lamps, hiding deep secrets beneath their brilliant shine.

His pants were so long that they puddled at his feet, and his coat was missing at least three buttons that were replaced by bits of thread, cleverly tied together so that they wouldn't knot. Water covered him head to toe, but that didn't seem to bother him. He was in no hurry.

Under the broken brim of that floppy, plaid brown cap stood the greatest newsy of them all. Though small and scrawny, he had the speed, agility, and wit to win any fight, whether with fists or knives.

He stood in a cat-like stance, blocking the doorway, and smiling his twisted smile, distorted by a thin scar that ran down the side of his nose to the base of his chin, a mark from a previous battle. If it were not for this ugly gash, his face would have been completely flawless.

"How ya doin' Page?" the fellas asked him, bowing their heads slightly as the room quieted, and our superior surveyed his faithful followers. Page was old for a newsy, almost seventeen, but he was still just as good at selling papers, though he had moved on to bigger and better occupations, like stealing and fighting.

"I see da ol' battle horse is back from his rounds." Dice commented impertinently, pushing his shoes under the bed and rubbing his eyes. Smarty's eyes popped out of his head as he spotted his cyclopedia, smeared with mud.

"I'm gonna kill ya Dice!" He shouted.

"Can't wait ta see ya try." The disgruntled menace spat.

The two eyed each other sadistically as room filled with conversation. Page strode out of the spotlight to join a couple of pals deeply involved in a staring contest.

"Who is he?" Will asked, leaning far over his bed to get a better look at Page. I smiled at Will's ignorance, that within' the last few minuets I had forgotten.

"Come'on." I said, beaming at Will," I'll intraduce ya' ta' somea da guys."

"Really?" Will asked, surprised at my joviality.

"Sure. I got not'in else ta do anyways."

The floorboards creaked as I leaped down from my bed and onto the floor.

"I don't know any a da bootblacks." I informed him. "Whaddiya do fer a livin' anyways? Messenger boy? Bootblack? I know you ain't a newsy. I know all da newsies, an you ain't too familliar.

"I'm going to work as a paperboy." Will told me as he too jumped down from his bed, landing awkwardly in front of Dice.

"Dat's a newsy." I informed him, still gawking and laughing at him. "I knew that."

I ignored his rebuttal.

"Dice, dis is Will, Will, dis is Dice."

"Nice ta meet ya." the sharper said, turning his eyes to the well-dressed teen, gazing at him with admiration and extending a hand. Will took it firmly.

"People says I'm lucky wit' cards, but I knows all da secrets." He smiled cunningly at Will, then resumed unbuttoning his shirt, sending a few cards fluttering to the floor from his shirtsleeves. He pretended nothing had happened, as Will gaped at the cheater's tools.

As I led Will away from my friend, I began to describe the ways of the newsboys to the newcomer.

"Dice is pretty blunt abou' things." I told him, dodging the thick leather baseball as it flew through the air in search of another target. "So don't be scared off by his lack a manners. Mosta' da guys ain't too good at introductions."

"Does he cheat at cards?" Will asked.

"He's da most trickiest swindler I've eva' known. He knows every trick in da book when it comes ta conin'. Ya know why he wears dat bowler hat?"

"To keep his head warm?" Will joked.

"No, see, he hides da cards in his hat band. He can do it while yer watchin', an ya can't tell. He's dat good. He's only been beat once by anotter guy our age."

"How did he get caught?"

"Allen caught him wit' a ace in his collar."

"In his collar?"

"Yep."

I led him up to several boys, slowly acquainting Will with some of my closest friends. We spent five minutes going from bunk to bunk, and every boy I introduced could see that Will was gullible and ignorant. More than once, I was taken aside by a grinning goon wanting to rob the callow lad while he wasn't looking. I felt sorry for Will, being new here, so I declined the offers and schemes, and vowed to protect the newcomer from any unpleasant surprises. Besides, if I became a close enough friend to this affluent boy, he would give me money, simple as that.

"So..." I said to Will, looking around the room after five minutes of steady introductions, "You met Sticks already, right?" I pointed at the spry boy using a friend as a lively punching bag.

"Yeah." Will answered, eyeing Sticks apprehensively.

"Don't worry bout' him." I told Will, turning him in the direction of another new friend. "He's alright if ya stay on his good side. Jus' ignore all his teasin' an' don't let him get ya down. He don't mean no harm."

We walked down the aisle between the beds, meeting up with all sorts of boys, as I led my new pal all over, from bedside to stairwell, until we had reached the very last of my farthest acquaintances.

"Hey Peeps!" I called, pushing Will up to the lower bunk of a bed in the corner. Peeps looked glad to hear my voice as he turned his thin, white face in my direction.

"Dis' is Will." I said, guiding the blind boy's hand into Will's palm. They shook hands limply as Peeps smiled up at the face he could not see.

"How ya doin' Peeps? Da offerin's treatin' ya right?"

"Nah." he replied soberly with a touch of contempt, "Too many imposters out dare. Da competition's fierce. It's gettin' tough fer a real needy guy ta get any hand-outs, ya know?"

"Yeah." I sighed.

"Hey, but at least were free, eh Pockets?"

"Yep, not'in worse dan bein' in da slamma'."

"You said it." He smiled vibrantly, the true beauty hidden in his pleasure. Peeps was a heartbreaking, miserable sort, but when he smiled the room brightened considerably.

Will was speechless, as if he was full of things to say, but was too scared to say them. He looked distressed about Peep's blindness and Page's scar, things that I had been used to, and forgotten after knowing and seeing them for so long. I had gotten used to the weak, half-starved boys, fighting over street corners, and valuing rags as a rich man values silk. After all, I was one of them. Will was seeing all these things for the first time. I could not remember being without this life.

"I'll see ya in da morning'." I told him, after taking a short tour of the humid bathroom and drafty attic.

"Yeah." Will said meekly, hopping onto his bed. The vicious pit bull in him had gone for the moment, but I knew it would be back. "Thanks for showing me around."

"No problem." I replied, quickly undressing for the night. Most of the boys were already prepared for bed. They had folded, draped, or shoved their clothes into their respective places, revealing their faded long underwear underneath. The rain soaked coats, vests, shirts, pants, and other articles of clothing lay slapdash, where it had fallen in the hectic frenzy of the nightly routine, as the room calmed to a hush, like the sea after a storm.

Every boy, despite his health, disposition, or occupation, wore the dirty white fabric to sleep like a uniform. It covered the sleepy bodies form head to heel, some baring holes or stains in their age, but they were warm, comfortable, and practical, which was the reason for all of us wearing them. The only setback of the thin woolen attire was that they trapped the unbearable heat during the hot summer months. I dreaded wearing these undergarments during June, July, and August.

One by one, the voices grew silent and the restless bodies became limp and relaxed, as the boys slowly fell into sleep. I sat up in bed, watching the eyelids droop, and thinking of the legends these guys were to the younger generation of Street Arabs.

Every boy had his trademark, an object that he possessed and adored more than all the money in the world. If you gave one of the younger children one of these positions, they would know instantly who it belonged to, along with half a dozen stories the involved the object and it's renowned owner. These precious objects now discarded in its rightful place by the bedsides.

Dice's old bowler hung loosely from atop the bedpost, as its owner snuggled deep under the sheets. Scamp prodded his neighbor with his toe, making fun as his peer gazed murderously at the rascal. Freckle's thick leather belt hung off the beam overhead. Its broken buckle and fraying edges could be clearly seen above the sleeping figures. Page's pocketknife caught my eye with its silvery glimmer, as it lay close by its master, prepared for any emergency. Sticks began to snore, soft and low, from across the room. I heard a groan as a disgruntled neighbor quickly quieted him. Lefty slept with his soggy green bandana tied tightly around his neck.

Mr. McCrary made his rounds, bidding the boys a good night and turning the gaslights down low to let the shadows creep over the work worn faces. The lanterns hissed with a quick jerk of his wrist.

"Hey Mikey." Mr. McCrary said, touching his young boy's elbow. "Time to sleep." Mikey was McCrary's son, and he was always reluctant to leave his homeless friends at the lodging house.

"All right Pop." he said with a sigh, "Night guys."

He barely got any response, most of the boys being fast asleep, or not caring enough for the nine-year-old wannabe. Ether way, Mikey was the last kid to leave the room until morning.

I snuggled deep under the bland covers, waiting peacefully for sleep to overcome me, for the pleasant dreaming to begin.

"Sleep well my boys." Mr. McCrary called out, as he did every night, wishing us all the best for our slumber. While the last lonely gaslight sputtered lazily into the darkness, he added:

"Dream of Muddy boots, and three inch headlines."