Luck be a Newsie

[oceansand588]

Growing up in Brooklyn had given Shane no delusions. A kid on the streets of Brooklyn who wasn't a newsie, not a "member of society", and was not very good at hand-to-hand combat was an easy target for anybody with something in mind. Now, put a girl in that scenario, and it would be like attaching a bulls-eye to her back or a sign that declared "EASY PREY". A girl in that scenario was a magnet for trouble, especially from the male populace.

"Right," Shane thought to herself, "now how many ways do I spell trouble? Hmm, looks like I fit all o'them." She grinned wryly. Being a Brookie, as she termed it, didn't matter in the slightest. After all, Brooklyn was her native turf, and that had not mattered in the slightest when—"No," she thought firmly, she was not going to think about that. She had other things wanted to do that day. Such as finding some kind of small knife. Her brother had a knife one, and had been intending to give one to her for her birthday this year after what had nearly happened to her. Unfortunately, her birthday had come and gone like pennies in a newsie's pocket, without her recieving a knife. Although her brother hadn't been able to scrounge enough money to get a knife for her, he'd taken the time to instruct her in basic fighting and how to defend herself.

So far, she had learned the following lessons:
1) How to open a simple pocket-knife
Perhaps the most basic lesson, and the most important lesson when it comes to handling knives. That Shane had not handled a knife before was not the main reason for beginning with this "lesson". If that was the only issue, her brother would have just thrust the closed knife in her hands and told her to open it, or just stick it in her pocket. Rather, it was her brother's desire to teach her right the first time and to ascertain that she knew the "proper" way to opening it.

Shane had been walking for a while, heading toward the market place in Manhattan, lost in her thoughts. For the first time in a while, she was relaxed and only somewhat alert.
She was thrilled. For the first time in three days, she actually had a penny or so to her name. In fact, a good ten pennies were tucked safely into the breast-pocket of the thin vest she wore. Luck had thrust her a winning card, both literally and figuratively. The ten pennies in her pocket had come to be hers by a lucky card in a round of poker. She didn't take to gambling often, but it came in handy sometimes. She knew she ought to be heading over to Brooklyn, to the docks, rather than wasting time in Manhattan, but she wasn't about to go to Brooklyn unarmed and defenseless. Even a small pocket-knife would do.

Shane shook her head to clear her thoughts, and was surprised to see she was already at the market. She was at the entrance of the alley, facing the market, when it occurred to her that she didn't know where she could get a knife, and she was starting to get a bit hungry. She could see some newsies scattered throughout the market, selling papes, but she was a Brookie, and she didn't know them. Shane was sure it would be obvious to any of the Manhattan newsies that she was a Brookie, and she wasn't sure how stable relations were between the Brooklyn newsies and Manhattan newsies. Desperately she wished there was someone, a newsie, who could help her out.[/size]

[Anthony Higgins]

((Your writing is amazing. ))

The way things had been looking these days, Racetrack wasn't sure if he would ever get his old selling spot back. He had been selling in Central Park for the longest time, but lately every other newsie in Manhattan seemed to think it was the best spot to sell. Before he could get ten out of his fifty sold, every person in the park had a paper under their arm. Damn scabs. Race had taken to wandering around, trying to find a spot where it didn't look like there were many newsies hanging around. He hated sharing his selling spot. If there was one other kid around, that was one penny that was in their pocket and not yours.

A place like the market was the exception. The streets were so crammed that even if there were other newsies selling, you would hear them before you would see them and sometimes not hear them at all. Racetrack passed several other newsboys he knew on his way to a spot, and gave them a quick hello. He wasn't one to socialize while selling papes. It was a distraction. Finally he found an overturned tomato crate next to a stand. Perfect, he thought, and stepped on top of it, putting himself above the crowd. Cupping a hand around his mouth, he started to hawk the headline as loud as he could. Several people were interested, but not enough.

Race was about to dream up a more interesting headline to shout when he saw a girl newsie making her way through the crowd. He could tell for sure she was a newsie...otherwise she wouldn't be going around in boys' clothes. The strange thing was, she was an unfamiliar face. Race could swear he knew every newsie, boy or girl, in Manhattan and most of them everywhere else in New York. He was usually pretty good about guessing where a newsie was from, but at this point he couldn't quite tell. It was too close a call. Once the crowd thinned out a little, he looked her over and said aloud, "Where'd you come from?" He wasn't the type to worry about being too curious...or too rude, for that matter.

[oceansand588]

(Thanks. Yours is good too. You write Racetrack well; very authentic/believable.)

Shane pursed her lips, scowling slightly as she picked her way through the crowded market. She was looking to buy a simple knife; something practical and inconspicuous, and small enough to fit in her pocket, but so far, the two stands she'd stopped at were only selling big shiny butcher knives. In spite of her frustration, she had to laugh at the thought of trying to sell papes with a butcher's knife sticking out of her pocket.

Shane was halfway through the market before she found what she was looking for. She made her way to the stand, simply two overturned crates covered by a white sheet, and looked at the collection of knives sitting on top. She picked up one of the knives to inspect it. It had a short blade and a black lacquer handle.

"Ya' lookin' for something missy?" Shane glanced at the man standing behind the crates. She hadn't noticed him there before. There was a crate pushed against the wall behind him though, where she guessed he had probably been sitting before, waiting for possible buyers. Shane nodded without saying anything, and looked down at the knives again. She set the knife with the black handle down and stared at the collection of knives. "What's a goil like you needing a knife fer?" He asked, regarding her with a keen gaze. Shane smirked and glanced up at the man again, biting her lip to keep from laughing.

"To keep me safe from men like you," Shane thought with a wry smile. She was tempted to say this to the seller, but thought it best she keep that thought to herself. After all, there was a table of sharp knives between them.
"Oh, this and that," Shane shrugged and grinned innocently at the man. He was now regarding her with a suspicious gaze. Shane rolled her eyes and picked a pocket knife up off the table and inspected it. The handle was made of wood and was the color of coffee. When the knife was closed, the blade folded into the handle. The blade itself was about the length of her palm.

"I'll take this one." Shane declared. The man was staring over her shoulder and didn't respond. "This one!" she repeated firmly. "Alright alright. Jus' give me whats'ever yous got. I need ta' clear out." Shane frowned. More than likely there was a copper with his eye on the man, but she wasn't going to risk looking back to find out. She didn't need a copper seeing her face and suspecting her of anything that could land her in the Refuge.
She was reluctant to hand over her ten pennies, but she figured she was getting a good deal--a good quality knife for only ten pennies? She fished them out of the breast-pocket of her vest and handed them over. She began to walk away, and then turned back to the man and said, " Yous know why I needs this knife? It's' ta keep me safe from mens like you!" She grinned at the expression on his face. It went from shocked to indignant.
"Why you little---!" he growled. Shane flashed him another grin and dashed into the crowd. She had her knife. She was thrilled.

She had resolved her first issue--getting a knife. But there were still two more things. The second issue was that she now had no money and was hungry. The third issue wasn't really an issue, but more of an idea. Quite frankly she knew nothing about selling papes. She knew no more about what made a successful newsie, than she did about what really got a pape to sell. So, she'd have to learn. And she learned best by doing. Maybe she could shadow a newsie.

Shane was lost in her thoughts again, and was jolted back into reality when she walked straight into someone's back. She stumbled back a few steps and then glanced curiously to see who happened to be in front of her. The figure stared at her for a moment. Shane stared back. Then the man turned again and let his back face her. "Okay," she thought to herself, "Lesson number one: pay attention." She glanced at her surroundings as she edged around and through people. It dawned on her that no one, no newsies even, had so much as glanced at her.

Shane saw a guy, undoubtedly a newsie, standing on something up ahead, selling papes. He looked to be about her age. He was staring at her, watching her approach. She straightened up(slouching was a habit from shadowing other people) and strode towards him.

"Where'd you come from?"
Shane bit her lip, debating what to tell him. "What the heck," Shane thought to herself, "I might as well tell him."
"Brooklyn." Shane called out. She walked closer to to where he was perched. "I'm Shane. Where'd you come from? You's a Manhattan newsie? What's your name?" she asked.

[Anthony Higgins]

"Brooklyn."

Brooklyn? Well, he was glad she told him. Brooklyn was something he probably wouldn't have guessed. You didn't see all to many girls come out of Brooklyn, but Race had been a newsie long enough to know that anyone that came out of Brooklyn had tough skin. Girl or no, he didn't like to mess with Brooklyners. If they were looking for a fight, of course, he wouldn't back down for a second. However...sometimes you had to know better. And Race knew better than to be the agitator where Brooklyn was concerned. He nodded his head. "Brooklyn, eh? What brings ya t'this neck'a the woods?"

"I'm Shane. Where'd you come from? You's a Manhattan newsie? What's your name?"

Well wasn't that a mouthful. Race blinked at her parade of questions. "Ya wanna slow down?" he said, and grinned at her a little. "Naw, really though. Shane, then. Good t'meet ya. Racetrack Higgins, here." He put his papers under one arm and extended a hand for her to shake. "Yep, born and raised Manhattan, m'self," he said with pride. Some of the kids from other boroughs tried to tell him Manhattan wasn't much anything special. At which point, Race kindly reminded them where the strike started, and if Manhattan wasn't anything special why they all decided it was a swell idea.

He studied her face for a moment, and became certain he had never seen her before. He didn't go into Brooklyn too often, except to go to the Sheepshead, but when he did come into contact with Spot and his newsies he didn't think he'd ever seen Shane. "I'm thinkin' you're now around here? Ain't seen ya at all..." he mused, taking a seat on the crate he'd been standing on previously.

((Thank you. ))

[oceansand588]

"Brooklyn, eh? What brings ya t'this neck'a the woods?"

Shane hesitated. She didn't quite know what to say in answer to his question. There were a few reasons for her coming here, but she didn't know which reason to share with him. She realized she was still gripping the knife loosely in her left hand, so she decided to go with the knife, since it had been her priority to get it. "I was buyin' me a knife. Ain't really good fer someone, 'specially a goil like me, tah wander in tah Brooklyn without something, uh, extra." Shane frowned for a moment, but then shrugged and grinned. She held up the knife with the blade tucked securely into the handle. "I got me a good deal fer this. The guy seemed nervous--there was a copper watchin' 'im.

"Ya wanna slow down?"
She fingered the bracelets on her wrist and laughed. "Sorry. Me brudder always said that I talk too much. I s'pose that's true afta' all."

"Naw, really though. Shane, then. Good t'meet ya. Racetrack Higgins, here."
Shane shook his hand. "Racetrack, huh? I take it you's been to Brooklyn then, to the races eh?"

"Yep, born and raised Manhattan, m'self,"
So he was born and raised Manhattan. That was a relief. At least she could count on him to show a little respect for her even though they had just met. In Manhattan, she was one of many girls. In Brooklyn, she was one of many possible targets.

"I'm thinkin' you're new around here? Ain't seen ya at all..."
Racetrack settled into a sitting position on the crate. Shane inclined her head to the right, considering taking a seat next to him, but instead crouched down and sat up on her knees. She heard his question, and looked up at him. She let herself slip into her old Brooklyn accent. "Yeah, I be new around here, I guess. I was born in Brooklyn, raised in Brooklyn. In an orphanage actually. I never got a chance tah join the newsies. Me and me brudder, Madden, we left Brooklyn. And he's gone down tah Jersey That's why you've never seen me I guess..." Shane grinned at the last part.
She saw him staring at her, like he was trying to match a name to a face. Her grin faded, and she sighed. "I'm planning on heading back up to Brooklyn sometime. I gotta' start sellin', I think. An' I knows no other way to do it than by joining up with the newsies back in Brooklyn. Do you know their leader? Spot Conlon?"

[Anthony Higgins]

"I was buyin' me a knife. Ain't really good fer someone, 'specially a goil like me, tah wander in tah Brooklyn without something, uh, extra."

Race glanced at the knife in her hand and nodded. "Good call," he said. "You ain't gonna be the only one, so ya might as well not be without..." Personally, Race didn't own a knife. But he didn't really need one, mostly because not many people decided to mess with him. If he lived in Brooklyn...or wasn't a fella...he knew it might have been a different story. Luckily in Manhattan a fella's fists were pretty much all he needed. She held up the knife for him to see. "Huh, not a bad one, neither..." he mused. He'd seen some kids resort to kitchen knives in their trouser pockets, so Shane was lucky she'd found something good that she could afford.

"I got me a good deal fer this. The guy seemed nervous--there was a copper watchin' 'im."

Racetrack nodded in confirmation. "A lot of these vendors 'round here sell swag. Y'know...stolen. But how ya tell is if it looks like they can pull their stuff in a sheet and run...they'se prolly stolen." It had become a slight problem in the market, resulting in coppers being stationed in the area a lot of the time. It was good because the street hawkers who had stolen goods were sometimes caught...but the newsies sometimes got the lower hand, because there was always a copper around itching to pick up a street rat.

"Sorry. Me brudder always said that I talk too much. I s'pose that's true afta' all."

Racetrack chuckled. "Ain't no such thing as talkin' too much ta me, goil. I'm known 'round here t'run off at the mouth." He knew he could be a smartass, and he was proud of it at times. People called him that when they didn't want to admit he was a witty genius. All of the newsies around Manhattan knew of his smart-aleck remarks. Some people thought he was funny; others were rather cool toward him for it. "So where's ya bruddah? He around here too?" he asked, she having mentioned a brother.

"Racetrack, huh? I take it you's been to Brooklyn then, to the races eh?"

"Every day for three years," Race said proudly. That wasn't quite true...he'd been sick with influenza and then there was that God-awful snowstorm...but in three years, and that's all he missed? He could very well say every day. "Them bookies know me by name." People would say he had a gambling problem, but Racetrack wouldn't call it a problem. It was a livelihood. Jack had his dreams and Mush had his girls, but Race had his track.

"Yeah, I be new around here, I guess. I was born in Brooklyn, raised in Brooklyn. In an orphanage actually."

That was the story of many of the newsies around here. Race had always thought that most newsies had the same sad stories to tell: of orphanhood or abandonment, fires and long train rides to nowhere and lost siblings. Race himself had never lived in an orphanage. But he'd heard enough stories, and that's all he needed to hear to make the Refuge sound like the worst place in the world to be.

"I never got a chance tah join the newsies. Me and me brudder, Madden, we left Brooklyn. And he's gone down tah Jersey That's why you've never seen me I guess..."

Race nodded. "Ya went down t'Jersey, eh? Ain't never been there, m'self. Never left New York." He didn't like traveling too much. He wasn't even too crazy about leaving Manhattan, if you wanted to know the truth. He'd rather stay where he knew the streets were and how to get somewhere safe. He would rather sleep in the same bed every night. It was an odd thing, but after spending about a year on the streets he didn't want to give up where he'd found a home. Not even for a second.

"I'm planning on heading back up to Brooklyn sometime. I gotta' start sellin', I think."

"Ain't sellin' yet?" Race furrowed his brow. "How'd ya get the money to get the knife, then?" She'd mentioned buying it, so odds were it wasn't stolen. And if there was one thing you didn't steal, it was knives. Because if you had one, you knew the vendor had about five more.

"An' I knows no other way to do it than by joining up with the newsies back in Brooklyn. Do you know their leader? Spot Conlon?"

Racetrack scoffed. "Everybody knows Spot Conlon!" he declared. "An' everyone's afraid of Spot Conlon, too. Well...if ya got brains. If yer smart, don't matter how tough, you'se afraid of Spot Conlon. And ain't no one gets into Brooklyn without gettin' through him..." He found himself wondering how Shane would fare trying to get in with the Brooklyn kids. Scabs were abundant in Brooklyn, but only because it was rare for kids to have what it took to be one of Spot Conlon's kids...

[oceansand588]

((I just have to say... the line you wrote, "Jack had his dreams and Mush had his girls, but Race had his track." It's genius. ))

"Good call. You ain't gonna be the only one, so ya might as well not be without... Huh, not a bad one, neither..."
Shane nodded in assent. "Thanks. s'what I figured. And a knife oughta come in handy."

"A lot of these vendors 'round here sell swag. Y'know...stolen. But how ya tell is if it looks like they can pull their stuff in a sheet and run...they'se prolly stolen."
"Yeah... he looked like he was ready ta' up and leave as soon as I's left." Shane remembered seeing a man who looked like the knife seller heading the opposite direction as she had been approaching Racetrack. She just hoped that the copper wasn't too interested in the person buying a potentially stolen knife. Even better, she hoped that the copper didn't see her buying the knife, and with the crowds that had separated the copper from them, she wasn't too worried.

"Ain't no such thing as talkin' too much ta me, goil. I'm known 'round here t'run off at the mouth."
Shane grinned. "It takes one tah know one, doesn't it?"

"So where's ya bruddah? He around here too?"
"Eh, Madden's still in Joisey. He can take care of 'imself," Shane said," An' so can I fer that mattah" she added, although the last part didn't sound as assured as the first.

"Every day for three years. Them bookies know me by name."
"I'm impressed. I'se never actually been to the races, an' honestly, I know nothing about racing. but I want to go sometime. Are the horses racin' good?" Shane asked.

"Ya went down t'Jersey, eh? Ain't never been there, m'self. Never left New York."
"No, I ain't actually left Jersey. My brudder did though. I ain't been beyon Manhattan or Brooklyn honestly." She wasn't quite comfortable leaving New York, much less going beyond the two Burroughs. New Jersey was a whole other world to her, and she was content to stay where she was, in New York, and to try and find a place to stay.

"Ain't sellin' yet? How'd ya get the money to get the knife, then?"
Shane bit her lip, and looked up at Race carefully. Yes, he had said that he'd been to the races, and quite often at that. He also said more or less that he was a gambler. But a gambler, even a small time gambler, doesn't explain their skill. Shane decided to give him the surface of the truth. He didn't need to know how she became good at gambling. "No... I ain't sellin yet. I gambled a bit, fer two rounds or so. I gots just enough to get me knife.

"Everybody knows Spot Conlon! An' everyone's afraid of Spot Conlon, too. Well...if ya got brains. If yer smart, don't matter how tough, you'se afraid of Spot Conlon. And ain't no one gets into Brooklyn without gettin' through him..."

Shane raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Course I knows Spot Conlon, too. And I'se not afraid of him, per say. It's 'what you need to get intah Brooklyn: you'se gotta be tough, ans' you'se gotta respect him. I'se don't know if I'm tough enough... But Brooklyn's my home, so it's not like I'm some...some rube tryin' tah gettin tah Brooklyn fer protection." Shane finished and sighed. She was tired, and she wasn't sure if she had spoken too much to Race. She picked up her knife which she had set down in front of her and stashed it in the pocket of her trousers.

"Well, I'se don't know Manhattan that well, but you'se seems okay Racetrack. You don't gots to worry. I ain't planning on becoming a scab, even if I don't get in."

(Sorry my posts are kinda (really) long, compared to usual posting length. In the future my posts won't be nearly as long. You don't need to respond to everything I guess.)

[Anthony Higgins]

"It takes one tah know one, doesn't it?"

He smirked. "A pleasure," he said, tipping his hat in a mock gesture. "Sure does, don't it? Takes a genius to appreciate my special brand'a humor..." Most people, even his friends, told him he was off the beam with his jokes. Others preferred calling him crazy. But he didn't especially mind that. He had the feeling they were just envious that they couldn't whirl joke after joke like he could. It was a blessing, he thought, and the bums who didn't know a good joke when it bit them in the rear were morons.

"I'm impressed. I'se never actually been to the races, an' honestly, I know nothing about racing. but I want to go sometime. Are the horses racin' good?"

"Are they good?" Race echoed with a slight air of amazement. "Kiddo, New York's the home of the best race horses in the country. Dan Patch is from New York, for cripe's sake." He didn't think she would know who (what, maybe? It was a horse after all) Dan Patch was, but the point remained the same. "You oughta come down with me sometime, kid. Best thrill of ya life."

"No... I ain't sellin yet. I gambled a bit, fer two rounds or so. I gots just enough to get me knife."

Race grinned a little. A smart mouth gambler interested in horse racing? Must have been twins. "Ya gamble, then, too, eh? Well ain't that somethin'. In case ya didn't figure it, I'm the best card player in Manhattan. And probably everywhere else..." He said that matter-of-factly, as if he didn't require any pride, and that it was totally true. Race won card games three times as much as he lost them. It took practice, but at the moment he was possibly the most card-savvy newsie in New York City.

"Course I knows Spot Conlon, too. And I'se not afraid of him, per say. It's 'what you need to get intah Brooklyn: you'se gotta be tough, ans' you'se gotta respect him."

He was half surprised that she knew so much. Most kids went into Brooklyn green. They came out red. Kids who didn't know what they were doing and went in innocent and unaware came out with two black eyes, a split lip and a limp. "Ain't that the truth..." he said with a nod, fumbling absently with the brim of his cap. A man walked past, asked if Race was selling. Quickly Race nodded and handed him a paper in exchange for a nickel. When asked for change, Race shrugged and gave an innocent grin. "Not a cent on me, Doc..." he said. The man shrugged and waved him away, taking his paper and leaving Race with the nickel. Race grinned, once the man was gone, and looked to Shane. He patted his pockets, which jingled with pennies. "Trick of the trade, my friend..." he said nonchalantly.

"I'se don't know if I'm tough enough... But Brooklyn's my home, so it's not like I'm some...some rube tryin' tah gettin tah Brooklyn fer protection."

Huh, she knew that, too. Race knew of plenty of fellas who thought if they were in with Brooklyn, they were set for live and no one would mess with them. The trouble was, it was had to get the Brooklyn kids not to mess with you. "You're native Brooklyn. He can't stop ya, really. But it's best to be on his good side, anyways."

"Well, I'se don't know Manhattan that well, but you'se seems okay Racetrack. You don't gots to worry. I ain't planning on becoming a scab, even if I don't get in."

No scabs here, Racetrack thought with a grin. "You don't seem too bad, y'self, Shane. An' the Manhattan fellas are the best in New York. Gentlemen, if ya catch 'em in the right mood; and real fighters if ya don't." Biased? Yes. But no one was ever around to care. "If ya don't do so good in Brooklyn, I'm thinkin' Jack'll have ya. He's the leader 'round here, Jack Kelly..."

((Thank you. And never complain about long posts. They're the best kind, and it only shows your talent. ))

[oceansand588]

"A pleasure. Sure does, don't it? Takes a genius to appreciate my special brand'a humor..."

Shane grinned broadly. Humor was something she valued. Being able to crack a joke was good. Being able to crack a joke and for it to be funny to others was better. She had seen people who cracked jokes all the time, and either people didn't think they were funny, or they just didn't laugh. However, only a few people were gifted with the ability to find the humor in things, and pass it off in conversation with such fluidity that it flew right over the heads of some, and hit others right in the face. And, while those people would stand there laughing to no end, the others might be standing there wondering what they missed... which of course, only made it funnier. "Why thank ya Racetrack. Sure does feel nice to be called a genius!" she said with a wry smile.

"Are they good? Kiddo, New York's the home of the best race horses in the country. Dan Patch is from New York, for cripe's sake."

By the look of amazement on Racetrack's face, Shane knew she ought to recognize the name Dan Patch. Indeed, the name sounded familiar. She recalled hearing it mentioned in conjunction with racing, but she had assumed that Dan Patch was the name of a jockey, maybe, with an eye patch. Instead of voicing that thought, she offered Racetrack a sheepish grin and shrugged her shoulders, embarrassed by her apparent ignorance on what Racetrack seemed to consider common knowledge.

"You oughta come down with me sometime, kid. Best thrill of ya life."

Shane had been slouching again. It was a habit she had slowly developed in the process of trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible on the streets. But when she heard Racetrack's words, she straightened up, an eager expression dawning on her face. "You'se serious? That'd be cool!" she exclaimed. Shane never quite had the luxury of time, or money, to go to the races. Consequently, she had never payed much attention to the sport. Recently, however, she had started to hear more talk about the races. Or perhaps it was just that she paid more attention, and actually listened to what was being said when such conversations were taking place.

"Ya gamble, then, too, eh? Well ain't that somethin'."

"You'se could say that I guess," she said awkwardly, "I'se not been playing long, so I ain't that good... but I ain't that bad either."

"In case ya didn't figure it, I'm the best card player in Manhattan. And probably everywhere else..."

Shane laughed. She had to give Racetrack credit, for he could get away with making comments that, had they been said by anyone else, might have come across as sheer arrogance. "Oh, s'that so? Well, it's a good thing ya said so Race, because, yer right—I didn't figure it." Shane teased. "Nah. I believe ya, but I'd be interested in seeing you play a game anyway, since I'm prolly not good enough to go against ya."

"Trick of the trade, my friend..."
She bit her lip and smiled. "One fer the price o' five, eh? I'll remember that."

"You're native Brooklyn. He can't stop ya, really. But it's best to be on his good side, anyways."

Shane nodded in assent. "I guess I'll have ta try an' keep me mouth in check until I've got a place in the lodging house though." She put a hand to her chin and pretended she was thinking hard, then looked up and said nonchalantly, "I guess I can't say anything too funny either. Don't want 'im t'laugh 'imself t'death. I'se don't think the Brooklyn boys would take very kindly to that."

"You don't seem too bad, y'self, Shane. An' the Manhattan fellas are the best in New York. Gentlemen, if ya catch 'em in the right mood; and real fighters if ya don't."

Shane grinned, and pushed herself up onto her knees. Her breath caught in her throat as she nearly pitched head first off the crate, but she steadied herself with her fingertips and managed to regain her balance. She paused, taking a moment to catch her breath and let her heartbeat return to normal, before cautiously shifting into a crouch, then rising slowly until she was standing on top of the crate. Finally, she hopped off, stretched, and leaned against the crate. She then turned her attention back to Racetrack. "Thanks, and, well, I'm glad I caught ya in the right mood! If they're as decent as you, I'll believe ya."

"If ya don't do so good in Brooklyn, I'm thinkin' Jack'll have ya. He's the leader 'round here, Jack Kelly..."

She smiled appreciatively. "Thanks, Racetrack. That means a lot ta me. I hope I get in though. An', if I do, you'll have tah introduce me to Jack next time I come visit," Shane paused and inclined her head to the right, "Honestly, yer the first newsie I'se actually met... An' my first real friend since, well, since I'se been back I guess."

[Anthony Higgins]

"Why thank ya Racetrack. Sure does feel nice to be called a genius!"

Race laughed. He liked Shane's quick wit, something to match his own. It was a nice change, telling jokes that didn't go over people's heads and then having someone to match. He was only glad he'd made friends with her, otherwise things could have gotten ugly later on. "Sure thing!" he said with a grin. "An', ah, whadja say before...takes one t'know one, don't it?"

"You'se serious? That'd be cool!"

"Sure!" he said. It got to be a pain after a while, heading to the tracks on his own every day. Sometimes he convinced one of the boys to go with him, but they never enjoyed themselves too much. "I'll bring ya sometime." He paused for a moment. "Ya know what? Here..." He dug into his pocket and pulled out yesterday's race card from the Sheepshead. "You know how to read these?" he asked, handing it to her.

"Nah. I believe ya, but I'd be interested in seeing you play a game anyway, since I'm prolly not good enough to go against ya."

Race found he couldn't argue with that. But he had to admit it was pretty entertaining to watch him play a game (or so he had been told once or twice. He'd never watched himself play a game). "Next time I'm playin' feel free t'watch. I smoke every fella I play." There were few guys in Manhattan who even gave Race a challenge. He wasn't amazing, but he definitely won a lot more than he lost, so he considered himself really good.

"One fer the price o' five, eh? I'll remember that."

Race nodded. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book. Just pretending you didn't have change when a customer handed you a nickel or even shelled out a dime, you could make a lot more than you would normally. "Classic trick. But ya better watch when ya do it. Ain't no one gonna believe ya when ya got only a few papes left. Or if yer pockets got a bulge..."

"I guess I'll have ta try an' keep me mouth in check until I've got a place in the lodging house though."

Race nodded in agreement. "I see the last guy who mouthed off to Spot. When Conlon was done with him...he didn't have much of a mouth to talk with..."

"Thanks, and, well, I'm glad I caught ya in the right mood! If they're as decent as you, I'll believe ya."

Race grinned. Most of them were, for the most part. A lot of the time they jerked around too much and no one thought they could be anything too special. But once you got to know them, they were bully fellas. "Most of 'em are, once ya get to know 'em, they're swell."

"Thanks, Racetrack. That means a lot ta me. I hope I get in though. An', if I do, you'll have tah introduce me to Jack next time I come visit,"

Race nodded affirmatively. "Will do." It was good to know Jack, no matter what borough you were from. It was good to know all of the leaders, just in case you found yourself in a jam. Race was guilty of not knowing the new Queens and Bronx leaders too well. Even Note in Harlem, he wasn't quite on borrowing terms with.

"Honestly, yer the first newsie I'se actually met... An' my first real friend since, well, since I'se been back I guess."

Race nodded. "Good t'know, Shane. Good t'know." She had indicated to him that she was a newsie who was running from her past, as a lot of them were. He didn't mind so much...who someone was before had little to do with what they were now. And he didn't press questions. He knew as well as anyone...some people wanted to be left untouched when it came to things like that.

[oceansand588]

"Sure thing! An', ah, whadja say before...takes one t'know one, don't it?"
Shane laughed. Racetrack was definitely a character, she mused. It was a phrase her brother had said to her a while back, on a day when she had been feeling especially witty. "Like today," she thought idly. Humor was to Shane as cigarettes were to some other people. And, humor was how she dealt with tough situations.

"You know how to read these?"
Race reached a hand into his pocket and pulled out a card. He handed it to her, and Shane inspected it. It was a race card from Sheepshead Races. There were 10 rows, one for each horse, and several columns with unfamiliar abbreviations at the top. She recognized the name Dan Patch, the best horse of New York, according to Racetrack, but the others she was not quite familiar with. "Eh, not really. An' I don't really know how t'fill one out either."

"Next time I'm playin' feel free t'watch. I smoke every fella I play."
Shane didn't doubt Racetrack in the least. He was smart-mouth, gambling newsie who liked the races and liked to bet, so she'd be willing to bet that he was a champion"I'll be there, an' I'll be watchin'. Maybe I can pick up a few tricks too. I'se curious... who'se yer biggest challenge?"

"Classic trick. But ya better watch when ya do it. Ain't no one gonna believe ya when ya got only a few papes left. Or if yer pockets got a bulge..."

That much made sense, of course. The trick would probably come in handy once she started selling. And, she didn't think her pockets would be bulging with pennies for a while, once she started selling.

"I see the last guy who mouthed off to Spot. When Conlon was done with him...he didn't have much of a mouth to talk with..." Shane made a face of displeasure. "Yep. I'll be careful, an' try t'not be, uh, reckless around 'im." Shane neither wanted, nor needed, to be soaked anytime soon. But Conlon's had to have some sense of humor. If he didn't die of laughter, finding a joke someone said funny, then surely he'd die from not laughing at all. Shane was a smart-mouth by nature.

"Most of 'em are, once ya get to know 'em, they're swell."
Shane nodded lightly. She was curious about one thing, though. "Eh, Race, are there any Manhattan goils? Y'know, goil newsies?"

"Will do."
Shane grinned. "Y'know Race, yer good. You'se almost got me convinced that I oughta join da Manhattan newsies, 'stead o' the Brookies!" Shane cocked her head to the right, "But, I need t'be heading on t'Brooklyn soon." It probably would be fun, being a Manhattan newsie, but Shane was Brooklyn through and through. Once you lived in Brooklyn, you became used to it. You became used to the unspoken, nearly intangible sense of tension which pervaded the streets. And you became addicted to the sense of power which filled a person when they survived another day and night on the streets in Brooklyn.

"Good t'know, Shane. Good t'know."

Shane nodded. There did not seem to be much more to say at this point. She was terribly hungry, but wanted to get onto Brooklyn before dark. Even if she had her knife, she wasn't ready to face Brooklyn at night yet, although, knowing her luck, something would happen that would lead her to end up walking through Brooklyn at night anyways. Shane blinked and looked around her, then back at Racetrack. "Well, I'se better be going. I wanna'... I don't wanna...," her voice quavered, and Shane shook her head to clear her thoughts, then continued, "I don't wanna go through Brooklyn at night." She said, but now, there was seemingly a struggle going on in her head.

Her imagination had jumped up at the thought of Brooklyn streets at night, and grabbed the end of the thread and was running away with it. Of course, that meant that some unpleasant thoughts were resurfacing as well. Even if certain memories hadn't actually been played out in her head again yet, her imagination seemed to have a life of its own, and was doing a good job of making her think about the memories at least.