The day after that, however, was something eventful indeed. To start off, the newsies across the city all woke at about the same time as usual. They all trooped over to the distribution center in their part of the city, nothing unusual there. The time between then and lunchtime, that's when it all started.
"Bodies found floatin' in da East Rivah!" Spot yelled, holding a newspaper above his head. Several people bought papers from him. The actual story referred to a dozen rats found floating in the river, gorged on bread from a nearby bakery. The story itself wasn't so bad, but a good newsie just has to spice it up some more.
As Spot was selling a paper to a pretty school girl, a policeman grabbed him by the arm. Spot spun around and began to protest. The cop ignored his excuses and threw him into a paddywagon down the street a little ways.
"You got yerself a trial taday, kid. I'd wish ya good luck, but ya don't stand a chance in a moidah trial," the cop said as he climbed into the driver's seat. The cop seemed somewhat sad for arresting the boy.
Spot still protested, shouting more to the other newsies than to the cop in the driver's seat. "Hey, Picks! Go tell Jack!" he shouted as the wagon drove away.
The newsie, Picks, got the message and ran toward Manhattan as fast as he could. He'd heard what the cop had said, so he knew about the trial. When he finally found Jack in Manhattan, he was out of breath and very tired. "Jack— Spot— Da Refuge—" Picks panted, trying to catch his breath.
"Calm down, Picks. Catch yer breath, den tell me 'bout Spot 'n' Da Refuge," Jack replied, laughing a little.
Picks caught his breath and looked at Jack again. "Da bulls came 'n' jist arrested Spot. He's got a trial dis aftahnoon," he said, conveying the message.
Jack nodded. "T'anks, Picks. Go on back ta Brooklyn. I'll stop by da courthouse in time fer 'is trial. It's close ta lunchtime. Dey won't stawt 'is trial till aftah lunch," he reasoned.
Picks nodded and ran off back to Brooklyn. Jack walked up the street to meet a friend. He walked several blocks before reaching the friend, selling his newspapers on the way.
"Hey, Swifty!" Jack yelled.
The boy turned. "Hey, Cowboy!" he called back.
Jack trotted up to him. "I need ja ta relay a message fer me." Swifty looked at him. "Go 'round da city 'n' tell all da leadahs dat Spot's in Da Refuge. Tell 'em dat if anyone kin clear 'im, dey gotta go ta da courthouse in Brooklyn jist aftah lunch," he instructed.
Swifty nodded and scurried off to tell the leaders Jack's message. He figured he could tell the newsies in Harlem on his way to The Bronx, and they would send their fastest to tell the newsies in Queens, maybe even the rest of Manhattan would hear it from Harlem. Swifty relayed the message, and all the newsies in New York soon knew about Spot's little "problem." Picks had informed Staten Island.
At about one o'clock, Spot stood in a courtroom, handcuffed and ready to stand trial. Almost all of the newsie leaders were in the room, lining the back wall. Jack was among them, closest to the rail. The judge addressed Spot squarely.
"Michael 'Spot' Conlon, how d'ya plea?" he asked, glancing at the papers in front of him.
"Not guilty, yer honah," Spot answered firmly.
"Are you aware that you have been charged with murder in the second degree?" the judge questioned.
"If dat means dat I'se charged wit' killin' someone, den, yeah. I know I'se charged wit' dat," he answered.
"Second-degree murder is an action that results in the killing of another because of anger or impulse. That is precisely what you've been charged with. D'you still plead 'not guilty'?"
"Yessir, I do."
"Can you account fer yer whereabouts last week, Tuesday, the third of June, at about ten p.m.?"
"I was at da lodgin' house las' Tuesday."
"Can anyone confirm this?"
Spot was silent. He glanced back at his friends along the wall. None of them spoke up. They all just talked to each other, creating quite a commotion in the courtroom. The judge banged his gavel a few times.
"Order! Order!" he shouted, banging his gavel even harder.
"Yer honah!" someone yelled over the commotion.
The courtroom suddenly silenced completely. A pin hitting the floor would sound like a canon being fired. Spot instantly turned around. His first impulse was anger. Abigail stood just inside the doorway. She walked forward silently, her hands clasped behind her back. Her shoes clicking across the floor. She reached the rail and pushed her way through to stand next to Spot.
"Yer honah, I can account fer Spot's whereabouts las' Tuesday. He was wit' me, on da roof a da lodgin' house," she announced. The newsies began whispering again.
"Order in the court!" the judge bellowed. Everyone silenced again. "Who might you be, my dear?" he asked, looking her over, appraising her.
"Da name's O'Connor—"
"Abigail O'Connah?" the arresting officer interrupted.
Abigail nodded. "Abigail O'Connor," she finished with a slight inclination of her head.
"You've made quite a name fer yeself, Miss O'Connor. Strong, loyal, and honest, those're three good qualities in a person, even better in a woman. The last is a mite odd fer a newsie, though," the judge commented.
"I have no reason ta lie, yer honah. I only gotta improve da truth a little ta sell da papes. Dat don't mean lyin'. If dat means improvin' da headlines, so be it. I gotta make a livin' 's'all. Dere's no harm in dat," she replied calmly.
The judge smiled. "Yer willing ta swear, under oath, that Mister Conlon was with you the night in question?" he inquired, returning to the matter at hand.
"Yessir," she answered, looking directly at him.
"Very well, please tell the court exactly where you were last night and what you were doing, in your own words," he instructed.
Abigail nodded and glanced at Spot. "Yer honor, Spot 'n' I were talkin' on da roof a da newsboys lodgin' house in Harlem. He wanted ta ask ma permission ta throw a pawdy fer ma bruddah. He's quite fond a ma youngest bruddah, ya see. His birthday's comin' up nex' week. Spot came ovah 'bout eight o'clock, 'n' we tawked till 'bout eleven, twelve maybe."
"All the while about yer brother's birthday?"
Abigail laughed quietly. "Nawsir. The discussion went on from dere. We talked 'bout Brooklyn 'n' Harlem 'n' a couple a oddah things. We played several a hands a pokah. He won a couple, too. I ended up gittin' 'is mawkah dough. I got it right here if ya wanna see it," she said, pulling a coin out of her pocket. She handed it to the judge, who examined it. It was a quarter with Spot's initials etched into it.
"Is this your marker, Mister Conlon?" the judge wondered, handing Spot the coin.
Spot took it, raising both his cuffed hands to retrieve it. He examined it closely. He looked over at Abigail, then back at the coin. "Yeah, it's me mawkah," he answered, handing it back to the judge.
The judge handed it back to Abigail. "Continue, please, Miss O'Connor," he said pleasantly, obviously favoring her.
"Well, aftah playin' da game, which was kinda hard since it was dark, we watched da shootin' stars. Dere was a whole bunch a 'vum dat night. It got kinda late, so 'e left a while latah. Dat was pro'ally 'bout eleven, eleven-thoity," she finished.
"Can anyone else confirm this?"
"Ah, not really, I don't think. I mean, da newsies in Brooklyn'll tell ya dat 'e din't git home till aftah midnight at least."
The judge nodded. "We'll have a short recess. No one is ta leave the court room," he announced and banged his gavel. He stood and went to his chambers.
Everyone in the room began to speak at once. Spot turned to Abigail and spoke to her angrily. "What was dat 'bout?!" he demanded, furious with her.
"Not here, not now, Conlon," she replied firmly, looking at him coldly. Spot just looked at her.
The recess ended shortly thereafter. The judge walked back to his chair and sat down. He straightened the papers and looked directly at Spot. "Michael 'Spot' Conlon, for the charge of murder in the second degree, this court finds you not guilty." Everyone along the wall cheered. "Order in the court! Order!" he yelled, banging his gavel. They quieted. "Bailiff, remove the handcuffs." The bailiff did as he was told. "Good day, Mister Conlon, Miss O'Connor," he finished, standing and returning to his chambers.
Spot was astonished. He turned to Abigail. He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.
"Meet me in Joe's Billiards Hall when ya git outta here," she instructed and left the courtroom.
The leaders cleared a path for her and hurried over to Spot's side. They interrogated him as they all left the courtroom. Spot tried his best to get rid of them as fast as he could. He finally succeeded half an hour later. He slipped away from the crowd and headed for the Billiards Hall. It was in Harlem, so it took him a while to get there. Abigail was waiting for him next to one of the tables, two cue sticks in her hands. She tossed one to Spot.
"I break," she said after Spot caught the stick. Spot had no complaints, so she set up the cue ball and hit it squarely, making a nice break.
"Why'd ja do it?" he asked, looking for a good shot.
"Frankly, Conlon, I really don't like ya, but dat don't mean I wanna see ya executed," she answered bluntly.
She'd said it just as Spot was hitting the ball. He missed and scratched. "What's dat s'posed ta mean?" he demanded, standing back up and letting his cue stick fall to the floor on end, loud and hard.
Abigail stifled her laughter and lined up a new shot. She hit the ball, pocketing number one, and looked back at Spot. "Lemme be blunt, Conlon. We nevah liked each oddah. I doubt we evah will. Unfortunately, dat don't mean I wanna see ya dead." She looked for another shot. "I'd much rathah soak ya meself." She grinned and hit the ball. It ricocheted off the far edge and missed the pocket.
Spot looked for a good angle for his next shot. "Ya really hate me dat much, huh?" he asked, smirking.
"I'se amazed we're gittin' along so good now," she mused.
Spot laughed and took his shot. "I s'pose we are actin' a bit outta character." He laughed again. "Why do we hate each odda so much?" he asked. He suddenly couldn't remember.
Abigail looked at him and grinned. "I seem ta remembah dat ya din't like me comin' inta town 'n' takin' yer popularity 'n' fear quotient," she answered matter-of-factly.
Spot laughed. "Ya know, we'd make a real good team, if we joined tagedda, dat is," he offered.
"What makes ya think I'd join you?" she asked, lining up her next shot.
"Well, ya stood up fer me back dere. Ya even lied fer me!"
"Like I said, I got no reason ta see ya dead er in prison. This city needs Spot Conlon. Without you, Brooklyn wouldn't know what ta do, much less da rest a da city. Sure, they'd figure things out eventually, but why push it on 'em. Da truth is, Conlon, I actually kinda like ya. Yer a challenge. I like challenges. Ya make me practice ma fightin' skills. Now, let's see how much 'v'a Billiards playah ya are. I know ya kin play pokah jist fine, but can ya play Billiards half as good?" she challenged.
Spot smirked. "I'll mop da flooah wit' cha," he replied, accepting her challenge.
"I certainly hope so. I look forward ta beatin' yer scrawny ass, too," she commented.
"By da way, how'd ya git me mawkah?"
"Ya evah think a keepin' it somewhere oddah 'an yer pocket?"
"Why ya lousy— no good— downright—"
"Now, now, now, Conlon," she began in a soft yet stern voice, "don't go callin' me names. It ain't too nice." She grinned wickedly.
Spot just glared back at her. He bent over and hit the cue ball, not even really looking at it. He missed terribly. Abigail raised an eyebrow and took her shot, sinking one ball. She sank three more before scratching. Spot took his turn, knocking the ball right off the table. Abigail caught it before it rolled across the room. She placed it back in the kitchen and took a few more shots. The game ended shortly. Abigail smiled a little. Spot had become edgy.
"Looks like ya need a bit a practice," she commented, setting both the ball and her cue stick on the table. Spot just fumed silently. Abigail continued. "Have a seat; I'll buy ya a drink." She walked toward the bar.
Spot was quite confused by her demeanor. Every other time they'd crossed paths, they'd each wanted to tear the other's heart right out. He couldn't understand it. He did sit, however. He never had been one to give up a free drink, or anything free for that matter. He just sat and waited.
At the bar, Abigail spoke to the barkeep. "Hey, Louie," she called to him. Louie meandered over to her, drying a glass. "Gimme da usual. Give da kid a sarsaparilla wit' a splash a scotch," she said, nodding toward Spot as she spoke of him.
"He legal?" Louie mumbled.
"He's same 's'me," she answered, embellishing a little.
Louie nodded and mixed the drinks. He handed them to her. "Dere ya go," he mumbled. He went back to what he was doing.
Abigail took the drinks and strode back to where Spot was sitting. She set his sarsaparilla in front of him and sat down. She took a sip of her own drink. Spot looked at his drink.
"Ya din't poison dis, did ja?" he asked, half joking.
Abigail laughed. "Naw, it's what cha usually drink," she answered simply, downing a bit of her own.
"An' what's dat?" he inquired, wanting to know more.
"Sarsaparilla 'n' scotch," she mentioned.
Spot was astounded. "How'd ja know dat?!" he exclaimed.
"I make it a point ta know ma enemies," she answered, setting her drink down.
"Whatta ya do, follah me 'round?" he demanded.
"Naw, I listen 'n' watch," she replied, looking at him calmly.
Spot was silent for a moment. He tasted his drink. When he was satisfied that nothing besides sarsaparilla and scotch were in it, he took a short swig. Abigail watched him closely the whole time. He set the drink back down. "What're you drinkin'?" he wondered.
"Whiskey on da rocks."
"Ain't dat s'posed ta be scotch?"
"I nevah much liked scotch."
"It's good stuff."
She shrugged. "I grew up on whiskey." She paused. "So, ya ready fer another game, er should I let yer ego rest up a bit more?" she inquired, staring at him with her emotionless eyes.
Spot became flustered. "I'se up fer anythin' ya kin dish out, O'Connah," he retorted.
"Fair game," she mused, standing. She picked up the cue stick and began collecting the balls. She set them up, removed the rack, and tossed him the cue ball. "You break dis time."
He caught the ball and placed it in the kitchen. He took the first shot.
"Nice break," she commented, leaning on her cue stick.
Spot just glanced at her. The game continued. Abigail won, again. They played a few more games. Spot won one of them. He really wasn't any good at billiards. While the day progressed, Spot began noticing things.
Wow, Abigail's a real good billiards playah. I wondah where she loined. Maybe she could teach me a thing er two, at billiards anyway. He looked at her, wisps of hair falling in her face as she took a shot. I nevah noticed befoah, but she's real perdy. Spot, whadda ya thinkin'?! She hates ya. YOU hate HER!! She's too contradictive. Ya know she kin soak ya easy. Why d'ya put cherself t'rough all a dis?
"Conlon!"
Spot snapped back to reality quickly. "Hunh?" he answered.
"Quit starin' at me 'n' shoot, ya bum," she directed, laughing on the inside.
"Oh, yeah," he mumbled, looking at the table.
That evening, Abigail sat on the edge of the roof of the Newsboys Lodging House, Jack Kelly's House to most of the younger kids. She watched the sun set over the horizon as she smoked a cigarette. She was waiting for someone.
After the sun had set, she heard heavy footsteps on the fire escape across the roof. She ignored them and continued to stare off across the rooftops, watching the stars appear. The creaking fire escape finally settled. Abigail could hear footsteps walking over to her.
"Abigail?" a masculine voice asked.
"Heya, Jack. How's it rollin'?" she replied, still watching the sky.
"I'se good. How 'bout chu? How're ya doin'?" he answered.
"Can't complain," she said, turning her head slightly to acknowledge his presence but not bothering to actually look at him.
"Dat's nice. So, what brings ya ta me place?" he wondered.
"Why don't cha cut da small talk, Kelly. Ya wanna know why I did what I did fer Spot dis mornin'," she announced, turning completely around to face him.
Jack blushed and looked down at his feet. "It dat obvious?" he mumbled.
"Lemme put it dis way, Kelly. If one a ma enemies'd done it ta me, me 'n' ma friends'd wanna know," she answered casually, sliding off the ledge and standing.
"Why did'ja do it?"
"I'm bored. Dere ain't much 'at really goes on in dis city dat really effects us. I mean, you boys had dat strike a while back, but I wasn't here den. It wasn't all too excitin' back home either, but I, at least, had somethin' ta do all day. I ain't meanin' no disrespect fer yer job er nuthin', but hawkin' da headlines ain't my idea a fun."
"What is?"
"Always liked a good fight. Ya see, Kelly, back home, shovelin' coal was all I did all day. Ya may not think so, but I enjoyed it. It kept me occupied. Ma mind wandahs a lot when I work here. I ain't complainin' 'bout bein' outta da coal dust, nevah, but I jist git bored here. The unexpected stuff always livens things up a bit."
"Dat why ya took Spot out fer a drink 'n' a game a billiards?"
She laughed. Jack was surprised; he'd never seen her laugh like she actually found something humorous. "Maybe, Jack, maybe," she began. "What I do know's dis. He asked me why when we were in da courtroom. Dat ain't da place fer dat kind a discussion, so I tol' 'im ta meet me at Joe's. Maybe I wanted ta spice up 'is life a bit, maybe mine even. I think I confused 'im a bit, too. He was actin' real funny dere fer a while," she concluded, laughing.
Jack laughed, too. "Maybe 'e likes ya a bit. Spot's got funny tastes in girls. You two'd make a real cute couple," he laughed.
Abigail suddenly stopped laughing, her face very grave. "Don't even joke 'bout dat, Cowboy." Jack stopped laughing. "Conlon's a nice kid, but dat's all. He's also an arrogant li'l jackass. I can put up with 'im fer only so long before I gotta soak 'im somethin' awful," she stated firmly.
"Look, Abigail, I ain't tryin' ta pair ya up er nuthin'. I'se jist sayin' dat if you'se two could be nice ta each oddah fer more 'an five minutes, you'se two could be real close, ya know," he defended.
Abigail sighed. She hesitated before speaking. "Sorry, Kelly. I got a tempah dat kinda flies off da handle sometimes. It ain't me best quality if ya know what I mean," she apologized quietly.
Jack could tell that she didn't like to apologize just as much as Spot. He thought that the two of them were very much alike. "Ya wanna come inside fer a bit? It's gittin' late, 'n' it looks like rain," he offered, glancing up at the sky and feeling the excess moisture in the air.
"Naw, I don't wanna impose er nothin'," she decided, starting toward the fire escape to leave.
Jack stepped over to her and put an arm around her shoulders. He thought better of it and removed it quickly. "Ya nevah an imposition, Abigail. No mattah what ya might hear, we all like it when ya visit," he added.
"Hm, I'm sure," she muttered, agreeing to follow him inside. They walked down the fire escape together.
Inside, the boys and a few girls were talking. Most of the boys were lounging on their respective bunks. A few were trying to play cards, not succeeding because they were caught up in the conversation, however.
"Yer tellin' me dat dey actually went out on a date?!" the boy with the patch over his eye exclaimed, quite astounded.
"Yeah! Dey went ta some billiards room," Race answered from the poker game.
"But dey's enemies!" another added. They were all shocked by this news.
"Yeah, but Jack says she stood up fer 'im in court taday. I think she likes 'im," Race commented.
"Naw, ya seen 'em da oddah day? She wanted ta kill 'im! Him, too!"
"So. Lys wants ta kill Dutchy. Dat don't mean she still don't like 'im, now, do it?"
"Hey! Leave me outta dis, Race!" Lys yelled across the room, throwing something heavy at him.
"Ouch! Lys!" Race yelled, scrambling to his feet. He ran after Lys, who ran away as fast as she could. They had a bit of a fight when he finally caught her. Since she was smaller than he, Race pinned her quite easily. She did, however, manage to give him a fat lip.
"Cut it out, you'se two," came Jack's voice from the window. Everyone looked over at him, about to greet him happily and jubilantly. Then they noticed Abigail climbing in the window after him. They instantly silenced.
"Abby!" Ducky squealed and ran toward her, arms outstretched. He finally reached her, wrapping his arms around her neck (she'd bent down to meet him).
"Hey dere, kid," she greeted, smiling and picking her brother up. "How dey been treatin' ya here?" She didn't seem so harsh with a child in her arms.
"Dey been real nice 'n' all, Abby, but I miss ya. When ya was down in da mines, we saw ya ever' night fer suppah. Now we hawdly evah see ya. I wanna come live wit' you in Hawlum," he babbled, showing a New Yawk accent he'd picked up from the boys and imitated lovingly.
Abigail smoothed her brother's hair. "Well, ya know, Ducky, maybe dese boys might miss ya. What 'bout Dolly? She might miss playin' marbles with ya," she replied, lowering her voice a little, like a mother speaks to her darling child.
"I wanna go live wit' ya. I miss ya, Abby," he mumbled sorrowfully. He really wanted to live with his sister again, no matter what he had to do to get her to agree to it.
"Now, Roreigh, Mikey 'n' me put ya here cuz it's good fer ya. Ya don't wanna come live up in Harlem wit' me. Dese boys 'n' girls're real nice. Dey like ya, kid. Ya got lots a oldah bruddahs 'n' sistahs here. Why d'ya want jist me?" she asked, still smoothing his hair. She'd forgotten about the others in the room. They were watching her in a new light. They'd never seen her look so motherly or act so compassionate before. They found it interesting and a bit out of character. She'd always seemed so bitter and angry before. Now she seemed like someone completely different.
"Please, Abby. Dime says it's okay wit' him if it's okay wit' you," he whined.
"Oh, did he now?" she asked, finally looking away from her youngest brother to the other. She kept her eyes on Dime and spoke. "Ducky, I'm gonna leave ya wit' Jack here. Yer bruddah 'n' me're gonna have a little talk," she said stolidly. She turned and handed her brother to Jack. Jack was a little surprised but said nothing.
Abigail walked across the room swiftly, grabbing her brother's shirt sleeve and yanking him out the door. He stumbled along after her, tripping over his own feet as she pulled him. Once they were in the hallway, Abigail threw her brother into the other bunk room. Several of the girls were hanging out in there, including a few of the boys. As soon as Dime hit the floor, they all looked up.
"Out, now!" Abigail ordered hastily.
They all scrambled to their feet and ran out of the room and into the other room. Abigail slammed the door shut as the last one left. She turned back to her brother.
"Michael Dennis O'Connor!" she bellowed, slipping into the Irish brogue of her parents. The O'Connor children had a habit of slipping back into the Irish when they were angry.
"Abigail, c'mon. He jist asked me. What'm I s'posed ta tell 'im? Ya want me ta crush 'is dreams a ever seein' 'is sister again?!" he yelled back, not quite angry yet.
"Dunna start with me, Michael," she warned.
"Abigail, listen. Roreigh jist wants 'is sistah back. I'd like 'er back, too. Ya ain't da Abigail we used ta know. What happened ta da coal minah?" he stated, his anger growing.
"Michael," she began, her old accent returning, "I'm still da same Abby O'Connor. The city has a way a changin' people, some fer da better, some fer da worse. Yer four years younger 'an me, Mikey. I gotta protect you 'n' Roreigh. I raised ya both after Laura 'n' Pop died. I raised ya fer eleven years. I know better 'an you do what's right fer ma boys. Harlem's no place fer you er Roreigh. It ain't safe—"
"Den why d'you live dere?" he ordered.
"Cuz I can't handle it here; it's too quiet. Ya know dat. Quit givin' me guff 'bout it," she spat back.
"What's dey tawkin' 'bout now? Da yellin' stopped," Jack whispered to Blink, watching Ducky play Go Fish with Specs and Snipeshooter.
"She's tellin' 'im dat it's too quiet 'round 'ere," Blink whispered back. Jack mumbled something inaudible. "What was dat, Cowboy?"
"Oh, nuthin', Blink," Jack rambled, distant.
Back in the other bunk room, the siblings spoke heatedly. "Abigail, Roreigh only wants ta be wit' 'is sister. Why won't cha let 'im? Ya can protect 'im jist as well in Harlem as here. Abby, jist bring 'im home wit' cha, tanight," he pleaded, keeping his dignity.
Abigail remained quiet and walked away from him, over to the far wall. She appeared to be thinking it over. Dime watched her silently. For the first time ever, she suddenly seemed like his mother. She was the only one he'd ever really known, the only on Ducky had ever known. Their mother had died while giving birth to little Roreigh. To him, Abigail was his mother. Dime had known his mother for four years. Laura, his and Ducky's mother, bore no resemblance to his half-sister, but, for some reason, Abigail looked like her.
Abigail finally turned back around. "I'll take 'im, Mikey," she obliged quietly.
Dime smiled and hugged his sister. "I love ya, Abigail Alysa O'Connor," he whispered.
"Hey, don't go gittin' all mushy on me, Dime," she said and pushed him away. He looked at her, almost hurt. "C'mon. Let's go git Ducky." Dime grinned and followed his sister out of the room.
The boys who'd been listening at the door quickly scurried back to the other room, trying not to be seen. The door opened, and the two siblings emerged unscathed. The newsies all looked at them. Abigail knelt down and spoke to Ducky.
"Ducky, c'mon. It's time ta go home," she said in a soft voice, holding her arms out for him.
Ducky beamed and ran over to her. He was swept up in her embrace as she stood. "I loves ya, Abby," he whispered into her ear.
"I love ya, too, little one," she said back, not caring what the others heard. "Come on." She hoisted him over to her hip and carried him out of the room and the lodging house.
"What 'bout Dime?" the child wondered curiously.
"He's gonna stay here fer a while longer. He likes it here. Personally, I jist think 'e likes Dixie," she commented, glancing over her shoulder at her brother, whose ears turned a lovely shade of beet red. Dixie blushed also, but not nearly as much. She apparently liked Dime.
Abigail walked into the lodging house in Harlem, still carrying Ducky. The newsies inside looked over at her, curious. They exchanged glances, wondering why she was carrying a child.
"Abigail?" a tall, dark-haired boy inquired, standing and walking toward her. His long, lanky legs seemed to sway as if by the wind.
"Don't gimme no guff, Doc. Dis here's Ducky, ma broddah. I want all a ya ta treat 'im real nice now," she answered, her voice hard.
"Hey dere, Ducky. Da name's Steve, but dey all call me Doc," Doc said, introducing himself.
Ducky looked over at Doc. "I like him," he whispered to his sister.
Abigail smirked, still watching Doc. "Hm," she mumbled. She carried him over to a bed. "Time fer bed, kid. Ya git ma bunk."
"But I don' wanna go ta bed yet," Ducky protested.
"I'll be gittin' ta bed soon, too. I gotta talk with dese knuckleheads first. Go ta sleep, kid," she instructed, setting him down on her bunk.
Ducky faithfully complied and began removing his shoes and suspenders. Abigail ruffled his hair, knocking his hat off, and walked away. Doc and two other newsies followed her out of the room.
"So, what's up, Abigail? Where'd ja dig dat kid up?" Doc demanded.
"I tol' ja, Doc. He's ma broddah. He's been livin' down with Jack since we came here. He missed bein' with me. I said 'e could come live with me agin. I want ya ta treat 'im nice, like yer own bruddah. I want ya ta take 'im out tamorrah, Doc. He likes ya. I got somethin' ta take care a," she replied.
Doc looked at her. "Shoah, Abigail. Johnny, why don't cha take Mickey. He's gittin' bettah. He's ready ta go out on 'is own," he directed in a firm tone. He was, without a doubt, the leader of Harlem.
"Thanks, Doc," she mumbled and headed back inside. She quickly changed for bed and climbed under the sheets next to her brother.
The boys took this as their cue to be silent and go to sleep. The room was dark ten minutes later.
© 1997 Birdie Kelley
Get your own Free Home Page