A Novel by Jonathan Fast

Based on the Screenplay Written by Bob Tzudiker & Noni Wlute

A Walt Disnev Pictures Production ,;,C ^:
 ISBN 1-S6?8?-n5-6
S03 50>

9 "781S62"8?1 1S9
 —
;

NEWSIES
A Novel by Jonathan Fast
Based on the Motion Picture from Walt Disney Pictures
Based on the Screenplay Written by Bob Tzudiker & Noni White
Produced by Michael Finnell
Directed by Kenny Ortega

li
pRE s's
 Text and illustrations copyright © 1992 Disney Press.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced
in any manner whatsoever
without the written permission of the publisher.
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
For information address
Disney Press, 114 Fifth Avenue. New York, New York 10011.
The stories, characters, and/or incidents
in this publication are entirely fictional.

13579 10 8642
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 91-73973
ISBN 1-56282-115-6
This book is dedicated to
Molly Jong Fast,
who is always good news
 In Which It Is Decided That
David Jacobs Must Go to

Work

Mayer Jacobs had worked at the piano factory for

eighteen years, milhng blanks of wood into gracefully
shaped piano legs. He slept little and worked long
hours to give his family a better hfe. One night,
clumsy with fatigue, he accidentally let the saw blade
cut into the fleshy part of his hand, beneath the
thumb.
It would be months before he recovered use of his
fingers, the doctor told him. The foreman at the piano

factory expressed his sympathy, then fired him and

hired a younger man who could work harder and
faster. That was how they ran businesses back then,
in the summer of 1899.
Mayer; his wife, Esther; their daughter, Sarah,

who was sixteen; and their son David, fifteen, sat

around the kitchen table with its checkered oilcloth

spread, trying to figure out how they would deal with
2 1=============^=
this crisis. The youngest child, Les, was supposed to

be asleep on a makeshift bed in the corner, but he

was only pretending. He knew that urgent family

matters were being decided, and he didn't want to

miss a word of it. How could a boy sleep with some-
thing so exciting going on?
Before the accident, Mayer had been bringing
home two dollars a day, a salary slightly above av-
erage for those times. Sarah and Esther made another
fifty cents apiece, crocheting lace doihes. Of that
money, half had gone for food, forty or fifty cents
for shoes and clothing, and another thirty cents for

lodging. What was left — minus a few pennies to buy

Les a red wooden top, or some pretty ribbons for
Sarah's hair — had been deposited directly into the
cookie jar.

That savings institution now yielded back four dol-

lars and eighty-seven cents. By watching every penny,

Esther thought she could make it last a week.

And after that, what would they do? They could
almost hear the wolf howHng at the door.
"I'll go to work," David said. "It's the only an-
swer."
The rest of the family took the news with sadness
because David had always been an excellent student,
at the head of his class. The Jacobses knew that a
good education was the only way out of the tene-
 = 5*
ments. Yet they also knew that if David did not go
to work, the family could not survive.
"All right," Mayer said, "but just until my hand
gets better. After that, it's back to school. Do you
understand me?"
"Yes, Poppa," David said. He tried to sound
sober, but inside he had butterflies of excitement. He
was excited about going out into the grown-up world
and earning money like a man but sad to be leaving
school.
"But what will you do?" Esther asked.
"I'll sell the WorldV" David said. And then, before
his parents could argue the point: "It's the best job
for a boy like me! You get to be outside all day,
instead of holed up in one of those awful sweatshops.
And some of the boys make a dollar a day."
"I won't have it," Esther said. "Those newsboys
are orphans and toughs. They'll turn you into a crim-
inal."

"Now, now Esther," Mayer said. "They're not so

bad. Maybe hell make them into scholars."
"This is no time for jokes, Mayer."
"If he's going to work, he's a man. If he's a man,
he should choose his own job."
They argued about it long into the night. Esther
cried, Mayer tugged at his hair, but David finally won

out.
4 =
David rose before dawn next morning, scrubbed
his face, combed back his hair, ate a water roll and

coffee, and took a dime out of the cookie jar to pay

for his papers, as they had agreed he would the night
before.
The rest of the family was still asleep, or so David
thought as he skipped down the tenement stairs, feel-
ing very much the man of the family. He stepped out
the front door into the hubbub of the street. There
were horse-drawn carts and peddlers with pushcarts,
selling their wares. But something was wrong. David
could feel it in the short hairs on the back of his neck.
He turned around slowly, and there was Les, all

dressed in his knickers, tagging along behind him.

Wasn't it just like a Httle brother, spoiling everything

at a time like this?

"What are you doing here?" David demanded.
"Get back upstairs! Go back to sleep!"
Les shook his head.
As is often the case with brothers, while David
considered Les a pest, Les worshiped David and
wanted to copy him in everything he did, from the
way he shot marbles way he combed back his
to the
hair. So it should have come as Httle surprise when
Les announced that, rather than going to school that
day, he was planning to sell the World too.
After threatening, bribing, and begging had all

failed, David agreed to let Les accompany him to the

 = 54
World Building and sell one paper — on the condition
that afterward, Les would go straight back to Mrs.
O'Leary's classroom. Thrilled, Les skipped along be-
side his brother, whistling a tune that David found
as annoying as the scraping of fingernails on a black-
board.
 In Which David Takes On
a Business Partner

The World Building was the tallest and grandest of

all newspaper buildings along Park Row, or
the
Newspaper Row, as it was also called. With the sun
rising behind it, it looked an ancient monument, the
work of some pharaoh or biblical king. At the very
top of it was a gleaming copper dome where Joseph
Pulitzer, the famous newspaper tycoon, kept his of-
fice. David, standing what felt to him like a million
miles below it — crushed in a mob of the filthiest,

vilest,most foulmouthed boys he had ever met

strained his neck and shielded his eyes to get a
glimpse of it.

The other boys pushed and shoved him against the

black iron gates of the World Building simply for —
the sake of pushing and shoving, it seemed. They
spoke in all the different dialects of the New York
streets. Some of them even smoked cigarettes. David

clutched Les's hand, terrified that his little brother

would be swallowed up by the sea of boys and never
seen again. How would he explain it to his parents?

Um, Mother? I lost Les today. I didn't mean to, it

just happened.
Why had he ever agreed to let the Uttle pest come
along?What a mistake!
Two men emerged from the World Building, car-
rying pieces of chalk as thick as broomsticks. Each
one climbed a ladder to a chalkboard the size of a

theater marquee and began to write out the day's

headlines in big letters:

TROLLEY STRIKE DRAGS ON FOR THIRD WEEK

"You call that a headhne?" moaned the boy stand-
ing next to David. 'T can't sell me no papes with a
headline Hke that!"
"Yeah," said another. "Gimme an earthquake
or a volcano!"
"Or a moider! It's moiders sell de papes!"
It took David a moment to figure out that the boy
was saying murder.
Two muscular boys in bowlers were pushing their
way through the crowd. They were the Delancey
brothers, Oscar and Morris, and their job, evidently,
was to maintain some kind of order. But their pres-
ence seemed to accomphsh the opposite, provoking
mischief even among the gentler-looking boys.
The newsboys shouted taunts and insults at them.
5 =
Finally, one of them, a dashing boy of sixteen who
wore a red bandanna around his neck Uke a cowboy,
flipped the derbies off both men and fled. A game of
Hare and Hounds ensued, to the delight of the crowd.

The boy led his pursuers round and round the statue
of Horace Greeley that stood in the center of Newsies
Square, the broad, open space in front of the World
Building, while the other newsboys cheered him on.
"Go, Cowboy! Ride 'em. Cowboy!" they shouted.
Every time the Delancey brothers were about to lay
their hands on him, "Cowboy" sprang away, vaulting
a hydrant or swinging on the great iron gates like a

monkey. Oscar and Morris grew short of breath and

red-faced with rage. David worried that they would
beat Cowboy to death if they ever caught him.
The ringing of a bell signaled the end of the chase.
"Comin' down the chute!" somebody shouted.
The huge iron gates swung back, and the ocean of
newsboys swept forward, carrying the Jacobs broth-
ers along with them. Being caught up in a mob this
way scared Les, and he began to cry and whine that
he wanted to go home.
"You insisted," David reminded him angrily.
"Now you'll stick it out with me. We've come this
far and we're not turning back!"
Moments later they found themselves at a loading
dock at the side of the building. Burly men in shirt-
sleeves were heaving bundled newspapers into horse-
 = 94
drawn carts. The newsboys, pushing and shoving,
organized themselves into a semblance of a line in
front of a window where a man was passing out news-
papers.
David watched the boys in front of him carefully
so he would know just how to behave. They acted
tough, flipped their quarters in the air, and scornfully
addressed the man giving out the papers as Weasel,
though his real name was Weisel. But when David's
turn came, he found that he had been too well
brought up to do any of these things. He simply
handed Weisel his dime and said, "Twenty papers,
sir, if you please."
"Twenty papers," Weisel said, slapping the papers
down on the counter. "Move along!"
But David refused to move until he had counted
the papers as he had seen the other boys do.
Move alongr
"I said.
"You only gave me nineteen papers," David said.
"I paid for twenty."
Weisel leaned over the counter, so he was eye-to-
eye with David. "You caUing me a Har, kid?"
The other newsies, anticipating a little excitement,
fell silent.

David was not deterred. He respected grown-ups,

but he knew when he was right, and he would not
be bullied away from his position. "I want my other
paper."
^10 =
Out of the corner of his eye, David saw the De-
lancey brothers coming his way. He felt the sweat
start to run from his armpits. Suddenly the newsie
with the red bandanna was standing beside him, flip-

ping quickly through the stack of papers.

"It's nineteen, all right," Cowboy said. "An honest
mistake — seein' as Weasel can't count to twenty with
his shoes on. Give him the other pape. Weasel."
Weisel snorted and slapped another paper on the
counter.
"Thank you very much, sir," David said.

"And another fifty after that," Cowboy went on,

flipping a quarter across the counter.

Weisel added another fifty papers to David's stack.

"Wait a minute," David want any
said. "I don't
more papers."
The pile of seventy papers looked immense and —
as heavy as a block of cement. David didn't think he

could sell them all. "Why not?" Cowboy asked.

"Bad headlines?" David guessed.
"First thing you gotta learn: Headhnes don't sell

papes. Newsies sell papes."

Cowboy sauntered David grabbed the papers
off.

under one arm and Les under the other and hurried
after him.

"You can have these papers," he gasped. "They're

The Jacobses don't take charity from anybody."
yours.

Cowboy turned and faced him and poked the air

 — 11^
with his index finger. "This ain't charity — it's a part-

nership. I'm investing two bits. In return I get a per-

centage of your profits. What do you get? A chance

to learn from the best newsie of 'em all, Cowboy
Jack. Also known as Jack Kelly. That's what me mud-
der called me."
"Well, if you're so wonderful," David said, his
voice filled with sarcasm, "what do you need me for?"
"It's him I need," Jack said, pointing at Les. "The
little kid."
"Me?" Les said, thrilled to have been noticed by
anybody, no less such a colorful person as Cowboy.
Jack kneeled down beside Les and squeezed his
face in his hand. "With a puss Uke this and my God-
given talent, we can move a thousand papes a week.
What do you say? Deal?"
"Can we be his partner?" Les pleaded with David.
"Can we?"
David didn't want to be partners with anybody,
particularly not with this fast-talking Irish boy who
seemed to live on the edge of the law. In David's
neighborhood, the Irish boys and the Jewish boys
were always fighting. He especially didn't want to be
dependent on his own httle brother. But a thousand
papers a week! If Jack was right, David and his little

brother would be able to support the whole family.

"We've got to spHt the profits fifty-fifty," David
said.
 72 HT
"Sixty-forty," Jack said, "or we forget the whole
thing/'
The two boys stared at each for a moment, and
then David stuck out his hand. Jack spat in his own
palm before shaking, evidently some kind of newsie
custom.
Les whooped with joy.
 In WMch Les and David
Learn to Sell Papes

"Where's your corner?" Les asked Jack as they ram-

bled along.
"I ain't got no corner, kid. I like to keep moving,
be everywhere, feel the pulse of the city. I spot an
opportunity, I sell a pape. That's the advantage of
being an independent businessman instead of work-
ing for a wage."
A few blocks later they came across a young couple
sittingon the steps of a brownstone, kissing.
They continued on until they were just around the
corner and out of sight, and then Jack whispered,
"Okay, here's where we use the kid."
"I wouldn't bother them," David said. "He'll kiU
you."
"No he won't," Jack said. "She won't let him.
Come here, kid."
Jack whispered instructions, and Les Hstened care-
fully. For the first time he could remember, David
 74 =:
felt jealous of his little brother. He hated being ex-
cluded but he refused to show it. When they finished
the powwow, Jack gave Les a paper and, with a pat
on the rear, propelled him toward the couple.
''Watch this," Jack said smugly.
Les ran up to the couple and hollered, "Extry,
extry! Runaway carriage crushes cop!"
The lovers sprang apart. The young man rose with
his hands outstretched, as though intending to throt-
tle Les, but the woman held him back.
"The poor darUng," she crooned. "How old are
you, little boy?"
"Seven," said Les.
"He's eight!" David whispered.
"Shhh!" Jack said.

"Does your momma know you're working?" the

woman said.

"Ain't got no momma," Les said. "Died of the

cholera."
"Then who takes care of you?"
"Cares for me-self," Les mumbled, and began
coughing in perfect imitation of the Jacobses' down-
stairs neighbor who'd been stricken with tuberculosis.
"Here's a penny," her boyfriend said. "Now get
lost."

"Alfred!" she scolded him, "how can you be so

heartless? The creature is alone and helpless in the
cold, cruel world. Give him a dime at least."
 - 15^
"A dime?" the boyfriend said.
"Oh no, ma'am," Les said. "I couldn't accept that.
Me father taught me not to take charity."
She grabbed the dime from her boyfriend, who was
reluctant to part with it, and pressed it into Les's hand.

"Here, take this. And God bless you."

"And God bless you, ma'am," Les said.

As soon as he was around the corner, Les started
jumping up and down with glee, waving the dime. "I
made a dime," he sang, "I made a dime!"
"You'll turn around right now and give it back to
them!" David ordered.
"Are you nuts?" Jack said. "The kid worked hard
for that money."
"I don't consider that work," David said. "I con-

sider it begging. We may be in hard straits, but we

will not be reduced to that."
Now Jack was angry. "You got a lot of pride, don't
you? Well, go ahead! Give back the dime. See how
much pride you got when you can't make the rent
and you and your family are out on the street without

a roof to cover your head! See how much pride you

got when your home's an old carton in a shantytown
by the railroad tracks."
"Should I give it back?" Les asked.
David hesitated. He didn't want to admit it, but
he knew that Jack was right. "Keep it," he said,

finally.
 /6

They walked a bit more and saw a crowd up ahead.

=
A pair of pugilists, as professional fighters were called
back then, were sparring bare-knuckled on a street
corner for the entertainment of a crowd. The men
were bare chested, so all could admire their splendid
physiques, and they had oiled their hair and big black
mustaches, which glistened in the sun.
"Let me see your style," Jack said to David.
David took a few deep breaths and walked into the
crowd, calling, "Extry, extry, trolley strike drags on
for third long week."
Nobody even acknowledged his existence except
for a man who told him to get out of the way because
he was blocking his view. A few minutes later, David
returned to where Jack and Les were waiting.
"I guess they already bought their papers," David
said.

"They didn't buy papers," Jack said in disgust.

"And with you seUing like that, they never will.

Watch how it's done.'*

Jack sauntered into the middle of the crowd, bel-
lowing, "Nextry, nextry! Ellis Island in flames! Great
con-fla-gration threatens Manhattan!"
Men started digging into their pockets, handing
Jack their pennies. He would have sold more papers,
but the pugilists got annoyed and told him to move
along if he didn't want a knuckle sandwich.
"I don't see any story about a fire on Ellis Island,"
David said, flipping through the paper, as they con-
tinued down the street.
"Page nine," Jack said. "On the bottom."
David hunted through the paper and finally found
the article Jack was referring to. "Trash fire near
immigration building frightens sea gulls?"
"Yeah. That's it."

"Our father taught us not to lie," David said.

"Yeah, well my father taught me not to starve, so
we both got an education. Anyway, I ain't lying. I'm
improving the truth."
"Improving the truth. I'll say." David snorted
scornfully.
 In WMch David Sees More of
City Life Than He Had
Bargained For

All that day they moved through the streets of New

York, hawking their papers, separating — but always
staying close enough for David to keep an eye on
Les — then joining up again to compare their stories
or get a bit of business advice from Jack.
David observed the ever-changing panorama of the
city with fascination. Drivers snapped their whips,
urging their carriages up and down the avenues. Dar-
ing fellows darted between them, balanced on cycles
with tall front wheels. Nursemaids pushed infants in
perambulators, and messenger boys ran everywhere,
clutching satchels to their chests. Wealthy men
lunched on steak and oysters and ambled back to
their offices, the problems of the world none too
pressing. Once, a bell-clanging fire truck raced by,
pulled by six snow-white stallions. Another time,
David saw a policeman clubbing a man who had sto-
len an apple from a fruit stand. The sight of children

coming home from school with their books in a strap

filledhim with envy, but he kept on hawking his

papers. In time, his feet grew sore and his back began
to ache. Les, he noticed, now had a real sore throat
from all his make-believe coughing, as well as a
slightly green complexion — the result of drinking a

glass of beer, a stunt he had performed in order to

win a quarter from a gambler and sell his last paper.
They had just started on their way home when they
heard somebody shout, "There he is! Officer, arrest
that boy!"
Looking back, David saw a cop in a blue uniform,
with two rows of gold buttons and a gold badge, and
a second man in a black suit and top hat, cadaverous
and hunched over Hke a vulture, standing at the end
The man in the top hat was motioning
of the alley.
toward them with a bony finger and talking excitedly.
"Run for it!" Jack shouted, and took off.

"You, Sullivan! Stop I say," shouted the man in

the top hat, running after them. "Wait'll I get you

back to the Refuge! I'll make you wish you'd never
been born!"
The cop charged along behind him, blowing a silver
whistle that made an ear-spHtting sound and shaking
a billy club in a most menacing way.
My mother was right, David thought, as he chased
^20 :=
frantically after Jack. One day of selling newspapers
and the police are after me. And I don't even know
what I've done!
David and Les caught up with Jack in the next
alley.

"In here," Jack shouted, leading them into the

door of a ramshackle tenement.
A soft amber light penetrated windows coated with
grime. The air stank from cheap liquor and garbage,
and rats shuffled through the shadows. The boys had
to leap over men men in
sleeping on the staircase,
rags who couldn't afford a decent home. When they
reached the first floor, they heard the two men enter
the building. They gasped for breath, and their feet
clattered as they ran up the stairs.
"Hurry," Jack shouted to David and Les, "they're
gaining on us!"
Second floor, third floor, fourth floor. ... At least
Les David thought, glancing back at his
isn't crying,

little brother. He was too scared to cry.

They burst out a door, onto the roof, into the cool,
fresh evening air. David was amazed to see that it
was almost a sort of town settled by the homeless.
Every square foot of the tar paper was covered with
makeshift shelters, tents that were nothing more than
moth-eaten blankets stretched across ropes strung be-
tween chimneys, tin lean-tos, and packing-crate ten-
ements. Women tried to calm their howling babies.
 1= 27*
while men stood over fires burning in garbage cans,
cooking cans of beans, potatoes, and oxtail stew. This
vision of despair froze David in his tracks. He re-

membered something his father often said: "There

but for fortune go I."
"No time for sightseeing," Jack shouted. "Follow
me!"
A narrow wooden plank had been laid across the
chasm between this tenement and the next. Jack
grabbed Les, leapt up on the cornice, and carried
him across the plank as gracefully as a high-wire art-
ist. Les beamed as though it was the best ride of his
life.

"Hurry!" he shouted back to David. "They'll be

here any second!"
"I'm not crossing that thing," David muttered.
He glanced back and saw the cop and the man in

the top hat chmb onto the roof and race toward them,
trampUng shelters and knocking people aside as they
came. That made up his mind.
The breeze picked up when he was halfway across.
Finding the temptation irresistible, David glanced
down. He had no idea he was up so high! The car-
riages looked Uke toys and the people no bigger than
ants. He felt dizzy and began to stagger.
"Look me," Jack ordered.
at

David looked ahead to the next building, where

Jack stood, holding out his hand.
^22 iz=zzziiz=:^:=:^=zizz=:=z:^=iz
"Just a few more steps," Jack said softly, urging
him on.
David reached the roof where Jack and Les were
waiting and jumped down.
"That's the stuff," Jack said, slapping him on the
back.
He pulled away the plank, leaving the man in the

top hat and the cop stranded on the roof of the first

building, cursing and shaking their fists.

"See you 'round," Jack shouted to his pursuers,

saluting them smartly.

In Which Les and David Meet
Medda, the Swedish
Meadowlark

Even when it seemed as though the cop and the man

in the top hat couldn't possibly catch up with them,
Jack kept running. He led the brothers back to the
street, down an alley, and through a door. David and
Les found themselves backstage in a music hall. Flats

of painted scenery hung from a catwalk overhead,

and all sorts of odd props were lying around fake —
palm trees, the bow of a boat, and a flat motorcar.
The and musicians had not yet arrived for the
singers
evening's show, and the stage was silent, abandoned.
A few oil lamps cast a dim, gloomy light. Long shad-
ows weaved and flickered across the stage.
"If anybody finds us here . .
." David said.

"Relax!" Jack said. "It happens that the owner of

this place is a personal friend of mine."
Jack sat down on a sofa, spread his arms and legs,
and gave a big sigh. Les plunked down beside him.
24
''I don't know whether to beheve you or not,"
David said.

"Did I ever He to you?"

"Only when you open your mouth, Mr. Sullivan —
or whatever your name really is. And what about this
Refuge place, anyway?"
"It's a jail for kids," Jack said grimly. "That guy
who was chasing us is Nigel Snyder, the warden."
"You were in jail?" Les said, his eyes wide with
wonder.
"Yeah. I was starving. I stole a loaf of bread. One
lousy loaf of bread. So they threw me in the cHnk.
But I got out."
"How?" David asked.
"A big shot gave me a ride in his carriage."
"The mayor, I suppose."
"Naw. The governor. Teddy Roosevelt. Ever
heard of him?"
David started to reply but stopped when he saw a
tall, imposing woman in an evening gown appear on
the stairs.
"Who is that?" she demanded, trying to see
through the gloom. She spoke in a commanding voice
colored by some kind of high-class accent that David
couldn't quite place. "No one is permitted backstage!
Leave at once! Get out of here! Out, out, out."
She shooed them away as though they were pi-
geons.
 Jack stepped into the circle of light shed by one of
the oil lamps and "You wouldn't kick me
said, out
without a kiss good-bye, would you, Medda?"
"Kelly!" she exclaimed, and threw her arms
around him in a most improper way, unless by chance
she was his mother or his sister — both of which
seemed unhkely. "Where you been?" she went on,
her accent vanishing completely. "I always look for
you up in the balcony. I need somebody to sing my
songs to."
"I been away," Jack said, "but now I'm back. And
these are my business partners, David and Les."
"Hello, boys."
"Hello." David could barely form the word. He
had thought, until now, that women this beautiful

existed only in magazines. The sequins on her dress

sparkled like the Milky Way.
She bent down in front of Les. "Aren't you a cute
one!"
Les beamed up Medda and then tried out his
at

routine for her. "Buy me last pape, lady?" he said,

coughing.
She tilted her head to one side and regarded him
critically. "Not bad. Not bad at all. Speaking as one
professional to another, I'd say you got a future in
the theater, kid."
"Medda is the greatest star of vaudeville today,"
Jack announced. "They call her Miss Medda Lark-
^26 zz
son, the Swedish Meadowlark. And beHeve me, she
sings pretty as a meadowlark. Prettier! Not that I

ever heard a meadowlark. She also owns the joint."

He turned back to her. "Okay if we hang here? Just
till a little problem outside goes away?"

"Stay as long as you like. And now, if you'll excuse

me, the lark must get set to warble."
During the boys' conversation with Medda, the
stagehands had appeared, pushing props into place,
and the air had come alive with the racing scales and
trills of the musicians tuning their instruments down
in the pit. A man passed by carrying a tray of candy,
and Medda told him to give the boys whatever they
wanted.
Les was in heaven.
 In Which the Subject
of Strikes Is Introduced

It was going on eight o'clock by the time the boys

reached the Jacobses' apartment. Jack and David had
been taking turns carrying Les, who had fallen asleep
after eating five strings of licorice, a chocolate bar,

and four feet of dot paper. Jack didn't want to come

inside, but David insisted. After all, they were part-
ners.

At first Esther and Mayer were angry because

David and Les were so late, and they were puzzled
that David would bring home an Irish boy he hardly
knew. But when David emptied his pockets and
Mayer saw the magnificent mountain of coins, his
frown turned to a smile. He even insisted that Jack
join them for dinner.
Jack was unusually quiet during the meal. David
suspected that the presence of his sister, who looked
especially beautiful that night with her long, thick
brown hair and her shining eyes, had left him tongue-
25 =z
tied. He'd noticed that the boys who bragged the most
were often the when girls were around.
shiest

During dinner, Mayer told them of a scene he had

witnessed earlier that day. He had been walking down
the street when he saw a trolley stopped up ahead
and heard men shouting. When he came closer, he
saw that the strikers had set fire to the trolley. He
watched in down the scab con-
horror as they pulled
ductors and beat them. Although Mayer was upset
by the violence, he was also impressed by the strikers'

dedication to their union. If the men at the piano

factory had had a union like that, they probably could
have guaranteed he'd get his job back when his hand
healed.
"What exactly is a 'scab'?" David asked. He knew,
from the way people said it — and he'd heard it said
a great deal lately — that it was something despicable
and that it had to do with strikes, but beyond that
he was in the dark.
"For a strike to succeed," Mayer explained, "all
the workers have to walk out and stay out until the
boss agrees to their demands. Naturally the boss
would rather hire a new bunch of workers than give
up a penny of his profits, so that's the first thing he
tries to do. The new workers are called scabs, and
they are the lowest form of life. They're not very
smart, either. Although they get jobs for themselves,
their wages are lower, and they hurt everybody's
chance of ever having decent working conditions."
After dinner, Mayer made Esther bring out a cake
she had been saving for his birthday the next day. It

was a celebration, he said. His son and his son's new

business partner were a success.
"And this is only the beginning," David said.
"Once I learn the ropes, I'll be making double or
triple ..."
"You'll work only until this blasted hand heals and
I can go back to the factory!" Mayer said.
"Yes, Father," David said quietly.
After dinner, David and Jack went out on the fire

escape for a breath of air. Jack stood on the steel

grating and gazed in the window at Esther singing
Les a lullaby and Sarah reading the paper to Mayer.
The longing in his eyes was unmistakable. David had
always considered his family a pain in the neck, but
now, suddenly, he realized just how lucky he was.
"Why don't you stay here tonight?" he asked.
"No thanks. I got my own place, yousee. But
thanks. Your family's real nice, David. Reminds me
of my own, in fact."

Something about the way that he said it made

David realize that Jack was lying, that he had no
family. But he also saw how important it was for his
friend to have this bit of make-beheve, so he nodded
and went along with it.

"I'd introduce you to them," Jack went on, "but

^30 -
they're out in Santa Fe, looking for a new home for

us. A ranch where we can raise cattle. Soon as they

find it, they're going to send for me and I'll be on

my way."
"I hope it doesn't happen too soon," David said.
"I've got to learn how to be a newsie first."
"Don't worry. I won't go till I teach you every-
thing."
"Time to come in," Mayer called to them.
"Sure you don't want to stay?" David said.
"Naw. See you tomorrow. Carryin' the Banner!"
"Carryin' the Banner," David agreed.
He watched as Jack slipped down the fire escape
ladder, agile as a city squirrel, and jumped to the
pavement. Jack waved, then turned and ran down
the street, from the circle of one street lamp to the
next, and finally into the darkness.
 In Which We Learn More
Regarding Jack's Family

David's guess about Jack had been right. The "home"

he returned to late that night was a rundown lodging
house in a very poor neighborhood that provided a
roof for all the homeless newsies. When he came in

the door, he went to the landlord, Kloppman, and

gave him a nickel of his profits to pay his rent for the
night.

"You missed your supper," Kloppman said.

For a landlord, he wasn't a bad sort. He was old

enough to be the boys' grandfather, and he took care
of them in a grandfatherly way, making sure that they
ate enough, slept enough, and got up early enough
to sell the papers.
"I had a dinner invite, it so happens."
"You?"
"Yeah. With a family," Jack said, and he dashed
up the stairs.

Up in the dormitory. Jack shared his day's adven-

52 —
ture with his newsie pals. They gathered around his

bed and Hstened with envy to the tale of his encounter

with the Jacobs family.
The newsies were a colorful lot, street smart and
savvy, and every one of them had a nickname. There
was Crutchy, who slept in the bunk under Jack's,
walked with a crutch, and was always worrying about
whether he looked as crippled as the newsies who
went around pretending to be crippled. And there
was Racetrack, who puffed big, smelly cigars, carried

around a tote sheet, and lost made

every penny he
betting on horses. And there was Mush, who was
cross-eyed since birth and skinny as a bean pole, with
ears as big as pitcher handles. And there was Specs
who wore spectacles. Kid Blink who wore a patch
over one eye. Boots, Snipeshooter, Skittery, and a
dozen more.
Later that night, when the others were asleep, Jack
a candle in a brass stick and snuck into the wash-
lit

room. There were pumps you worked by hand to

bring up the water and iron basins to wash in. Having
made doubly sure that everybody was asleep, he re-
moved a loose brick from under the last basin and
took out a small box. Within the box was a can that
had once held tobacco and which now held the pit-
tance Jack had saved in the past year. He added the
day's earnings to it and closed the lid tight. He re-
turned the can to the box and removed something
 —
- 33^
else far more precious than money: a photograph
black and white, as all photos were back then — of a
good-looking man and a woman beaming down at a

little boy in a cowboy hat. Not a real cowboy hat of

course, but the kind you buy in the five-and-dime.

That's not the only thing that wasn't real about the
photograph. The background of cacti, desert, and
blue sky was a painted flat provided by a photogra-
pher on the boardwalk at Coney Island, in Brooklyn,

New York. For five cents, anybody could have a west-

ern dream. He'd never admit it to any of the other
newsies, but the peeling paper memory was all that
remained of Jack's mother and father. He sat there,

curled up under the sink, gazing at it with an inde-

scribable sense of longing, while Crutchy, Racetrack,
Mush, and the others rolled restlessly in their beds
and dreamed about selling papers.
In Which an Idea Is Advanced
to Increase Profits

While the newsies slept, others were burning the mid-

night oil high in the golden dome atop the World
Building. They included Jonathan, the chief accoun-
tant of the World; Bunsen, the editor in chief; and
Don Seitz, the business manager. They had been
called together for an emergency meeting by the old
man himself, Joseph Pulitzer, pubhsher of the World,
owner of the World Building, and one of the wealthi-
est and most powerful individuals of the day. The

topic of that night's meeting was the most important

topic of that or any other day: profits.
Pulitzer sat behind his imposing mahogany desk,
a tall, gaunt man with a red beard and mustache, and
blazing eyes. He had been born in Hungary fifty-two
years earlier and, having a sense of adventure, had
come to the United States in 1864 to fight in the Civil
War. Fluent in several languages, after the war Pu-
 "

- 554
litzer became a reporter on a German-language news-
paper published in St. Louis, Missouri. He worked
hisway up through every job on the paper until he
was made editor in chief. In his spare time he studied
law. After a brief stint in poHtics, he began buying
small newspapers, which he would build up, sell, and
then use the profits to buy even bigger newspapers.
In 1883 he decided to take on the biggest newspa-
perman of them all, William Randolph Hearst, and
he came to New York and bought the New York
World and its sister paper, the Banner. By pouring
money into it and steaHng Hearst's best men by of-
fering them huge raises, he tried to make the World
the most successful paper in the world. But it wasn't
so easy. Hearst was a shrewd businessman too. As
soon as he caught on to the game, he used the same
tactics, in turn hiring Pulitzer's best men for even
higher salaries. The costs of the newspaper war
had been high and were the cause for that night's

meeting.
Jonathan, the accountant, was reading a report he
had been preparing all day.
"Actual income," he droned on and on, "as well
as projected income against actual operating costs,
as well as projected operating costs, have produced
a reduced marginality of profit, which in turn
—
"Seitz," Pulitzer bellowed, "what in blazes is he
talking about?"
56 =
"Says you need to make more money, Chief," Seitz
responded.
"Of course I need to make more money! But how,
you bloodless blot? How?"
"I have several proposals," Jonathan went on, un-
disturbed by the outburst. "The first is to increase
the paper's price ..."
"Brilliant," Pulitzer said caustically. "Then Hearst
undersells me and we're in the poorhouse."
"Not the customer price, the price to our distri-

bution apparatus."
"What's he talking about now?" PuHtzer de-
manded of Seitz. "Why can't the man learn to speak
English? I did."
"He's talking about the newsboys," Seitz said. "He
wants to charge them more for their papers."
Pulitzer grew thoughtful.
"An increase of a mere tenth of a cent per paper,"
Jonathan went on, pressing his advantage, "multi-
plied by forty thousand papers a day, seven days a
week ..."
"The newsboys won't stand for it," Seitz said.
"Every one of them will head straight for Hearst."
Pulitzer cleared his throat. "As newspapermen,
William Randolph Hearst and I would sUt each oth-
er's throats. But as gentlemen and businessmen, I
believe that we can come to an agreement on this
matter."
 "You mean you think you can get Hearst to charge
his newsies a tenth of a cent more too?"
"Hearst and every other newspaper pubHsher in

the city," PuHtzer said. "Gentlemen, we have a busy

night ahead of us."
 In WMch the Newsies
Go On Strike

David and Les had been waiting for nearly an hour

in front of the World Building when Jack strode up,
a big grin on his face.

"You're late!" David snapped.

"Aw, don't be mad. It's a beautiful day. And take
a look at that headline!"

He pointed to the huge chalkboards where the men

had written BLOODY BEATINGS IN TROLLEY
STRIKE!!!
"Headlines don't sell papers," David said pee-
vishly, "newsies sell papers."
"It's all your fault," Jack went on, unperturbed.
"If I hadn't eaten so much last night, I wouldn't have
snoozed so late this morning."
"Let's get the papers and get to work," David said.
They grew puzzled as they approached the loading
dock. Mush, Crutchy, Racetrack, Specs, and the
 zz 39^
other newsies were crowding around the counter,
waving their arms and shouting at Weisel. Jack
pushed his way through, with David and Les close
behind him.
"What's going on here?" Jack demanded.
"They raised the price!" Racetrack said.
"Ten cents a hundred!" Mush said. "I can eat for
two days on ten cents."
"This'll bust me," Crutchy said, almost in tears. "I

can barely pay for my room now."

"I'm gonna see about this," Jack said, elbowing
his way to the front of the hne.
Weisel raised an eyebrow. "How many papers you
want,Cowboy?"
"Hundred papes," Jack said. "And a hundred for

my business partners, David and Les."

"Two hundred? That'll be a dollar twenty."
"A dollar twenty?" Jack looked Uke he had just

been struck. "That's sixty a hundred! I ain't paying

no sixty for a hundred!"
"Then move outta the way ..."
"You bet I'll move! I'll move straight over to the
Journal."
"It's the same at the Journal," Racetrack said.
"Yeah, we checked it out," Mush said. "It's the

same everywhere! All them big newspaper publishers

got together and fixed the price. They got us by the
noses."
^40 ^=z
"If you ain't buying papers," Weisel said, "move
out."
Everybody was watching Jack, waiting to see what
he would do. Finally Jack raised his arm and shouted
to them all, "Come on!"
He led the newsies out of the courtyard and into
Newsies Square. The pigeons perched on Horace
Greeley's head gazed down at them in curiosity. The
newsies were talking all at once, Kid Bhnk cursing
out Pulitzer, Racetrack talking about his bad luck,
Mush whining about how they didn't have a choice
and they should go get the papers while they could,
before somebody else took their job.
Jack stood there, Hstening to them and getting
more and more disgusted. Finally he waved his arms
and shouted, "Shut your yaps, all of you! We ain't
going to pay sixty a hundred! And nobody's going to
take away our jobs! We just won't let nobody come
through them gates . . .
," he pointed to the big iron
gates that surrounded the loading dock, "till they put
the price back where it was."
"You're talking about a strike," David said.
The word hung in the still morning air.

Strike.

The sound of it sent shivers down David's spine.

Jack turned around and looked at him like he'd
just solved a difficult puzzle. "Yeah. A strike. That's
exactly what I mean. Nice going, Davy. It's a good
thing one of us has some brains.''

"No, hold on," David said quickly, "I didn't mean

that we should have a strike. We can't. We're not a
union. There's not enough of us. Even if we got every
newsie in New York ..."
"Yeah, we'll get every newsie in New York! That's
the ticket."
"No, I didn't mean . . . Jack, be reasonable. Re-
member what happened to those trolley workers?"
"Another fine idea! Any newsie don't join us, we
soak him just Hke the trolley workers done!"
"We can't behave like hoodlums," David pro-
tested.

But nobody was listening. They were too busy

cheering Jack. They relished the idea of themselves,
poor and powerless, bringing the great publisher, Pu-
litzer, to his knees. Although they were poorly ed-
ucated, they had attended enough Sunday school to
know the story of little David and mighty Goliath.
"Listen to me!" David shouted, climbing up on the
base of the statue so the others could hear and see
him. The pigeons moved away in a flock and settled

in the eaves of the buildings to observe. "We can't

just rush into this. A strike is a dangerous thing.

People lose their jobs. They get hurt. Sometimes they
get killed."
^42
—
"My business partner is right — as usual," Jack
said, climbing up next to David and throwing an arm
around his shoulder. "We've got to think this

through. It's going to be like a war. PuHtzer and

Hearst and all the other rich geezers against us, a
bunch of street rats. Let me tell you, it won't be easy.
They're smart and they're ruthless and they own the
city. What have we got? Just our brains and our guts
and the shirts on our backs. The choice is up to you.
What do we do? Pay the extra ten pennies? Or
strike?"
Kid Blink, Boots, Mush, Crutchy, and the rest of
them looked away. They kicked at clods of earth and
muttered among themselves. None of them seemed
to want to say the word.
David was thinking about the trolley workers, all
beaten and bloody. He thought about the Delancey
brothers and the queer, cruel way they smiled when
they caught a newsie and hurt him. He couldn't say
the word either.
None of them had to, it turned out, because some-
body else did. A small figure stepped forward, raised
his small fist, and shouted it loud and clear.
"Strike!"
Les had spoken for them all. They lifted him to
their shoulders in appreciation of his courage and
carried him around the square, cheering. That little
 z: 43^
fool doesn't know what he's getting us into, David
thought. But at the same time, he felt jealous of
him — and even a Uttle proud.

The turn of the century was a time of more strikes

than just the trolley car workers'. Greedy and ruthless

bosses tried to squeeze every drop of labor out of

their workers in return for starvation wages. Between
1881 and 1900, more than 6 million workers staged
2,378 strikes. Most of these strikes failed. The public
had little sympathy and blamed the annoying inter-
ruption of services on anarchists, sociaUsts, or im-
migrants who were unfamiliar with the American
way.
In 1877, railroad workers struck to protest a ten-
percent cut in wages (the second such cut that year)
that were already skirting the starvation level. The
1877 rail strike was forcibly settled by the National
Guard.
The Pullman strike of 1893 came about after
George Pullman, a tycoon who made luxurious rail-
road cars, reduced the wages of his workers five

times between May and December of that same

year, even though the company had earned 25 mil-
Hon dollars. Once again, the National Guard was
called in.
Not all strikes were started by labor. Steel magnate
^44
Henry Clay Frick instigated the Homestead strike of

1892 to dismantle the union his workers had formed.

Eight thousand National Guardsmen crushed the up-
rising.

And yet men kept striking.

Men . . . and boys too.
 In Which the Newsies Give
Pulitzer One Last Chance

"I don't know any more about strikes than you do,"
David said to the other newsies, who were gathered
around the statue of Horace Greeley in the square,

"but it seems to me that beforewe do anything else,

we've got to let Pulitzer know our demands. We've
got to tell him in person that if he doesn't lower the
price of papers, er, I mean papes, back to fifty cents
a hundred, we're going to have to strike. It's not
something that we want to do, but we're going to do
it nonetheless. If we go on strike without warning
him first, well, it's Hke taking a poke at a fellow when
he doesn't even know you're mad at him."
The newsies decided that David was right. Even
though they had no love for Puhtzer, it was simply
fair and just to tell him what they were going to do

and to give him an opportunity to worm out.

Since Jack was unofficial head of the newsies, it

was his job to approach the old man. Who else had
^46
—
the nerve to enter the great bronze doors of the World
Building, dressed in rags, and demand an audience
with the great pubHsher? After a moment's reflection,
Jack decided to bring Les along in the beHef that if

he performed his consumptive cough a few times, it

might melt PuHtzer's legendary icy heart.

They got as far as the front desk. "Nobody sees
Mr. Pulitzer without an appointment," they were in-

formed by a man in spectacles. When Jack refused

to leave until he had been heard, a guard dragged
him to the door, suspended him by his shirt collar,
and ejected him by applying the toe of his boot to
Jack's rear end.
Jack found himself lying beside Les in the gutter.

As he started to get up, a gentleman with craggy

featuresand slicked-back hair offered him a hand.
He was wearing a vest, striped shirt, and stiff collar
and had a kind, inteUigent look about him. Jack had
noticed the man watching him earlier that day but
hadn't attached any importance to it.

The man turned out to be Bryan Denton, a reporter

for the A^^vv York Sun, a rival newspaper to the

World. Since it was about noon, Denton invited Jack,

David, and Les to have lunch with him at Tibby's, a
restaurant on lower Broadway frequented by mem-
bers of the press. He was intrigued by these newsboys
who weren't afraid of facing old Pulitzer face-to-
face — and curious about their mission.
 — 474
"So what exactly happened in there?" Denton
asked, when they were comfortably seated at a table
heaped with sandwiches and tall glasses of sarsapa-
rilla.

"Old man Pulitzer wouldn't Hsten to our de-

mands," Jack said, through a mouthful of corned
beef. "Some snooty mug gave us the boot!"
"Yeah," said Les, dusting off his knickers in imi-

tation of Jack. "He gave us the boot!"

"Said, 'You cawn't see Mistah Pyoo-litzer, no one
sees Mistah Pyoo-litzer,' real hoity-toity, like."
"Yeah," said Les, "real hoity-toity, Hke."

"He doesn't talk to newsboys," the man said.

"Oh yeah?" Jack said. "Well I ain't just a newsie.
I'm leader of this strike."

"Strike? Who's striking?"

"I guess we are," David said uncertainly.
"Hold on, Davy," Jack said. "Maybe we shouldn't
be talking to this guy so free and easy, hke. Maybe
he's one of Pulitzer's stooges."
"I assure you, I don't work for Joe Pulitzer. As a
matter of fact, I'm with the competition. Bryan Den-
ton, New York Sun."
Jack and David introduced themselves. They told
Denton how, without explanation or warning, their
profits had been cut, even though they could hardly

survive on the few cents they'd made before. David

talked about his father's accident and how he and
^48
Les had to support the family by themselves. As they
spoke, Denton took a pad from his inside pocket and
began to jot down notes. When they were done, he
put away his pad and handed them a business card.
"This is where I work," he said. "I want you to
keep in contact with me. Let me know everything
that happens."
"You make it sound like this is something impor-
tant," David said.

"Only history can be the judge of that. Just re-

member that big changes are often wrought by little

people. Our country wouldn't be what it is today if

it hadn't been for a few angry farmers who refused

to buckle under to the king and queen of England."
 In Which the Boys
Go to Brooklyn

It was decided that ambassadors would go to every

part of New York to spread the word that the newsies
were on strike and to make it known that no scabbing
would be tolerated. Kid Blink volunteered to take
Harlem; Racetrack said he'd be comfortable with
Times Square; Crutchy, the Bronx; Mush, the Bow-
ery; Pie Eater and Snotty, the East Side; Specs and
Skittery, Queens. Only when it came to the borough
of Brooklyn did they all grow silent.

"What's the matter?" Jack demanded of them.

"You scared of Brooklyn?"
"We ain't scared of Brooklyn," Boots volunteered,
"but that Spot Conlon makes us a Httle nervous."
Spot Conlon's toughness was legendary.
"Well, he don't make me nervous. You and me,
Boots, we'll take Brooklyn. Davy will come along
for company."
50 =
"What about me?" Les demanded, crumbling.
"Can't I come too?"
Jack kneeled down next to him and shook his head.
"Sorry, kid, but you better stay here. You never
know what's going to happen in Brooklyn. Especially
when you're dealing with Spot Conlon." He brushed
a lock of hair out of Les's eyes. "Cheer up. We'll tell

you all about it when we get back."

'7/ we get back," Boots muttered.
At dawn, Jack, David, and Boots hiked across the
span of steel and cable that Hnked Brooklyn with
Manhattan. With the sun rising behind it, turning the
sky purple and crimson, the Brooklyn Bridge resem-
bled a great harp misplaced by a careless angel.
"I've never been to Brooklyn before," David whis-
pered.
"I spent a month there one night," Boots replied.
"This Spot Conlon," David began, "is he as bad
as they say?"

Jack and Boots looked at each other and started

to laugh. David kept his mouth shut after that.
It was nearly Hght by the time they reached the old
pier. A sign read Brooklyn Excursions Closed. The—
only sound besides the waves lapping against the pil-

ings was the plaintive moan of a harmonica. As Da-

vid's eyes adjusted to the dim light beneath the pier,
he could make out the forms of boys appearing from
behind the abandoned junk, the rusting stoves, car-
 zz 51^
riage wheels, and bed frames. Boys fell silently into
step behind them and on either side of them. He had
thought Jack and his friends were a tough lot, but
these boys looked Hke they could pull out iron nails
with their teeth. His first impulse was to run, but he
knew better. In the presence of wild dogs, he had
heard, one did not display fear, so he devoted all his

concentration to maintaining an outward appearance

of calm.
The boys accompanied them to a place under the
pier, where the soft ground went squoosh underfoot
and the air stank of rotting fish. Blades of sunhght
slipped in between the cracks in the boards overhead,
striping the sand. Suddenly the harmonica playing
stopped, and just as suddenly a figure stepped out
from behind a rotting timber. He was a boy Jack's
age, a red-haired, freckled gnome in a bowler hat a
size too small for him.
"As I live and breathe," he said with a grin, "it's

Cowboy Jack."
"Glad to see you're moving up in the world," Jack
said, casing the dark cave beneath the pier. "Got an
ocean view and everything."
"Heh, heh, heh. Very entertaining, Jack. Very en-
tertaining." He snapped his fingers and a boy rushed
to put a cigar in his hand. Spot placed it in his mouth
and another boy rushed to Hght it. "You coming
here — it wouldn't have nothing to do with a certain
^52 =1
piece of stupidity I heard, about a newsie strike?"
"There's nothing stupid about what we're doing!"
David blurted out, and regretted it immediately.
Spot turned to him, as though seeing him for the
first "Who's this? Your mouthpiece?"
time.
"He's a mouth with a brain," Jack said, "and if
you know what's good for you, you'll listen to him."
He turned to Davy and said, "Tell him, Davy. Tell
him why we're striking."
Spot Conlon's boys were closing in around David
Hke a pack of jackals. Several of them, he noticed,
carried sand-filled socks in their back pockets, weap-
ons that could raise a nasty bruise.
"It seems tome," David began hesitantly, "that
we're a lot more important than we think. Without
newsies, people don't get their newspapers. Papes,
that is. Without newsies, PuUtzer and Hearst and the
other publishers are out of business. We're an indis-
pensable part of the distribution system."
"What's that mean?" Spot demanded.
"Means that without us they're up the creek,"
Boots muttered.
"Well, that's for sure," Spot agreed.
Jack took over. "The thing about a strike is this:

It don't work unless every newsie joins in."

"I'm my own boss," Spot said. "I do what I want
and makes my own rules."
 "Sure you do," David said. "Everybody knows
that. And that's why they all say, 'What's Spot Con-
Ion going to do? If Spot Conlon's in on it, well then,
"
you can count me in too.'

"People say that?" Spot smiled and puffed up his

chest.

"After all," David went on, delighted to have

found an opening, "Spot Conlon is the most re-
spected and famous newsie in New York City, and
probably all of the Eastern hemisphere."
"Eastern hemi . . .
?" Spot said. "Where's that?"
"South of Jersey," Boots whispered.
"Oh yeah," Spot said.
"You see," David went on, "when people get or-
ganized and work together for the good of everybody,
they can do just about anything. There's no stopping
them. And that's why we need your support. Spot.
If Spot Conlon joins the strike, everybody else will

too. You're the man who makes or breaks us."

"You're right," Spot said to Jack. "The guy's got
brains. But I got brains too — enough to see where
this plan could go down the toilet. How do I know
you punks won't run the first time some goon comes
at you, swinging a club? How do I know you're in it

to win?"
"We'll stick it out," Jack said.
"How do I know?" Spot said.
^54 =
" 'Cause I'm telling you," Jack said.

"Not good enough, Cowboy. You've got to show

me. Convince me this strike ain't just some do-or-
dare kid stuff and then we'll talk."
And, without another word, he turned his back on
them and sauntered away.
 In WMch Vegetables
Are Thrown
and Newspapers Shredded

Since the newsies, the management of the World, and

just about everybody else disagreed about exactly
what happened the first day of the strike, it may be
best to turn to the account that Bryan Denton wrote
for the New York Sun:

NEWSBOYS CATCH STRIKE

FEVER
Incensed by Price Increase, They
Express
Themselves with Rotten Fruit &
Vegetables

Things Start Slow but Soon

Come to a Boil

You may not have heard, but the

newsboys are going on strike be-
cause the World would not reduce
its price from 60 to 50 cents per

hundred.
^56
The strike was off to a slow start
this morning. A Newsies
visitor to
Square would hardly suspect that a
crisis was at hand. The scene was

more reminiscent of youths playing

hooky from school. Newsboys
lounged around the statue of Hor-
ace Greeley, shooting marbles,
swinging sticks at balls, and rolling
their hoops.
Their spirits had been dampened
by the recent news that "Spot" Con-
Ion, the leader of the large and
vocal Brooklyn contingent, would
not be supporting their effort. Sev-
eral of the newsboys were over-
heard questioning the wisdom of
their plan in light of this revelation.
Only one little fellow, "Crutchy,"
was involved in painting a large car-
icature of Joseph Pulitzer on an old
bed sheet. As soon as he was done,
the plucky fellow raised the banner
and began to hobble around the
square, leaning on his crutch.
Next a young man named David
Jacobs stood up on the base of the
statue of Horace Greeley and, ap-
pearing to borrow eloquence from
his proximity to that famous patriot
and orator, gave a stirring speech.
Many of the newsboys, inspired
by hiswords, joined the lonely
Crutchy, and in no time a parade
 57^
had formed. Anxious faces could be
seen peeking from behind the
bhnds of the World Building.
But the real mayhem began
when the tall gates of the World
Building swung open and five
horse-drawn wagons appeared,
loaded down with bundled papers.
Private guards (among them a pair
well-known to the newsboys as the
"Delancey brothers") armed with
clubs, accompanied the wagons,
and behind them came a fearful-
looking crowd of scab newsboys.
Suddenly a platoon of striking
newsboys began pelting the guards
with rotten eggs and tomatoes,
which produce there had not been
a trace of moments earlier. A sec-
ond platoon leapt upon the wagons
and began tearing up the bundled
newspapers and hurling them to the
street.
Meanwhile, the previously men-
tioned David Jacobs ran among the
scab newsboys, exhorting them to
"throw down your papers and join
the strike!" Many of them, moved
by his formidable oratorical powers,
did just that.
Soon the air was a blizzard of
shredded newspapers, but visibility
was not so poor that the newsboys
were prevented from seeing the po-
55
lice, who galloped in on their horses
to restore order.
The newsboys vanished in short
order, with the exception of
Crutchy, who, on account of his bad
leg, was apprehended.
 In Which Pulitzer

Begins to Lose Patience

High in the golden dome atop the World Building,

Joseph Pulitzer gazed out the window at the janitorial

staff sweeping the streets clean of shredded news-

papers. Directly below him, he could barely make
out a vicious caricature of himself painted on an old
bed sheet, and the sight of it filled him with fury.

"I want this stopped," he muttered through

clenched teeth.
"We're doing everything within our power, Chief,"
murmured Seitz, his business manager.
"Well, it's not enough," Pulitzer said, spinning
around and banging his fist on the desk.
"One thought occurs to me ..."
"Yes? What is it?"
"You know Weisel, who sells the papers to the
boys? He knows them better than anybody else. He
might be able to suggest a way of deahng with them."
"Get him in here," Pulitzer ordered.
^60 —
Weisel arrived in minutes, short of breath. He had
never been called up to the golden dome before, and
he felt as though he were visiting God in heaven. He
toadied up to Puhtzer, comphmenting him on his
office, his suit, his publishing successes.
When Pulitzer could stand no more, he cut him
off.

"The issue is this newsboy strike. Seitz thinks you

might have some ideas about how to put a stop to it,

knowing the newsboys as you do."

"Oh, I know them all right," he rephed, rubbing
his hands together. "They're a most disrespectful
bunch. They call me . . . but no matter. I can take
care of them, Yes indeed I can. You give
all right.

me the means, Mr. Puhtzer, and I'll put an end to

your troubles."
"Give him whatever 'means' he requires," Puhtzer
said. "I want this over and done with!"
Jack Kelly (third from right), with a group of New York "newsies.'

A New York City street, circa 1899.

Jack Kelly and David Jacobs hit the streets with their "papes."

Davids little brother, Les — a "natural-born newsie," according

to Jack.
Jack meets Mayer and Esther Jacobs.

Joseph Pulitzer, newspaper publisher, raises the price the newsies pay
for their papers.
H :
1
Jack tries to get fellow newsie Crutchy out of the Refuge.
The newspaper fights back — with bats and chains — against the
striking newsies.

Jack spends the night on the Jacobses' fire escape, where David's
sister, Sarah, finds him the next morning.
The Delancey brothers want to find David. They try to bully Sarah
into telling them where he is.

The newsies overturn the price hike! A triumphant Jack gets a ride
with none other than Governor Teddy Roosevelt!
 In Which Jack and David
Try to Rescue a Friend

The House of Refuge was a four-story building of

gray brick, down by the waterfront. What gave it a
truly mournful air, however, was not the awful gar-
goyles that decorated the roof or the mist coming off
Hudson Bay or the foghorns calhng to each other like
lost souls but rather the iron bars across every win-
dow. During the day, little faces could be seen
pressed against the bars' rough surface, peering out
for a ghmpse of the sun. At night they became ab-
stract patterns of cruelty.

David was terrified. He feared that at any moment

he would feel the grip of a grown-up hand and find
himself staring up into the face of a pohceman, or
"bull," as Jack liked to call them. How would he ever
explain this to his parents? David, the adult one, the
responsible one, caught by the pohce trying to spring
a boy from the House of Refuge! He would never
live down the shame of it.
^62 =:
But Jack, who had spent six months of his hfe here,
seemed right at home. He moved bHthely through
the shadows, silent as a whisper, a coiled rope and a
railroad spike stuck in his belt.
Wasn't he ever scared of anything?
Just as David had feared, a poHceman appeared,
swinging his nightstick and whistHng "Daisy."
The boys froze in their steps. When the whisthng
faded from hearing, they resumed their mission.
"How do you know Crutchy's in here?" David
asked.
"That's how the system works," Jack said. "An
orphan gets arrested, they send him here to get 're-

habilitated.' The more kids in the Refuge, the more

money the city donates to take care of 'em, and the
more Snyder can steal. Crutchy's here, all right."
Jack took the rope out of his belt, made a lasso,
swung it around his head a few times, and let it fly.

It soared effortlessly to the roof of the Refuge and

encircled a brick chimney. David's jaw fell open in

astonishment. He had read accounts of cowboys rop-

ing calves, but never had he seen anyone actually
perform a rope trick. The fact that it was done under
such stressful circumstances made it all the more won-
derful.

Jack tugged on the rope, cinching it tight. He

looked around and, seeing that the coast was clear,
started to climb up the outside of the building, like
a mountain cHmber. David dried the sweat from his
palms and followed him.
When they reached the roof, Jack secured the other
end of the rope to his waist and instructed David to
let him down slowly until he was parallel to the win-
dow just below them. David did as he was told, letting
out the rope slowly and carefully.
When Jack reached the window, he tapped softly
on the pane again and again. Finally a Httle boy's

face appeared. He was no more than nine and was

pale and emaciated. His face lit up with pleasure
when he saw who his visitor was.

"Cowboy! You got homesick for the place?"

"How areyou, Tenpin? I'm looking for a new boy,
Crutchy by name ..."
"The gimp? I'll get him."
A moment later, Crutchy appeared at the window.
He saw Jack swinging in front of him and could hardly
keep from laughing out loud.
"What are you hanging around here for?" he
asked.
"We're busting you out," Jack said matter-of-
factly. He pulled the railroad spike out of his belt
and started to pry away at the bars. A distant whis-
thng reminded them of the policeman down below,
walking his beat.
 —
^64
"Listen, Jack," Crutchy said. "The Delanceys
worked me over a little . . . truth is, I ain't walking
so good."
"You can't walk, we'll carry you."
"No! I don't want nobody carrying me! Never! It

ain't so bad here, Jack. I get three squares a day

sort of. And there's some They still talk
swell fellas.
about how you rode out of here on Teddy Roosevelt's
coach." He heard something and hissed, "Cheezit,
it's Snyder."
Crutchy got back to his bed just before Snyder
entered the dormitory. Snyder was wearing a night-
shirt and a sleeping cap and carrying an oil lamp. He
walked back and forth along the rows of beds, shining
his lamp in every boy's face. Then he went to the
window and peered out. He saw nothing, for Jack
had managed to swing back from the window and
onto the ledge beside it. No sooner had he turned
around than Jack came swinging back, sticking out
his tongue and contorting his face in a most horrible
manner. The spectacle was so funny that some of the
little boys, who had opened an eye to watch, could
scarcely contain their laughter.

"Crutchy won't last long in there," Jack told David

as they were walking home. "I've seen stronger guys
not make it."
 = 65^
"Did you really escape in Teddy Roosevelt's car-
riage?"
"I told you I did, didn't I? Actually, I was on top
of it, holding on for my life."

"What was he doing at the Refuge?"

"Running for governor. Showing how much he loved
the kiddies, so as to get another couple of votes."
"How could he let the Refuge exist once he'd seen
what a dreadful place it was?"
"When he came, the place looked okay. Snyder
cleaned everything up, put extra blankets on the
beds, and filled our plates with fresh stew. Snyder
showed him all the things that the city pays for that
he usually steals. He said if anybody squealed on him,
he'd beat 'em to within an inch of their fife."
"If Teddy Roosevelt knew what that place was
really Hke, he'd close it down in a second," said
David. "He's a hero!"
"Last year he was a hero," said Jack. "This year
he's a pohtician."

Actually, Theodore Roosevelt was a hero and a pol-

itician. He was also a showman, a big game hunter,

a lover of the outdoors, and a champion of the com-

mon man. He had a gruff and endearing manner.
With his long mustache, big front teeth, and full side-
burns, he resembled a cultured walrus.
66 z
Teddy was born into a prosperous and distin-

guished family and attended the very best schools.

At the time of the newsboy strike, he was 41 years
old and had already graduated law school, served in
the New York State legislature, and hved as a cattle
rancher in the Dakota Territory.
Returning to politics, he worked his way up to
assistant secretary of the navy, then resigned to or-

ganize a volunteer regiment to fight in the Spanish-

American War. The Rough Riders, they were called,
and clever publicity on the part of certain newspapers
made them heroes in the minds of the American pub-
lic. The image of Teddy Roosevelt leading the charge

up San Juan Hill with raised saber inspired pride in

many American hearts.
When he returned to the United States, Roosevelt
was elected governor of New York, and that was the
position he held when he inadvertently helped Cow-
boy Jack sneak out of the House of Refuge. Later
he would become president of the United States,
passing many important bills to protect the environ-
ment and the consumer and regulate big business.
But as far as most children are concerned, his most
important act was to lend his name to a httle cloth
bear fashioned after a real bear whose life Roosevelt
had spared during a hunting trip in Mississippi — the
Teddy Bear.
In Wliich the Newsboy Strike

Enters Its Second Day and

Spot Conlon Is Again
Encountered
THE CHILDREN'S CRUSADE
The second day of the newsboy
strikebegan as scores of scab youth
marched into Newsies Square,
clutching their newspapers and
looking more than a little appre-
hensive.
The striking newsboys, who were
waiting for them in force, exhorted
them to throw down their newspa-
pers and join the strike. Although a
few refrained, the majority did so
gladly and were greeted with cheers
and open arms.
But just when the newsboys
thought that they had gained the
upper hand, a wagon came thun-
dering from behind the World
Building, and in its wake there ap-
peared an army of thugs and low-
lifes, armed with chains and clubs.

Battles broke out all over the

65
square, with courageous newsboys
going fist-to-fist with the World's
adult mercenaries. Among those
identified in the melee were strike
leaders Jack Kelly and David Ja-
cobs, holding their own against men
who far surpassed them in weight,
strength, and street-fighting expe-
rience.
It soon appeared as though the
World's mercenaries had the ad-
vantage. They encircled the news-
boys and started to close ranks.
Then, to the newsboys' delight, the
mercenaries began to slap them-
selves and dance about as though
they had stepped into a hornet's
nest.
The solution to this mystery
could be found atop the rooftops
surrounding the square. There, a
whole new battalion of boys had ap-
peared, led by a short, freckled fel-
low wearing a derby, and armed
with slingshots. Firing with un-
canny aim, they rained down upon
the World's mercenaries an endless
barrage of pebbles and stones. Soon
the thugs could take no more. Out-
done by these rooftop Davids, the
sorry Goliaths retreated to behind
the tall iron gates of the World
Building.
The freckled fellow in the derby
 69^
turned out to be a certain "Spot"
Conlon of Brooklyn, New York, Ap-
parently, an earlier attempt by the
strike to enlist his aid had been re-
buffed.
"I wanted to see if they had the
stuff to stick it out," Conlon said.
"Now that I see they do, me and
my boys is going to join 'em. With
Brooklyn in the strike, there's no
stopping us!"
Conlon and Kelly cemented their
partnership by enthusiastically
spitting on their palms and then
shaking hands, apparently a news-
boy tradition.
 —

Which the Newsies

In
Are Treated to a Fancy Lunch

Bryan Denton's article appeared on the first page of

the New York Sun, along with a double-column cut
a big portrait of the more prominent newsies, drawn
by an artist who was specifically employed by the Sun
for his hghtning-fast sketching skills. To celebrate
their success, Denton invited all the boys to lunch at
Tibby's.
The newsies — including Spot Conlon, who clearly
considered himself the hero of the day — were seated
at a long table, and each one was presented with a
copy of the paper, all the cold-cut sandwiches they
could eat, all the sarsaparilla they could drink, and
an unlimited supply of pickles and coleslaw. For many
of them, it was the first time in their lives that there
was enough food to fill their belhes, and they ate
accordingly.
David and Les wrapped food in napkins and hid it

in their pockets and shirts so they could take it home

 HZ 77

to their family. Denton, noticing but not wishing to

embarrass them, said nothing. He had been poor
once himself and understood how it felt to worry
about where the next meal was coming from.
If one thing marred the happiness and excitement
of the meal, it was the absence of Crutchy, still locked
up in the children's Refuge. They drank a toast to
him, and Jack vowed that he would free him, some-
how, within the week. Most of the rest of the meal
was spent on congratulations — Denton congratulat-
ing the newsies, the newsies congratulating Denton,
and everybody congratulating themselves, until fi-

nally David rose and put a stop to it.

"If we're going to keep this strike going, we'll need

a strike fund," he said.
"Some of you guys could make up collection
boxes," Mush said, "and we'll put 'em all over town."
Several boys got right to work.
"Now there's another problem," David went on.
"Denton's paper, the Sun, is the only one that's been
carrying news of our strike."
"Yeah," Jack said. "We got to do something so
big thatnobody can ignore it."
"Like what?" Racetrack asked.
They all fell to thinking.
"I've got it!" said Jack. "We'll have a rally! The
biggest, noisiest blowout this town's ever seen! It'll

be a message to the big boys: There's a lot of us and

^72 =:
we ain't going away. We'll fight till doomsday to get

our fair share!"

"Where will you hold it?" Denton asked.
"I know just the place," Jack said. "All I got to
do is convince a certain Swedish songbird I

know ..."
David noticed that all the children who worked in

the restaurant had stopped their chores and were

listening, as though hypnotized. When Jack finished,
one of them began to cheer. A hand grabbed the
httle fellow by the shoulder and yanked him back
into the kitchen.
At the other side of the room, the restaurant man-
ager scowled.

At the time of our was nothing unusual

story, there
about restaurants employing children. Nearly two
million children in the United States, some as young
as seven, were working full-time, and this figure,

large as it was, did not include those employed as

messengers, shoeshine boys, street vendors, or news-
boys Hke Jack and David.
What was life like for child laborers? They woke
up at five or six in the morning, ate some porridge
or bread, and walked to work in the dark, even in

storms or freezing rain. They worked in the mills, the

tobacco fields, the canneries, restaurants, mines, and
meat-packing plants, twelve to fourteen hours a day,
 - 73^
for a wage of twenty-five cents. Often they had to
stand on boxes to reach the machines they were op-
erating, and if they fell asleep, they might be awak-
ened by a foreman throwing a bucket of cold water
over their heads. Accidents were common. The law
said children had to attend school for at least fourteen
weeks a year, but people ignored the rule and there
were few inspectors to enforce it. At night, children
were so tired that they would fall asleep while eating
their dinner.
 In Which Nigel Snyder
Rcks Up Jack's Trail

The newsies weren't the only ones examining the

front-page illustration in the Sun that afternoon.
Down at the waterfront, in the gloomy place known
as the House of Refuge, Nigel Snyder was sitting in

his office, inspecting the picture with a magnifying

glass. He had recognized one of the faces in the il-

boy who had humil-

lustration as Francis Sullivan, a
iated him by escaping from the Refuge on top of the
carriage of Theodore Roosevelt. Snyder had vowed
to put him back behind bars forever. But how to find
him?
The boy was using a false name, of that Snyder
was certain.
Snyder had combed the city for him, looking every-
where that an orphan might find shelter. Not long
ago he had come across Sullivan entirely by chance
— —
and had chased and nearly captured him. But at
the last instant, the boy had gotten away by crossing
 zz 75^
a bridge of boards connecting two rooftops and then
knocking the boards away before Snyder could fol-

low.
Now, thanks to this picture, he knew the boy was
a newsie and involved in the strike. If only he knew
his name and where he was living!

Crutchy had been honored with the chance to dust

the office that day and was circulating around the
desk with his feather duster when he happened to
glance over Snyder's shoulder and see the illustration.
"Hey, look!" he exclaimed. "It's Jack Kelly. And
he looks just like his-self!"

Snyder turned his vultureHke features toward the

boy.
"You know this boy?"
"Him?" Crutchy instantly realized his mistake.
"Naw, I don't know him. He looks like my cousin,
but now that I inspect the photo closer, I see there's
really no likeness at all. They're different as peas and
potatoes. Well, better get back to my dusting. Want
to get this office spick-and-span."

Despite Crutchy 's attempts to cover his mistake,

the sparkle in Snyder's eye showed that the damage
had been done.

When Jack and David got to Irving Hall, the show

was already in progress. The audience watched, en-
tranced, while a man in white tights rode a unicycle
 ^76
—
around the stage, juggling four pie plates while bal-
ancing a on a pole on his nose.
fifth

The newsboys bluffed their way backstage and

found Medda standing in the wings, wearing one of
her fabulous feather-and-sequin gowns and waiting
to go on. They explained quickly that they wanted
to rent her theater for a rally that would bring the
cause of the newsboys to everybody's attention, a
rally so big the other newspapers couldn't ignore it.

Medda hesitated. "Darlings, you know that I love

you, and I support your strike and wish you all the
luck in the world. But I'm not running a union hall.
This is a theater, a temple of art."
"We got money," Jack said. "It ain't a lot, but it's
something."
"We'll take a collection at the door," David said.
"We'll pay whatever you want."
"It's not the money," Medda said. "I depend on
the papers for my business. As long as they give me
rave reviews, the theater is full and I can enjoy life.

But a few bad reviews and poor Medda will be on a

tramp steamer back to Sweden."
"You're scared of them too," David said with sur-
prise and not a httle disappointment.
"And well I should be," Medda said. "Once it is

written in a newspaper, everyone believes it, even if

life itself shows the facts to be otherwise. If the World

 77^
says that I am a tone-deaf magpie, people will cover
their ears even if I sing as sweet as a nightingale.
They have the power to destroy people. Beheve me,
I have seen it."

"They can't destroy us," David said, "because

we're right, and the truth always wins out."
"You are so very young," Medda said softly, brush-
ing a lock of hair back from David's face. "But you
must excuse me. It's time for my number."
David's heart sank.
She took a step toward the stage, then turned back
to them. "Schedule it for a Monday night, boys.

That's when the theater is dark."

In the lobby of Kloppman's rooming house, the

newsies were lettering posters and handbills, an-
nouncing the strike rally that was to be held at Irving

Hall that Monday. They were so intent on their work

that they failed to notice a sinister form in a black

suitand top hat enter the boardinghouse, make his

way to the counter where Kloppman worked, and
leafthrough the register where he kept the names of
the boarders. Who knows how long he might have
kept at it if Kloppman himself hadn't appeared?
"What are you doing back there at my register?"
Kloppman demanded angrily.
"Looking for a lad named Jack Kelly," Nigel Sny-
 78

der replied. "I have reason to believe that he is an

unrepentant criminal, an escaped prisoner, and a
danger to society."
Kloppman gazed at him a long time and then shook
his head. "Nobody here by that name."

"Perhaps one of the boys knows of him," Snyder

said, turning to the newsies, who had ceased work

and were watching him suspiciously. "There's a re-

ward for the one who can lead me to Jack Kelly."
He peeled a ten-dollar bill from a money roll and
waved it under their noses. Ten dollars. It was a
month's income and more.
"Unusual name for these parts," Snipeshooter
said.

"Knew a Jack Somebody once," Skittery said.

"Probably not the same guy."
"Weren't he the fellow with the mole on his

cheek?" Mush said. "And the cauHflower ear and the

busted nose?"
As they were speaking, Snyder picked up one of
the leaflets and examined it with interest.
Racetrack, noticing his interest, approached him
with a collection box made out of a cracker box and
said, "Give to the newsies strike fund, mister?"
Snyder smiled and dropped in a penny.
 —
79^

RALLY AGAINST PULITZER

— Support the Newsboy Strike

Monday Night, 8:00 p.m., Irving Hall

AAAAAAAAAA
Get the Real Lowdown on the Newsboy Strike

The Most Sensational Event in New York History III

***

Special Added Attraction!!!

~~ Medda Larkson the Swedish Meadowlark
May Sing
 In WMch Jack and Sarah
Go to the Roof

Some mornings, Sarah Jacobs, David's sister, would

wake early to watch the sunrise and reflect on her
Ufe. She didn't set an alarm clock. She simply whis-
pered to herself, as she was faUing asleep, how nice
it would be to see the sunrise, and a built-in clock
would wake her at just the right time.

Soon her father and brothers would be up, and she

would have to help Esther prepare their breakfast
and clean up. Then there would be the piecework all
day long, stitching lace so fine it made your eyes ache,
shopping for groceries, making dinner, more cleaning
up, and putting the boys to bed. By the day's end
she was so exhausted that she could do little more
than stagger to her bed. No sooner did her head touch
the pillow than she was asleep.
But now she was wide awake, all alone, with no
responsibilities, free to let her mind wander where it

would. No wonder it was her favorite time of day.

 zz 81^
She opened the window and took a deep breath of
the sweet morning air. Then she started with surprise
because there, huddled in the corner of the fire es-

cape, was Jack, watching her with that look of amuse-

ment he often assumed.
"Morning," he said.
He looked exhausted.
"Have you been there all night?" she asked.
He nodded.
"You're not in trouble with the police, are you?"
she asked with concern.
"Not exactly. A man named Snyder is looking for
me. I've got to lay low for a while."
"You should have woken me up. You could have
slept on the couch."
"Didn't want to disturb nobody."
"I'll bring you some breakfast. Meet me up on the
roof."
A few minutes later she arrived on the roof, wear-
ing a shawl over her nightgown and carrying a few
thick slices of bread and a bottle of milk. Jack sat on
the stone cornice, eating ravenously. Beyond him,
boats and barges drifted slowly down the East River,
bound for points unknown. The sky was delicate as
a watercolor, streaked with oranges and purples.
"Poppa's so proud of you and David," she said.

"He tells everybody about Jack Kelly, the strike

leader who occasionally takes his meals with us. He

52 =
says if the piano workers had a union, he wouldn't
be out of work now. He's been talking about trying
to organize them. I can't remember when I've seen
him so excited."
"This is one strike leader," Jack said between
mouthfuls, "who'll be glad when it's over. Then I'm
bound for Sante Fe. Nothing to keep me here any-
more. You ought to see it. Everything's bigger out
there. The sky, the desert . . . even the sun."
"It's the same sun that shines here," Sarah said.
She didn't know why, but suddenly she felt sad and
angry with him. Ever since the evening David brought
him home for dinner, every day had been filled with
excitement. Now he was talking about going away.
She didn't want to think about it. "I have to get ready
for work," she announced.
Jack realized, with a flood of emotions so complex
that he couldn't begin to sort them out, that she didn't
want him to go. He couldn't believe it, because he
felt so unworthy of any kind of love. Without even
realizingwhat he was doing, he took her hand and
turned her around to face him. Her hair, he noticed,
was gathered in a loose chignon, with strands coming
free around her neck, and her skin was as fine as
porcelain.
"Sarah," he began uncertainly, "I ain't used to
having people care whether I stay or go . .
."

Sarah's eyes lingered on Jack's face. She kissed him

quickly, then broke off. Jack watched, dumbfounded,
as she disappeared through the door that led down

to her apartment. He gazed at the piece of bread in

his hand as though he had never seen such a thing

before and then tossed it to a pigeon that had landed
near his left foot.
 In Which Joseph Pulitzer
Exerts the Power of the Press

Joseph Pulitzer found himself in the company of the

august — and the less august — that afternoon. Among
the august were Police Chief Devery and Mayor Van
Wyck himself. Among the less august was Nigel Sny-
der, who, not daring to raise his voice or otherwise
assert his presence in the company of such greatness,
sat quietly and humbly in the corner, his knees
pressed together, his fingers folded.
Each of these men held a copy of a leaflet adver-
tising a newsboy rally that promised to be The Most

Sensational Event in New York History, and as their

meeting wore on, they proceeded, without quite
knowing that they were doing it, to twist, tear, and
drip sweat on these leaflets until soon they resembled
nothing so much as a field hand's handkerchief at the
end of a day of hard labor.
"Of course the city is very concerned that this event
doesn't get out of hand," Mayor Van Wyck was re-
 "

assuring Mr. Pulitzer, "but we can't just run in and

break it up, can we, Devery?"
"Not without some legal cause," the police chief
agreed. "What they do inside Irving Hall, that's their
business."
"Suppose," Pulitzer went on, "that you found that
the boy who is masterminding this rally — and the
whole strike for that matter — is an escaped convict.
You could break up the rally in order to arrest him,
couldn't you?"
"So as to make an example of him?" Chief Devery
asked.
"Precisely," PuHtzer said. "Snyder, tell the mayor
and the poHce chief what you've discovered."
"There was a boy named Francis Sullivan," Snyder
began, rising from his chair and shuffling into the
Hght, "a very bad boy, I might add, who escaped
from the Refuge some time ago, despite my vigilance.
I have been tirelessly tracking him, searching for him
in every back alley and byway. Rare is the time I

walk down the street — even if I am just on my way

to the fruit stand for an apple or the baker's for a
— that don't spend a few minutes look-
loaf of bread I

ing the boy. Why, one time

for walked ten blocks I

out of my way
— to
"Yes, yes, Snyder," the mayor said, "we're all con-
vinced of your devotion to your work. Now please
get on with it."
 ""

56 =
"Sorry. Well, the New York Sun was sitting on my
desk, a picture of those troublesome newsboys on the
front page, something Mr. PuHtzer would never print
in a fine newspaper hke the World. I usually read the
World, you see, but somebody had left the Sun in

the waiting room and I thought, well, a penny saved

is a penny
—
"Get on with it, please!" Pulitzer said.
"Of course, of course. One of my boys was in my
office, chatting with me and having a treat of cocoa
and graham crackers, when he noticed the picture.
'There's Jack Kelly,' he said, pointing at the picture

of the boy I knew to be Francis Sullivan. So I said

to myself
—
"To make a long story short," Pulitzer interrupted,
"Jack Kelly is the same boy who escaped from the
Refuge. Thus you have every right to charge in, break
up the rally, and have him arrested. Show that scruffy
lot what happens to those who try to tangle with

Joseph PuHtzer. Do you understand?"

"My poHcemen aren't your personal militia, Pu-
litzer," the mayor said. "I work for the people of the
city of New York, and they're the ones I have to
answer to."
"By the way," Pulitzer went on, "I'm having a few
friends over for cards tonight. Newspaper friends.

Perhaps you'd care to join us. We could talk about

the coming election. They've been wondering if
 — 87^
you're the right man for a second term. I beUeve we
could convince them that you are."
Puhtzer offered a box of the finest Havana cigars
to the mayor, who took one as though it were a
medal, put it in his breast pocket, and said, "For
later."

Then he turned to Devery and said, "Get that Jack

Kelly boy when he's onstage, so he can't get away.
Make an example of him. And go in force, in case

any of his friends should try to make trouble."

As he was leaving, the mayor turned back to Pu-
litzer.

"Who'd you say would be at your house tonight?"

"WiUie Hearst. Bennett of the Tribune, Taylor of
the Times. And Gammon. You know Gammon? He
owns the New York Sun.''
 In Which the Newsies
Have a Rally

The commotion outside Irving Hall on the night of

the newsies strike rally was something to behold.

Jack, David, and Spot Conlon stood at the door,

welcoming newsboys from all over the city. Many
boisterous greetings were exchanged and so many
spit-sealed handshakes that it was a wonder that an
epidemic did not break out from all the germs that
had been passed about.
Although they had invited reporters from all the
big newspapers, Bryan Denton of the New York Sun
was the only one to show. He dechned the front row
seat they had saved for him, explaining that since he
was working, he would rather roam the hall in order
to better take in the whole event.
Inside the theater, the boys had filled every seat;
a number of the thinner, smaller boys had crowded
two in each seat. Others were sitting in the aisles or
perched precariously on the balcony railing. They
were everywhere — except hanging from the huge
crystal chandeher, which they probably would have
done had they figured out a way to gain the necessary
altitude.

The pit band struck up a The au-

sprightly tune.
dience broke into a cheer as Jack and David came
running down the aisle and leapt up onstage. Jack
raised his hands for silence and shouted:
"Carrying the Banner!"
And the audience roared back at him, "Carrying
the Banner!" so loud that the chandeher shook from
the volume.
There was no way they could have heard the clatter

of horses' hooves on cobblestones, heading in their

direction.
"We've come a long way," Jack shouted, "but we
ain't there yet. It's only going to get tougher from
now on, and that means we got to get tougher too."
The crowd roared its approval.
"But we got to get smarter too," Jack said, qual-
ifying himself. "That's why we got to listen to my pal
Davy and stop beating up the scabs."
Responses from the audience made it apparent that
this sentiment was less popular than the first. The
language of fists and stones was one the newsies
understood well, while that of appeasement and ne-
gotiation was new to them.
Spot Conlon, sitting in the front row, jumped up
^90 =
and shouted, "Any scab I see, I soak him, period."
"That's just what they want you to do," David
shouted back. "Then they can say we're just thugs.
Ifwe behave hke them, we're going to turn into them.
That's how it works."
"I don't care," Spot shouted back. "Some of us
just ain't made to take it. I say anybody hurts us, we

hurt 'em worse! Who's with me?"

The audience divided into two factions and began
debating the issue among themselves. Within mo-
ments, tempers grew hot, and fistfights began break-
ing out all over the hall.

David and Jack looked at each other in dismay. If

they didn't do something immediately, the rally

would turn into a free-for-all.

"Go ahead," Jack said. "Fight each other. That's

just what Pulitzer, Hearst, and the them want
rest of

us to prove: We're street rats with no brains and no

respect for nothin' — includin' ourselves!"
The newsies stopped fighting and listened.

"Here's how it is," Jack went on, "we don't stick

together we're nothin'."
He looked down at Spot Conlon. "What's it going
to be. Spot? Do we stick together? Do we fight as

one?"
Spot opened his mouth. "I say ..." He looked
around at the crowd, at their expectant faces. Then
he turned back to Jack. "I say . . . what you say, /
say!"
He jumped up onstage and spit-sealed a handshake
with David and Jack.
At that very moment, the pit band began to play
an upbeat number, and the curtain rose, revealing
Medda, the Swedish Meadowlark, in a dazzling white

beaded gown and feathered hat.

Perhaps, if the band hadn't played so loud and the
boys hadn't whistled, stomped, and cheered so rau-
cously, they might have heard the clip-clop of horses'
hooves as the mounted police circled the front of the
theater or the clatter of wheels as a paddy wagon
pulled up with another load of poHcemen or the
clanking of chains and clubs as PuHtzer's private army
clambered down from still another wagon. They
might have heard Weisel, Snyder, and the Delancey
brothers muttering among themselves about what
they would do when they got their hands on certain
individuals named Jacobs and Kelly.
Meanwhile, inside Irving Hall, the newsies were
following Spot's example, climbing up onstage and
joining the chorus Une. Jack gave Sarah a hand up,
and she joined the line too, glancing him with over at

eyes that sparkled with happiness. David, dancing on

the other side of her, had no suspicion that anything
was amiss — not until he noticed Snyder standing at
^92
the rear of the theater, raising a shiny brass police
whistle to his lips.
And by then it was too late.

At the scream of the whistle, pandemonium broke

loose. PoHce charged in from every door, all of them
heading for Jack.
Jack leapt off the stage into the arms of a dozen
newsboys. They caught him and propelled him on his
way past all the hands that were grabbing for him
and out the front door. He could taste freedom. But
when he emerged into the night, he found himself
surrounded by a half circle of mounted cops, as well
as PuHtzer's hired thugs. With no other choice, he
ducked back inside.
Dodging cops on either side, he ran down the aisle,
straight into the arms of Nigel Snyder, who was wait-
ing to grab him at the foot of the stage. Snyder would
have had him, but David leapt down from the stage
onto Snyder's back and rode him around the theater
Hke a wild bronco.
One of the cops pulled David off and threw him
to the floor. Sarah screamed, and Les ran over to the
cop and kicked him on the calf. The cop howled in
agony.
By now, Weisel, the Delancey brothers, and the
rest of the thugs had joined the fray, clubs and chains
swinging. The newsies tried to escape, but at every
exit they were met by a new mob.
 - 93^
Denton stepped in to stop Kid Blink from getting
clubbed and got cracked on the head himself. He
staggered and fell, blood flowing down his face.

David, fearing for the life of his sister and little

brother, dragged them out an exit under the stairway.

The cops would have stopped them but they were
too busy backing Jack up onto the stage. He was
hoping to flee into the wings, but when he turned he
saw Weisel and the Delancey brothers blocking his
path. There was no way out. Even though they were
armed and he was not, Jack was about to take them
all on, when suddenly a hole opened in the stage,

swallowing his pursuers.

It took Jack a moment to figure out what had hap-
pened. Spot, Racetrack, and Boots, standing in the

wings, had pushed a lever opening a trapdoor. It

was the same device used by magicians to make their

beautiful assistants disappear.

Another wave of cops was coming at Jack.

"Hey, Jack!" Racetrack shouted. "Curtain going

up!"
Racetrack and Boots started puUing like mad at

the ropes that raised the fire curtain. Jack grabbed

the edge of the curtain and went sailing into the air
just as the pohce reached him. They grabbed for him
but all they got was a shoe. As he rose, he raised a
fist like some kind of avenging angel and shouted,
"Carrying the Banner!" inspiring all the newsies who
^94
hadn't yet been caught to cheer and fight harder than
ever.
Just then Weisel, clambering out of the pit beneath
the stage, saw Jack getting away and huded his cud-

gel. It flew through the air, end over end, and hit the

newsboy on his side. He lost his grip and plummeted

to the stage. Within seconds, a sea of blue uniforms
swept him away.
 In Which the Newsies
Confront
Judge Movealong Monahan

Judge Movealong Monahan was clearly bored by the

task at hand. He kept looking at his gold pocket
watch, drumming his fingers on the bench, and gazing
out the window like a schoolboy waiting for the three
o'clock bell. A row of newsies, including Spot Con-
Ion, Racetrack, Boots, and Kid Blink, stood before
him, bandaged and black-and-blue, awaiting his ver-
dict.

David stood at the back of the courtroom, watching

the newsies stand trial and feeling both guilty and
reheved that he was not among them. "You don't
have to get arrested to be a loyal friend," Sarah had
reassured him over and over, but his feelings were
still mixed.
"Any of you represented by counsel?" the judge
asked.
They shook their heads.
 "

^96
—
"Good," the judge said. "That should move things
along considerably."
Spot Conlon spoke up. "Judge Movealong, yer
honor, I object!"
"On what grounds?" the judge inquired irritably.
"The grounds of Brooklyn, yer honor!"
The other newsies congratulated Spot on this in-
tricate legal maneuver, but Movealong seemed un-

impressed.
David simply stood there silently, dying with
shame.
"I fine you each five dollars or two weeks' con-
finement in
—
"Five bucks!" Racetrack gasped. "I ain't got five
cents V
"I'll pay the fines," said a voice from the back of
the courtroom.
Everybody turned and there was Denton with a
bandage wrapped neatly around his head but other —
than that, looking no worse for wear.
"Pay the clerk," Movealong said. "Next."
The newsies gathered around Denton, thanking
him and slapping him on the back. There was no
question that he was theman of the hour.
"Before you make me the hero," Denton said,
"I've got some bad news." He broke off with a gasp,
because just then the bailiff appeared, leading Jack
 — 97^
to the bench. His face was bruised and swollen, and
he could hardly open his left eye.
"Hiya, fellas," Jack called to them brightly. "Hey,
Denton! Guess we made the papes this time! How'd
my picture look?"
"None of the papers covered the rally," Denton
said."Not even the Sun.''
"What?" Jack said. For an instant the jauntiness
was gone, and he looked like a frightened httle boy.
"But how? Why?"
Denton couldn't bear to tell him. He turned and
rushed from the courtroom.
"Case of Jack Kelly," the bailiff began, reading
from the schedule. "Inciting to riot, assault, resisting

arrest."
"If I might address the bench?" The voice belonged
to a figure in a dark coat and top hat.

"Move it along. Warden Snyder," the judge said.

Snyder walked to the front of the courtroom, his

head bent with humiHty.

"The boy's real name is Francis Sullivan. Mother,
deceased. Father, convict in a state penitentiary."
The newsies were stunned.
Jack avoided their eyes.
"But what about Santa Fe?" David whispered to

himself.
"He is currently a fugitive from the House of Ref-
 " "

95

uge," Snyder continued, "where his original sentence

of three months for theft was extended to six months
for unruly behavior
—
"Yeah," Jack interrupted, "like demanding a
square meal!"
"Followed by an additional six months for at-
tempted escape
—
"It wasn't no attempt, Snyder! Me and Teddy Roo-
sevelt waved bye-bye."
"I therefore ask that he be returned to the House
of Refuge—"
"For my own good, right?" Jack shouted at the
judge. "And for what Snyder kicks back to you!"
Snyder ignored Jack's outburst. "I suggest the
court order his incarceration until the age of twenty-
one, in the hope that we may guide him to abandon
his criminal ways and become a useful and productive
member of society."
"It's not fair!" David shouted. "You can't do that!"
The other newsies joined the chorus, to no avail.
Monahan banged his gavel for silence and de-
clared, "So ordered. Next!"
 In Which Denton's
Job Is Changed

After their morning in court, Denton took the news-

ies — all except Jack, who was back at the Refuge, a
prisoner — for lunch at Tibby's. They all wanted to

know why there was no story about their rally in the

Sun — or in any of the other newspapers.
"Because it never happened," Denton said grimly.
"Never happened?" David said. "But we were
there! We saw it with our own eyes! We lived it."

"Yeah," said Blink, "I got a black-and-blue mark

right here to prove it."

And he lowered his head and made a part in his

hair so that Denton could see the result of a bull's

nightstick.

"If it's not in the paper, it never happened," Den-

ton went on.
The boys were looking at him in such dismay and
confusion that he had to go on:
"It probably went something hke this: Mr. Pulitzer
^100
-
calls up Mr. Gammon, invites him to his mansion for
dinner. 'Mr. Gammon,' he says, 'you know that polo
pony of mine that you've always admired? Take it as
a gift. And Mr. Gammon, about the newsboy
strike . . . don't you think there's more important
news to be covered?' Like I said, I don't know for

sure, but I'd guess it went something hke that."

"So you quit, right?" Racetrack said. "You
wouldn't stand for nobody muzzHng you."
Denton hung his head. "Mr. Gammon called me
into his office this morning. I've been reassigned. I

won't be covering the strike news anymore."

He got up from the table. "You boys enjoy your
meal. Eat all you like, it's been taken care of. I've

got to get back to work."

He started to walk away, but David ran after him.
"They bought you off!" he said angrily.
"They could have blackballed me from every paper
in the country. I'm a newspaperman, that's all I know
how to do. Without a paper to write for, I'm noth-
ing." He looked at David sadly. All of a sudden he
seemed very old. "Here's the story I wrote about the
rally. I want you at least to read it." He took a few
typewritten pages out of his inside jacket pocket.
"Here's what I think of you and your writing,"
David said, grabbing the pages from him and crum-
pling them into a ball. He stalked back to the table.
"We bust Jack out of the Refuge tonight," he told
 — 101^
the newsies as he sat back down. "From here on in

we depend on nobody but ourselves."

Les picked up the crumpled papers, smoothed
them out, and proceeded to wrap an uneaten knock-
wurst in it.

Joumahsm had been put to worse use.

David had a strong sense of hfe repeating itself as he

led Spot, Boots, Blink, Mush, and Racetrack through
the deep shadows along the wall of the House of
Refuge. The only difference was that this time, he
was carrying the rope and the railroad spike. He was
in charge, he was the one who had to pretend to be
courageous and set an example for the rest of them.
It occurred to him that having people depend on you
to lead them was a fine source of strength.
He stopped and pointed to a barred window half-

way down the block. "That's where we saw Crutchy."

Boots was assigned to stand watch at one corner;
Racetrack, the other.
The gargoyles stared down at them, bemused, as
David prepared to toss the rope.

Suddenly Boots hissed urgently. He was peering

around the corner, wide-eyed.
The others joined him.
"What is it?" David asked.
"Just take a look," Boots whispered.
By the flickering light of the street lamps, they
^102 -
saw an elegant carriage waiting in the courtyard of
the Refuge. A
team of horses, worried by the mist,
neighed restlessly and pawed at the cobblestones.
The carriage rocked slightly as first one figure, and
then another, chmbed into the vehicle. They were
unmistakable. The first wore a tight-fitting black coat
and a top hat.

Nigel Snyder.
The other was Jack.
"Where are they taking him?" Mush whispered.
"Only one way to find out," David said. "Meet
you back at Newsies Square at midnight."
The carriage moved off into the night, and David
ran after it. As it picked up speed, he leapt onto the
back of it and hung on tight, trying not to get jostled
off.

He couldn't figure out exactly where the carriage

was taking him, but he did notice that the houses
were getting bigger, more stately. Then he couldn't
see the houses anymore, only the stone walls that
surrounded them, covered with clinging ivy. Finally
the carriage turned past a stone gatehouse and ap-
proached a mansion of such magnificence as David
had encountered only in his dreams.
No sooner had the carriage stopped before a pair
of huge oak doors than David leapt from his perch,
dashed across the lawn, and hid behind a hedge. He
couldn't beHeve he was doing this! Studious, well-
 — 103^
behaved David Jacobs, planning prison breaks, hitch-

ing rides on carriages, trespassing on the rich. Who

knew how far he might go before the night was
through?
A uniformed butler welcomed Snyder and Jack
into the mansion. David turned and followed their

progress through the window. It was queer, watching

them but not being able to hear their words. The
butler led Jack into another room but intervened
when Snyder tried to follow.

David crept along, keeping to the cover of the

hedge, until he came to a window that looked into

the room where Jack had been taken. It was a wood-
paneled study with elegant brass lamps and tall-

backed leather chairs. Over the fireplace was a huge

oil painting of a man with a pointy red beard.
Of course!
It was Puhtzer!
This was Joseph Pulitzer's mansion! And to make
David's astonishment complete, a moment later the

doors opened and PuHtzer himself appeared! If only

David could have heard what they were speaking
about. But the well-glazed windows of the mansion
kept their secrets from prying ears.
 In Which Pulitzer
Makes Jack an Offer

Pulitzer sat down in an easy chair and motioned Jack

to the chair across from him.
"I'll stand," Jack said, reluctant to accept any char-
ity from the great pubHsher, however small. He was
prepared to refuse an offer of brandy and a cigar too,
but it never came.
"Know what was doing when I was your age?"
I

Puhtzer asked. "I was in a war. The Civil War."

"I heard of it," Jack said. "You win?"
Pulitzer ignored the act of arrogance. "People
think wars are about right and wrong. But they're
not. They're And the power of the press
about power.
is the greatest power of them all. When people read

something in my newspaper, they beheve it. I have

credibility. I tell this city how to think. How to vote.
I shape its future."
"There's just one future bothering me," Jack said,
examining a silver ashtray, "and that's mine."
 — 705^
"Then let's talk about your future, boy. You can
stay locked up in the Refuge or you could be free
come the dawn. Free and clear, with more money in

your pocket than you could make in a year."

"You trying to bribe me, Joe? Stopping me ain't

going to stop the strike."

"I disagree. I've been watching you very carefully.

You're the spirit of the strike. All I ask you to do is

go back to work selling the World. Nothing so dread-

ful about that, is there? A man has to work if he's
going to keep his self-respect."
"You mean scab on my buddies? Nice chatting with
you Joe, but . .
."

Suddenly PuHtzer rose and loomed over him. His

sheer physical size took Jack by surprise, and his very
presence — his power and self-certainty — made the
boy shrink back with fear.

"Listen to me, boy," he said in a voice of tempered

steel, "this is no game! I'm offering you a chance and
you won't get another. Work for me until the strike

ends— and without you end soon, make no

it will

mistake about — and then you can disappear. Go

it

someplace far away and start over again. Away from

the Refuge, away from the poverty and the filth.
You'll be a free man with no past and a pocketful of
coins. I give you a chance that Ufe has never given

you. But defy me, boy, and I'll break you. I have no
choice.
^106
-
"Go back to the Refuge and think it over. Give
me your decision in the morning."

Since David couldn't overhear the conversation be-

tween Jack and PuHtzer, he decided to make better
use of his time by removing the hnchpin that tethered
the horses to the carriage. It was no simple task with
the driver standing there, waiting, but by stealth and
patience, he managed the job and returned to his
hiding place behind the hedge, holding the big, oily
pin in his palm.
As soon as Jack and Snyder emerged from the big
doors, David shouted, "Jack! Come on!"
Jack tore away from Snyder, slid down the ban-
ister, and leapt to the ground. He fell into step beside
David, and the two of them ran as fast as their legs
could carry them down the long drive that led to the
outside world.
"After them!" Snyder screamed, leaping up into
the carriage.
The driver snapped his whip and the horses took
off, leaving the carriage behind. He was yanked from
his perch and dragged a few hundred feet before he
could untangle his hands from the reins. Snyder
gnashed his teeth and shook his fists in impotent fury.
The boys kept running until they were out on the
street, and then Jack stopped.
 - 107^
"What's the matter?" David panted. "Got to keep
going . .
."

"You shouldn't have done this, Davy," Jack

gasped. "They could put you in jail."
"Don't worry about me. You're the important one,
theone the newsies need."
"You go to jail, what happens to your family? You
don't know nothing about jail, what it does to a per-
son. Thanks for what you done, Davy, but you better
get out of here."
"I don't understand," David said.

"I don't neither. I don't understand nothing no

more." He shook his head miserably. "Just go, will

you? Get out of here! Go!"

David hesitated. They heard a clatter of horses'
hooves and angry voices coming from the direction
of Pulitzer's mansion.
"Go!" Jack screamed at him, pushing him away.
David ran.
 In Which the Newsboy Strike

Is Dealt a Mortal Wound

The next morning, the newsies gathered around the

gates of the World Building, holding their placards
and calling to the new boys who were hned up to get
their papers from Weisel, "Don't sell the World . . .

Don't be a scab. . . Join the strike and fight the good

..." and other slogans. David moved among
battle
them Hke a leader, encouraging them, reassuring
them of the imminent success of their venture, re-
minding them of the pohcy against "soaking the
scabs," as they put it.

The gates opened and the wagons rumbled out,

followed by the nervous scabs. Cops and an army of
goons, led by the Delancey brothers, marched along
with them, brandishing their clubs and chains, their
very presence an invitation to violence.
Suddenly Spot Conlon shouted, "Look, I'm seeing
things! Tell me I'm seeing things!" He was pointing
a finger at a boy who was marching at the head of
 — 109^
the scabs, wearing fine new corduroy britches, a Unen
shirt, and a three-button jacket. The boy kept his

eyes straight ahead and his hps pressed together in

grim determination.
"What's he doing with the scabs?" Racetrack
asked, refusing to admit the truth to himself.
"It ain't happening," Kid BHnk murmured over
and over to himself. "I got to be dreaming."
And Mush ran alongside him, shouting, "Hey,
Jack! It's me. Mush. Look at me, will you?"
"Where'd he get them clothes?" Boots demanded.
Weisel happened to be passing at that moment,
and, overhearing Boots's question, he replied, "Mr.
Pulitzer picked out the outfit himself. A special gift

for his new employee."

His worst suspicions confirmed. Spot Conlon went
crazy. He rushed toward Jack, screaming, "You sold

us out! You dirty scab, I'll murder you!"

But when Spot reached the Delancey brothers,
they hurled him back so he fell on the cobblestones,
banging his head and scraping his face.

David ran along beside Jack, being careful to keep

his distance from the goons.
why you wouldn't escape last night?" he
"Is this
shouted. "Why'd you sell out, Jack? Why'd you do
it? Not just for a new suit of clothes. He must have

given you money too! And what else. Jack? What

else?"
^110
—
Jack avoided his eyes, and that made David even
angrier.
"You lie about everything!" he went on. "The
headhnes, your family in Santa Fe. Your devotion to
the strike. Because nobody really counts but you.
Isn't that right? Look at me, darn it!"
David lunged at Jack, but Weisel grabbed him and
hurled him away.
"We don't need you!" David shouted, when he'd
regained his footing. "We'll win this strike without
you!" He turned to the newsies and began goading
them on. "Come on," he shouted, "let's hear it! Stop
the World. Don't be a scab.
. . . . . . Join the strike
and fight the good battle. ..."
Confused and demoralized, some chanted
halfheartedly. Others tossed down their picket signs I
in defeat.

"You can't stop now," David cried. "We've got

them running scared!"
But his pleading was in vain.
He felt as though someone he loved had died.

David sat by the window, brooding. He couldn't re-

call when he had felt this depressed. Even the smell
of Esther's chicken soup with matzoh balls cooking
on the stove top failed to whet his appetite.
He should have been happy. Mayer's hand was
healed and his bandages were finally coming off. Be-
 — 777

neath the gauze, the skin of his father's hand was

white and dehcate, his fingers stiff. He opened and
closed them with difficulty.
"That hand is not ready to work," Esther said.
"It can handle a broom," Mayer said. He got up,

put on his coat, and went out to see about a job.

Sarah held up a small, stained paper package she
found under her sewing basket. "What's this?" she
asked, wrinkhng her nose.
"That's mine!" Les shouted, and he grabbed it

from his sister. It was his half-eaten knockwurst,

wrapped in Denton's story.
While Les ate his sausage, his sister picked up the
stained paper and read aloud from it.

" 'The Dark Truth: Why Our City Really Fears

"
the Newsboy Strike, by Bryan Denton.'
When Sarah had read the whole article she said,
"What a moving piece! It says that we're scared of
the newsboy strike because if it succeeds, all the other
working children will strike too. It says that we're
scared of losing our cheap labor and that children
shouldn't work at all, they should go to school and
become educated, responsible adults. If grown-ups
were paid a reasonable minimum wage, then children
wouldn't have to work."
But David was in no mood to hsten. He shook his

head in disgust and climbed out on the fire escape,

where he could be alone with his thoughts.
 In Which Jack
Finds a New Home

Pulitzerhad decided to move Jack out of the newsies'

lodging house for his own safety. He sent him back
to get his things in the company of two policemen.
The other newsies watched with contempt and mut-
tered insults under their breath as he gathered up his
clothes and bedding. The worst moment came when
he went to the washroom and pulled, from behind
the loose bricks beneath the sink, the box in which
he kept his most valued possessions. His money was
gone, and someone had placed a dead rat in the box,
among the bits of his beloved photograph. It was all
Jack could do to hold back his tears of shame. As he
left, the newsies turned their backs on him. Klopp-
man was the only one who had a kind good-bye for
him.
When Jack arrived Worid Building with his
at the
things, Weisel was waiting to meet him. He led him,
by candleHght, down a dark and rickety stairway to
 = 113^
a storeroom in the cellar with one small window. Junk
was piled everywhere: an old printing press, cabinets
with hundreds of drawers of lead type in every con-
ceivable size and style, compositing desks, ink rollers,
and stacks of paper. A cot with a pillow and a coarse
wool blanket had been set up in one comer.
"If you won't be requiring nothing else," Weisel
said with mock formality, as though he were a British
butler, "then I'll bid you good night. Pleasant
dreams, Cowboy!"
With a cruel laugh, he left him there alone. Jack
heard the door lock behind him. He lay down on the
cot and watched a spider spin a web in the corner of
the ceiling. From somewhere in the building, he could
hear the presses thundering hke a judgment.
He slept restlessly, tossing and turning. When he
did sleep, hedreamed about a giant with a red beard
chasing him, trying to crush him beneath his feet. He
woke gasping for breath, the sound of the giant's
footsteps merging with that of the presses booming
overhead.
morning Jack dressed, made his way to the
In the
circulation window, and stood in hne with all the
other scabs, waiting for his papers. He didn't speak

to them because he hated them — but no more than

he hated himself.
After he got his papers, he ran into the Delancey
brothers.
^114 =
"So you got smart and joined up," said the younger
Delancey. "Why don't you come along with us now?
We're going to visit your buddy, Davy Jacobs. Fix
him so he can't walk no picket lines no more."
"Fix him so he can't walk at all," muttered the
elder Delancey.
For a second he was the old Jack again. His temper
and he hissed, "You touch Davy and I'll ..."
flared,

"You'll what?" the younger Delancey inquired.

"Listen, we got orders to watch you from the big boss
his-self. One bad move and you're back in the Ref-
uge, understand?"
Jack hesitated. Then the life went out of him. He
nodded and lowered his head and trudged off to sell

his papers.
 In Which Sarah Jacobs
Encounters
the Delancey Brothers

Sarah Jacobs had to take a basket of her lacework to

the store, to get a few pennies so that she could buy
more thread and crochet more lacework. It was de-
cided that Les would go with her, since every time
they left him alone he snuck down to Newsies Square
and began marching around, by himself if no other
newsies were present (which was often the case, now
that Jack had turned scab), shouting, "Join the strike

and fight the good battle ..." and other slogans.

A trip with his big sister was no treat. He groaned
and grumbled about having to go along with her on
"girl business." Noticing some friends playing mar-
bles at the corner, he fell back to kibitz. Suddenly
Sarah found her way blocked by two tall, muscular
boys in derbies. She'd seen them somewhere be-
fore — yes, now she remembered. The riot at Irving

Hall. They were the Delancey brothers.

" 'Scuse me, sweetheart," the younger Delancey
 776 =
said, knocking Sarah's basket into the gutter as if by
accident.The lacework that she and her mother had
spent so many hours on spilled out onto the sooty
macadam. Without losing her composure, she gath-
ered it back into her basket.
Les looked up from the game of marbles, saw what
had happened, and raced to his sister's defense.
"Leave her alone!" he shouted, pummeUng the elder
Delancey, who hardly seemed to notice. A shove of
Delancey's big right hand left the boy sprawled on
his rear.

"Where's little Davy?" the younger Delancey

asked, leering. "We need to talk to him."
"You stupid ape," Sarah said calmly and socked
him in the face. He reeled, and when he regained his
balance, his bottom lip was bleeding. He touched it

gently and regarded her with a certain admiration.

Just then she saw David coming down the steps of
the tenement. "Run, David!" she screamed.
"They're after you!"
But instead of running away, David ran toward
them, fury burning in his eyes. He didn't see the elder
Delancey slip a pair of brass knuckles over his fingers.
"Look out," Sarah screamed, "he'll kill you!"
Perhaps David didn't hear her, or perhaps he sim-
ply didn't care, for he kept right on coming.
The younger Delancey drew back his fist. But be-
fore he could throw his punch, somebody came up
 — 117^
behind him, seized his derby by the rim, and yanked
it down over his eyes.

It was Jack! His grin showed David, better than

any amount of explaining could, that he'd had a
change of heart and was back on the side of the
newsies.
Sarah, Les, and the two boys all went to work on
the Delancey brothers, biting, scratching, and punch-
ing them.
"You better run, Cowboy," the younger Delancey
yelled, as he and his brother backed away quickly.
"We're telling Weisel whose side you're really on.
You'll be back in the Refuge by suppertime."
Yet now they were the ones who were running.
"Go ahead and tell 'em!" Jack shouted. "I don't
care! I'd rather rot in jail than be a dirty scab!"
But by then the Delancey brothers were so far away
that Jack couldn't be sure whether they had heard
him or not.
Jack, David, Sarah, and Les grinned at each other
and tried to catch their breath.

"Couldn't stay away?" David said.

"Guess I can't be something I ain't," Jack replied.

"A scab?" Lester said.
"No," Jack said. "Smart."
They all laughed. To Jack's surprise, Sarah hugged
him and then moved shyly away.
 In Which It Is Decided
to Fight Fire with Fire

"Without you the strike's falling apart," David said

to Jack.

The two of them and Sarah were sitting out on the

fire escape, watching the sunset over the East River.
Shirts and pants hanging on laundry lines that were
stretched between the buildings cast their shadows
along the sooty brick walls.
"I got to run," Jack said. "I got no choice. If they
find me, they lock me up until I'm twenty-one. An-
other couple of years in the Refuge will kill me. You
don't know what it's like. You can't imagine unless
you been there."
Mayer stuck his head out the window and passed
Jack a bundle wrapped in an old shawl and tied with
twine. "Some of my old clothes," he explained, "and
a Httle bread and cheese."
"Who knows when you'll eat," Esther called from
behind him.
 = 119^
"Wish we had some money to give you," Mayer
went on.
"Money?" Jack said, as though it was a dirty word.
"Who needs money? I'll go down to the train yards,
hop me a freight. Maybe I'll have a private car all to
me-self. And I don't have to pay a nickel."
It was all too easy to imagine him a few years from
now, unshaven and dirty, carrying the bundle over
his shoulder on a stick, hke a hobo. Bulls would chase
him through freight yards and beat him when they
caught him. He would find solace in cheap Hquor,
lodgings in the town jail.

"I don't know what's waiting for you in Santa Fe,"

Mayer said, "but you'll always have a home here."
Mayer embraced him awkwardly, and the rest of
the Jacobs family followed suit. Sarah came last, and
when she broke away, she said, "You can't go. It will

leave everything unsettled. For the rest of your fife

you'll be caUing yourself a quitter and a coward. And

you're not. Jack. What you do means so much to

people ..."
"Don't kid yourself. The game's over. Nothing I

do is going to make a speck of difference."

"You're wrong! You've touched people you don't
even know about. Here, let me read you something."
She chmbed into the apartment and returned in a
few moments with some stained and crumpled pages.
"Now Hsten to this," she said, and started to read:
^120 =
" 'The men who run this city, the bosses, the poH-
ticians, and the pohcy makers, are terrified of the

newsboy. They fear that other children, those who

toil long hours in the mills and factories and sweat-
shops, will realize that they are not helpless victims,
but that they can seize power too. In the voice of
Jack Kelly, these children hear strength and pride.
"
But most important of all, they hear hope . . .
'

"Keep reading," Jack said softly, putting down the

bundle.

Bryan Denton was making himself a sandwich when

the doorbell rang. He opened the door and found
Jack, David, Sarah, and Les standing in the hallway.
"Did you write this?" Jack demanded, holding out
a bunch of crumpled pages.
Denton took the pages and examined them, puz-
zled. "I did." He sniffed at them and wrinkled up his

nose. "Smells Uke you've been wrapping knockwurst

in them."
"The kids in the mills and the sweatshops and the
factories," Jack said. "They're really waiting to see
what I do next? You mean that?"
"I never write anything I don't mean," Denton
replied.
"Tell Jack it's true," Sarah urged. "Tell him how
frightened the big shots are."
 zz 121^
"She's right," Denton said. "The city thrives on
child labor. The whole country does! The men in

charge are terrified that the newsies strike will spread

and they'll lose their cheap labor and have to start

paying the kind of wages human beings can survive

on."
"Not much chance of that happening," Jack said,
"long as they got us all under their thumb."
"Sometimes all it takes is one voice," Denton said.

"One voice becomes a hundred, a hundred becomes

a thousand. Of course, if that one voice gets si-

lenced ..."
"Nobody's silencing this voice!" Jack said. He
thought for a moment. "We're going to have us an-
other rally, but it won't just be the newsies, it'll be
for all the kids working in all the hot, stinking, dan-
gerous factories and sweatshops all over this city."

"But how will we do it?" David asked. "The news-

papers are pretending that we don't exist. We'd have
to print our own paper ..."
Jack punched his palm. "Great idea, Davy! Once
again you cut right to the quick."
"Jack, I was kidding. We don't know the first thing
about printing a newspaper."
"Yeah, but Denton does."
They all turned around and stared at Denton.
"Now, wait a minute," Denton said, backing away
 722 =
from them. "You kids have gotten me into enough
trouble. Anyway, we can't pubHsh a paper. Where
would we get the type and the presses and ..."
"Come with me," Jack said, grinning.

They snuck back to Jack's room in the bowels of the

World Building, and he showed them the equipment
stored there: the old, iron platen press; the boxes of
paper and cans of ink; the drawers of lead type; the
compositing desk. The kids held their breath while
Denton examined everything with the eye of an ex-
pert, stood back and scratched his chin for what

seemed like forever, and finally pronounced his ver-

dict:

"We're in so deep already, what have we got to

lose?"
The kids cheered him silently for fear they would
be overheard — although the presses booming over-
head made this an impossibility — and they promptly
went to work.
Denton sat bent over the compositing desk, picking
the tiny pieces of type out of the cabinet and lining
them up into words, sentences, paragraphs, and col-

umns.
David and Les dragged the old platen press out
into the open, oiled and dusted it, and practiced
pumping the treadle.
Meanwhile, Sarah and Jack placed huge sheets of
 — 123^
paper on a paper cutter and, pulling together, low-
ered the guillotine handle, which was as big as a
garden gate, trimming the sheets down to newspaper
size.

A few hours later, Denton spread ink on a roller,

ran the roller across the page of type he had set,

pressed a sheet of newsprint to it, and then pulled

the paper off.

HOW WE CAN STOP THE CITY

Children Will Rally in Newsies Square to

Protest Working Conditions

They Should be in School,

Doing Chores & Playing

Not in Factories, Working 80-Hour Weeks

The kids gazed in wonder. It looked just like a

newspaper! It was a newspaper, or at least a page of

one. Denton called this sample a proof. The story
that had impressed them so when they read it on
crumpled paper was that much more powerful when
set in type.

"Words always carry more authority when they're

in print," Denton told them. "People who don't know

any better assume that anything that gets pubHshed

is true."
 724 =
Sarah, noticing Jack's troubled expression, asked
him what was the matter. She imagined that he would
be dehghted by the glowing description of his work.
"Just thinking about spending the rest of my life

in the Refuge," he admitted.

"That may not be necessary," Denton said. "Take
a look at this."
He pointed to another article with a headhne that
read:

HOUSE OF REFUGE— HOUSE OF SHAME

Children Regularly Starved and Beaten

Scandal Hidden from Teddy on Visit

"I've found out a few things about Snyder's op-

eration," Denton said, "and I know some people who
may be very interested."
"Nobody's going to help us kids," Jack said hope-
"Not while there's money to be made."
lessly.

But Jack and the others didn't have time to reflect

on their futures. They had to concern themselves with
the here and now, for they had a newspaper to pubhsh
before dawn!
Soon Denton was seated behind the press, pump-
ing the treadle up and down with his foot. David
stood off to one side, feeding in the blank sheets of
 =: 125^
paper while Sarah pulled out the printed sheets from
the other side. Meanwhile, Jack kept inking the
platen, the part of the press that transfers the ink
onto the type. Les, though he desperately wanted to
be a part of it, had fallen asleep in the corner.

They worked on through the night, the sound of

their enterprise masked by the thundering presses

overhead, and by dawn they were covered with print-

er's ink and surrounded by stacks of a newspaper
called the Newsie News that told the real story about

the Refuge and the newsies strike.

Around 4:00 a.m., Les had been awakened and

dispatched to Kloppman's boardinghouse to wake the
boys and spread the word that Jack was back in the

fold and that a special edition, or "extry," as the

newsies called was on the way.

it,

Now they heard Kloppman's wagon pulling up be-

side the small window. Seeing the faces of their old
friends, the newsies, peering in the window, the fledg-
Hng publishers began passing them the stacks of
freshly printed newspapers.
Never had the newsies hawked their papers with
such enthusiasm! They roamed the streets in the
dawn's first Ught, and whenever they saw children
walking to work, or anyone who looked Hke they had
once been a child, they pressed a copy of the Newsie
News into their hands and told them to read the ar-
ticle about stopping the city. And for those children
^126 =
who couldn't read (and there were many of them back
then, very many) the newsies explained the substance
of the article as it had been explained to them.
The great children's strike was scheduled for noon
that same day. Children were to walk off their jobs
in sweatshops and factories all around the city and
refuse to return until working conditions had been
improved. At noon they would rally in Newsies
Square in such number that they could not be ig-

nored.
The newsies had no trouble selling out the edition,

for the price was within everyone's means: free.

In Which a Rally Is Held and
Jack Meets Again with
Pulitzer

Success would be too mild a word to describe the

great children's strike. Since it was not directly about
the newsboy strike, the other newspapers felt that

they could ignore their promise to PuHtzer and cover

the event. The following article was typical of those
that appeared in New York newspapers the next day:

CHILDREN'S STRIKE
PARALYZES CITY
Newsboy Strike Swells into Mass
Demonstration as Children Mob
Newsies Square

They Sing and Picket but Order

Is Maintained

At noon today, the entire child work

force of New York City walked off
their jobs and gathered in Newsies
Square for a rally, the likes of which
^128
shall not be seen again in our time.
There were factory boys, mes-
sengers on bikes, sweatshop girls,
and of course the newsboys who'd
started it all. Some had lost fingers
in machinery, and others had
chronic coughs from working in
dank cellars, but they all walked
proudly. They kept on coming until
every inch of the square, including
the pedestal of Horace Greeley's
statue, was covered with children.
Traffic came to a halt, and street-
cars were rerouted, causing major
delays.
At first there was an exp>ectation
of violence. Jack Kelly and David
Jacobs, the leaders of the newsboy
strike, were the first to arrive, and
they traded taunts with the private
guards the World has been using to
maintain order.
But when the children arrived in
such unexpected number, the
guards retreated, probably fearing
Such concern proved
for their lives.
unnecessary, for the children be-
haved in exemplary fashion, sing-
ing with angelic voices, linking
arms, and sharing their few pre-
cious morsels of food.
At the height of the excitement,
Don Seitz, the business manager of
the World, appeared at the front
 129^
doors of the World Building and in-
vited Kelly and Jacobs to speak
personally with Mr. Pulitzer. The
newsboys considered this a victory
and congratulated each other and
passed out cigars.
Word of today's rally was circu-
lated in a newspaper called the
Newsie News, produced by the
newsboys in response to what they
considered unfair coverage in the
established press. Who gave them
the equipment and supplies to put
out the edition remains a mystery.

While the children of New York were streaming

into Newsies Square, Jack and David were swagger-
ing into Pulitzer's office.
"Extry, extry!" Jack said, pulling a copy of the
Newsie News out of the canvas bag he wore over his

shoulder and tossing it onto Pulitzer's desk. "Read

all about it. Newsies bring Pulitzer to his knees."
"You are the most arrogant young man I have ever
met in my hfe!" Pulitzer said, his face turning the
same color as his beard.
He picked up the paper and regarded it with
amazement. "I ordered a ban on printing of all strike

news. All the papers agreed. Who defied me? Who

printed this?"
"We did," Jack said.
^130 =
"Where? How? With what equipment?"
"Only the best, Joe."
"You mean here? Under my nose?"
Jack grinned proudly.
Pulitzer thrust a finger in Jack's face. "I promised
that if you defied me, I'd break you, and I will. I

don't understand you, boy. I offered you a chance to

start over. Anybody who doesn't act in his own self-

interest is a fool."
"Then what does that make you?" David blurted
out. "You talk about self-interest, Mr. Pulitzer, but
since the strike began, the circulation of the World
is down seventy percent. Every day you lose thou-
sands of dollars just so you can beat us out of a lousy
tenth of a cent! That's what doesn't make sense."
"It ain't the money, Davy," said Jack. "It's the
power. If Joe starts giving in, when does he stop?
He's got to hold the line— ain't that right, Joe?"
"Seitz," Pulitzer called to his business manager,
"where are the poHce? I sent for them ages ago. They
must be here by now."
"I ain't going back to jail," Jack said. "They won't
allow it."

"And who is theyV Pulitzer asked.

"Them," Jack said, walking to the window. "You
give me to the bulls and down this build-
they'll tear

ing, brick by brick." He threw open the window and

the sound of a million voices came flooding up from
 zz: 131^

below. Pulitzer clapped his hands over his ears. "Stop

that infernal racket," he cried.
"It's too late," Jack said. "The racket's going to
get louder and louder from now on. Putting me in

jail ain't going to stop it, and hiring more goons to

beat us over the head won't do the trick either. You

and the other bosses in the city are going to have to
start listening if you want your workers to come back.
They need survival wages, Joe, and safe working con-
ditions. They want a chance to take a breather every

couple of hours. They want to Hve Hke human

beings."
Pulitzer stood at the window, looking down at the

millions of children. The sheer number of them was

awe inspiring, the thought of what they might accom-
phsh terrifying to some, wondrous to others.
Presently PuHtzer turned back to Jack and David
and said, "Perhaps our differences are not so great
after all. Perhaps the three of us can resolve the mat-
ter."

"I think so," Jack said. "What do you think,

Davy?"
David just smiled.
 In Which a Copy of the
Newsie News
Lands on the Governor's Desk

Although only one edition of the Newsie News was

ever published, it found its way into the hands of a
great many people. Those who didn't save their cop-
ies to show to their children and grandchildren as a
memento of an event that had changed the world
passed them on to friends and neighbors as amusing
curiosities. Those who worked for the city, realizing
the political importance of the papers, passed them
along to their superiors, and so they went, up the
ladder of responsibihty until they reached the desks
of "those in charge," namely the pohce chief, the
mayor, and the governor himself, former Rough
Rider Teddy Roosevelt.
But Teddy, while deeply moved by the article on
the newsies' plight and the
announcement of the chil-
dren's rally, was even more disturbed by the article
exposing the House of Refuge. He remembered quite
clearly his inspection of the prison, and when he read
 — 133^
that he had been duped, he grew furious. His eyes

flamed behind his small wire-rimmed spectacles, and

hismouth worked beneath his huge walrus mustache.
Knowing better than to completely trust any news-
paper despite the passion and skill of the writing, he
sent a secret investigator to the House of Refuge in
the guise of a special city census taker. The investi-

gator reported back that conditions were even worse

than the article had described. Rats ran across the
children's beds as they slept, and their meals con-
sisted of stale bread and water. That was more than
Teddy could stomach.
Marching at thehead of an army of policemen,
lawyers, and special investigators, he took the Refuge
as he had San Juan Hill, waving his gold-handled
walking stick as though it were a sword. His worst
fears were confirmed by what he saw in those first

few minutes.
Nigel Snyder was immediately arrested for fraud
and for misappropriating government funds. The
children were set free. Those who wanted to could
leave, while those who had no place to go were in-
The Refuge,
vited to stay for as long as they wished.
Teddy decreed, was to be converted into a model
orphanage, a place where homeless boys could enjoy
the best of treatment.
Teddy was charmed by one of the pris-
particularly
oners, a crippled newsboy who went by the nickname
^134 =z
Crutchy. Crutchy told the governor all about a friend
of his named Cowboy Jack, who had escaped from
the Refuge on top of Teddy's coach. Teddy decided
it would only be fitting (as well as excellent pubhcity),
now that the House of Refuge had been closed, for
this Jack to take another ride, but this time inside
Teddy's carriage, with the press in attendance.

And so, one fine morning a few days after the strike
had been settled, Teddy's special gold-trimmed car-
riage pulled into Newsies Square, and the governor
himself offered Jack a ride.
Now, because this had all been planned in advance
so the press might be present to record it, it was
arranged for the newsies, including Spot Conlon and
his Brooklyn boys, to be in attendance, as well as
Jack's other friends, including Kloppman and, of
course, the Jacobs family.
Jack had decided to make use of the occasion to
depart — in style — for Santa Fe via the train yards.
Needless to say, Sarah, David, and Les were all heart-
broken by the news of his leaving, and they tried
every argument they could think of to make him
stay.

"I ain't no good at writing," Jack said to Sarah and

David, after he had finished saying a last good-bye
to all the newsies, "but I'll be thinking of you. Maybe
someday we'll meet again."
 zz 135^
"Good-bye, Jack," Les said. "Here's my best
marble."
"Thanks, kid," Jack said, graciously accepting the

treasure.
"You don't have to run away anymore," Sarah
whispered as she embraced him. "You have a choice
now."
"We won the first round," David added, "but the
fight's far from over. We need you. Jack. Right here
in New York City."
"Maybe that's what scares me," Jack admitted.
He gave them all one last look, then climbed into
the coach with Teddy, who was watching all this with
dehght.
The newsies waved their caps as the carriage drove

through Newsies Square. But at the last moment the

coach turned around and rumbled back.

"Thanks for the Hft, Guv'nor," Jack said, jumping
out.
He looked at them all with embarrassment. "I been
a real dope. I wanted to go to Santa Fe, but my real

family was right here all along."

The newsies cheered, and the Jacobs family ac-
cepted him with open arms — all except David, who
stood back, watching critically.

"So how're the headHnes today?" Jack said, ap-

proaching him cautiously.

 756
—
"Headlines don't sell papes ..." David replied,
breaking into a big grin.
"Newsies sell papes!" they shouted in one voice,
spit on their palms, and shook hands good and
hard.
Then they sauntered over to the loading dock and
bought a hundred papers apiece at the reasonable
rate of fifty cents per hundred.
 In Which We Separate
Fact from Fiction

There really was a newsboy strike. It began in the

summer of 1899 and lasted a Httle more than a week.

Two papers, the Evening World and the Evening
Journal, neither of which still exists, had raised their

price from fifty cents per hundred to sixty cents per

hundred during the Spanish- American War (the same
war in which Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders
gained fame). Now that the war was over, the news-
boys wanted the price of the papers lowered again.
Kid Blink, Racetrack, Davy, and Jack were really

newsboys during the strike. We know little about

them, so we borrowed their names and made up the

rest.

In August of 1899, the newsboys, the tailors, and

the trolley car drivers were all on strike in New York.
The messenger boys were striking in Boston ... the
miners in Denver ... the dairy workers in New Jer-
^138 -
sey . . . the ore handlers on the Great Lakes. . . .

The hst goes on and on.

The newspapers didn't ignore the newsboy strike.
They did something worse. They made fun of it, ac-
cused it of being a bit of "faddishness," hke wearing
the right brand name sneaker. They did the newsboys
a great disservice.
They were scared.
The real newsboy strike came to a sudden and
disappointing end when three of the boys were ac-
cused of offering to call off the strike in return for
$600. Did they really make such an offer? Or did the
complainants, the Evening World and Evening Jour-
nal, simply make up the charge in order to discredit
them? We will never know, for the people involved
are long gone.
The children's strike never took place in the form
in which it is described in our story. Improved work-
ing conditions were won not at once but over the
course of many years and only by the greatest
struggle.

The issue of child labor went beyond simple in-

humanity and cut straight to the core of our existence
as a democracy. In a democracy, every man and
woman is called upon to choose his or her leaders.
In order for people to make intelligent choices, they
must be well educated. Working children were not
educated.
 = 139^
In time a new attitude spread across the country.
Perhaps it is best summarized by the Children's
Charter of the White House Conference on Child
Health and Protection (1930), which stated that every
child should be provided with "protection against
labor that stunts growth, either physical or mental,
that hmits education, that deprives children of the
right of comradeship, of play, and of joy. ..."
 $3.50
$4.50 CAN

Dateline, New York City, 1899

EXTRA! EXTRA! NEWSBOY STRIKE!

Fed up by unfair treatment from newspaper owners,

streetwise Jack Kelly and booksmart David Jacobs
rally the other newsboys of the city in a strike. The
big bosses, led by millionaire Joseph Pulitzer, fight
back, replacing the "newsies" with scab workers.
Tensions mount, violence threatens, and Jack must
seek not only an end to the strike but also a way to
stay out of the Refuge, a horrible boys' home from
which he makes a daring escape. Based on the actual
newsboy strike of 1899, Newsies is a gripping story of
a turbulent time. See the film, then . . . READ ALL
ABOUT IT!

Walt Disney Pictures presents

Newsies
A Michael Finnell Production
Christian Bale
Bill Pullman
with Ann-Margret
and Robert Duvall
Original Songs: Music by Alan Menken/Lyrics by Jack Feldman
Written by Bob Tzudiker & Noni White
Produced by Michael Finnell
Directed by Kenny Ortega
Presented in association with Touchwood Pacific Partners I
Distributed by Buena Vista Pictures Distribution, Inc.
© The Walt Disney Companv
*^
•' ISBN 1-5628?-n5-6
00 1 1 5 >

7 ""?5961"00350