The bird of Manhatten

Chapter 18 - in which a union is formed and newsies are visited

July 1899
The Newsboys Lodge House, Manhattan, New York City
Jacks P.O.V.

When we reach da Woild-buildin' da next mornin', da headline's already up.
Paper-price up to 60 ct. per hundred.
In big letter it stands there. I rub my eyes several times in disbelieve when I see it. Sadly, it doesn't change.
"Dey can't do dis! Or? Can dey?", Finch askes, getting more unsure wit' every woid.
"Dey can do whatever dey want. It's they'se pape.", Race points out.
"It's dey'se woild!", Crutchie joins da complainin'.
"Ain't we got no rights?", Henry shouts.
"We'se got da right ta starve.", Crutchie speaks again.
"Calm down, boys. It's gonna be a gag.", I try ta calm 'em down. I walk up ta Weasel an' throw a 50-cent-piece on da counter. "Funny Weasel. Ya really got da fellas goin'. I'll take da usual an' be on my way."
"A hundred will cost ya 60." Da man smirks at me.
"I ain't payin' no sixty."
"Then make way for someone who does."
"Why da jack-up Weasel?"
"Why? It's a wonderful mornin'."
"Then we'll jus' go over ta da Journal."
But Specs an' Romeo inform us dat da price is jacked-up 'round da whole city, we stay an' deliberate.

Davey's P.O.V.

"One thing's foa sure, if we don't sell papes, then nobody sells papes. Nobody comes through those gates until dey put the price back to where it was.", Jack exclaims.
„You... you mean like a strike?", I ask, unsure, what he's gonna do.
"Yeah,", he says, nodding. "Like a strike!"
"Are you out of your mind?", I ask again, grabbing his shoulder and shaking him lightly.
"It's a good idea."
"Jack, I was only joking. We can't go on strike, we don't have a union."
"But, if we go on strike, then we are a union, right?"
„No!" I mentally face palm. "We're just a bunch of angry kids with no money."
"What if I say we'se union?"
"There's a lot of stuff you need in order to be a union.
"Like what?", one of the boys asks.
"Like membership.", I answer.
For a second, Jack looks like he thinks, then he smirks and points at the boys behind him: "What do ya call these guys?"
I sigh. "And officers."
Crutchie falls me in the back. "I nominate Jack President!" The others laugh.
"Gee", Jack smirks even wider. "I's touched."
"How about a statement of purpose?"
This time Jack doesn't even blink before he answers: "Must'a left it in my other pants."
"Um...", Race askes, hopping on the cart on which some of the others are sitting. "What's a statement of purpose?"
"A reason for forming the union.", I explain.
"What reason did da trolley workers have?", Jack asks stubborn.
"I don't know.", I answer, slowly getting' annoyed. "Wages? Work hours? Safety on the job?"
"Who don't need dat?", Jack waves aside. "Bet if ya father had a union, ya wouldn't be out here sellin' papes right now. Yeah?"
"Yeah.", I say surrendering.
"So, our union is hereby formed ta watch each other's backs. Union'd we stand. Hey, dat's not bad. Somebody write dat down."
"Still.", I insist. "If you want a strike, the membership has to vote."
Jack rolls his eyes. "So, let's vote." He turns to the Newsies. "What do ya say, fellas? The choice is yours. Do we roll over an' let Pulitzer pick our pockets... or do we strike?"
"Strike!!!!!!"
"Ya heard da voice of the membership. Da Newsies of Lower Manhattan is now officially on strike."
A smirk rises on Jack's face.
"Shouldn't we tell someone? Someone with power?", Crutchie asks.
"That we'se on strike? Sure."

Telling someone in charge that you're on strike isn't as easy as we thought. We were kicked out nearly at once. We didn't even get to the office.
Matter of facts, Jack decided to tell the other newsies for now. He gave every newsie one turf to visit, he himself, Mags, Boots and me, should go to Brooklyn.
Everyone else seems somehow scared of Brooklyn.
Except for Mags.
She seems kind of excited to go.

On our way across the bridge, we meet several Brooklyn newsies. Big, strong boys all. They're bathing at the docks and hostile glance over to us.
They seem like they don't want us here.
Well... all of us except from Mags, for some reason.
She waves and smiles at them and they wave (but not necessarily smile) back.
"You're here often, aren't you?", I ask her.
Mags just smiles and answers: "Maybe."
"Well."
Confused I look up.
On one of the docks a short boy is sitting, smirking down at us.
"If it ain't Jack be nimble, Jack be quick." His eyes wander over us and stops at Mags. "And he brought da disaster boid."
"Hello to you too, Spot." Mags sticks out her tongue at him.
"So, you moved up in the woild.", Jack smoothly swings through under the dock and looks up at Spot. "Got a river view an' everythin'."
Spot smirks but climbs down to us.
The Newsie-leader spit shake and the Brooklyn king tips his hat at Mags.
Boots offers his some... rocks? Marbles? ...God knows what, to shoot with, what Spot takes and instantly tries, by aiming for me... or so I think. In fact. he hits the bottle behind me. God am I relieved by that.
How it turns out, Spot already knows why we're here. He heard it from his... Boidis... whatever that may be.
And... every time he says boid (What I think means "bird"), he looks at Mags, who isn't really here at the moment. Well, she is physically, but not mentally. I think she just zoned out, for she's just starring over the dock in the generally direction of the horizon.

Mags P.O.V.

I wonder what's out there behind that horizon.
Maybe Santa Fe?
No.
That's in... what did Jack say? New... New... Right! New Mexico, wherever that may be.
Is it by the sea?
I like the sea. I can't swim but I like sittin' here.
Oh, look! A seagull.
And another.
And... another.
And a pigeon? What the hell is that pigeon doin' here? That ain't no sea boid.
Or is it?
I should ask Mr. Kloppman when I get home.
Those new shoes is too big. I should put some papes into 'em. Yeah, that'd be a good idea.
God, it's hot. I should drink somethin' when we get back.
Wait... we?
Oh, right. I's in Brooklyn with Jack an' Davey an' Boots to get Spot into the strike...
Oh boy, the strike!

"That's not enough, Jackie boy. You gotta show me.", Spot says, as I'm zonin' in again.
Confused I look at him an' then at Jack.
He sighs and nods.
He grabs my arm, and we leave.
"What happened? Is he wit' us?"
"Did ya sleep or what?"
"Well..."
"He want's prove, we won't run."
"We won't."
"I know. But he doesn't."
"An' what will we tell the boys?"
"Exactly that."