a day at the sheepshead | sprace

a day at the sheepshead.

Racetrack Higgins, one of the Manhattan newsies who sold the most papers, had recently gained quite a big reputation. He was from Manhattan, yet he sold on Brooklyn turf.

His spot was the sheepshead, where he both sold and gambled. The patrons there were fond of him, always up for betting, though they knew he would win. It was only when a new one came there that trouble really broke out.

"Extra, extra!" Race yelled, waving a rolled up paper in his hand. "Orphaned boy in Jersey adopted by the governor!"

"Are you talking about yourself?" a man asked as he walked up to the newsboy. He held himself high, fancy clothing decorating his body.

Race lowered the paper just slightly, but chose to ignore the man. "Thank you madame," he said and tipped his hat to a younger lady who bought one of his papers. "Buy a pape and win back your money from your bets!"

His last few papers were bought, though the man who'd made a comment was still there.

"Can I help you, sir?" he asked politely, taking the cigar out of his mouth. "The races are 'bout to start, aren't you gonna watch?"

"I'd like to know why exactly you're here, selling...'papes'?" The man stared through a monocle — as if he couldn't be more fancy — and a sneer pulled at his cracked lips.

"I gots good business here, and most seem to like me."

"Go back to the streets your filthy ass belongs on."

Race stepped back, putting the cigar back in his mouth. "Are you threatening me? The owners here are good friends o' mine-"

A fist connecting with his face cut him off, knocking him back. Someone yelled, people quickly moving away from the pair.

"Hey!" a young boy shouted, rushing towards them.

Race recognized him as one of the Brooklyn newsies right before the man shoved Race down. His head hit the ground hard and the man began to kick him, Race trying to block each one with his hands. People were starting to scream, not sure what to do. Men who knew Race managed to pull the man off the boy.

The owner of the sheepshead was pointing a finger in the man's face as Race's head spun.

"You are to never come back here again!" He pushed the man away, making sure he left before checking on the newsie. "What the hell happened?"

"The man jus' attacked 'im, sir," the Brooklyn newsie from earlier explained. "Race was mindin' his business and the man wouldn' leave 'im alone."

The owner nodded. "Take him to get cleaned up. Make sure he's alright." He walked away, seemingly more snappy than ever before.

"I'm bringin' you to the Brooklyn lodge," the newsie said to Race. "My name's Flip, by the-"

"Why not back to 'Hattan?" Race mumbled as he was pulled up, his arm going over Flip's shoulders.

"This is our turf, Racetrack, so I have'ta bring you there."

Race let out a sigh. He let himself be led out of the sheepshead and down several alleys that blurred together as they walked down them.

"Almost there," Flip assured him.

When they were close, a voice made them freeze.

"What the hell happened?"

Spot was standing a few feet away from them, blocking the door to the lodge.

"Someone attacked him at the sheepshead," Flip answered slowly. "He wouldn' leave Racetrack alone; he kept threatenin' him."