by Al Lacy
The woman left, and the man came from behind the counter. “May I help, you young man?”
Dane smiled again. “I—I’m not here to buy anything, sir, but I’m looking for a job. Are you the proprietor?”
“Yes. I’m Thomas Milford. But I have no job openings.”
“I’d do anything, Mr. Milford. Sweep the floor, wash the windows, clean the sidewalk out front, and … and anything else that needs doing.”
“I’m sorry, son, but I already have a janitor.” He frowned. “How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“Why aren’t you in school?”
“I’m an orphan, sir. My parents and my little sister and little brother were killed by a gang over on Third Avenue a few days ago.
Milford’s hand went to his cheek. “Oh yes. I read about that in the newspaper. The name is Weston, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. I’m Dane Weston. I wasn’t with them that night, or I’d have been killed, too.”
Thomas Milford’s features pinched. “Oh, I’m so sorry, son.” His hand went into his pants pocket. He pulled out two silver dollars and handed them to Dane. “I really don’t have any work for you to do, but take this money. It’ll buy you some food.”
Disappointment showed on Dane’s face, but he managed a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Milford. This will help, for sure.”
The proprietor looked on with compassion as the boy walked out of the store and headed on down the street.
By the time the sun was setting, Dane had been into twenty-two stores, and had been told twenty-two times by store owners and managers that they had no work for him. Thomas Milford was the only one who had given him money.
Dejected, but determined to start job hunting again in the morning, he began looking for a place to call home. Moving along the sidewalks, he glanced into one alley after another as he passed them, looking for what he knew was a colony of orphans and street waifs that he might join.
Soon he spotted a group of teenage boys in an alley, who were sitting in a circle, eating. He turned into the alley and headed toward them. As he drew close, one of the boys spotted him and said something in a low voice to the others. There were seven of them, and every one of them looked at him in an unfriendly manner.
The one who looked to be the oldest fixed him with a stony glare. “Whatta you want?”
“I just became an orphan a few days ago. My parents and little sister and little brother were murdered. I’m looking for a colony here on the streets to live with. Could I join up with you?”
“No, you can’t. You’re not welcome. We don’t want anyone else in our group.”
Dane bit down on his lower lip, wheeled, and walked back to the street. Less than a block from where he had just stopped, he came upon an alley where he saw a colony which was made up of boys and girls from their teens down to about eight or nine years of age. They were eating, too. As he made his way toward them, a boy about sixteen rose to his feet. “If you’re lookin’ for a group to join, it ain’t us. We get our food from the garbage cans of that café over there, and there ain’t enough to feed another mouth. That answer the question you were about to ask?”
Dane couldn’t reply. His tongue was too heavy to form words. A flicker of emotion skittered across his disconcerted face as he turned and walked away.
The last rays of the setting sun were lighting up the western sky as Dane reached the street and headed toward the next alley. As he drew near it, suddenly he heard a girl screaming. He dashed to the alley, turned in, and saw a group of frightened street waifs looking on as two husky teenage boys had a smaller boy on the ground, beating on him with their fists.
The one girl was screaming for them to stop.
Dane was infuriated at seeing the small boy, who was no more than six or seven years old, being pounded by the bigger boys. He ran toward them, shouting, “Hey! Cut that out, you two! Stop hitting him! Get away from him!”
The children in the group—which included some teenage boys—looked up and saw Dane running toward them. The little boy’s mouth and nose were bleeding.
The assailants paid him no mind, and this infuriated Dane.
He grabbed one of them by the shirt collar, yanked him off the boy, and sent him rolling. He then barked at the other assailant, “Get off him, right now!”
The assailant looked up and glowered at him with fire in his eyes. “Mind your own business, kid!”
“I said get off him!” Dane exploded with rage, grabbing him and throwing him off the bleeding child.
While the assailant rolled in the dirt from the force of Dane’s strong hands, the girl who had been screaming clapped her hands. “Atta boy, whoever you are! You did good!”
The other children began cheering him.
At the same time the second assailant was rolling on the ground, the first one lunged at Dane, tackling him.
Dane quickly freed himself and jumped to his feet. The husky teenager also leaped to his feet and took a swing at Dane, who dodged the punch and countered with a stinging left that smashed his nose. Right behind it came a powerful right cross that rocked him and sent him stumbling backward. He tripped over his own feet and fell, stunned by the punch. Blood was running from his nose.
The small group was cheering Dane on.
By this time, the other one was closing in, swinging both fists, eyes wild.
Dane met him head-on, ducking a punch and dodging another. He retaliated with a stiff, whistling blow to the nose, followed by a series of powerful, rapid punches to the jaw that put him down.
By this time, the other one’s senses had cleared. He bent over his friend and said in a wheezing voice, “Let’s get outta here!”
His friend staggered to his feet, wiped blood from his nose, and nodded. He flicked a fearful glance toward Dane. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
“Make it fast!” hissed Dane, his shoulders thrust forward and his fists still clenched.
As the two bleeding teenagers ran from the alley, the group jeered them. When they vanished from sight, the group turned to Dane, who was kneeling beside the battered boy, and they patted him on the back and shoulders, lauding him for what he had just done.
One teenage boy knelt beside Dane. “My name’s Russell Mims. I want you to know that those two bullies you just beat up are not part of our colony. They came in here, planning to steal what food we might have. Little Billy Johnson was the first to resist them, so they started pounding on him.”
While examining Billy’s nose and mouth, Dane took a moment to look up at Russell and the other teenage boys and said in a kindly tone, “How come you guys didn’t go to Billy’s rescue?”
The girls looked on, waiting for the boys to answer.
They ducked their heads ashamedly, and Russell Mims said, “’Cause those two are supposed to be really tough, and we—well, we were afraid to take them on.”
Dane nodded. “Thanks for being honest. I guess they were both bigger than any one of you.”
He then turned his attention back to the bleeding little boy, who was sniffling. “Billy, my name is Dane Weston. I want to help you if I can. How old are you?”
Billy choked on a sob, then replied, “Seven.”
The small group was gathered in a tight circle around Billy and Dane. Bending low over him, Dane noted that his nose was still bleeding, as was a deep cut in the center of his lower lip. Billy could hardly open his right eye for the dirt that had gotten into it.
Dane looked up at the group. “Do you have any water?”
The girl whose screams had first gotten Dane’s attention moved close. “We have some water in a jug. Mr. Powell, the man who owns the grocery store on the corner, fills it for us whenever we need it.”
One of the boys hurried to a small cardboard box next to the rear of the nearest building, pulled the jug from it, and hurried back. He handed it to Dane, who thanked him.
Removing the lid from the jug, Dane looked at the group again. “Do any of you have a clean piece of cl
oth? I’m going to use the water to wash the dirt out of Billy’s eye, but I’m going to need a piece of cloth to help stop the bleeding from the cut on his lip.”
At first no one answered, then the same girl said, “I’ll go ask Mr. Powell for some cloth.”
Dane smiled at her. “What’s your name, little lady?”
“Bessie Evans.”
“And how old are you?”
“Eleven. How old are you, Dane?”
“Fifteen.”
“Do you know how to fix Billy’s cut and stop his nosebleed?”
“I’m sure going to try. Hurry, will you?”
“Sure will,” said Bessie, and with that, she turned and ran toward the closest end of the alley.
Dane held the jug ready. “Billy, I’m going to pour some water in your eye and get the dirt washed out. Hold as still as you can, okay?”
Billy nodded.
Dane leaned close and focused on the boy’s nostrils. “It looks like your nose has quit bleeding, Billy. I’m glad for that.”
Billy sniffed and put fingertips to his nose. “Me too.”
Dane went to work on the eye, and after a few minutes, had the dirt washed away. Billy blinked his eyes. “That’s better. Thank you, Dane.”
“You’re welcome, little pal,” he said, focusing now on the cut lip. “Your lip is still bleeding pretty bad.”
At that moment, one of the girls said, “Here comes Bessie!”
All eyes turned to the girl who was running down the alley waving a worn but clean piece of toweling like a banner. She drew up, panting, and handed it to Dane. “This … is … all I could … come up with, but … it’s clean. Will it … do the job?”
Dane looked at the cloth, then the expectant look on the girl’s face, which was red from running. “It will do just fine, Bessie. You’re a good girl. Thank you.”
Bessie smiled at his words of praise and shyly dipped her head.
Dane poured water on the cloth and put compassionate eyes on the little boy. This opportunity was giving him a hint at what it would be like to be a doctor, and he was reveling in it. “Billy, I’m going to have to press on the cut to try to stop the bleeding. It may hurt, but the bleeding has to be stopped.”
Still panting, Bessie spoke up. “Billy’s a brave … boy, Dane. He’ll be … all right.”
Billy set appreciative eyes on the pretty girl, then looked at Dane. “Go ahead. I’ll be all right.”
The look in Billy’s eyes showed Dane that he trusted him.
While the group looked on, Dane dabbed the wet cloth on the cut lip carefully, trying not to hurt the boy any more than was necessary. Billy winced, but did not cry out.
After several minutes, Dane held the wet cloth against the lip and looked around at the group in the gathering darkness. “The cut is really deep. I’ve got the bleeding slowed down, but Billy will need a doctor to stitch it up. Any of you know where the nearest doctor might be?”
Russell was about to speak up when Bessie said, “There is a very kind doctor who has an office a few blocks away, Dane. His name is Dr. Lee Harris. He and his wife and daughter live in the apartment above his office. Dr. Harris has a concern for the children who live on the streets. One afternoon a week—usually on Saturdays—he goes into some of the alleys to see if there are any sick or injured street waifs like us who need his help. We’ve heard that he helps so many poor families in this part of the city, that he doesn’t make a lot of money. They can’t pay him, but he helps them, anyhow. He’s really a wonderful man. Dr. Harris was here just about three hours ago, so he won’t be back for another week.”
Dane rubbed his chin. “Billy needs his lip stitched up immediately. It can’t wait a week. I’ll take him to Dr. Harris right now if you will tell me how to find his office. Since he lives in the apartment above the office, he’ll probably be home.”
“I’ll take you there, Dane,” said Russell.
“All right,” said Dane, sliding his hands underneath Billy’s small body. He picked him up and rose to his feet, cradling him in his arms while holding the cloth against the cut lip to stay the flow of blood as much as possible.
Bessie smiled at Dane. “Thank you for being so kind, and for caring about Billy.” She frowned and cocked her head to one side. “You don’t live in this neighborhood, do you?”
“Actually, I don’t live anywhere right now. I used to live in the two hundred block over on Thirty-third Street, but I became an orphan a few days ago when gang members murdered my parents and my little sister and brother. I came down here to live on the streets with orphans like you. I tried to get into two other colonies today, but they didn’t want me.”
“Well, you’re welcome to live with us,” spoke up Russell.
All the others joined in chorus to show their agreement with Russell, including Billy Johnson.
Bessie stepped up to Dane and laid a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry about your family. I know we can’t take their place, but we’ll try.”
Dane smiled at them. “Thank you. I feel at home with you already.”
Russell’s eyes sparkled, matching his smile. “We’re very glad to have you.”
One of the other boys said, “Dane, we have an extra cardboard box. You can sleep in it, just like we sleep in ours. It’s big enough for you.” He was pointing at the number of cardboard boxes that were grouped near the rear of the closest store.
Dane took a cursory glance at the boxes, then around the alley. “I want to thank all of you, again, for taking me in. I’ll do my part to provide food. I’m trying to find a job of some kind. And I’ll do what I can to provide safety for all of you, too.”
“You’re plenty good at that!” said Russell. “Believe me, we’ll get the word around about how you handled those two bullies. Nobody will want to bother us once they know you’re living here.” He paused. “Could I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Where’d you learn to fight like that? Both of those guys outweigh you ten pounds, if not more.”
“I learned to take care of myself in school and in our neighborhood. Plenty of toughs to put up with. When you fight enough of them, you learn real quick.”
“Well, you sure did all right with those two.”
Dane’s face tinted. “We’d better get going. Billy’s lip is still bleeding.” He looked at the others. “We’ll be back later.”
The small group of street waifs watched with appreciative eyes as Dane and Russell headed for the street with Billy cradled in Dane’s arms.
When the boys reached the street, twilight was on Manhattan and the lamplighters were busy doing their job.
Russell pointed Dane in the proper direction, and they headed that way, walking fast. As they moved along the street, they saw a pair of policemen on a corner across the street, walking their beat together.
Russell focused on them. “That’s different.”
“What’s different?”
“Two policemen on a beat together. It’s always one officer by himself.”
“Not anymore. I have a close friend who lives in the same block where I used to live, and his father told me that all five boroughs are putting two officers together on a beat as partners. Too many police officers have been killed and wounded by the gangs because they were alone on their beats, and the criminals on the streets are braver when a police officer is by himself.”
Keeping his eyes on the two officers as they walked, Russell said, “I’m sure that’ll make the streets safer. Some of the officers in our area check on us street kids once in a while. It’s good to know they’re around, and it’ll be even better with them working in pairs.”
“Um-hmm,” said Dane as he checked Billy’s lip and picked up the pace.
It was dark by the time they drew up in front of the doctor’s office, but there was a street lamp right in front of the building. There were no lights in the office—as they had expected—but there was a light in the apartment window above. A sign on the office doo
r gave Dr. Harris’s office hours, but added that in emergencies, if the doctor was home, he could be reached upstairs. An arrow pointed to the door that led up to the apartment.
Russell opened the door, allowing Dane to pass through with Billy in his arms. Together, they mounted the stairs. When they were almost to the top, Russell moved ahead and knocked on the door.
Footsteps were heard inside and the door opened. A tall, slender, gray-haired man appeared. His shoulders were stooped. He looked at Billy and the bloody cloth Dane was holding over his mouth. “Come in, boys. What have we here?”
“Some bullies beat Billy up, Dr. Harris,” said Russell. “They cut his lip real bad. Our new friend did what he could to stop the bleeding, but he said Billy needed to have the cut stitched up.”
Harris’s bushy gray eyebrows arched. “Oh, now I know you boys. Your colony is in the alley behind Powell’s Grocery.”
“Yes, sir. My name’s Russell Mims. Billy’s last name is Johnson, and our friend’s name is Dane Weston.”
The doctor moved up close to the boy in Dane’s arms, lifted the hand that held the bloody cloth, and studied the cut lip.
While he was doing so, Dane noticed an elderly silver-haired woman sitting on a sofa in the parlor behind the doctor, with a woman he judged to be about forty-five or so. He recalled that Bessie said the Harrises’ daughter lived with them in the apartment. Dane had not expected the doctor and his wife to be that old, nor their daughter to be in her forties, either. He noted that the daughter was looking at him with her mouth hanging open. There was a blank stare in her eyes.
Wondering how a boy Dane’s age would know whether or not the cut on Billy’s lip would need stitches, and how he knew what to do to slow the bleeding, Dr. Harris said with a hint of admiration in his eyes, “You’re right, Dane. The cut definitely needs to be sewn up. Not only for the bleeding’s sake, but otherwise it will leave a nasty scar, and it could cause him a problem with his speech. You did the right thing by bringing him here. We’ll go down to the office, and I’ll get it stitched up.”