Joshua's Song

by Joan Hiatt Harlow

  And ran right into Marc Muggeridge!

  A Warning

  “WELL, IF IT ISN’T GENTLEMAN josh!” Mr. Muggeridge exclaimed. “Where are you racing off to?”

  “I . . . er . . . I’m going to my room.”

  Mr. Muggeridge stepped aside and made a sweeping bow. “Go right ahead.”

  Joshua hesitated. “Mr. Muggeridge? Can I talk to you?”

  “Sure.” The reporter crossed his arms and waited.

  “Not here. Can we talk in your room?”

  “Sure. Come on in.”

  Joshua entered what had been his parents’ bedroom. A typewriter sat on a desk by the window. Papers cluttered a table, and two oak file cabinets now occupied the place where Mom’s vanity had been.

  Mr. Muggeridge pulled a leather briefcase from a chair, set it on the floor, and motioned for Joshua to sit down. “What do you want to talk about?” He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked his mustache.

  Joshua wiggled uncomfortably in his seat. “This morning . . . in town . . . I thought you might be our new boarder. Mom said something about a reporter moving in . . . but I didn’t say anything ’cause . . . well, my mother doesn’t know that I’m a newsboy. She wouldn’t like it.”

  “Sure, Joshua, I understand. Your mother and father were among the social elite. What do they call them? Boston Brahmins?” Mr. Mugg grinned. “Your mother doesn’t want her neighbors to know she’s taking in boarders. So, I can understand why you want to keep your . . . occupation . . . a secret, too.”

  “I’m not ashamed of selling papers,” Joshua said. “Jobs are hard to find now that the war’s over.”

  Mr. Mugg’s expression became serious. “Joshua, you could get a job most anywhere. You’ve got class, and your father knew people in high places. Don’t you know that? But instead, here you are working for Charlestown Charlie.”

  “He said I was a snob and didn’t have what it takes.”

  “So do you have to prove yourself to Charlie? Or to yourself?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “Let me tell you something about Charlie. He’s from an Irish immigrant family and he has ten sisters and brothers. He’s driven—impelled—to work hard. That’s about all you’ve got in common with him, Josh. You’re both trying to help out your families.”

  “Mr. Muggeridge, Charlie buys the papers and then gets lots of kids to sell them for him. Couldn’t I buy the papers directly—like he does? Then I could make more profit.”

  “Sure you could. The newspaper would probably sell directly to you if you asked them to. You might get into a lot of trouble with Charlie if you try to cut in on his territory, though. He’s got his boys working for him, and no one dares to leave.”

  “I asked Charlie outright why I couldn’t go directly to the paper, and I thought he was going to knock me out.”

  “Oh, Charlie acts real tough when he’s scared. Believe it or not, I think he’s worried about you. He’s concerned that you might actually compete with him and he’d lose out.”

  “Charlie never seems scared. But he sure is scary.”

  “Here’s something else to think about, Josh. Charlie’s the top newsboy in Boston, you know. But that’s only because he has all you kids working for him and he’s getting the credit at the paper. There are scholarships available for newsboys. If you start selling directly, you might find yourself eligible for a scholarship. Charlie qualifies. He’s just too busy supporting his family to take time off to go to school.”

  “How come you know so much about Charlie? You’ve only been in town a month.”

  “He and I had a long talk one day. I dealt with kids like him in New York.”

  “He doesn’t like me very much,” Joshua said.

  “Think carefully before you decide to cross Charlie.”

  “I don’t want to cross him. I just want to make some kale . . . money.” Joshua was surprised to hear Charlie’s term slip out of his own mouth.

  “Good.” Marc Muggeridge walked over to Joshua and shook his hand. “You can trust your old Uncle Marc,” he said. “You can call me Marc, you know. Without the uncle, if you prefer. Don’t worry, I won’t let on to your mother that you’re a newsie. That’s what we call newsboys in New York City.”

  “Charlie calls himself a ‘newsie.’ ”

  “He’s been around, Josh.” Marc grinned. “You know, Charlie’s the one who found out about the shoe factory closing in Boston. His brother worked there. I paid him two bucks for that tip.”

  “Two bucks! No wonder he’s afraid I’m horning in.”

  “There’s enough news in Boston to go around. Now, if there was an earthquake or fire like they had years ago, that would be big news.”

  “That would be awful news,” Joshua retorted. “You sound like you want a disaster or something, just for the headlines.”

  Marc Muggeridge shrugged. “I’m a reporter, Joshua. I think like a reporter.”

  Joshua got up to leave. “I’ll let you know when I hear anything big.”

  “The bigger the better.” Marc held the door open. “By the way, I saw your picture down on the piano. You were wearing a choir robe. Do you sing?”

  “No,” Joshua replied, “I don’t.”

  “That’s not the way I heard it,” said Marc as he closed the door.

  Joshua headed to his room, then stopped. Aunt Caroline. He had left her room in a huff. He should go back and apologize. He knocked gently on her door.

  “Come in.” Aunt Caroline was in the same chair, but the book was no longer in her lap. “It’s getting late. What is it, Joshua?”

  “I came back to say I’m sorry for being so rude.”

  “I accept your apology. Now, come in and close the door.”

  Joshua went inside, then waited.

  “I’m sorry I asked you to sing for me sometime. I didn’t realize it would upset you so much. I will not make that mistake again.”

  Joshua sat on the edge of Aunt Caroline’s bed. “I miss singing. Just after Dad died, when my voice changed, I couldn’t hit the high notes, and it kept cracking. Sometimes I sounded like a frog. The other boys kidded me. I knew when I joined the choir that sometime my voice would change and I’d have to leave. But when Mr. Albert, the choir master told me it was over . . .”

  “I understand, Joshua. You had a beautiful gift, and perhaps you feel it was snatched away from you. Maybe you’ll sing again someday—when you’re ready. Perhaps your beautiful voice has been replaced by one that’s even more beautiful.”

  “My new voice is awful,” Joshua muttered. “I’m glad Dad never heard it.”

  Aunt Caroline continued. “I love Irish ballads sung by a real Irish tenor. However, my favorite male voice is baritone. It’s a nice range to listen to. Easy on the ears.” She paused. “Music has always been part of my life, Joshua, As long as there is music inside me, I never feel totally alone.”

  Joshua felt a rush of sadness for Aunt Caroline. Her family had not come to see her since she had moved into the Harpers’ home. He traced the colorful quilt patterns with his finger. “I was a soloist, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “My dad was so proud that I was the soloist for the Boston Boys’ Choir. He used to brag to everyone about it.”

  “Your mother told me how the director once said your voice was like a bell—lilting and clear. ‘The most beautiful voice in Boston,’ he said.”

  Joshua stood up. “Not anymore.”

  “It’s all right, Joshua. I won’t mention it again.”

  “Thank you. Good night.”

  “Oh, Josh,” Aunt Caroline said as he was about to leave. “I’ve repaired your trousers.” She pulled the pants out from a knitting bag by her chair. “Here. Take them back to your room and hang them up.”

  Joshua looked them over. “I can’t even see where they were ripped,” he said in amazement.

  “I’ve had a lot of practice repairing clothes. I had two boys, you know.” She smiled. “Maybe you’ll
meet them. I’m sure they’ll come to visit me soon.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Caroline,” Joshua said as he headed for the door. Then, on a sudden impulse, he turned around and kissed the older woman on her cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “You’re welcome.” She scooted him out with her hand. “Now go put those trousers away.”

  Joshua bathed, put on his pajamas and bathrobe, then went downstairs. Mom was finishing up in the kitchen. “Sorry I didn’t help with the dishes, Mom,” he said.

  “Thank you for the money,” she said. “Now I can pay the milkman tomorrow. I left some change on the table. You’ll need it to get to work.”

  “I met Mr. Muggeridge—Marc—upstairs. I visited him in his room for a while.”

  “Good. He seems nice, and the extra money he’s paying for his room and board will be helpful. Maybe things will be all right after all.” She kissed his forehead. “Go to bed now. You need your sleep.”

  Back in his own room, Joshua climbed into bed and thought about Aunt Caroline. He was glad he had gone back to her room to apologize. She wasn’t mad, either. She understood how he felt—that so much had been taken away from him: his friends, his voice, his father.

  He closed his eyes and saw his father’s face—his dark eyes and crinkling smile—the way he used to laugh and rumple Joshua’s hair. Josh had always pulled away when he did that. He would give anything to have his father do it one more time.

  “Oh, Dad, I’m sorry I couldn’t sing at your funeral, and now my voice is gone.” Joshua rolled over and clutched his pillow. “I miss you so much!” he whispered.

  Joshua Gets a Scoop!

  THE NEXT MORNING, WHILE IT was still dark, joshua could hear the tap, tapping of Mr. Mugg’s typewriter. Joshua left for town in the freezing dawn, before the reporter appeared for breakfast.

  Just as he arrived at his usual pickup corner, a horse-drawn wagon, with the words BOSTON TRAVELER painted in black letters on the side, pulled up to the curb. Charlie and the wagon driver piled stacks of newspapers on the sidewalk. Charlie dropped off the handcart, then faced Joshua.

  “From now on I’ll leave your papes piled on the handcart in that alley,” he said, pointing to the dark walkway behind an office stationery store. “The owner of this establishment knows me. He said it’s okay to pick your papes up here every morning.”

  “Shall I still meet you here for the evening papers?”

  “Yeah. If I get here first, you’ll see your pile over there covered with canvas. If I don’t see you, I’ll find you at State Street to pick up the money you owe me.” Charlie climbed back onto the wagon. “Get busy, Gentleman Josh,” he sneered as he and the driver drove noisily up the cobblestone street.

  Back at his corner, Joshua called out the headlines, and people crowded around to buy his papers. When the rush hour was over, Joshua sat on the curb to count his money.

  “Want a shine?”

  Joshua looked up to see a boy about his own age carrying a wooden chest. He recognized him as one of the bootblacks who polished shoes along the streets.

  “Do I look like I need a shine?” Joshua asked, pointing to his old boots.

  The kid sat down beside him. “What’s your name?”

  “Josh.”

  “I’m Billy Boot. That’s not my real name, but I like it better than McGillicuddy. That’s way too long. Everyone knows Billy Boot.” The boy took off his woolen cap and scratched his dark blond hair. “Do you work for Charlestown Charlie?”

  “Yeah,” Joshua answered.

  “I used to. But now I’m doin’ shoe shines.”

  “How come?”

  “I got tired of him bossin’ me around.”

  “Did Charlie give you a hard time?”

  “Oh, yeah. It was easier to become a bootblack than to have Charlie out to get me.”

  “Where did you get the kit?” Joshua asked, nodding at the smooth-finished wooden container.

  “My uncle made it for me.” Billy Boot opened the cleverly constructed box. “See? All my polish and brushes are in here. This part opens so the customer can rest his foot on the black rubber pad. Pretty clever, eh?”

  “That’s a real pip,” Joshua agreed. “Do you make much money doing bootblack?”

  “Enough to help out at home. I’m thinkin’ of joinin’ the union. There’s a union in New York City, you know, for paperboys and bootblacks. But the union has yet to work somethin’ out for us younger kids, ’cause of the new child labor laws.” Billy closed the chest carefully and brushed the top off with his sleeve. “But I don’t need the union. I got a lot of good customers,” he said. “They all like me around here where the big shots work. They trust me.”

  “What do you mean, they trust you? With what? Their shoes?”

  “I mean they trust me. They talk about business and things to each other while they wait in line for me to shine their shoes. It’s like I’m one of them. They know me and they trust me.”

  Maybe this Billy Boot knew things that Marc could use for the Traveler. “What kind of things do they talk about in front of you?”

  “Well, things like who’s been hired and fired and where they’re investin’ their money.” Billy laughed. “If I had money, I’d know where to put it. Trouble is, I ain’t got none.” He sat back and grinned. “But I know a lot that’s goin’ on in Boston,” Billy bragged.

  “Oh, sure you do,” Joshua said.

  Billy bristled. “Just this mornin’ I heard something really big.”

  “You’re just full of talk,” Joshua egged him on.

  “You’ll hear about it soon enough in the papers.”

  “If I’m going to hear about it in the papers, why can’t you tell me?”

  Billy Boot leaned close to Joshua. “One of the big shots at the Jupiter Bank has been fired. They found he’d been stealin’ money. They’re tryin’ to keep it quiet, but—”

  “I thought you said it would be in the papers,” said Joshua.

  “When they throw the banker in jail, everyone will know. They can’t keep that quiet.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it in the paper,” said Joshua. “You could be making it all up.”

  “I told you . . .” Billy hesitated and then said, “Okay. I’ll tell you who it was that stole the money. Then you’ll believe me when it all comes out in the news.”

  “Tell me, then.”

  “Don’t let on to anyone where you heard it. Promise?”

  “I promise,” said Joshua.

  Billy moved closer to Joshua and spoke in a low voice. “He’s a highbrow around town, and at the bank, too. His name’s Manderville.”

  “Okay,” said Joshua. “I’ll watch for it in the paper.”

  “Well, I gotta go now. We could freeze to death sittin’ here,” said Billy, standing up. He blew on his hands, then pulled on a pair of patched knitted mittens. “The early lunchers will be comin’ out for a shine.” He picked up his bootblack box and headed down the street.

  “See you later, Billy,” Joshua called.

  Joshua didn’t waste time getting to the Traveler offices. On the face of the tall, gray building in the center of the square, the words THE BOSTON TRAVELER were inscribed in large black letters. Inside he pulled off his hat and asked a receptionist the way to Marc Muggeridge’s office. He took the elevator to the second floor and through the open grating he could see lots of people rushing around—just like in the flickers—the new movie shows.

  The second floor was a large, open room filled with desks and private offices around the perimeter. Joshua found Marc’s office and knocked.

  “Come in!”

  Joshua burst into the office. “I’ve got a scoop for you,” he said breathlessly.

  Marc listened to Joshua’s story. “Where did you hear this information?” he asked.

  Joshua hesitated. “I don’t want to tell. I might get the kid in trouble.”

  “Is he a reliable source?”

  “Yes. He swears it’s the tr
uth.”

  Marc whistled softly. “Manderville. One of the big Boston names caught up in a scandal. This is a scoop, Joshua. Don’t tell anyone else, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Marc wrote something on a piece of paper, then stood up. “If this is as big as I think, you’ll be compensated well.”

  “What if Charlie comes to you with the same story?”

  “You came first. That’s it, as far as I’m concerned.” Marc gave Joshua an understanding smile. “I don’t have to tell Charlie where I found out. So don’t you worry.”

  Joshua sighed. “Thanks, Marc. See you tonight.”

  • • •

  Charlie was waiting for Joshua when he went to collect the evening edition. “I saw you today at the Traveler office. What were you doin’ there?”

  “I had to see someone . . .”

  “Yeah, right. You had to see Mr. Mugg.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Why else would you be there?”

  Joshua took a deep breath. “Look, Charlie, Marc told you that he was going to use me for scoops, too. So naturally, if I hear something I’m going to tell him.”

  “Marc! You’re such great buddies, you call him Marc?”

  Joshua was trapped. What would Charlie do if he knew Marc lived at his house? “He told me to call him Marc. That’s his name.”

  “Well, Gentleman Josh knows how to play his cards, don’t he? He’s real polite and talks real smart. He’s probably goin’ to be a reporter himself someday. So he sneaks into Mr. Mugg’s office and cozies up to him and—”

  “I do not sneak into his office,” Joshua snapped. “For your information, that was the first time I’d ever been there.”

  “Level with me, kid,” said Charlie, moving closer. “What’s between you and Mr. Mugg, anyway?”

  “Nothing. I heard something I thought he should know. That’s all.”

  Joshua recalled Marc’s words: “Charlie acts real tough when he’s scared.”

  “Everything’s okay, Charlie,” Joshua said reassuringly. “You don’t need to worry about me. Honest.”