Charlie stepped back. “You on the level?”
“Yes. I’m on the level.”
“See that you don’t ever double-cross me, Gentleman Josh.” Charlie walked away. “Ever.”
At the Tenements
THE FRONT PAGE HEADLINES ON thursday’s evening edition of the Traveler disclosed the breaking story about how Ernest J. Mandeville had been caught embezzling funds from the Jupiter Bank. Joshua was jubilant when he saw the article. He felt even better when Marc slipped a five-dollar bill into his palm that night. Of course, he couldn’t have done it without Billy Boot. For a moment Joshua considered splitting the money with Billy. But if he did, he’d have some explaining to do about his arrangement with Marc, so he decided against it.
For the next several days Joshua didn’t speak to Charlie, except for a few words when he handed over the money he owed.
Then one morning Joshua arrived for his papers earlier than usual, just in time to see Charlie and the Traveler wagon driver piling newspapers into the handcart. Charlie seemed to be in a hurry.
“Hey, Charlie,” Joshua called. “How’s Angel’s mother?”
“I dunno. I’m headin’ down there now to see.”
“Can I come with you?” Joshua asked. “It’s still early.”
Charlie paused. “Oh, all right. Come on,” he beckoned.
Joshua pulled the filled wagon back to the alley and then raced down the street to the waiting horse and dray. Charlie pulled Joshua up onto the seat beside him.
Over the clomping of the horse’s hooves, Joshua could hear the sound of a boat’s horn. The creaks of wooden vessels as they pulled against the dock pilings echoed on the strong east wind. Joshua pulled his jacket collar up around his face. The horse snorted, and steam billowed from its nostrils. The morning was cold and bleak.
Charlie finally spoke. “Listen, I know it was you who got that Jupiter Bank story to Mr. Mugg.”
“Who told you that?”
“One of my boys saw you talkin’ to Billy Boot,” Charlie said. “I’ve had a good talk with Billy, and he won’t be givin’ you any more information, you can be sure of that. I thought you got it straight, kid. This is my town. I’m the one who gave you a job. I’ve been the chief newsie here for two years. And Mr. Mugg is my connection. Got it?”
The driver spoke up. “Cut it out, Charlie. Leave the kid alone.”
Charlie sank back into the seat. “If we tell Mugg the same story, then it’s mine. I get dibs on it. I’ve got”—Charlie struggled for a word—“seniority.”
“So, what does that leave for me?”
“Any story you find on your own is yours, so long as it ain’t from one of my sources.” Charlie scowled at Joshua.
Joshua looked around. “Are we near Angel’s house?”
“Over there,” Charlie said, nodding in the direction of several tenement buildings.
Joshua had never been this close to tenements before. Across the street, beyond the trestle bridge of the elevated train, the old, wooden buildings stood in a dreary row.
“Which house is hers?” Joshua asked. “They all look alike.”
It was impossible to tell what shade of paint the houses might have been at one time. Every house in the vicinity was a dismal gray. The narrow alleys between the houses were filled with overflowing trash barrels.
“That one,” Charlie said, pointing to the most rundown of the three-story tenements.
The wagon stopped, and the boys climbed off.
“Wait for us,” Charlie said to the driver. “I’m just checkin’ to see if Angel will be sellin’ her papes today.”
The driver shrugged. “Don’t take all day, Charlie. I ain’t your private chauffeur, you know. I gotta get this gig back to the plant.”
Charlie pulled two bags from the back of the wagon. “And I’ve gotta drop this stuff off,” he muttered, not looking at Joshua.
“What is that stink?” Joshua asked, wrinkling his nose.
“Just trash, snob,” snickered Charlie. “Ain’t you got trash up in your fancy neighborhood?”
But the overpowering smell was not coming from garbage. The wind carried a strange, sickening sweet stench that puckered Joshua’s tongue and throat.
Joshua followed Charlie up a pair of rickety steps to a weather-beaten door. Joshua was relieved to get inside the building. Even the musty reek of damp wood that mixed with the scent of toilets wasn’t as foul or disgusting as the sickening odor outdoors.
A dark hallway stretched along to the right of a stairway. “Don’t they have electricity yet?” Joshua whispered.
Charlie didn’t answer as he started upstairs with the two bags in his arms.
Joshua heard someone coughing and stopped on the first landing. “I—uh—I think I’ll wait outside,” he told Charlie.
“Why, are you scared? Never seen the likes of this?”
“Charlie, they may have influenza. I’ve already had it, and even though they say you can’t get it twice, I’m not going up there.” Charlie shrugged and disappeared up the stairway.
Poor Angel, Joshua thought. How can anyone expect to stay healthy in this place? His mother had warned him to stay away from the tenements. Now he knew why.
Once outside, Joshua climbed onto the wagon. “These houses are awful,” he said to the driver. “They don’t have electricity.”
“That ain’t all they don’t have,” said the man. “Everyone in that building has to share one bathroom.”
Joshua shuddered.
“The neighborhood’s not as bad it used to be,” said the driver. “And there’s a nice park just up the way—the North End Playground.”
Joshua looked around. Ugly warehouses stood on the other side of the street. A sign read, BOSTON & WORCESTER RAILWAYS. Another building, with a horse barn adjoining it, was marked, PUBLIC WORKS. Closer to the water was a fire station where a fireboat was hitched to the wharf.
A huge steel tank towered above the buildings, casting a shadow on the cheerless neighborhood.
“What’s in that tank?” asked Joshua.
“Crude molasses. Can’t you smell it?” The man took out a pipe and stuffed it with tobacco from a leather pouch.
“That’s what smells so awful? Molasses?”
“That’s it. Doesn’t smell like cookies, does it?”
“It’s sickening. What’s it used for?”
“Rum, I guess. It belongs to the Purity Distilling Company.” He turned from the wind, scratched a match on the side of the wagon, then held it to the bowl of the pipe. The tobacco began to glow as the driver inhaled steadily on the pipe. Then he continued, “Can’t imagine why they’d store all that molasses with Prohibition so near at hand. It’ll be against the law to brew rum if that bill passes.” The driver sat back and puffed on his pipe.
“I’d hate to smell that rotten stink all the time,” Joshua said. “I’m going to take a closer look while we’re waiting for Charlie.” He climbed off the wagon and walked under the elevated trestle toward the tank. He wandered over to some firemen who were standing outside the station.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Is that tank full of molasses?”
“Yeah, it’s molasses, all right. Haven’t you seen it before?” asked one of the firemen.
“I’ve never been down this way. How much molasses does it hold?”
“A few million gallons, they say,” another fireman answered.
“What’s it for?” Joshua asked.
“They use it to make alcohol for munitions,” said a third man. “They haul it off to Cambridge in trolley tank cars. Molasses is a big thing here in Boston.”
“It has a big stink, too,” said Joshua.
“That’s ’cause it leaks. See the molasses oozing out of the seams?” The man pointed to the steel tank. “That thing’s gonna blow someday, I swear.”
“Well, you’d better not be around here when it does!” The first fireman slapped his friend on the back, and everyone laughed.
Charli
e was climbing onto the wagon, and Joshua ran back across the street. “How’s Angel?” he asked, getting onto the seat.
“She’s okay, but her mother’s still sick. I’ll have to get someone to sell these papes at her corner,” Charlie said almost to himself. “She has a good, safe stand up near city hall. I’ll get Shawn to do it.”
The driver clicked the reins, and the horse slowly ambled away.
“Hey, what were you doin’ across the street?” Charlie asked.
“Just asking about that molasses. What do you think it’s used for?”
“For Boston baked beans,” Charlie said with a smirk. “Don’t ya know that Boston baked beans are made with molasses? Or don’t you highbrows eat beans?”
“Quit calling me names, Charlie.”
“Ta ta! Can’t take bein’ called a highbrow?”
“Not from an ignoramus like you!”
“Listen to the big shot here. Can’t even speak English. There ain’t no such word as ‘igno . . . ramus.’ ”
“You’re the one who can’t speak English,” Joshua shot back. “There’s no such word as ‘ain’t’! Don’t say ‘ain’t.’ Your mother will faint. Your father will fall in a bucket of paint!” Joshua chanted.
The driver pulled on the reins and stopped the wagon. “All right, you kids. If you don’t stop this arguin’ and fightin’ you can both walk back.” He waited, then clicked the reins and the horse moved on again.
Joshua settled back. “Let’s get out of this place. I can’t stand it around here.”
“Poor you! You only saw the outsides,” Charlie taunted. “The insides are really somethin’. Half the time they ain’t even got water. And the rats from the waterfront—”
Joshua interrupted. “People shouldn’t have to live like that.”
“Oh, la dee da. Where are they gonna live, then? Up in your neighborhood, Gentleman Josh?” Charlie snorted. “They ain’t got money. They ain’t got jobs that pay anything.” Charlie pulled a neatly folded paper from his pocket and shoved it at Joshua. “Here. Angel said for me to give you this.”
Joshua opened it. “It’s a drawing,” he said. “A cartoon. It looks like me!”
Charlie looked over Joshua’s shoulder and laughed. “Yep. That’s you, all right. Big mouth and all.”
The picture was a pencil drawing of Joshua with his canvas bag and soft visored cap. He was riding on a speeding cart full of newspapers. On its side were the words BOSTON TRAVELER.
The newsboy in the picture had his mouth open wide as if he were hollering out the headlines with all his might. “That’s pretty clever,” Joshua said. Angelina’s name was scribbled on the bottom: ANGELINA DIPIETRO.
“She said somethin’ about . . . tryin’ to find a way to say thanks for the toy you gave her kid sister, or somethin’,” Charlie said, looking ahead at the road.
“Angel is an artist!” Joshua kicked the seat in front of him angrily. “It’s not fair! She should be in art school instead of being a newsie in boy’s clothes.”
“How could she get into a school?” Charlie asked. “They’re poor people.”
“Maybe she could get a scholarship. I’ve heard there are scholarships for newsboys.” Instantly Joshua regretted his words, but it was too late.
Charlie looked at Joshua suspiciously. “Where’d you hear that?”
“I can’t remember. I was only thinking that if people knew how talented Angel is, maybe someone would give her a scholarship. Maybe she’d become famous. Well, at least she might get a job someday and move out of the tenements.”
“People like Angel don’t stand a chance,” Charlie said with a wave of his hand. “Just forget it.”
“Why doesn’t the mayor or the governor do something? Why don’t they build some decent places for poor people?”
“Why don’t you get on a soapbox up in the Common and give a speech?” Charlie said with a snort.
“Or write a letter to Governor Coolidge,” the driver added.
Joshua ignored their remarks. “I think the tenants should complain.”
“If the landlord fixed up these places, the rents would go up and nobody here could afford to live in ’em,” the driver explained. “Most of these folks are immigrants. Some don’t even speak English.”
“I’d sooner die than live here.”
“Well, you don’t have to, do you?” said Charlie. “You live in a nice, fancy house far away from the slums, so you don’t need to worry about nothin.’ ”
“You think things are easy for me, Charlie?” Joshua blurted. “Do you think I’d be pedaling papers on the streets if I didn’t have to?”
No one spoke, and for a while the only sound was the clomping of the horse’s hooves and the rumble of the wheels. It had begun to snow, and the large flakes filled the air like butterflies.
Then Joshua went on. “Someone should write a news article about these places. Go ahead, Charlie. Tell Mr. Mugg about it. He might pay you something. This should make a good story. Isn’t that what newspapers are for? To tell people what’s going on?”
“He already knows about tenements. He’s from New York City, for cryin’ out loud. Tenements ain’t nothin’ new. They’re not news,” Charlie answered. “He’s lookin’ for a big-time story.”
Maybe Charlie was right. No one seemed to care. No one would be interested in Angel or the tenements.
Joshua folded Angel’s drawing and placed it carefully in his pocket.
A Meeting at Angel’s Corner
IT WAS STILL SNOWING THAT afternoon when Charlie appeared at Joshua’s corner on State Street. He was lugging Joshua’s afternoon papers in another cart. “I need you to take Angel’s place. Just for today. Shawn is takin’ another kid’s corner this afternoon, so go up to city hall for the rest of the day.”
“But, Charlie, my customers here are just getting to know me,” Joshua complained. “Nobody knows me up there.”
“Do as I say,” Charlie ordered. “I’ll stick around here and sell my own papes until I run out.” He had already pulled Joshua’s cart out from the alley and was stacking it with the evening edition.
“But I just got my business started here,” Joshua persisted.
“Are you deaf? Do you think State Street will close down ’cause Gentleman Josh ain’t here? I told you to go up to city hall. Just go!”
“Why don’t you?” Joshua shot back before he grabbed the handle of his cart and stormed up the street.
“It’s only for today!” Charlie yelled after him. “You don’t have to come back to divvy up with me today. Do it tomorrow.”
Joshua didn’t acknowledge he even heard Charlie. He jerked the cart over the curbing, nearly overturning it.
He crossed Washington Street, headed up the hill to city hall, and posted himself on the sidewalk near the front entrance. It wasn’t long before people started filing out of the building and stopped to buy a paper. Joshua could move his hands as quickly as Charlie now—handing out papers and making change as fast as a magician doing card tricks.
Suddenly someone in the street screamed. “Watch out!”
A gray-haired man staggered out in front of an automobile. When the driver blasted his horn, a horse pulling a wagon reared, then bolted forward.
“Whoa! Whoa!” yelled the man on the wagon. But the terrified horse lunged directly toward the elderly man in its path.
Joshua dropped his papers and leaped into the street. He grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him to the sidewalk just as the horse galloped by with the out-of-control wagon bouncing behind.
The man teetered on the icy curb. “Are you all right?” Joshua asked, still holding his arm.
“Here, here! I’m fine,” the man said grumpily. “Leave me alone, boy.”
Joshua stepped back. “I’m sorry, sir. I was afraid you might fall.”
The stranger started to walk away, then paused. “Maybe you could . . . help me to that seat?” he asked.
Joshua led the man slowly to a metal bench
. He brushed off a dusting of snow, and the man sat down. “Thanks, son,” he murmured. “I’m a little unsteady. I’ve been ill.”
“It takes a while to get over it,” Joshua said. “Even when you think you’ve got it beat, it can creep up on you again.”
“It?” asked the man with a slight frown. “What do you mean, ‘it’ can creep up on you?”
“I . . . I just assumed you were recovering from the influenza.”
“Assume nothing. Don’t you know that a-s-s-u-m-e makes an ass of you and me?”
Joshua nodded. “Sorry, sir. My father died recently from the flu. Just when we thought we all had it licked, his lungs filled with pneumonia.”
“Oh, that’s a sad shame, son. What kind of work did he do?”
“He was a banker—down on State Street. His name was Jonathan Harper.”
“Harper. Of course. I’ve met him. A promising young man.” The gentleman took a long look at Joshua. “So you are his boy—Joshua, isn’t it? The lad with the glorious voice? I once heard you sing. What in the name of Sam Hill are you doing on the streets peddling papers? I would assume you’d be at school in the academy. Or better still, studying in the New England Conservatory.”
“Assume nothing!” Joshua snapped. Then he bit his lip. He didn’t mean to sound rude.
The gentleman seemed taken aback, but then he smiled. “You’re right, son. Assume nothing.”
“I didn’t mean to be impolite,” Joshua said.
“It’s all right,” the stranger replied. “I was a newsboy once. I had to help out at home, too.” He reached out his hand. “I’m John Fitzgerald.”
Joshua looked up in surprise. “Mayor Fitzgerald?”
“The former mayor,” Mr. Fitzgerald corrected him.
“I’m proud to meet you, sir.” Joshua shook the man’s hand.
“You were right, you know. I am recovering from the influenza. I didn’t want the public to know I’ve had it. That’s why I barked at you.” He grinned. “My daughter, Rose, says I want people to think I’m invulnerable.” Mr. Fitzgerald shook his head. “But I thought I was done for this time.”
Joshua sat down on the bench. “I’m taking this corner for a friend today. She’s the one who usually sells papers here. Her mother is really sick right now with the influenza.”
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