“Hm. A pretty, dark-eyed girl who dresses in boy’s clothes?”
“Yes, that’s her. Her name is Angelina. She has to take care of her mother and her little sister. Angel lives in the North End, near that big molasses tank.”
“I know the area very well. I used to live near there,” Mr. Fitzgerald said. “No place to be if you’re sick.”
“No place to be if you’re well,” Joshua replied.
“Not everything is terrible in that neighborhood. One of the best things I did as mayor was to build the North End Playground. It’s a safe place for children to play. Just up the street from that molasses tank.”
“I’ve heard about it, sir,” Joshua answered.
“You’re doing a fine thing, helping out your sick friend. When I was a newsboy I had a friend who sold papers, too. His name was Fred. He had a lucrative stand up on Tremont Street. But he got very sick. Tuberculosis. I tried to help out, like you, taking his corner for part of the day. Otherwise someone else would grab his place and he’d lose it for good. He did lose it for good, as it turned out. He died from consumption.” The man paused. “He was my best friend.”
Joshua had been so angry when Charlie had sent him away from his own corner. But now he knew why Charlie had done it: Angel might lose this profitable, safe place if someone didn’t keep it for her.
“I didn’t realize anyone could take over a corner just like that,” Joshua said.
“Some newsboys can be pretty mean,” said the former mayor. “The hawks, we called them.”
“I work for Charlestown Charlie. He can be pretty mean. But then, he wanted me here today for Angel. Sometimes I can’t figure him out.”
“I know Charlestown Charlie. He drops by now and then.” Mr. Fitzgerald chuckled. “He seems to keep a tab on everyone in town. He can be tough, but there’s a soft side to him, too. How come you’re not selling on your own?”
“Charlie found me when I was looking for a job. He takes care of everything, especially for us younger kids who are too young to be part of the new union. So he sells loads of papers, and we don’t get in trouble.”
Mr. Fitzgerald chuckled. “Charlie’s got all the answers. I’m not sure they’re totally accurate. I used to get down to Newspaper Alley for my papers at three A.M. Sometimes I’d have all mine sold before the regulars even showed up.”
“Three in the morning? I live in Back Bay, on Nightshade Lane. My mother wouldn’t let me go to work that early. She has no idea that I’m a newsboy,” Joshua explained. “She thinks I’m working for the newspaper in ‘distribution.’ ”
“Well, I guess you are, in a way,” Mr. Fitzgerald said with a laugh. Then his expression became serious. “You’re out of place in this business, Joshua. Selling papers is a tough job, and you’re dealing with tough people. It’s harder for someone like you who comes from a well-to-do family and has had a different kind of life.”
“I don’t mind selling papers. I’ve been thinking of going out on my own, but . . .” Joshua looked down at pigeons that were pecking away at some discarded peanuts.
“You’re scared of Charlie.” Mr. Fitzgerald nodded.
“He’d probably beat me up. He’s warned me enough times.”
“If you go on your own, you can make more money than some of the office clerks around here. But you’ll have to deal with Charlestown Charlie. He’s a struggling kid from a good family. I think he’s more of a bluff than a real threat.”
“Maybe so.” Joshua stood up. “Are you all right now, Mr. Fitzgerald? I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Yes, thanks, son. I’ll just sit here a little while longer and then I’ll be on my way.” Mr. Fitzgerald reached into his pocket and handed Joshua a dollar bill. “Take this. I’ve been down in luck myself, and I know what it’s like to be newsboy.”
“Oh, no sir,” Joshua pulled back. “I can’t take all that money.”
“Sure you can,” Mr. Fitzgerald insisted. “You pulled me away from that runaway horse just in the nick of time.”
Joshua shook his head. “I couldn’t take money for doing that.”
“You’ll never get rich this way,” Mr. Fitzgerald scolded as he put the bill away. “But you’re a good boy. Your father would be proud of you. Are you still singing with the choir?”
“No, I’m not. Good-bye, Mr. Fitzgerald.” Joshua hurried away.
Back on the sidewalk, he held up a newspaper and waited for customers.
Mr. Fitzgerald had said Joshua’s father would be proud of him. But his dad would be even more pleased if Josh stood up to Charlie and started his own business.
That’s exactly what I’m going to do, Joshua decided. It’s time to break away from Charlestown Charlie.
Snowball Fight!
THE SNOW HAD BECOME HEAVY by the time joshua’s last copy of the afternoon paper was sold. At least he didn’t have to go back and divvy up with Charlie. He was cold and wet, and he decided to take the subway from the Common back to the El station.
As he was crossing Tremont Street, Joshua noticed a crowd of well-dressed boys gathered by a lamppost. Their blaring voices sounded familiar. The Beacon Hill Boys! Kids from the academy! His old friends! The boys were pounding snow into an artillery of snowballs.
They’ve come to fight the North End kids, Joshua thought eagerly.
Snowball fights were a tradition on the Hill. The Beacon Hill boys would lie in wait for the North Enders to gather their forces and invade the Common. Joshua now knew why Charlie had a chip on his shoulder. He and the other poor kids from the North End resented the wealthy boys from Beacon Hill who had everything.
Joshua recognized a tall boy in a heavy green jacket and woolen hat “Hey, Frankie!” he yelled. “Can I fight, too?”
The boy stopped and peered into the twilight. “Who are you?” he asked.
“It’s me. Joshua Harper.”
The boys looked at Joshua curiously.
“Hi, Josh,” said Frankie walking closer. “Where’ve you been? Kids say you’ve quit school.” Frankie looked Joshua up and down, his eyes resting on the Boston Traveler bag around Joshua’s shoulders. Joshua had forgotten to tuck it into his pocket. “Are you a newsboy?”
Joshua hastily stuffed the bag in his jacket. “Um . . . I was just doing someone a favor today,” he said. “A kid whose family is sick.”
Some of the other boys had joined Frankie. “You’re a newsboy,” jeered Robert, one of the class big shots. “Joshua’s joined the newsboys!” he yelled to the others.
“Are you going to fight with your Irish pals from the North End?” a boy named Henry taunted.
“I don’t have any pals from the North End,” said Joshua. “What are you talking about?”
“My father saw you hawking papers down on State Street,” said Robert. “Couldn’t believe his eyes. He said your dad would roll over in his grave if he knew what’s become of the famous singer Joshua Harper.”
“Yeah, he’s still singing,” Henry scoffed. “He’s singing out the headlines!”
“Well, at least I’ve got my own business now,” said Joshua.
Henry continued badgering. “Josh is in business—on the street.”
“That’s more than you’ll ever do,” Joshua snapped. “The only jobs you’ll ever get are the ones your fathers get for you. You couldn’t get work anywhere else.”
Henry grabbed a snowball from the pile and hurled it at Joshua.
The hard-packed missile hit Joshua in the face. The icy snow smarted his skin, then slipped down his cheeks.
“How’d you like snow in your face?” Henry laughed. “Or don’t newsboys wash their faces?”
Furious, Joshua pounced on the larger boy, knocking both of them to the ground.
Joshua smacked a fistful of snow in Henry’s face. “How do you like snow in your face!” he yelled.
Henry struggled and punched aimlessly at Joshua, but Joshua sat on his chest and whammed him with more snow.
Henry was starting to
cry. “Get him off of me!” he screamed.
Two boys dragged Joshua up by the collar. Joshua yanked away and was about to run off when he heard someone call his name.
“Josh! Over here!” Billy Boot was peeking out from behind a huge granite pedestal of a statue. Stumbling and slipping, Joshua raced toward Billy. Snowballs smashed against his head and back.
Joshua ducked behind the pedestal. A dozen or so kids from the North End were feverishly packing snowballs.
“Am I glad to see you, Billy,” Joshua exclaimed, crouching into the hiding place. “I thought those kids were my friends.”
“Are you nuts? They ain’t gonna be friends with a newsboy,” Billy said. “I shouldn’t even be talkin’ to you after what you did. Charlie was ready to beat me up for spillin’ the beans to you about the Jupiter Bank.”
“Aw, forget it, Billy,” said Joshua. “You got the Beacon Hill boys to worry about right now. They know you’re back here.”
“Yeah, thanks to you!” Shawn stood above Joshua with his arms crossed. A crowd of North End kids whom Joshua didn’t know was standing with him. “We were gonna ambush those bigwigs—but you spoiled everything. You led them right to us.”
Joshua struggled to his feet. “I didn’t know you were here, Shawn. Let me stay and fight with you guys.”
“Oh, no. You’re one of them!”
Joshua scanned the faces in the shadows. “Where’s Charlie? Is he here?”
“He ain’t here to take care of you. He’s got more important things to do.” Shawn grabbed Joshua. “Get outta here! Go back to your snotty friends.” He shoved Joshua out from the safety of the statue.
Joshua put his hands over his head to ward off a new bombardment of snowballs—this time from both sides. He flung himself behind a stout elm tree. Working quickly, he made a stack of snowballs and shoved them into his Traveler bag.
The park was still now as both sides waited for the other to make a move. All Joshua wanted was to go home. The lighted subway station was just beyond the Beacon Hill Boys.
Joshua made a wild dash toward the academy kids, taking them by surprise. “Yahh! Yahh!” he screamed, pulling out the snowballs and hurling them as he raced by. Henry yelped as one hit him directly in the head. Another smashed against Robert’s chest.
Joshua felt one last snowball slam against his jacket before he ducked into the safety of the subway entrance.
The Party
JOSHUA ARRIVED HOME JUST AS the heavy wind began to drive the snow into high drifts. His mother had put water into the gas log in the parlor and ignited it. The water in the log would heat up to warm the room. It wasn’t a real wood fire, but it looked bright and cheerful.
Marc Muggeridge, dressed in a casual smoking jacket, was lighting candles on the mahogany dining table.
Joshua removed his wet coat in the kitchen. He pulled Angel’s drawing out of the pocket and unfolded it carefully. The paper was damp, but the picture was clear. Joshua grinned at the caricature and placed the drawing on a side table by his father’s chair in the parlor.
Dressed in a floor-length gray velvet gown, Aunt Caroline descended the stairs cautiously, carrying her cane. “Good evening, Joshua. So glad you could make it home in time. Your mother has planned a lovely dinner for us.”
“I’m just going to change into some dry clothes,” said Joshua, heading upstairs.
When Joshua returned, his mother was looking out the long parlor window. Her hair fell in gold ringlets over her shoulders. “See how the snowflakes dance in the lamplight? It makes me think of the old days.” She sighed. “The old days. That would be only last year. When your father and I entertained, so many people looked forward to our parties.” She motioned for Joshua to join her, then put her arm around his shoulder. “Remember?” She pointed to the street. “Remember the chauffeured carriages and automobiles stopping at our gate? Remember the gentlemen in their high-topped hats, and ladies in beautiful gowns? Oh, I do miss your father.”
Joshua could think only of the jeers he had received from his so-called academy friends. He hoped the Irish North Enders were knocking them senseless.
His mother rang a little silver bell. “Dinner is served,” she said, removing her apron. As Joshua followed the adults into the dining room, he noticed with a start that instead of her usual black mourning attire, she was wearing a cranberry-red silk dress.
Marc held the chair for Aunt Caroline, and Joshua held the chair for his mother.
“Are we having a party?” Joshua asked.
“Aunt Caroline thought it was high time we have an elegant, cheerful dinner,” said Mom, passing platters of chicken breasts stuffed with walnut dressing, baked potato, and golden winter squash seasoned with maple sugar and nutmeg.
“I made the rolls,” said Aunt Caroline. “It felt good to be doing something for a change rather than sitting in that room all day.”
“Everything looks delicious,” said Marc, heaping his plate high with food.
“Dinner did come out well, considering I don’t have an electric stove like everyone else,” said Mom with a sad smile. “The gas stove is so old-fashioned. Someday . . .” She stopped and peered at Joshua from across the table. “Josh, what is that awful red mark on your face?”
“Some ice fell from a . . . roof,” he lied.
Marc glanced up at Joshua. “From a roof?”
“And I happened to be looking up . . . um . . . to see if—”
“Yes, one must be careful with icicles this time of year,” Aunt Caroline said, ending the discussion.
After a dessert of hot Indian pudding and hard sauce, everyone moved into the parlor.
Mother curled up on the sofa and sipped on coffee while Marc pulled out a pipe and settled himself in Dad’s big leather chair.
“Don’t sit in Dad’s chair,” Joshua snapped.
“I’m sorry,” said Marc, getting up.
“It’s perfectly all right,” Mom said quickly. “My husband would want you to be comfortable. He was always a gracious host.”
Marc settled back in the chair. Joshua noticed that the side table was empty. Where was Angel’s drawing? Would his mother have recognized him in the caricature? He went over to the table to see if it had fallen to the floor. But it was gone.
Joshua sat nervously in a ladder-backed chair near the window. Aunt Caroline stood by the piano and gently touched the ivory keys.
“Why don’t you play for us?” Marc urged her.
“It’s been a while.” Aunt Caroline slipped onto the bench, held her hands over the keyboard, then began to play. Her gnarled fingers flew over the keys.
Chopin’s “Minute Waltz,” Joshua thought. I’ll bet she could play it in sixty seconds, too. Aunt Caroline was full of surprises.
“I do so enjoy fine music,” said Mom. “You play beautifully, Aunt Caroline. It’s wonderful to have music in our home again.” She stepped over to the piano.
“Here’s a popular song,” Aunt Caroline began to play and sing a lively tune. “Row, row, row, way up the river he would row, row, row.” Marc got up to join in the singing. Aunt Caroline knew many favorite songs. They sang “Beautiful Ohio” and “If I Had My Way, Dear.”
“Sing with us, Joshua,” Mom begged.
Joshua shook his head.
There was something about the music, though, something magical about the candlelight and the singing. Mom seemed like her old self. And Joshua couldn’t help tapping his foot to the rhythms.
But then Aunt Caroline played “Memories,” and Joshua saw the sadness creep back into his mother’s eyes.
“Music has a way of toying with my heart,” Mom said.
“It was a lovely evening, Gwendolyn,” said Aunt Caroline. “Thank you, my dear.”
“Ditto,” said Marc. “Can I help with anything?”
“No, thank you. I’ll clean up in the morning,” said Mom, heading for the kitchen. “I’ll tend to the furnace and then I’m going to bed.”
Aunt Caroline’s dres
s swished and her cane clicked as she went up the stairs. “Good night,” she called.
“Good night,” Joshua said. He turned to Marc. “I need to talk to you.”
Marc nodded. “Come up to my room.”
Joshua sat opposite Marc at the oak desk. Marc looked at Joshua’s sore face. “Did Charlie beat you up?”
“No, it was some kids I know from school. They used to be friends of mine, but now they don’t want anything to do with a newsboy.” Joshua shrugged. “The North End kids don’t like me, either.”
“So what can I do for you, Josh?”
“I’m going into business on my own.”
Marc nodded. “I figured as much. Charlie won’t be happy.”
“Charlie’s making money off of me!”
“That’s what bosses do. They pay their employees. Charlie’s in business and he has employed you.”
“Well, that’s too bad for Charlie, ’cause I’ve decided to be my own boss.”
“You’re a good newsboy. People like you. Maybe you’ll win a scholarship and go back to school. Even Charlie doesn’t want to be a newsboy forever. I’m sure you don’t want to, either.”
“What else can I do?”
“Maybe you’ll be a reporter. You speak the English language effectively, and if you can write as well as you talk, I might buy a story from you someday. You’d even have your own byline.”
“What’s a byline?” Joshua asked.
“It shows the author’s name. Yours would say, ‘by Joshua Harper.’ ” Marc reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out Angel’s picture. “Which reminds me, who did this drawing?”
“A newsgirl. My friend, Angelina DiPietro.” Joshua pointed to the signature at the bottom. “I thought my mother might have taken it.”
“I picked it up because I was sure your mother would recognize you. Even though it’s a caricature, it’s a dead ringer for you. This Angelina is talented. Where does she live?”
“In the tenements on Commercial Street. You know, near the molasses tank.”
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