CHAPTER SEVEN

"Yer kidding me, right? Dutch, I swear ya was born a faddah! Ya play games with all da younger kids, tuck 'em in, tell 'em stories…ya are a natural faddah." Specs leaned back in his chair at their table in Tibby's Restaurant and smiled. Though Dutchy had been nearly twenty-minutes late getting there and had walked in carrying the little girl now called Krista, Specs really wasn't much upset. If anything, he was almost relieved to see that his friend still had the toddler.

Dutchy rolled his eyes as he hoisted Krista up onto his lap again to keep her from running through the crowded little restaurant. The last thing he wanted was for her to dash under the feet of a preoccupied waiter and cause him to spill whatever he might be carrying. Handing her a part of the sandwich Specs had offered to them when they arrived, he sighed.

"That's not what I'm worried 'bout, Specs. Kloppman told me she had to go somewhere today and,"

"And she did! Huh? Yeah, ya went ta meet Medda, and ya got ta see all sorts of things in da city, and ya got ta meet Mrs. Jacobs. Ya went lots of where's, taday didn't'cha?" Specs smiled at Krista who was giggling as he leaned across the table to tickle at her sides and arms as he spoke to her. Glancing back at his best friend, he smirked and shrugged. "I wouldn't worry 'bout Kloppy if I'se you, D. He can be a cranky old coot, but ya know as well as me he ain't gonna toss ya out jist cuz ya still got 'er. Hell, let 'im hold 'er for two minutes an' I bet'cha he'll deny ever sayin' she couldn't stick around."

Oh if only Dutchy could believe that. True, the little squirt had managed to weasel her way into his heart in just a matter of a few short hours, but that was different. He'd rescued her from the river, brought her in from the storm and had given her a safe place to sleep when it was obvious no one else would. He'd grown to be protective of the little girl. A part of him had vowed when he saved her that he was finally going to do something worthwhile and maybe even try to ease his guilty conscience. The death of his only sister still weighed heavily on his shoulders and perhaps by taking care of and protecting Krista, he could finally lift that weight and be able to move on.

"'Sides," Specs continued, bringing Dutchy out of his thoughts, "have ya looked at dis little doll? She's a goldmine, I'm tellin' ya! You'll be rollin' in da dough in no time with 'er 'round when yer sellin'."

"I am not going to use her as a sellin' prop. C'mon, she's not even old enough to really talk yet. I finally got one word out of her on our way here, 'wa'wa'. Don't know what it means…but at least she has a voice."

"Wa'wa! Wa'wa!" Krista's voice chimed like tiny bells as she smiled brightly and reached for Dutchy's glass of soda-pop.

Catching her fingers before they could tip the glass over, Dutchy sighed and shook his head. "Ya can't have my soda. Here…have some wa," pausing and tilting his head to the side in silent thought, he quirked an eyebrow and gave a small chuckle, "wa'wa. Water. That's what she was askin' for on our way here. She wanted water."

Specs laughed as he moved to place the half-full glass of water in front of the little one. Her fingers slick from her sandwich, Krista frowned as the glass slipped from her fingers and slid out of her reach once more. Picking his napkin up, Specs gently took her hands and gave them a quick wipe down before holding the glass for her.

"'Ere darlin', how 'bouts I hold it for ya. Go on…take a sip, promise I won't pour any on ya."

"Yeah, if you do it's gonna land in my lap and then I'm gonna hafta hurt ya." Dutchy threatened as he watched Krista place her little hands over those of his friends so she could pretend to hold the glass and take a drink. Smirking, Specs wiggled his eyebrows and shrugged.

"Meh, I'd clean it up."

"You would too, that's what scares me."

Laughing, Specs set the glass back down before shaking his head and picking at what was left of his lunch. "Ya gonna eat or not? Cuz if ya ain't, QP an' me is gonna finish dis off."

"Will ya quit callin' her that? Her name's Krista. Mrs. Jacobs told me not to go calling her by any nicknames; it'll confuse her and she won't know what her name really is." Reaching around the little girls shoulders, Dutch picked up a piece of potato and popped it into his mouth.

"It ain't gonna confuse 'er. I've been goin' by Specs since 'fore I can remember an' I still know me real name."

"I thought Clarence was the name Kloppy gave you when you showed up there."

Specs narrowed his eyes as he glanced around the restaurant. The blond was lucky none of their friends were still there to hear him say that. While it wasn't the worst name in the world to have, Specs still preferred not to have it be made public what his real first name was. Shaking his head slowly, he pulled his plate out of reach of Dutchy's hand and frowned.

"Clarence Aloysius Hoffman." He grumbled, glaring darts at his best friend. "I told ya dat a hundred times. Dat's da name dat's written on da inside of dat book I have…along with da names of me muddah, faddah, an' bruddahs. Yer lucky yer holdin' QP, otherwise I'd hafta soak ya for dat."

Cringing inwardly, Dutchy mentally kicked himself for having brought that subject up. Though Specs had been nearly a lifelong resident at the Duane St. Lodging House, he did have few scattered and vague memories of a time in his life when he had a family also. Specs couldn't remember how or when he got separated from his family. Kloppman had told Dutchy once that they had died during the "the Great White Hurricane" of 1888—a freak spring blizzard that had completely shut down the entire East Coast and killed more than four-hundred people—when he was four and that Specs himself nearly fell victim to the frigid temperatures that had claimed the lives of his family's lives. He'd been found half froze and unconscious in a rundown tenants building in Brooklyn by police doing a check once the weather had gotten just a bit better, his mother's lifeless and frozen body wrapped around his to try and keep her youngest son from succumbing to the sub-zero temps.

"Sorry Specs," He apologized softly, instinctively running his hand down Krista's frizzy hair in an attempt to smooth it out. Deciding to change the subject, he glanced back at his friend and shook his head again.

"Like I said before though, I'm not gonna use her as a sellin' prop. It just ain't right."

His face losing its somberness, Specs gave a slight smirk. "Da goils in Brooklyn do it."

"Yeah, the girls in Brooklyn also use the Red Light District to their advantage, but I'm not about to do that one either." Dutchy answered as he rolled his eyes and shook his head. That had been another reason he refused to take her to the girls in Brooklyn. Come to think of it, there wasn't any newsgirl lodging house that he felt Krista would be safe and taken care of in.

Girls were catty, prone to fights over stupid things, and while the bunkroom across the street where the two boys had spent the majority of their lives was often filled with the ruckus of fights, at least theirs were generally all in good fun and hardly ended with anyone getting hurt, whereas the girls seemed to cause more injuries with each other in their fights than the boys ever had. He'd seen the sort of things the girls did when they fought; scratching at each other's arms or faces with their cat like claws, digging their nails into each other so hard it drew blood, hair pulling and biting, kicking and punching. When he thought about it, Dutchy realized he never wanted to get into a fight with a girl—they obviously didn't fight fair. Boys at least fought somewhat fairly; closed fist punches to the stomach or face, simple and to the point.

"Why not? I think…wait…nevah mind what I think." Giving a fake cough and glancing away innocently, Specs rubbed the back of his neck while Dutchy pretended to never hear a thing to begin with. Looking down at the smiling face of the little girl in his arms, he knew Specs was right about her. With her smile there next to him, there was no doubt that he'd see an increase in his selling profits.

"Ya know it's not like ya'd be sellin' 'er or anythin'. Jist face it D, we ain't as cute as we used ta be. Da older we get, da harder it is ta sell. People don't feel sorry for grown boys livin' on da streets. But gorgeous little goils like Krista 'ere, dey'd see 'er angelic little face an' dat smile…pity sells. You an' me both know it. 'Sides dat, she'd be earnin' 'er keep. Ya'd be able ta pay Kloppman ten cents for da two of ya's, so it ain't like she's gonna be roomin' for nothin'. But seein's as how you ain't sold for two days straight," Specs paused to level him with an agitated glare, "I guess I can bum ya da dime for tonight."

It hadn't even occurred to Dutchy that he'd missed the morning edition. He might have a chance bringing in a little bit of money with the evening edition, if there was a decent headline and he could get people to see him and buy a paper.

Specs had hit the nail on the head when he said it was getting harder for them to sell. People really didn't take much notice to the older boys on the streets, to the businessmen and women who passed by them, they were just another bum looking for a handout. Before too long, he'd be chased off by the police on horseback, the same police who two years prior wouldn't cast a second glance his way would suddenly see him as an adult; the children standing out in front of stores and shops hawking headlines were taken pity on, while the adults were viewed as a business hindrance. He'd seen it before where grown newsies had been chased from their usual selling spot by shop owners who felt their appearance and shouts were frightening off customers.

Skittery and Bumlets both had been the lasts to fall victim of such an event. Both had always been decent newsies, but shortly after turning eighteen they had been forced to give up trying to sell when they realized they'd lost their childish appeal and no one cared for their well being. True, they'd been able to get fairly good jobs—Bumlets putting on little shows for people passing by in Coney Island and Skittery as a dockhand at the South Street Seaport with Pie Eater—and were able to support themselves on their own, but that still didn't change the fact that Dutchy was quite content being a newsboy; he enjoyed spending all that time outdoors and if he were to get a job in a shop or factory he was sure he'd go crazy.

"Nah, don't worry 'bout it. I'm gonna sell tonight. You mind watching her for me?"

"Jist take 'er with ya! Sweet holy Sabbath, D! I'm tellin' ya, she don't even gotta do anythin' but jist sit next ta ya and look cute."

Reaching into his pocket and dropping a few coins down onto the table for his meal and both drinks, Specs stood up and readjusted the bowler hat that sat atop his wavy brown hair. Fixing his glasses and reaching out to pick Krista up off of Dutchy's lap, he moved to the side to allow his friend to stand before starting for the door. As the trio stepped out onto the busy and bright street, Specs sighed heavily. While it wasn't exactly cool inside the restaurant, stepping out onto the sun-baked streets felt as if they'd just stepped off onto the surface of the sun. Using his free hand to remove his hat, he carefully fanned himself doing his best not to bop the girl in the face as he did so.

"Alright, look. I'll take 'er for a little bit, but I'm tellin' ya, yer gonna wish ya brought 'er along with ya. I heard earlier da news has been so slow, they almost wasn't gonna print an evenin' edition taday. If dat's true, dis little goil would be worth 'er weight in gold. But, ya don't wanna use 'er as a prop, dat's fine. Me an' QP will jist go stay in da bunkroom till ya get back. Maybe Race'll teach 'er how ta count cards."

"Guiltin' me isn't gonna work, Specs. Just take her for a little while, will ya? Tomorrow I'll take her with me, but I don't know how late I'm gonna be out tonight and if I'm gonna be out half the night tryin' to sell papes, I'd rather she be inside where someone can watch her so she doesn't wind up back in a barrel floatin' down the river, ya know?"

Smiling as he hoisted Krista a bit higher in his arms, Specs couldn't help but give a slight chuckle as he shook his head. "See dat? Ya's a natural born faddah. A'right, I'll take care of 'er tonight fer ya. We'll see ya back in da bunkroom later."

A small knot formed in Dutchy's stomach as he heard his friend's words. Ever since he'd been a young boy, he'd been told that one day he was going to make a very good father and for a time he'd believed that. When his own father died, however, and he'd gone so far as to abandon his younger sister in the church orphanage, his faith in those words had faded. If he couldn't even take care of his own sister—the only family he had left—and wasn't able to save her from the shirt factory and death, what chance did he have at taking care of his own child?

"Yeah, I'll see ya's back there," He answered softly before turning and starting off towards The World Distribution Center.

As he walked, hands shoved into his pockets and his head slightly bend downward, he thought back on all the younger newsboys he'd helped to take care of since arriving at that lodging house. There'd been quite a few of them in the nine years he'd spent living there. Tumbler, Snipeshooter, Boots, Jolt for a time before he left to live in Brooklyn, Penny-Pincher, Singe and Shadow, just to name a few. A few of the boys—like Boots and Snipeshooter—still lived at Duane St, while most of the others had moved on to other houses or had simply decided they were tired of playing homeless and had gone back to the loving arms of their worried families. Others hadn't been so lucky though, newsboys like Tiny and Copper hadn't gotten to enjoy their lives long enough and each time one of them gave in to the winter's brutal cold weather or whatever illness they'd had, a part of Dutchy died with them. To him, it was like losing his beloved Pasha all over again.

"Takin' care of those guys is different than playin' the part of a dad, though," He muttered to himself as he walked, "they aren't really family. None of them looked at me like a replacement father, they looked at me like I am…just one of the older boys tryin' to help the younger ones get through their lives."

Without even giving it a conscious thought, Dutchy stepped up to the window to collect his twenty-five papers for the night. Moving back out onto the streets, he allowed his thoughts to continue.

Maybe, if he treated Krista like she was simply just one of the younger newsies, he wouldn't get too attached to her and wouldn't let himself think of her as being his. She wasn't, after all. She belonged to another family, one that he would probably never know. Though, if they could let her float down a river leading out to the ocean in a barrel, then what right did they have to call her their daughter? He'd been the one to rescue her! He'd brought her in out of the cold and rain; cleaned her up and put her in fresh clothes—granted the clothes were far too big for her but at least he'd gone and gotten her ones that did fit her! Besides, she didn't seem to mind the fact that until the night before he'd been a perfect stranger to her. In fact, Medda and Mrs. Jacobs were right in saying the little girl had seemed to have grown fond of him and he'd be lying to himself if he said he hadn't grown even the slightest bit attached to her also.

What if he did keep her? He could find another job so that he could support himself and her. How hard could bringing up one little girl be after all? Obviously not too hard if there were plenty of skirts running around.

"Don't do it, Dutch. She doesn't belong to you so you can't even think about that. Besides, Kloppman already said there was to be no girls in his lodging house…which means she either has to go into an orphanage, or come winter you both freeze to death in an alley." He warred with himself as he shook his head and moved to stand in his usual selling spot. Businessmen had already begun their evening rush home from work and were quickly passing him by without even so much as a second glance.

Leaning back against the cast-iron fence behind him, Dutchy blinked at the paper in his hand, skimming it over in hopes of finding a decent story for him to use in order to sell. Specs was right, nothing seemed to be happening. He supposed he could try to use the story about the female textile workers going on strike, but people were so used to strikes happening any more that no one would really care. Frowning, he sighed softly and shook his head in an attempt to clear it. Why did his thoughts always keep drifting back to that little frizzy brown haired girl back at the lodging house?

"Dutchy! Just the man I've been looking for."

Quickly looking up and turning his head, Dutchy looked through the crowd before spotting the one man who had faith in their cause three years prior. Dressed in his typical brown suit with bowtie, Bryan Denton smiled as he gave a slight wave to him and approached. Denton had been a friend to the newsboys when they needed one most. Many times in the couple of weeks during their strike he'd bought them all lunch or dinner at Tibby's and often times would stop across the street to see Kloppman and pay for them to stay there when they couldn't afford to.

"You're out selling rather late, aren't you?" Denton questioned as he stepped up and extended his hand to the teen.

Reaching out to shake his, Dutchy shrugged and gave a pathetic slight smile. "Well, I had some things I had to try and take care of this morning, so I wasn't able to sell with the others."

Nodding in understanding, Denton reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. Though the man worked for a rival paper, he would still occasionally help the boys out by buying at least one of their papers, ensuring that they got a little bit of money that day.

Waving off the change and tucking his evening edition under his arm, he gave a slight smile as he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. "I've been looking for you almost all day, no one had seen you though. Do you remember those pictures I let you take a few weeks ago? The ones of the other newsboys and some of the girls from Brooklyn?"

How could he forget? Being allowed to use Denton's box camera had been like a dream come true for him! It had been so much fun getting everyone to pose just right so he could take their picture or in the case of the girls who had come over for their weekly visit with the boys, snapping a photo or two of them without their knowledge. He'd wondered how the pictures had actually turned out, if they had at all that was.

"Yeah, I remember. Did they turn out looking like nothing at all?"

"On the contrary, they turned out quite nicely," removing a small piece of wrapped paper, Denton held it out for him to take. "You have quite a talent there, Dutchy. So much so that I submitted them to a magazine I wrote a story for about the living conditions and general life of the children and teens in our workforce. The magazine loved the pictures and paid me a dollar a piece for them. Doesn't seem right me keeping the money for your pictures, so here."

Dutchy's jaw dropped as he looked up from flipping through his pictures. There in Denton's hand was three two-dollar bills. Heart stopping, he stared at the money in awe. The silly little amateur pictures he'd taken had actually sold? They'd not only sold but were also going to be in a real magazine?

"S-six dollars? I…I can't take that, that's way too much!"

"Six dollars for six pictures. Dutchy this is your money; the magazine loved the pictures you'd taken, this really is all yours. I figure you'll be able to buy papers, lunch, dinner, and room and board for at least a few weeks on this without worry. Just one thing, we need to properly credit who took the pictures, what name would you like me to tell them?"

Mind swimming as he reached his hand out to tenderly pluck the six dollars from his friend's hand, Dutchy gulped hard. Six whole dollars, all for him. It was more money than he'd ever had at one time in his life! Dumbly, he shook his head. "D-Dmitri…Dmitri Kolesnik."

Denton smiled and gave a small chuckle as he nodded and wrote the name down on his little pad of paper. Holding it out for Dutchy to check the spelling, he patted the teens shoulder. It was the first time ever that Dutchy had revealed his real name to anyone—not even his own best friend knew what his real name was.

"Right. Well, Dutchy, if you ever decide it's time for a new occupation, come see me. The Sun is always looking for good photojournalists and I think you'd work just fine."

"Uhm…o-okay, thanks Denton. Really." Tucking the six dollars into his pocket and his pictures safely into the pocket of his vest, Dutchy held his hand out once more and gave a sincere appreciative look to the older man.

Smiling, Denton nodded and shook his hand. "You're welcome. Take care of yourself."

Watching as the man disappeared back into the crowd, Dutchy felt as if he were floating six feet off the ground. His luck certainly seemed to have changed for the better and maybe, just maybe, if he became a photographer for The Sun he'd be able to keep little Krista after all. Smiling brightly and throwing his fist into the air, clutching a paper tightly, he began to call out absurd headlines.

"Earthquake separates California from rest of United States! New Country is formed!"