Pause, you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, or thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of that first link on one memorable day." - Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

February 12, 1891

"Come on! Wake up!  Its time ta get up!"  The East Queens Newsboys Lodging house echoed on its foundations as it did every morning when Gino Bentivegna stomped into the room and proceeded to wake its inhabitants by any means possible.

            The little boy, sleeping like an angel in a lower bunk near the window, he awoke by dragging out of bed by his shirt. The boy dropped to the floor and cried out in pain, but no one noticed. The manager kicked out at the small boy before continuing to walk down the row of bunks, screaming.

            "Hey, Tony. Get up off da flooa, kid.  Its time ta sell." A taller boy picked up the child and set him on his feet. Eight-year-old Anthony Cammarata shook his dirty brown hair and got to his feet, wincing.

            He shivered as the tall boy led him down the cold streets of Queens, almost fifty papes under his arm. Dino Magri, or Tumbler as his friends called him, was tall, dark, and loved to laugh. It was he who had picked up little Anthony from the gutter and found him a place to sleep and a way to put food in his belly.  The two sold together almost everyday.

            "Hey, Tony, ya okay?" Tumbler asked the shivering child. Anthony nodded, but shivered harder as they arrived at their spot.  Tumbler began calling the headlines and Anthony stood, ankle deep in snow, freezing and looking as pitiful as possible.

            He wished Tumbler would let him call the headlines, he could think of good ones so often, but he never did.  It wasn't his job. And in the Queens newsies, you stuck to what they told you, or you get beaten.

            Every child knew that. The leader of the Queens Newsies was a tall, hard, cold-eyed boy of sixteen years, named Carlo Avellino.  And he ruled with an iron fist. The boys called him King, because in that lodging house, there was no one else. You answered to the King before even the owner. And everyone knew it.

            Ever since the day almost three years ago that Tumbler had brought Anthony inside the lodging house doors, King had hated the boy. He took every opportunity to beat him senseless for some trifle or another.

            But that day, things were different.  Anthony could feel it in the air. Something was going to happen and it wasn't good.

            He remembered that feeling from the boat. They had almost made it to America, almost, within sight of land, when his mother and father, and sisters had all given up their struggle on life and passed on.  Five-year-old Anthony was left alone in a strange new country, knowing only a few scant words of the language.

             The wind whistled by coldly as the night came on and the two newsies made their way home. Suddenly Anthony's cap blew off his head and he turned and hurried down the street after it.  Tumbler shook his head and continued on his way, knowing the child would be all right. He was tough, like the streets required.

            He would never see the boy again. 

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             February 14, 1891,

            Anthony shivered, trying to ignore the rumbling noises his stomach was making. He'd gone longer than this without food, the time King had locked him in the closet for four days, with out food or water, almost killing him.

            Back home there was a bed, though it could hardly be called warm, and food, however scarce. But sitting on this doorstep, there was nothing. And he knew it.

            But he couldn't go back. To go back would be to die.  King would kill him in an instant, he knew that. The boy had a quick mouth and faster fists. There was no question that if he  went back now, seeing what he had seen, hearing what he had heard, he would  be dead. And Anthony did not want to be dead. He wanted to live. But how?

            He was too scared to steal. Horror stories about the Refuge kept him far away from that option. But soon there was no other way. He knew how to pick pockets. He'd done it back home in Italy before he'd been caught. And he'd done it many times for King, who had been delighted at the child's talent.

            He scanned the crowd, looking for a potential victim. There, that tall boy. He seemed oblivious to the world around him, save the girl on his arm. Besides Anthony was starving.

            Slowly, he crept through the crowds to the couple and reach lightning fast fingers into the boy's pockets. He'd grabbed the money in an instant and was about to dart away when fingers faster than his own wrapped themselves around his wrist.

            He struggled as the boy dragged him to the side of the road.  There he shook the little boy and glared at him.

            "I'se sorry!" Anthony wailed, turning on the pathetic tears. "I'se sorry! I'm stravin', please I'm so hungry!"  the boy watched him for an instant, before leaning down and pulling the boy to his feet.

            "It's alright, it's alright. I've been dere before."  He smiled. "Let me guess, no family, no place to stay?" the child nodded.  "Well, I'll forgive ya dis once.   But I don't eva wanna see ya pullin' dis crap again, okay?" Anthony nodded.  "Era. " the boy handed him a coin and Anthony stared at it, his eyes wide.

            In an instant, he'd grabbed the nickel and sped off down the street.  When he rounded the coroner, he paused and looked at the shiny coin in his hands.  Every cent he'd ever made had gone straight out of his hands and into King's. The elder boy had explained that the younger boys could not manage their money and so he put it aside for them. Anthony knew he'd never see any of it.

            But this was his. All his. And he intended to make it last.

            It did last, all of four days. But soon he was right back where he started, alone, and cold. He was also lost.  He'd never been allowed more than a few streets from the lodging house and his own selling spot.  King had said it was dangerous, but Anthony doubted that.

            He shook as a harsh wind blew down the damp alley in which he was sitting. He gave a hacking cough and wrapped his arms tighter around himself. He had no coat. King had insisted that the lack of a coat would draw more pity and so little Anthony had never been given one.

            He closed his eyes, wishing for something to eat. If he thought hard enough, he could just remember the lovely warm delicious pasta his Mama used to make, before Papa had lost his job and had moved the family from the small town of Orvieto, Italy and all five of them, Papa, Mama, Anthony's big sister Giovanna, and his younger sister, Ignazia had boarded a ship and set sail for the wondrous new world.

            Of the five, only Anthony had survived the trip and seen the true wonders of the new world.  Anthony knew that as he got older, the memories would fade. The pictures he had in his mind would disappear until all he would ever know of his parents would be their names, inscribed on the gold watch his father had pressed into his hands with his dying breath, whispering the words, "Ssere coraggioso, mio figlio."  Then he had breathed his last and Anthony was left very much alone.

            It took Anthony a moment to realize that at that instant, he was very much not alone. A pair of sharp blue eyes peered down at him, through a mop of dirty blond hair. Anthony jerked back, surprised to see a boy not too much older than himself standing over him. On his head he wore a hat, much like Anthony had seen on cowboys.  He was laughing and watching him with strange intense light eyes. 

            "Sorry, didn't meanta scare ya.  I wus  jist wonderin whut youse wus doin' jist  sittin' in an alley on dis fine day."  Anthony glared at him.

            "It ain't none a yer bizness whut I'se doin."  Inwardly, he winced. He had never been able to keep his mouth shut in King's presence and that had earned him quite a lot of pain.

            "I tink dat youse ain't gots no place ta go." Anthony shrugged, " Well, I know a place dat'll take ya, dat is if youse ain't got nuttin gainst bein' a newsie."

            At this, Anthony let out a sigh of relief. At least he could do something he knew how to do. And maybe it wouldn't be so bad as in Queens.  Tricks, the boy who had taught him how to play poker had come from Brooklyn and had told him they treated their boys better there. He wondered how it would be in Manhattan.

            He took the boys outstretched hand and got to his feet, ignoring the moaning wind.  The boy tipped his hat. "Jack Kelly." He said, leading the way through the wind. Anthony nodded, anxious to leave his name unknown.  King might be looking for him. 

            The boy, Jack paused and looked at him.  "When somebody tells ya dere name, it's polite ta tell dem yers."  Anthony nodded.

            "I know. But I ain't neva said I wus polite." Jack seemed to accept that and led the way through the snow.

            Soon they found themselves in front of a large wooden building that Jack shoved the door open and walked in. Anthony paused, and then followed him. Instantly a rush of warmth hit his cheeks and he rubbed his hands together.

            He glanced around to see almost twenty boys, gathered around the room, some sitting on the stairs, some on the register desk and most on the floor, keeping away from the drafty windows. They all looked up when the door opened, and Anthony felt nervous as twenty pairs of eyes settled on him.

            "Dere ya is, Kelly! We wus about ta send out a search pahdy." Anthony spun around at the familiar voice and froze. It was the young man he's stolen from. He backed towards the door as Jack responded.

            "I did hurry, Hon. But I ran inta dis kid and he ain't gots no place ta stay. Cen he stay era?" the boy he'd called Hon paused. 

            "I dunno, " he said, eyeing Anthony who kept his face to the ground, letting his dark bangs fall into his eyes. "Betta ask Kloppman, I tink."  Then he turned and yelled the name at the top of his lungs.

            Anthony froze as a tall older man in a bowler hat hurried out of the adjoining room. He took one look at Anthony and smiled. 

            "Surah, da kid can stay. But same rules apply ."  he patted Anthony on the back and took his hand, leading him to the counter. By now the boys had crowded around, eager for news on the new boy.  The boy called Hon stood next to him and Anthony would have felt terrified if not for the kind eyes of the old man and the pleasant face of the boy.

            "My name is Kloppman, son. I run dis lodging house. Its two cents a day, but yer foist night is free. I getcha boys up in da mornin' and it's yer job ta sign in and pay every night." He handed  Anthony a log book and pointed out the names. "Can ya read and write?" Anthony nodded.

            "A little."  He did not mention that he knew how to write very little in English, though could read far more.  The old man nodded.

            "Den write yer name, right dere on da line." Anthony stared at him, a name? Write a name?  There was no way; he couldn't say his name, not while King was looking for him. He shivered at the memory of that horrible voice echoing down the streets.

            "I, " he paused, " I ain't gots no name." He said, quietly. The older boy stared at him.

            "No name?" he shook his head.

            "Me ma and pa, dere dead.   Dey said dere was an axicent. And dey died. I don't memba nuttin befora da  hospital.  I'se sorry." He lied easily, and prayed it would work. The older boy smiled and hugged the child close.

            "Don't worry. Since youse ain't gots a name, we'll give ya one. I'll be yer big brudda, so'se youse can be a Higgins too." He smiled and Anthony smiled back.

            That night he fell asleep in the bunk of Justin Higgins, or Honest as the other newsies called him. Already, Anthony liked it better than Queens.     

            The next morning, Anthony felt himself being shaken on the shoulder and was instantly awake and on his feet, yanking on his shirt  before he even looked up to see Kloppman's smiling face.  He backed away from the blow he was certain would be coming, but Kloppman only moved on to another bunk, poking and prodding the boys until they rolled out of bed, grumbling as they stumbled into the washroom. 

            He watched, surprised. In Queens, no one would dare grumble or complain out loud like Jack was doing right now.  When you got up, you did as you were told.  Here, Kloppman didn't seemed to care little if the boys simply rolled over.  He just stood there, poking them with his broom until they got themselves out of bed.

            "Go on, kid. Best get ready before the older boys use up all da hot wuda." Kloppman gently pushed him towards the washroom, where he found all the boys wandering around  the washroom, fighting over various things.

            He quickly washed his face and reached for the towel beside him, only to find it gone.  "Can somebody pass da towel?" he asked, feeling around for it.

            "For a buck, I might!" a  boy cried out laughing. Anthony grabbed for it and found it shoved into his hands. Quickly he dried his face and glared at the boy who Honest introduced as Skittery. He grinned and Anthony shook his hand.

            Then Honest led him out into the streets.  "Since youse new at dis, youse going to sell wid me for a while till youse gets da hang a it, k?" Anthony nodded.  To his surprise, the older boy let him call out the headlines, and seemed proud of him as he sold his papes and made up story after story.

            "If I didn't know bedda, I'd say youse done dis before." Anthony shook his head. And Honest decided to knock off early and take the kid to his favorite place in New York, Coney Island.

            The two made their way down there by hitching a ride on the back of a carriage. Honest had meant to take the kid to the pier, but Anthony was instantly attracted to the noise of the races.

            Honest had gotten his name by his personality. He was as honest as you could get. He had never been in trouble, was good to his boys, and was a born leader. The other boys  thought it was a joke, but a newsie's word was his bond and Honest Higgins always kept his word.  He was respected  in all of New York, even in Queens. If Honest said leave someone alone or fageddaboutit, you did so instantly.

            And he could see the wonder and childhood delight in the boy's eyes as he watched the horses.  He was eighteen, but could remember simple pleasures like this were few and far between. And so he stayed and watched the horses with the boy.

            The next morning, he put Anthony under Jack's supervision. "I'se gotta go ta Brooklyn, sort out dis trouble dey's having wid da new leada."  Everyone knew about the death of  Red Conlon. It seemed that his younger brother had taken control and some boroughs were having a hard time understanding that a twelve-year old was now in charge of the toughest boys in the city.

            Jack had not even made it to the distribution office before he lost Anthony. "I toined around and da kid's gone!" he protested to Honest later that night. Honest rubbed his forehead, tired and grouchy.

             The sun had set hours ago and still the kid was not back. Honest was about to send out the boys when Jack ran up the stairs, dragging the kid behind him. The boy was dirty, and smelled like horses, but he was beaming.

            That is until he saw the look on his new leaders face.  Honest took a step forward and the kid crumbled, collapsing into a ball, wrapping his arms around his legs and ducking his head, as if to protect himself.  Honest frowned at the boy and slowly tried to uncurl him.  But he refused,

            "I'se sorry, I'se sorry." He murmured, Honest frowned.

            "Just relax, ain't nobody going to hoitcha. Is dat whut youse scared a? Dat someone's going to hoitcha?" he nodded, a quick move.

            "Dere ain't nobody going to hoitcha. We'se jist worried, dat's all." The boy nodded and slowly uncurled himself. Honest pulled him into a quick hug. The boy stiffened at first and then fell into the embrace.

            After a long hug, Honest got down to business, "So where ya been?" the boy smiled.

            "I wanted ta see da hosses. So I went ta see dem." Honest stared open mouthed at the boy.

            "Youse tellin' me dat youse walked all da way ta Coney Island and back?" the boy nodded.  "Jist fer da racetracks?" he nodded again.

            "Kid, I tink you jist got yerself a name. Racetrack. Racetrack Higgins."  The child's eyes opened wide and he smiled as Honest had never seen him smile.

            "Me name is Racetrack Higgins." He whispered. "Me name. Racetrack."