Lynn wished Jack was here. She needed to discuss Pokey's situation with someone and Jack was usually so helpful and sensible about things like that. Finally, she decided to go look for him again. Or rather, to go look for someone who might know where he'd gone.
She left Pokey and Flash at the Lodging House after selling all their papers, while she walked over to a tenement only a few blocks from the Lodging House. Dave would surely know where Jack had gone. She nervously approached the door of the apartment she believed to be the Jacobs'. Maybe Davy's parents wouldn't take too kindly to having a mousy little girl newsie barge in on them. But she needed an answer and hadn't been able to get away until this evening. She held her breath and knocked.
"Who's there?" asked a familiar female voice. She figured it was Sarah Jacobs, although she really hoped it wasn't. She hadn't hit off very well with Sarah, and Angela certainly hadn't either.
"My name's Lynn. I's a friend 'a Jack," she kept talking out of anxiety. "Jack Kelly, ya know? 'E's Dave's friend." She kept babbling even though she doubted the person cared. The door opened a crack and Sarah's face peered out at her.
"You're Lynn?" She asked, "why're you here?"
"Yeah, I's Lynn... an' I's hea' ta see Dave." Lynn said, folding her arms across her chest impatiently.
"Hold on," Sarah said, closing the door most of the way. Davy opened it again.
"Lynn?" Dave asked as he opened the door. He looked at her confusedly for a second. "Oh," he said solemnly, nodding, "you're here about Jack, aren't you?" Lynn was rather taken aback. "Well, come on in." Lynn followed him and sat down in a chair by the table. Davy looked very tired, as if he'd been under a lot of stress lately.
"So whea'd 'e go? Jack, I mean. I guessed you'd know," Lynn said.
"Well, this is going to sound kind of crazy... but he went to Boston." Davy said, raising his eyebrows and leaning back on his chair.
"Boston? But - why? Why didn't 'e tell us whea' 'e was goin'?" Lynn spluttered.
"He had to, well, talk to Angela about some stuff. He'll be back soon," Davy assured her.
"He could write her a letter..." Lynn mumbled. "I don't s'pose ya know whea' dis, uh, goyl.. Clara, is, do ya?" she added grudgingly.
"Clara? Oh... Kloppman's niece, right? No... I don't know where she is... is she missing?" Davy asked, confusedly.
"Well, yes, she's missin'. I ain't too broken up 'bout it, though." Lynn said matter-of-factly, looking out the small window.
"Well, I can't help you there, although I'll look for her... if that will be any help," Davy shrugged.
"Whateva', I don't care if she neva' gets found." Lynn rolled her eyes. Served the little brat right.
"Fifteen-two, fifteen-four, fifteen-six, seven, eight, nine... oh, and fifteen - uh - eleven." Pokey said, pointing to his cards as he spoke.
"Yes!" Flash said, moving the little wooden peg past the others on the cribbage boards.
"Pokey..." whined Skittery, searching his cards for points. Flash and Pokey were playing cribbage against Race and Skittery, and every time Race and Skittery would earn points, Pokey and Flash would just pass them up again.
"Who deals?" Flash asked, pushing all the cards into a messy pile.
"Me, an' it's uh... your crib." Race said, taking the cards. He began to set the cards in front of the players. Then someone knocked at the door. Flash and Skittery exchanged a nervous glance.
"Pokey, if dat's da police 'gain, you'se in real trouble." Flash said, his eyes very wide. "C'mere, we'll hide by da stairs an' if dat's dem, we'll hide ya in da bunkroom.. somehow." He turned back to the boys and whispered, "if it's da police, stall 'em." Flash and Pokey stood on the bottom step, ready to jump up the stairs.
"C'mon in," Skittery said. The perpetually appearing policemen stepped in the door, this time looking a little more intense about their investigation.
"Weren't ya jus' hea' yesta'day?" Mush asked.
"What? Why were ya hea'? Why are ya hea'?" Race asked, his eyes wide. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Flash and Pokey slip stealthily up the stairs.
"We are looking for a boy named James Jenkins," the officer said, quickly scanning the boys' faces for signs of recognition.
"Dat's what ya said yesta'day, an' we said we don't know nobody wit' dat name." Pie Eater said, rolling his eyes.
"Come on, you must know of him..." the other policeman tapped his foot impatiently. "Carlson, show them the picture. Maybe he's changed his name or something." The other officer, presumably Carlson, held up a piece of paper and showed it to each boy. They all took a very long time studying the picture carefully, to give Pokey and Flash as much time as possible to hide upstairs. As they studied the picture, Carlson talked to them.
"Have you, any of you, seen a boy who looks like this?" he asked. "As I stated yesterday, there is a fifteen dollar reward for turning him over to the police." The boys' eyes lit up at the mention of fifteen dollars. It was so much money! But each boy shook his head.
"Don't know 'im, offica'," Snipeshooter said.
"Neva' seen dat boy," Boots shook his head.
"I'd rememba' if I'd seen 'im," Blink shrugged his shoulders. The policemen just looked exasperated.
"We're just going to look around then, if you don't mind." One said, and they walked quietly up the stairs to the bunkroom. Each newsie nervously waited, and hoped Flash and Pokey were well hidden.
Part Sixteen
Lynn slowly walked towards Brooklyn. She still had several hours of daylight left, and she wanted to talk to Powder or some other Brooklyn newsies about the possibility of letting Pokey, and maybe Flash, stay in Brooklyn for a while. She was walking quickly to avoid any unpleasant confrontations, but also to get there as soon as possible. Someone would probably walk back to Manhattan with her, if it got dark before she left. She wondered about Jack. When would he come back? Probably not in time to help her with Pokey. She pushed her hair back and walked towards the Dew Drop, a restaurant the Brooklyn newsies occasionally gathered at. Someone would probably be there who she could talk to.
"Heya Lynn!" Strawberry called, as Lynn pushed open the door and strolled in.
"Howdy," Lynn said, walking over to the table where the Brooklyn newsies were sitting.
"What on earth brings ya hea'?" Strawberry asked, patting a chair for her to sit down.
"I's got a litta' problem an' I was wonderin' if ya could help me wit' it." Lynn said, sitting down on the chair.
"Sure, what is it?" Howie said.
"I's got dis friend, 'is name's Pokey," Lynn began.
"Wait - is 'e da one Powda' found, all beat up?" Nickels asked.
"No, dat was Flash, 'is best friend." Lynn explained, "anyhow, da police're afta' 'im. So I was thinkin' 'e could come 'ere, ta Brooklyn, 'til everyone's stopped lookin' for 'im an' 'e'll be safe back in Manhattan." Lynn said, and then she waited for a response.
"Why're da police afta' 'im?" Strawberry asked, frowning.
"'Cause 'e ran away from home, an' 'is parents offered... fifty bucks to da police if dey brought 'im home." Lynn said, nodding. "An' I ain't sure I wanna let 'im go away... but I don't want da police ta get 'im." Lynn bit her lip and thought for a moment.
"Well 'a course ya friend can stay 'ere, Lynn." Howie assured her.
"An' 'is friend, Flash, is scared stiff 'a Brooklyn. 'E had a bad run-in wit' Spot an' Flare..." Lynn said, thoughtfully.
"Well, we ain't gonna let nothin' happen to da kids we's tryin' ta save from da police!" Nickels said incredulously.
"Good. Well, I's glad ta hea' dat." Lynn said, leaning back in her chair.
Flash looked wildly around the bunkroom. He knew the other newsies would stall the police as long as possible, but it wouldn't last forever, and he had to act fast. Finally an idea came to him.
"Pokey, you'se real sick. Ya gotta stay in bed." He pointed to Pokey's bunk and said, "lay down." Pokey looked dubiously at the blanket.
"I's gonna get real hot, Flash," he protested.
"Would ya ratha' get caught by da police, or be hot for a while?" Flash went on, "get in the bed... I'll figure out how we's gonna keep 'em from recognizin' ya." Flash ran into the washroom and came out seconds later with a washcloth. He pushed Pokey's shoulders against the pillow and heard footsteps on the stairs. Pokey pulled the blankets up to his chin and Flash folded the washcloth and set it over his eyes and shoved the pillow up so it was over his hair. Then he nervously sat back, looked at Pokey for a minute to make sure no one could tell it was him, and thought hard about what he'd tell the police when they came in.
Part Seventeen
Flash didn't look at the door, but he knew when the police entered the room. "We are looking for a boy named James Jenkins," the first officer said. Did they ever say anything else? But Flash couldn't say anything cheeky. In fact, he was too nervous to say anything at all for a moment.
"Neva' hoyd 'a 'im." Flash shook his head and turned to look at Pokey, and then back at the police. "Uhh.. ya know, I's really kinda busy, but my friend 'ere, 'e's awful sick... so if ya could leave me be, dat'd be nice."
"We've got a picture of the boy we are looking for," the other policeman walked over to Flash and held out the photograph. Flash took it and looked at it for a few seconds before handing it back.
"Don't think I's - " Flash stopped. The policeman was looking carefully from the photo to Pokey, and back again. Flash could only hold his breath.
"What," began the policeman, "is this boy's name?" Flash gulped.
"Well, we's always called 'im Pokey..." Flash murmured quietly.
"Pokey... this is not Pokey. This is James Jenkins," the policeman glared at Flash. The other policeman peered over his shoulder.
"You, young man, are in big trouble for hiding this boy from us," he said sternly.
"But I - " Flash started.
"No buts... and is this boy really sick?" The policeman looked skeptical.
"Yeah, yeah 'e's sick. Why else'd 'e be up 'ere?" Flash rolled his eyes. Maybe if they thought he was sick they wouldn't try to take him home just yet. "An', offica's, I ain't sure dat dis is da boy ya think 'e is."
"Well, his parents will be able to tell for sure when we bring him home in the next fifteen minutes." Flash looked about to interrupt so the policeman pressed on, "if he really is sick, his parents can call a doctor." The policeman stepped over to Pokey's bunk and took the washcloth off his face. Even if he hadn't looked identical to the photograph, the policeman could tell by his frightened, defiant eyes that this was James Jenkins, their fifty dollar runaway.
"Get up, James," an officer instructed sternly. Pokey reluctantly sat up and looked helplessly at Flash. Flash met his eyes for a second, and then looked away, staring at the floor in front of him.
"I don't s'pose you'd call me Pokey, huh." Pokey said quietly. The police ignored him and each took one of his arms. Pokey squirmed in their tight grips. "I can walk, ya know." Pokey protested. The police didn' loosen their grip.
"Don't try anything, boy." The policeman said, roughly pulling him along behind them. Pokey looked around, rather terrified. If these policemen took him home, which undoubtedly they would, his parents would be very, very angry. They would probably beat him or lock him in his room or the basement, or the attic for several days as punishment. They would never allow him to leave the house without an escort. Pokey stared at the ground and dragged his feet as he walked through the room with the other boys in it. He didn't want anyone to see him blinking back tears, being afraid of returning home.
Flash sat on Pokey's bunk after he left the room, angry with himself. Why had he let the police find Pokey? He couldn't figure out what had gone wrong. How could he let his very best friend be caught by the police? He couldn't believe what had happened. He hadn't done anything to give Pokey away, had he? His tone of voice must have been too scared, or maybe he'd blushed. Since he was too young to remember he'd been Pokey's best friend, and they'd never done much of anything without each other. And now he'd let the police get Pokey. His anger with himself was also anger against the police. He picked up the photograph of Pokey off the floor and tore it up. He would help Pokey run away again, and the police would never find him. No matter what happened to him in the process, he would do it. It was the only way he could ever feel better about what he had done to his friend.
Part Eighteen
Lynn was happy as she walked back to the Lodging House. She just needed to discuss with Flash and Pokey what they should do about going to Brooklyn, who would go, and how long they'd be staying. Although she didn't want to see them leave and sell papers with other people, and she wouldn't see them much, she preferred that to Pokey being caught by the police. She pushed open the door to the Lodging House, and was shocked by the silence that greeted her.
"Uh... hi guys." She said, narrowing her eyes.
"Hi Lynn," Flash said dejectedly, from where he was sitting on a chair. Lynn was surprised to notice that they weren't playing cards or doing anything. The deck of cards was sitting on the floor in a messy pile, and the newsies were looking at the floor, or the walls.
"Ok, what's goin' on hea'. I want da whole story." Lynn said, worried now about what must have happened. It didn't take more than a few seconds for her to guess what had happened, though.
"Da police guessed dat Pokey was dere James Jenkins." Flash said, sighing, "an' I couldn't stop 'em from gettin' 'im an' takin' 'im back to 'is house." Flash put his face in his hands and sighed. He looked very upset. Lynn just stood there for a few seconds, shocked. Finally she sat down quickly in a chair.
"Ya mean... dey... like... got 'im? Took 'im? Got dere fifty dolla's?" Lynn said softly, more to herself than anyone else. "What happened? Did dey come in 'ere? Why didn't 'e hide?" she asked. Race looked at her.
"Flash tried ta hide 'im. 'E told da police dat dis boy was sick an' no one should move 'im, an' covered up 'is face, mostly. But dey guessed anyway, dat it was 'im." Race said, quietly. Everyone in the room looked at each other, not knowing what to do. Lynn put her face in her hands.
"I am so stupid." She said, shaking her head, "I shoulda taken 'im ta Brooklyn right when I had da idea, but no... I had ta be stupid an' selfish, an' wanna keep 'im 'ere. I shoulda brought 'im ta meet da Brooklyn newsies today when I went, but no... I had ta be stupid." She wiped her hands across her face and closed her eyes, leaning back in her chair. "So what're we gonna do 'bout dis, huh? We gotta get 'im outta 'is house. 'Is parents are gonna be real mad dat 'e ran away."
Pokey needed an alibi, and quick. He needed to think of something that would keep Flash from being brought home as well. He'd been thoughtless or something, run off without thinking, and now he was sorry. Oh, but I'm not sorry, Pokey thought, feeling very annoyed, in fact, I'm downright angry they brought me back to this place. Sure, it's my home, and of course, I love my parents... but I don't like it here. At all. I'd rather be with my newsie friends, and stay in the meager place where they all stay. It's better that way.
The policemen stopped in front of his door. By now the sun was just setting, and the sky was splashed with red and purple and orange. Normally he would have thought it was fairly cool looking. Right now he was just angry that the sun hadn't gone down so much the police couldn't find him if he somehow managed to slip away. He wiggled around again, but the grip they had on his arms was twice as tight now that they'd gotten him home Finally he just stood there, dejectedly staring at the wooden door. The policeman knocked.
"Who's there?" called a female voice. Pokey recognized it as that of Harriet, their housekeeper.
"Is this the Jenkins residence?" the policeman on Pokey's left asked in an official tone.
"Yes it is. May I ask who is calling?" Harriet asked politely.
"It's the city police. We have their son." The policeman said, tapping his foot waiting for her to open the door.
"James?" Harriet asked, pulling open the door. "Oh, where have you been? Boy, your parents have been looking for you for so long - Sir! Ma'am! The police have returned James!" Harriet called behind her. Pokey just stared at the ground and said nothing. His father came running towards the door.
"James!" He called, giving Pokey a hug, "Jamie, where have you been? We've been so worried about you."
"I don't care." Pokey mumbled, kicking the oriental rug in the entryway to his house.
His father either didn't hear him, or pretended not to, because he went back into the other room, "Andrea, Andrea - Jamie's back. The police found him and brought him back." His mother and father came back into the entryway. His mother gave him a hug that nearly lifted him off his feet, and she led him back into the house. He followed dispiritedly behind her, and didn't say anything. His father remained behind, settling the money and other things with the police.
"Living on the streets all that time, sweetie? Oh, it must have been awful." His mother gushed. Pokey just sat there, staring at the white painted wall. He wished his parents would shut up and punish him. He also refused to answer. The New York street accent he'd picked up in just a few days would take weeks to wear off, and his parents would probably be utterly disgusted if he talked, well, like that. "Sweetie, aren't you going to talk to me about the terrible time you must have had out there?" his mother was treating him like a baby again, and he was very annoyed with it.
"It wasn't bad. It was won-da'-ful." He mumbled, trying to tone down his accent. His mother looked at him.
"What are you saying? Dear, the police must have been right about you being sick. I suppose living out in those conditions would make anyone ill, though." His mother said, nodding her understanding.
"Look, I's not sick an' I don't wanna talk to ya, ok?" He said, his street accent prevalent in his voice, but he didn't care. "I didn't wanna come back hea', an' da police dragged me away from my friends, an' I's not very happy wit' it, ok?" Pokey growled and closed his eyes, putting his face in his hands. How was he going to get out of this one?
"You can't think or talk straight. Right to bed with you." His mother said, her eyes showing concern for her son's sanity. "Perhaps in the morning you'll feel better."
"I am not sick. An' if ya don't like da way I talk, ya can send me back out in da streets." He tried to make his accent sound thicker and more unlike the son his parents remembered. "I's not da boy ya rememba'. I's got diff'rent clothes an' I talk diff'rent. I don't like it hea', it's borin'. I wanna go back ta my new friends!" Pokey shook his head in annoyance, "an' ya ain't listenin' ta me! I don't wanna be hea'!"
"What is this you are saying, James?" his father asked, walking into the room.
"He's saying he doesn't like it here, and he is talking in so strange a manner I can scarcely tell what he is saying." Andrea Jenkins said to her husband, looking very upset by this.
"What is the meaning of all this, James? We finally get the police to bring you back here, and this is the thanks we get? You are saying you would rather be out in the streets living with those heathens?!" His voice became very intense and Pokey backed away slowly from his father. He hated making him mad.
"I ain't.. I mean I don't... I mean... I ain't sayin' dat I don't wanna..." he wasn't sure whether to stick with his accent or not. Even if he tried to get rid of the accent, he would still occasionally slip into it, especially in a tense situation like this.
"James, do you prefer living in the filthy streets of New York to this beautiful home... do you? Don't you love us Jamie?" His father asked, looking rather hurt.
"Jamie, you can't mean that, can you?" His mother asked, looking like she was going to cry.
"Gimme a while ta think 'bout it." Pokey said, starting to get a headache from all the nervousness of the day. He really didn't know how to answer that question. If he said that he liked his home better than the streets, his parents would most likely forgive him as long as he apologized for his rudeness right now. If he said he preferred the streets to his home, well, he'd probably be whipped by his father. It had happened before, once when he'd slapped his cousin Mina at a family social gathering. She'd been taunting him, telling him he couldn't do anything she could do, and he'd just slapped her to make her stop. His father had been very, very angry, and after the guests had gone home, he'd whipped Pokey. Not a lot, but just enough to keep him from ever slapping his girl cousins again.
"You need to think about that?" His father put his hand on Pokey's forehead. "I think you really must be sick."
"I'm not sick!!!" Pokey shouted. His mother stared at him.
"What was that?" She asked him, a warning note in her voice.
"I said, 'I'm not sick'." Pokey said, softer. "And yeah, I do gotta think about it. If I wanna
stay here or the streets... you know, what it was ya said before." He was trying to control his accent but
was so nervous that he wasn't having a whole lot of luck with it. If he said he preferred the streets, that
would be just where he'd end up. Except... it would be different. His parents would pretty much disown
him, give him penniless and alone back to the streets, and he would have nowhere to go if any situation
should arise. He wanted to go back out in the streets... but was it worth the price he'd have to pay?
Having his family very mad at him, and he'd probably be whipped anyway, just to teach him a lesson he
wouldn't forget. Suddenly, he was very tired. He walked out of the room while his parents just stared at
him, and he walked into his room and sat down on his bed. He laid down and looked at the ceiling, and
tears came to his eyes. He was so frustrated, so confused, and so scared of everything that was happening.
He turned over and let his tears fall on his pillow while he fell asleep trying to think of what to do with
himself.
To part
5!