The name�s Racetrack, Racetrack Higgins. Pleased to meet you. Now, you may have guessed that Racetrack is not my real name. No self-respected mother would name her kid Racetrack. But it suits me.

Of course, this isn�t exactly how I talk. I�m from New York, been here all my life and have the mouth to prove it. But when I write, something very different comes out. It�s almost as if my hands and my mouth belong to two very different people.

I�ve had an education, limited as it is. My mother taught me how to read and write and do basic mathematics, skills that have helped me a great deal. The rest of what I know I learned on the streets. You can�t sell papes if you can�t read the headline, and you can get cheated if you don�t know how to count your papes when you buy them. Denton helped me with the spelling and grammar in this story, but the words are my own.

My life ain�t been easy, but whose has? The way I see it, life�s a game of chance. Every time you make a decision, you roll the dice. You win some, you lose some. In my case, you lose quite a bit, but that doesn�t stop me from gambling again. Besides, what does it matter how much money you make or where you�re from when you have family? And I have a very large family. The Newsies.

What�s a newsie you ask? Here�s my answer. What tiny nowheres-ville did you come from? The Newsies are what makes this city turn. We own this city. We sell the papers of the giant newspaper companies, Hearst, Pulitzer and the others. It may not seem that a bunch of kids may have a lot of power, but we do. Without us, no one knows what is going on. We found that out that summer, when Jack pushed us all to the limits of our imaginations.

But I�m getting a bit ahead of myself. Maybe I should start at the beginning.

I was born in Rome on October 31, 1883. That�s right, Rome, Italy. The Rome. Now I know what you�re wondering, what�s a kid from Rome doing in Manhattan, selling papes for a lousy penny each? Hold your horses, I�m getting there.

Well, my mother, Marinna Casella, grew up in the south of Italy, in a small coastal town called Positano. A town full of pleasant people, where you can smell the sea air, fresh and clean, not like the smoggy filthy air of the city. Where the water was so clear , you could see straight to the bottom. While the people were poor in money, they were rich in kindness and tradition. I had long wanted to visit this small wonderland my mother had described to me so many times. Still do, but to travel like that costs money that I don�t and never will have.

When she was about seventeen or eighteen, she journeyed up to Rome with her folks. There she met and fell in love with a British officer whose name she had long since forgotten. And when her family found out that little old me was on the way, they booted her out. She was left alone, penniless, and pregnant. After a few month's, she scrimped together enough to afford passage on a boat to America. Just before the ship left, I was born. She named me Anthony.

When she arrived in New York, I was almost a month old. She was still penniless and could hardly speak a word of English. After she wandered the city for a day or two, begging for a bit of food to feed her son, a kindly Italian saw her, who understood her plight, and owned an apartment building. He took her in and bought her to his building in lower Manhattan. After a few weeks, she met a man a floor or two above her, an Irishman named Silas Higgins. They fell in love, which is odd given their different nationalities and the tension between the Italian and Irish, particularly in my area.

Needless to say, our neighbors were hardly pleased and my mother and new father had to flee the area. They found a small apartment across the river in Queens. That is where I lived.

Mama was a slight woman; she�d fallen ill soon after giving birth to me, I was told, and dark in features. She had long black hair that tumbled down her back, and dark laughing eyes. She�d always crack jokes, either in English or Italian, I could understand both, though English came easier. Pop did not speak it and Ma could constantly say things that sent me over onto the floor in hysterics, and gave Pop a look of extreme confusion. She was a tough old bird, very protective of me and very quick to defend me whenever anyone dared question my legitimacy or character.

I remember once when I was about six years old. The area we lived in was predominately Irish, with few other nationalities. Although my father was Irish, I know he wasn�t my real father, but he was all I ever had to fit the part, I had been born in Italy and looked the part. With my Mom�s black hair and dark eyes, I stood out in the crowd of light skinned light haired children, both in my building and my neighborhood. I remember one night, coming home in tears because my best friend�s mother had just told them they could not associate with me because �I was not one of them.� My mother, furious, grabbed my hand and led me down the hall to the woman�s apartment. There she proceeded to rave at the woman, in a curious mix of Italian and English. The woman slammed the door in her face, but not before my mother telling her she had no right to not let her children play with who ever they wanted.

�This it America!� she yelled, � It doesn�t matter where you come from here!� Then she took me back and rocked me slowly back and forth until I fell asleep.

Pop was a big man, with a fiery head of hair and a loud rolling laugh. I used to love to hear him laugh. Every night, when he got home from the factory, he would grab me and put me up on his shoulders, while grabbing Ma and sweeping her into a tight hug. He would laugh then, loud and long, so glad to be home, and we were so glad to have him back that we wouldn�t care that he was dirty or sweaty. And no matter how cold it was, he would always take me out at look at the stars late at night. Sometimes, Ma would go with us and he�d point out the brightest star he could find and say, � It�s all yer�s, Marinna. Only foir youse.� She�d smile and act like he�d just given her the world.

I, not wanting to be left out, would climb on his lap and ask, �Which one�s me star, Pop?� And he�d smile and say a very simple phrase that meant the world to me.

�Take yer pick, Tony. Ya can have any star ya want, as long as ya reach.� And I�d run to the edge of the roof, and climb on the rail and stretch out my hand as far as it would go, trying to capture my own little twinkling star.

He loved those evenings when it was just the three of us. But there was only one thing in the world he loved as much as Mama and me. The races.

Now I should say that my father had been disowned by his parents when he wasted his money gambling on the races at Sheepshead Bay. Before this, he had been rather wealthy, not rich, but not poor either. As a newly married husband and an instant father, he forced himself to forget his addictive habit and find a stable job to support his new family. But every once and a while, he would come home just a bit early and pick me up in his arms, and whisper, � How would ya like ta visit da horses, Tony?� I would nod energetically and Ma would sigh and roll her eyes, muttering something in Italian before allowing us to go.

�No gambling Silas, you promised. And don�t let Tony near those horrid jockeys.� What she didn�t know is that while there, my father would converse with the jockeys, trying to figure out which was the safest bet and the whole time, he would sit me on his knee while they laughed and cheered on their favorite. Afterwards, Pop would take me into the stables and the jockeys would let me feed the horses.

Sometimes, he�d let me pick the horse we were betting on and I would cheer and wave my hat just as energetically as the full-grown men beside me. And if my horse won, he�d lift me high on his shoulders and we�d parade home, showing our winnings off to Mama. She would smile proudly as I described to her in great detail how the horse had pulled through in the last leg, even if it had never happened. Pop would never say a word, but would watch us and grin.

When I was six, I began to spend time at the races by myself. After school, I would head over to Sheepshead and watch in fascination as the horses ran. A few older jockeys took a liking to me as they saw me there with my father and later by myself enough. Sometimes, they would place small penny bets for me on the horses they knew would win and give me the penny or two that I had earned. I felt very proud of myself the day I brought home a whole dollar. Mama didn�t like it at first, but Pop persuaded her.

�It�s just a race, Marinna, it can�t hoit him.� Then she would sigh and smile. As long as I was home in time for my chores, she let me go. On my sixth birthday, she gave me her father�s pocket watch.

�It came with me all the way from Italy, Tony, just like you. Take good care of it.� I promised. I still got the damn thing, though it stopped working years ago. I don�t got the money to get it fixed.

Yes, we had a perfect life, or so it would seem. When I was about eight or nine, I noticed Mama did not sing in the kitchen anymore. She constantly rubbed her forehead as if it hurt and developed a deep hacking cough. Pop became worried, but she insisted it was fine.

Soon, I stopped going to the small neighborhood school and helped Mama get the housework done. Sometimes, I went out in the street across the river to shine a few shoes or carry a few groceries, anything to make a few extra pennies.

Her condition only worsened over the course of the winter. She lie in bed, racked with a cough that send her into convulsions. Her fever soared and she often mumbled nonsense while she tossed and turned on their small bed. We could hardly afford money for a doctor, so when we had saved enough, we sent for one. He shook his head and gave Pop a sorry look.

Mama died on my tenth birthday. We buried her quietly, in a cemetery nearby. I am sorry to say that her death broke my father. He no longer went to work and I did my best, but some days I could hardly get him out of bed.

Pop was not as energetic or excited. He no longer wanted to take me to the racetracks. Instead, he lie in bed while I fixed him some hot tea. He died six days after she did, leaving me quite alone in the world.

I remember that morning. It was foggy and cold, the wind was whistling through the cracks in the wall we could no longer afford to have covered. I crawled over to Pop�s bed and shook him. He seemed very cold and he didn�t move. �Pop?� I called, �Pop, get up!� But he wouldn�t. I curled up next to him and began to cry. A neighbor found me a few hours later and called the police. In one week, I had lost both my parents and was now facing the biggest tribulation of my young life. With only a small bag of belongings, I was seated in a police carriage and on my way to my Uncle�s house.

My Uncle Matthew, whom I had never met but had heard my father talk about plenty of times, usually with a curse word or two in front of the name. He had inherited the family money and turned it into a fortune. He lived in Trenton in a big house, bigger than any I had ever seen.

A tall thin man, dressed in a black suit ushered the policeman and myself into a richly decorated sitting room. I felt nervous about sitting in the plush arms chair he offered me. I had never been in anywhere that looked remotely like this.

�This is the boy then?� A cold voice broke through to me as I spun around to see a man who looked nothing like my father. He was taller and thinner, while my father had been stocky. His hair was a dirty blond and his eyes held none of the kindness I�d seen in my fathers.

�This is Anthony Higgins, sir.� He glared at me and curled his lip in disgust. I glared back, letting him see that even at ten, I couldn�t be cowed.

�Thank you, officer.� The policeman left and I found myself alone with the man my father had called brother.

There was a thick silence in the room as he watched me, glaring at me. �So you�re the little bastard my brother adopted. You take after your mother.� I said nothing, glaring back.

�Now listen here, you little street rat,� he hissed, leaning close to me and growling into my face. � If you pull one stunt, make one mistake, embarrass me one time, it�s off to the orphanage with you. And there you won�t get regular meals or a warm bed. Now, do I make myself clear?�

�Yeah.� I answered. He looked horrified.

�Yeah? That is street talk, boy. There will be none of that in this house. Say, yes sir.�

�Yeah mista.� I gave him my best grin and twisted my accent to make it thicker. In an instant, the left side of my face exploded in pain and I found myself on the floor, nursing a bruised cheek. He stood over me and grabbed my shirt collar.

�I warned you boy.� He hissed and shook me before throwing me to the floor and summoning the butler. This began the worst two years of my life.

Strangely, it was the first and only time I have ever had real money, the first time I rode in a carriage instead of the back of one, when I�d had clean clothes everyday, a large meal, a warm bed. And yet, I was miserable. My Uncle forced me to lesson my accent everyday, but I couldn�t. That was just how I was and how I spoke. He�d hit me if I did anything wrong. I remember once, after a dinner party in which I�d spoken out of turn, he went after me with his walking stick.

I was dressed up and paraded around like some little doll. Eventually, he prohibited me from even speaking, as it would give my origins away. The only release I got was when the house was asleep and I would creep down to the kitchens. The cook had a son about my age, named James, a good-natured boy with a knack for things that weren�t exactly good for him. Poker, for instance. He taught me how to play poker, blackjack, and just about every other card game there was. And I was good. Every time we bet something, I won, by luck or by bluffing.

The last straw came on my twelfth birthday. It was bound to happen sooner or later. I was going stir crazy. It was a simple fact, I was bored. And when Racetrack Higgins gets bored, people need to look out.

I remember that it rained. It rained all that day and I was trapped inside, with only my memories to keep me company. Downstairs, I could hear shouting as my Uncle prepared for some fancy-shmancy dinner he was having. As usual, I would be in my room, keeping as silent as I could.

As the evening progressed, I became more and more hungry. Finally, I risked it by sneaking down the steps and hurrying to the kitchens to grab something to eat. However, my timing couldn�t have been more off.

As I slipped down the steps, my Uncle and his guests were making their way across the front hall from the dining room to the drawing room. I found myself face to face with several rich members of high society.

The women looked at me with interest, the men with curiosity and my Uncle with distain.

�Who is this, Matthew?� one rather overweight man chuckled.

�This is, � he paused, � my nephew.� It seemed to take a long time for him to admit it.

�Silas�s son?� someone asked. He nodded.

�Sadly, my brother and his wife passed away two years ago. I took the boy in for there was no one else he had in the world.� A tall woman with a large amount of feathers on her dress, that frankly, made her look quite ridiculous, approached me and knelt in front of me.

� Oh, you poor dear. What�s your name?�

� Anthony, Miss.� She paused and stared at me.

�Anthony, that�s an Italian name, isn�t it?� I shrugged.

�Dunno, Miss.�

�That�s enough. Why don�t you go back to your room?� My Uncle motioned up the stairs. An idea crept into my mind and I plastered a puppy dog look on my face.

�But it�s scary up dere! I�s all alone and it�s dark! I�se scared!� I cried, attaching myself around his legs. He tried to pry me off, but I wouldn�t let him. Finally, he grabbed my arms, politely excused himself and dragged me up the stairs. He threw me into my room and pulled the door shut behind him. �What do you think you were doing?� he hissed, grabbing my arm and twisting painfully.

�I wusn�t doin� nuttin!� I growled back. He slapped me hard. As he did so, I fell and he jerked my arm painfully. A sharp burning pain shot up my right arm just after I heard the strange popping sound. He threw me to the ground and kicked out, sending spasms of pain through my chest.

He didn�t let up, not for a long time. It was probably only a few minutes, but it felt like hours. Finally, he stopped and I heard him slam the door on his way out. Downstairs, the murmur of voices rose again. Slowly, I maneuvered myself into a sitting position, ignoring the sharp pains that were running all up and down my sides and arm.

Slowly, I managed to place all my belongings, the few clothes I owned, the few photos and knick-knacks, into a pillowcase and tied the end. Then, I washed my face, getting rid of any blood, ripped up a piece of cloth for a sling and opened the window. I was lucky that my window opened up onto the back and that the back porch was directly beneath it. I slipped down and sped off into the night.

I couldn�t run far and I knew I wouldn�t get far before he called the bulls on me. slowly, I made my decision and walked towards the train yards. After checking to make sure no one was around, I threw my bag into an open train car and slipped inside. I ducked down behind some crates and fell into a fitful sleep.

I woke up to someone shaking my shoulder. I winced and opened my eyes. Then I groaned. A copper was standing over me a grim look on his face.

�What are you doing, kid?� I shook my head. But he wouldn�t let me past.

�Do you know it�s illegal to ride these trains without a ticket?� I nodded. �Yeah, I know. But I ain�t got no money.� He sighed and nodded.

�Don�t let it happen again. � Then he let me go. I crawled, nursing my injured shoulder. To my delight, I saw the skyline of New York. I was home.

I made my way out of the train yards and through the city, loving the scents, sights, and sounds. But my stomach got the better of me. I realized I hadn�t eaten in over two days and I needed food now. I saw a small fruit stand and the busy owner. I walked by quickly, snatching an apple as I went by. Then I took off running.

To my dismay, I heard the sounds of, �Stop, thief!� And the whistle that summons the bulls behind me. I ran faster, but my wounds wouldn�t let me. Needless, to say, they caught me. They healed me up, but just enough.

I remember court. They brought me in and brought me right up to the judge. �What is your name, boy?� I paused.

�Antonio.� I answered, in a small voice that made me sound much younger than my ten years.

�Antonio what?�

�Antonio Casella, sia.� I answered. It wasn�t my real name, but it was close enough. It wasn�t safe to give my real name, as my Uncle was sure to be looking for me.

�You have been charged with theft and resisting arrest, Antonio, do you understand the penalties for this crime?�

�I wus starvin�, sia! It wus jist a� apple!� But he wasn�t moved by my face or fake tears. Suddenly, a plump man with cold eyes and white hair stepped up beside me.

�I'll speak for this boy, your honor.� He had a cold voice that I didn�t like. �I recommend that he be placed in the House of Refuge until the end of his sentence.� Now, at the time I didn�t know what this House of Refuge was, but I knew I didn�t like it.

�Alright, Warden. Antonio Casella, I sentence you to four months confinement for theft and resisting arrest.�

This man, whose name was Snyder, I later found out, was the warden at the House of Refuge, a jail for kids. He was present at the sentencing of every kid brought in off the street and made sure he was brought into the Refuge so he could pocket the profits. He was far more a thief than I�d ever be.

The Refuge was a system of bells, each sounding to tell us something new, bells for meals, for sleep, for work, to line up to be counted, bells for everything. Our rooms were small and crowded, our beds hard wooden planks that could hold five or six boys, and were extremely rickety. All we had were a few thin blankets to share between us. There might have been twenty or thirty boys in the four months I was there. My arm and ribs, turned out two of them had been broken, healed quickly, but not fast enough for me.

I made friends quickly. The first night I was there, we had twenty minutes before bed to relax and talk. Having no one to talk to, I opened my bag and pulled out my cards. Silently, on my bed, I dealt out the cards, planning on a game of solitaire. I silently thanked James for teaching me. As I began I felt a shift on the bed and I glanced up. A small boy was watching me, looking intently at the cards.

�Ya want sumdin?� I asked. He had the largest blue eyes I�d ever seen, a mop of brown hair and a childish face. He continued to watch me. I shook my head and continued. Slowly, I noticed a few other boys approach. I glared up at them. Then the first young boy spoke.

�Whutcha doin�?�

�Playin� solitaire.� I told him.

�How do ya play?� I grinned, and motioned him closer.

�What�s yer name, kid?�

�Sammy.� He said shyly.

�Sammy, da name�s Tony. Now I�m going to tell youse how ta play dis game. It aint so hard.� Slowly, I explained the rules.

�Dat sounds borin�. Ya know anytin� else?� I nodded.

�Yeah, I knows lots a games.� He grinned too.

�Would ya teach us?� There came a small round of agreement from the other boys. I nodded slowly.

�Any a youse know how ta play poka?� I asked. Several shook their heads, but a few nodded. I shuffled the cards. �Ya up for a game?� A tall boy agreed and we dealt. By the time Snyder came to send us to bed, I had won three twenty-five cents and two rolls. As soon as the alarm sounded that the warden was on his way, I hid my winnings and my cards in my bag and pretended to fall asleep. In reality, I was up very late that night.

I looked at the full moon through the bared windows, knowing sadly that I�d exchanged one prison for another. I missed my parents terribly. I missed the streets more than anything. I know most people couldn�t wait to get away from the streets of New York, but they were my home. I felt at peace there. And I wanted to go back more than anything. I sighed and tried to go to sleep, only to have the small boy from earlier roll into me and curl up in my arm. I shook my head and watched the moon rise.

The next morning, I taught the younger boys to play poker. My jokes and laughing won me a place in the hearts of the children, though I wasn�t too much older than them. My smug attitude and quick mouth made me a good deal closer to the older boys. They loved to tease me and bet each other on my talents. I never turned down a bet, even if it resulted in me spending two weeks in solitary confinement.

I loved the younger ones. I would tease them and play with them constantly. One night about a month after I�d arrived, Jimmy, crawled into my bed late at night.

�I can�t sleep, Tony. Tell me a story.� I groaned.

�Not now, Sammy. I�se tired.�

�But Tony�� he cried. I sighed and sat up.

�Fine, come �era.� He crawled up next to me and I sighed, looking for anything to put him to sleep.

�Whudda ya wanna hear?�

�Do ya rememba your Ma and Pa?� he asked. I nodded.

�Where is dey?�

�Dead.� I answered shortly.

�So�s mine. They came from Ireland. Where did yours come from?� I sighed.

�Me Ma came from Italy.� I told him.

�Is it pretty dere?� I nodded and grinned.

�So pretty. Da hills jist go on foreva. She lived in a little town jist on da sea. On a cliff.�

�A cliff?� I nodded, finding my story.

�Yeah, a cliff. Da town�s built right inta da cliff. Dey haveta climb down dese steep steps to get to dere boats everyday.� That night I told him everything I could remember my mother ever telling me about Italy. It put him and the rest, who had gathered around, asleep very late.

I became bored easily and planned all kinds of daring stunts. Snyder hated me and I often went to bed hungry, only to have the boys sneak something to me. I could never keep my mouth closed, even when it was for my own good.

My tricks constantly got my sentence extended, until my four months had been extended to seven. I had been there only four, when my whole world was tossed upside down by the arrival of a new inmate.

We were seated in the dining room, when Snyder stood up and announced that we had a new inmate today. I noticed the tall boy in the western hat right away. His hair was a dirty blond and his eyes held a strange intensity to them, even at the age of thirteen. That night, he was assigned to my bunk. He threw his things down in my usual spot.

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