"In 1899, the streets of New York City echoed with the voices of newsies, peddling the newspapers of Joseph Pulitzer, William Randolph Hearst and other giants of the newspaper world. On every corner, you saw them carrying the banner, bringing you the news for a penny a pape. Poor orphans and runaway, the newsies were a ragged army without a leader. Until one day, all that changed."
In the streets of Manhattan at the Horace Greeley statue, four small boys lay about. Three around the feet of Horace and one in the arms and lap of him.
Just like every morning, newspapers were being printed, rolled up, and stacked for the newsies to take out and sell. And at the Newsboys Lodging House, an older gentleman walked up the stairs that creaked every step he took.
He walked into a room where multiple boys lay in bunk beds, all still fast asleep. A quite but prominent snapping was happening as the old man just shook his head at the boy.
"Boots!"
A dark skinned boy jumped up and looked at him before yawning and laying back down.
"Skittery. Skittery. Skittery!" He walked over to another boy and hit his foot.
Skittery sat up abruptly quickly shouting, "I didn't do it. Ow!"
He received another slap but this time to the face.
"What do you mean you didn't do it? Get up. Get up! When you get up, you have to get up. Snitch!"
Another boy who laid on the bottom bunk, who had his thumb his mouth almost like a baby, was awoken from the man's yelling.
"Get up, get up, get up. Come on, everybody's sleeping here."
"That's offensive, Mr. Kloppman." A young girl, who seemed ready for the day already, walked out of the bathroom.
"At least one of you children is responsible." The man acknowledged her before continuing, "They sleep, they sleep. They sleep their life away, these kids."
