Midnight of June twelfth at the Brooklyn Bridge found a tattered group of seven giggly friends huddled around a fresh cigar and a pack of cigarettes that one of them had put forth. /Take the bet!/ they urged each other. /Take the bet and run!/ Even the Italian wasn't prepared to take this dare tonight.

He had said he would, originally, but one must always be careful of what they promise when inebriated. /"Holy shit, man, I can't think of anythin' I wouldn't do fer a nice fat Havana right now…"/

It was two days after this drunken proclamation that the girl had produced one of these desirable Cuban treats. /Who wants it?/ She had said brazenly, not making any mention of where this expensive cigar was found, and her companions not asking. /Raaaaacey? Jaaaack?/ she sing-songed, and one way or another she'd led them by their proverbial balls from their Lodging House, down to the South Street piers and the stinking East River. Right in the middle of this sticky summer night.

"Well?" The entire evening had drifted away somehow, all the sailors and longshoremen abandoning their wharves and going home to their wives or lovers or cold beds. But these six or seven urchins remained in their huddle, puzzling over this indivisible cigar.

"Well, what, you silly wench?" The boys snickered at the attack on Tink Parker, who they all knew was mentally crossing that assailant off her list.

"*Well*, Holiday's out," she said, winking playfully at Cinderella. "I sure as hell don't want it, an' Mush don't smoke. That's four-in-seven odds. Racey, step up baby."

The Italian in question sneered lightly, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the stump in front of them. "I got the uppah hand. It's me birthday."

"And because of that, you get an added bonus. You take this bet, and I'll throw in the this whole pack of fags AND the cigar. Unfortunately," Tink slapped his hand away from the cigarettes, "I can't do that until you follow through on that promise you made a few nights ago."

All around the circle eyebrows were raised at this promise that they were obviously not around to hear. Race scowled. "Who put dat knife in me back? Oh *wait*- *I* know."

"Recall with me, if you will," Tink announced with a dramatic flutter of her hands, "To Thursday night. Recall with me, if you CAN, that is. Mushy will gladly vouch for me, I'm sure." Mush raised his hand innocently, and Tink went on. "*Lots* of alcohol, gambling, those whiny little foreign girls from Garners Shirtwaist Factory… just your typical night of drunken debauchery with my favorite newsboys."

"A whole night `a this," Mush interjected, "And all the beer was gone, and the girls went home, and you was on Tink's bunk, dead drunk and half asleep-"

"What did we happen to hear you say?" Tink cued her partner in crime and he piped up again, quoting merrily in his best Racetrack voice:

"'What I wouldn't do fer a *nice*, *fat* Cuban right now.'"

"Or something to that affect," she affirmed with a nod. "I thought you meant dat big Juanita lady dat works at Tibbys-"

The Cowboy and Skittery roared, while Kid Blink snuggled up to the scowling Racetrack. "¡Ay, papí! `Joo got somet'ing nice an' biiiiig for Juanita, ¿no?"

The other girl giggled madly, sneaking [but not exactly slyly] a cigarette from the anted pack. Tink and company noticed, and went on laughing. Racetrack frowned at this and looked sorely at Cinderella. "That's mine!"

"Like hell it is," she said over a puff of smoke. "Take the bet, Wop."

"We specially devised this one for you, Racey. *Especially* for you."

Tink snickered along with the other girl and proceeded to explain every stipulation of the bet. She did this in such great detail that when she finished, not only was Racetrack left red faced at the conditions but Skittery and Jack's faces too had turned an embarrassed shade, while Blink's face was all sympathy, and Mush was giggling madly to himself.

"Whaddaya say, Racey?" Cinderella grinned a flicked a bit of provocative cigarette ash at him. "Ya don't get a chance like dis everyday."

"It's a top-o'-the-line Cuban, Racey."

"I ain't never seen Racetrack Higgins back out of a bet," Skittery said confidentially to Blink, in a purposely audible whisper. Race frowned at his supposed best friend.

Blink maintained his sympathetic look, but is lips had started to curl up wickedly. "Y'know," he began, "`Cept fer some bums, we're da only ones out here. So it ain't so bad-"

"I don't see you volunteerin', Hotshot."

"An' take away yer chance at glory?" Blink grinned.

"I ain't dat kinda friend."

In his typical naivete, Mush misinterpreted Blink's encouragement, and followed suit. "Come on, Race, show us what yer made of!"

Tink elbowed her female friend. "Literally and figuratively!" They shared a lewd old giggle over this as Mush beamed on absently. Someone would clue him in later and he would insist sheepishly that he knew what he'd meant, but at least dirty feminist humor was alive and well in 1899.

The Man of the Hour heaved a sigh as he focused in on the seductive curves of the cigar in front of him, and got to his feet.

"All I gotta do is run dere an' back, right?" The girls nodded. The boys snorted. Race shook his head, and in the midst of dramatic silence, said:

"I can't believe I'm doin' dis…"

The girls cheered and hopped to their feet, Tink clutching the cigar and Cinderella waving the pack of cigarettes in front of Race as he tugged at his collar buttons.

"Dis is so degrading," he grumbled as they danced around him.

Tink laughed. "Says the admitted male chauvinist!"

"Dat ain't da same thing!" he insisted as he handed over his shirt.

"Of course it is, Racey." Cinderella twirled the garment over her head before tossing it into Skittery's lap. "Trousers!"

"Cover yer eyes, Mushy," cried Tink, "This might alarm you and I ain't responsible for any damages!" [Later someone would again fill Mush in on what Tink meant, and Mush would again insist that he knew that.]

The four more luckier boys cringed as the girls demanded Racetrack's shoes and socks, and his agonizing whine about the crude wooden bridge and sharp slivers of wood that were there. They cackled merrily as he wailed, and the boys were suddenly grateful that their own personal gambling habits were better controlled.

Tink had slung the famous plaid trousers around herself like a cape while Cinderella gathered up his suspenders and shoes, dangling his pocket watch before his eyes. "Never thought you'd rue the day a woman asked you to drop trou, huh, buddy?"

The skinny Italian squinted at her once more, down to his cotton shorts. "Funny, Mick."

"Oh ho, easy now. Remember I'm the layer of odds here."

"And," Tink added, waving a pant leg at him, "Yer half naked, an' a long, long way from home."

Race half-wondered how the amicable bet had turned into this ugly rivalry [though it was still just as amusing to the two girls]. /They don't think I'll do it!/ His scowl disappeared and was replaced by a frighteningly large grin.

"Well, ladies," he said cockily, hooking his thumbs in the waist of his boxers, "It's been a pleasure doing business with ya."

The girls hooted as the boy took off across the Brooklyn Bridge, two bare white cheeks flashed wildly at them in the moonlight.

...the end...