You have to admit it looks rather impressive from where you're standing--namely, on the corner of Duane Street on Manhattan's Lower East Side. It's an L-shaped brick building, six or seven stories high, with a sign above the door reading "Newsboys Lodging House." As you watch, a tall youth in a cowboy hat and a short Italian in a checkered vest approach from the opposite end of the street. They each sport a couple of fresh cuts and bruises. Chatting and laughing, they walk up the steps of the building. The Italian snuffs out his cigar, and the two boys head inside together. After a moment, you make up your mind and follow them.
The first floor of the building seems to be rented out as a fabric shop, so you follow the boys up two flights of stairs to an enormous lobby, where you find an old man with thinning white hair sitting behind a desk enclosed by a railing, peering over his spectacles at the three of you. The cowboy is signing a page in a huge leatherbound book while the Italian leans against the railing, bantering with the old man. "Ya sure ya wanna let us in tonight, Kloppy? Might be trouble on our heels."
"There's trouble on yer heels wherever ya goes, Racetrack," the old man rasps dryly. "Cowboy's even worse. An' yer Delancey friends knows full well they ain't welcome in this house."
Cowboy chuckles as he signs his name with a flourish and hands the pen to Racetrack. Then he turns around and finally notices you. "Hey! New kid!" He strides over to you and offers his hand. "The name's Jack Kelly, or Cowboy to some. Leader o' the Duane Street newsboys, at yer service. This here's Mr. Kloppman, our gracious landlord, an' that's Racetrack Higgins. Race is--"
"--the greatest gambler north o' Jersey," the Italian boy announces, stepping forward to shake your hand with a smart-aleck grin. With a furtive glance at the landlord, he lowers his voice. "Ya play any poker, kid? How 'bout faro? Blackjack? Craps? C'mon up and join a game, why don't'cha? Two bits says ya fold in the first round."
Jack rolls his eyes. "I was gonna say Race is second in command 'round here, but he don't much care for the title. Says I oughta give it to Blink or Mush an' just let him alone, since he spends half his time down at the tracks. But that's why I can trust him, see," he explains with a smirk. "I know he ain't never gonna try an' overthrow me." He claps Race on the shoulder.
Racetrack arches an eyebrow at his friend. "Ain'chu got a big squabble to settle, Jack? Somethin' 'bout Boots an' Snipeshooter an' a prize marble? Better get upstairs 'fore things turn violent."
Jack sighs at the reminder. "Yeah, yeah...you just wanna tell the new kid all the most unflatterin' stories about me. Knock yerself out, Race." He winks at you. "See ya later, kid."
Jack soon disappears around the next bend in the seemingly endless wooden staircase, and Racetrack turns back to you with a smile. "Now, before ya decides whether ya wanna stay, I better fill ya in on the basics about this here lodgin' house."