Clancy Gang: A Short Story

Willie stood in the shadow of the post office on Seventh Street, and surveyed the dark streets. He shivered in the damp March air, his thin coat offering little protection from the windblown rain. His eyes strained to make out any figures in the nearby alley or strolling down the wooden sidewalks. The last thing he wanted was to run into the Clancy Gang. They owned this area.

When he was sure the street was clear, Willie advanced a block, stopping in a doorway to survey the street again. Water dripped from his cap and pooled in his shoes, through the holes in the soles stuffed with newspaper. He moved up Seventh Street, cautious as only a boy who’s grown up on the streets can be.

At twelve, Willie was short and slight with light brown hair and freckles on his nose. He was no fighter, and no challenge to the juvenile gangs that roamed Washington, D.C. in 1864. Willie depended on his keen senses and

"I, er, nothing,” said Willie.

“Well, go do nothing somewhere else,” said the groomsman, releasing him.

Willie didn’t wait for any more advice, and fled down the alley. Turning left, then right, he reached a main thoroughfare where his leather shoes slapped the wooden sidewalk. As he slowed, relieved at his escape, an arm suddenly shot out from behind a garden gate and grasped him by the neck.

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” cackled the voice of Jimmy Clancy, as the rest of his gang gathered round. He shoved Willie to one of his henchman on the other side of the circle. “What do you think this mite’s doing out so late at night? Do you think his mama’s knowing he’s out and about, Tommy?’’ he inquired of the bigger boy now holding Willie by both arms.

“I think maybe he’s been taking somewhat that might be ours,” answered Tommy, nodding to a red-headed boy. The boy advanced and went through Willie’s pockets, holding up the bit of broken chain with a