Warning: You will have to pay very close attention, because this is written in Newsies language.

I walks through the city. My leg hurt, but I ignore the pain. It isn't like I can pay a doctor or something. Very heavily leaning on my crutch, I walks further. A newspaperboy sell papes. I could buy one if I have money. Money. If I had money I can pay a doctor. But how can I get money?
'Hey! You! The one with the crutch! Crutchie!' a boy scream. I doesn't react. He's not worth.
The boy keeps screaming: 'How does it feel? Ya don't have to do anything, people just trow money at yow, because yer so pathetic!'
HA! If only they do, I wouldn't be Crutchie for long anymore.
'Well, lemme tell ya, your nothing! That crutch doesn't hurt you! Yer fake! The crutch's fake! Everything's fake!'
I take a deep breath. The kid shouldn't are hurting me, but he does. Even I is not able to not be humiliated when these kids follow me everywhere, and scream all these lies at me. They don't know how it is to be like me, to live on the street, with the constant pain of a crutch, without any friends or family. I can't care for myself. I can't steal my bread, because I can't run away. I can't buy my bread either, because I doesn't have money. My only surviving chance are the few people who sometimes buys me something, or gives me what money.
'Yo! Crutchie! Are you listening!' The little boy took my attention again. 'I don't wanna see you here again! I don't want fake people in me city!' The boy grabs my crutch, and ran away. I scream when the only thing making the pain a little better suddenly disappears.
'Come get it back then!' the boy shouted. I cry of pure powerlessness.
'Enough!' I suddenly hear from behind me. The newspaperboy I saw earlier today grabs my crutch, and give it back to me. I smiles thankfully, not being able to say a word. The newspaperboy turn to the boy, who tries to sneak away.
'You!' the newspaperboy stops him, 'I'm not done with you yet! Can't ya see that ya hurt this boy? This isn't your city. Everyone has rights to live, understand?'
'Yes Jack,' the boy says obediently.
'Good! Now go.' The newspaperboy (Jack?) turns to me and smile: 'You okay?'
I nod: 'Thank you.'
The boy shrug: 'It's nothing. We streetboys need to do that for each other. I'm Jack. And you are?'
Good question. I don't know. 'They call me Crutchie,' I said.
'Well, then I'll call you Crutchie too!' Jack said. When he says it, the nickname suddenly sound good.
'So, Crutchie, have you got a home?'
I shook my head.
'A job?'
I shook my head again.
'Well, then you have now. Welcome to the Newsies. We sell the papes and we's family.'
I smile. And I know, for the first time, I have found a friend.