Still running, she slammed into someone, knocking them both off their feet. "Sorry!" she said, and started to keep going.

"Hold it!" he said. "Where da t'ink yer goin'?" He looked about her age, and (amazingly!) her height. At a towering five foot and one-half inches, Lacey found herself looking up to people frequently, but this boy was reasonably close to eye level. He had blue eyes, she noticed, blue eyes that were glaring at her.

She glared back. "What business is it of yours? I thought this was a free country!"

"It's me business when ya's in me territory, like ya is now." he retorted.

"Your territory, huh?" Lacey hated people who acted tough. "Well, hot shot, I don't see your name on it, and unless your the mayor, I don't expect to anytime soon. Now, goodbye!" She pushed past him and continued on.

Spot had very rarely had someone turn their back on him, particularly a pretty girl. It was a thought Lacey would have killed him for had she known about it, so he was lucky mind reading was not among her talents. He grabbed her arm to stop her. That was when the fight started.

Lacey had grown up with four older brothers and helped set up and pull down the big top every time the circus changed location. She had a bad temper and was strong enough to back it up. Spot had been running wild on the streets of New York since he was six and living on them permanently since he was ten. He'd been the leader of Brooklyn for three years, against all challengers, and had a temper to match Lacey's. Needless to say, what followed was not pretty.

Both were panting half an hour later, neither had gained much of an advantage and neither had finished what they had been doing when they ran into each other. A crowd had gathered, Brooklyn newsies ready to jump in at any time if it looked like their leader needed them.. . Ducking a punch, Lacey rolled and came up on the boy's other side. One advantage of being short. She thought she heard a whistle blow somewhere nearby. She would have ignored it, but the others did not-including the boy she was fighting with.

"Cheese it! It's da bulls!" Someone yelled. There was a mad scramble to get away. Lacey's opponent said a word not meant for the ears of ladies or small children and stopped fighting imediately, allowing Lacey's fist to catch him in the jaw - hard.

"D-n it! What was dat for?" Lacey, bewildered, stopped fighting also, but just stood there. "Come on!" he grabbed her arm, getting yet another bruise when she tried to pull away, and half-dragged her down an alleyway.

She was furious. "What are you-?"

He glared at her. "Put a lid on it, will ya? Ya want da bulls ta catch ya?" He rubbed his jaw. "I don't why I bodder!"

Still having absolutely no idea what he was talking about, Lacey stormed out of the alley, then backed up quickly when she saw several policemen searching the street. When she turned around the boy gave her a sardonic smirk. "Bulls. Police." He said as if to a small child. She glared at him. "An' if ya don't wanna 'em findin' ya, might I suggest gettin' rid a dat clownsuit?"

She caught him in the stomach this time, just a hair too fast for him to block, and left the alley through the back way.

"EXTRY! EXTRY! FIRE AT DA STATUE A LIBERTY CLAIMS HUNDREDS A LIVES! EXTRY! EXTRY! READ ALL ABOUT IT!" Spitfire smiled an tipped her hat to a man, giving him a paper.

"Always knew that place was a hazard . . ." she heard him saying to friend as he walked away. She didn't stop to worry what he'd do when he read the story about a lantern dropped on an ant hill near New York's pride and joy. That was why she never gave out page numbers. She did worry about her partner. After a recent meeting with the Delancey brothers, Crutchy had been forbidden to leave the Lodging House for a month and was chafing at the restrictions.

Porter saw a crowd gathering some 100 ft away, and decided to take advantage of it. Still calling out headlines, she squeezed in among the people. In the center of the crowd was a tiny brunette (well, taller than Truth, but not by much) in a brightly colored jumpsuit, doing flips. She was barefoot - Porter guessed the floppy yellow shoes nearby weren't conducive to acrobatics - and her brown hair was pulled up in a bun. About ten cents lay in the red hat nearby, and more coins were being thrown into it.

Never one to pass up an opportunity, Porter resumed her cries, selling the rest of her papes in record time. After a half an hour, the girl was looking tired and the people began moving away. Spitfire walked over, and started to speak.

Not again. Lacey thought, going on the defensive. I'm not leaving this time. She glared at the girl who was coming towards her. "What do you want?" she asked crossing her arms.

The girl held up her hands in self defense. "Nuttin'! I was jist gonna t'ank ya. Ya helped me out taday." She was black with short, dark brown hair, and lighter brown eyes.

Lacey was taken aback. The girl actually seemed a little frightened of her, not at all like the boy she'd met in Brooklyn. "Your welcome - oh, don't look so nervous! I thought you going to try to kick me out like the last person I met."

The girl looked at her warily for a few seconds more, then grinned. "I get da feelin' 'tried' is da important woid in dat sentence."

"I don't like show offs." Lacey said smugly. "And 'territory' is not a word in my vocabulary."

"It should be." Her new friend said seriously. "In New Yawk if ya wanna live more den a few days, ya should know where ya can an' can't go."

"I can take care of myself." she retorted with a slight edge to her voice.

"Ya prob'ly can. An' I'd bet on ya in a fight against most people I know, but not against five or ten. We'se pretty loyal ta each odder."

"We?"

"We. When ya friend's is all ya got . . . An' dat ain't a threat. I don't threaten. I'se jist lettin' ya know. Though," she added grinning. "I don't t'ink ya'll have any trouble wit da newsies. Wit dat act, yer a newsie's best friend!"

Comprehension dawned. "Is that what you wanted to thank me for?"

"Shoa. I'se got a dolla' in me pocket an' it's on'y aroun' seven. I don't hafta worry 'bout bein' home before sunset." Since Lacey knew very well that some people worked on to midnight on a regular basis, she wondered what sunset had to do with anything. "Youse gave me da crowd ta sell ta."

"Does that pay well?" Lacey asked, a little unsure how the question would be taken. The girl had admitted to being territorial.

"Well enough. Fifty cent profit if ya's real good. Fifteen, 25 if ya's average. Hey, I ain't even told ya me name yet!" She spat in her hand and held it out. "Porter. Dey usually calls me Spitfire, though."

Lacey could not see this slightly shy girl earning such a nickname, but she took Porter's word for it. She didn't really want to shake the girl's hand after it had been spit on, but she held out her hand anyway. Porter must have seen her expression because she wiped her hand on her pants before shaking. "Greenie." she said tolerantly. "So what's yer label?"

Lacey looked down at her outfit and grinned. "Call me Clown."

"So, Clown." Spitfire started walking. "I take it ya wanna join?" 'Clown' nodded. "Den I'll take ya ta da lodgin' house - unless ya gots some odder place ta sleep tanight?"

"Sounds fine to me. Better than the park bench I was planning on." Clown smiled.

"Aw right, yer best bet is ta pair up wit somebody an' do dat act part a da time while dey sells. I'll show ya da ropes, but I can't take ya poimanently-"

"Why not? You have a problem with me?" Clown asked a little angrily.

"Coise not!" Spitfire looked at her in amusement. "Ya's woise den me wit dat tempa!" Again that reference to a bad temper when all she showed was good humor. Lacey shook her head. "As a matta a fact, I gots a partner aw ready, dat's all. He was soaked pretty bad a few weeks ago, an' ain't been able ta sell. . ." Her eyes clouded, then she shook herself out of it. "Once da month's out, though, dere won't be no keepin' him off da street."

"Sorry, it's just that boy in Brooklyn-"

"Brooklyn!" Porter's interest was caught. "Ya was fightin' ovah territory in Brooklyn? God, goil, ya must be good! Who was it? I might know 'em."

"Just some hotshot." Clown tried to remember anyway. The first thing that came to mind was - "Blue eyes. He had blue eyes. And he wasn't very tall. Taller than me." She admitted, grinning. "Probably even taller than you, but a lot shorter than some of the others I saw."

"Like me." Spitfire said agreeably. "Short side a medium."

"He had a slingshot." she offered, still thinking.

"Brooklyn an' a newsie, den. Spot won't let anyone go witout one." Spitfire interrupted. "I lost mine in da Refuge, though. Oughta t'ink about makin' a new one. Ya was sayin'?"

"He was handsome." Clown had to admit. "Attitude left something to be desired, but he was handsome. He wore a hat like yours, a cane, pink suspenders-"

"Pink suspenders!" To Clown's utter bewilderment, Spitfire collapsed on the ground and began laughing. "Pink suspenders! Oh, God! Oh, God!"

"It isn't that funny." Clown found herself defending the boy.

"An' she don't even know what she done! Oh, my -" Porter was unable to say anything through the laughter for several minutes.

"What? What did I do?"

Spitfire pulled herself to her feet. "Dere ain't but one boy in Brooklyn - heck, dere ain't but one boy in New Yawk dat could go aroun' wearin' pink suspenders an' get away wit it! 'Sides da cane!" She stopped to laugh again. "Youse on'y soaked Spot Conlon! Don't ya realize-?"

"Who is Spot Conlon?" Clown asked.

"So uninformed." Spitfire shook her head. She'd finished laughing - mostly. "Spot Conlon is da leadah a da Brooklyn newsies. Da cane, da key - he had a key aroun' his neck, too, right? - dey's his trademarks. Da suspenders, well we went on strike durin' da summer, an' da papes make a big deal 'bout it. He was mad, too!" She smiled fondly. "Spot's da toughest, smartest, best fighta in New Yawk. 'Sides which, he knows jist 'bout ev'yt'in dat happens in dis city. An' ya soaked 'im!" She paused, laughing once more. "Ya din't hoit 'im, did ya? - I can't believe I'se astin' dat!" But she looked genuinely concerned.

"He shouldn't be too hurt." Clown answered. "I only hit him a couple of times. He didn't seem so tough to me."

Spitfire shook her head again. "Well, anyways, we's heah." She stopped in front of an open doorway, and Clown looked up at the sign.

Newsboys Lodging House, hmm. He wouldn't expect to find me here, anyway.

"Clown, ya comin'?" Spitfire, was halfway through the door already. "Greenie, Kloppman." she said, slapping two coins down on a desk in front of an old man. She opened a large, brown book and wrote something down. "Ya gots a last name?" she asked over her shoulder. "Ya don't really needs one, but it don't hoit. Kloppman nevah shows da book ta anyone."

"If I don't need one I don't have one."

"Dat's fine. Whedda I gots one or not usually depends on who I'se tawkin' to."

At that moment, three people entered. "Spitfire! Back so soon?" a tall boy with a cowboy hat exclaimed. A younger boy with an identical hat kept close to his side, and a curly-haired boy who looked about fifteen joined him.

"It's a gift." Porter retorted. "Clown, meet our esteemed leader-" The sarcasm in her voice was heavy.

"Can it, Porter." Teasing appeared to be an old game with them.

"Cowboy, dis is Clown, da new goil."

The curly haired boy surveyed Lacey's outfit and opened his mouth. In a second, she was glaring up at him from the vicinity of his chest. "Say it, and you'll regret it."

"Brought us a fiery one, haven't you, Spitfire?" he commented over Clown's head.

"Ya don't know da half a it." Spitfire answered.

He stepped back and held out a hand as a peace offering. "David Jacobs a.k.a. the Walking Mouth. For future reference, call me that, and you'll regret it."

"But if you didn't say it, someone else would." Clown grinned. She never stayed angry long.

David nodded, and somehow they all began moving upstairs. "Someone named Jack Kelly, if he didn't know what was good for him and if he still wanted to see my sister-"

The boy Porter had called Cowboy yanked off David's hat and threw it up the stairs at that. David ran after it, pulling off his friend's at the same time. They seemed very close. The youngest boy joined in the game. "Dat's Les." Spitfire said. "Davey's brudda. T'inks Jack hung da moon, but most a da liddle guys do." She ran up the rest of the way, turning right into a room filled with bunkbeds. To the left was an identical room. It was empty, but the other held (Besides Les, David, Cowboy/Jack, Clown and Spitfire.) a tall, curly-haired boy reading a book by the window. A crutch leaned against the wall beside him.

"Heya." Porter leaned over his shoulder and smiled when he turned his head in surprise.

"Heya, Porter. What'cha doin' back so soon?" he asked, putting a bookmark in the book, but not bothering to close it.

"I missed ya. How's ya leg?"

"Been betta, been woise. How ya been, out settin' records?" They didn't touch and they didn't say anything more than that, but Clown got the feeling that interrupting them would be breaking some spell.

Spitfire broke it first, she turned to Clown, motioning her over. "Liddle bit a luck named Clown. Looks like I ain't da rookie anymore. Meet me partner, Crutchy."

"Ya wasn't a rookie when ya got heah!" A blond-haired wisp, shorter even than Clown laughed aloud, dragging another, taller girl into the room. "Clown, ya said? Please ta meet'cha." She spit in her hand as Porter had.

Spitfire grinned. "She don't spit, yet. Clown, dis is Truth - called dat cause she don't tell it -" Truth grinned. "Pounce, Snoddy, an' Pie Eater." She nodded to a pair of boys that had just entered. Faces and names began coming in a flood then, as more and more newsies finished selling and found their way home. Clown was introduced to each, and usually told a little about them. The bunkroom filled with chatter.

"Heya, Crutchy, how ya doin'?"

"Heya, Skittery. I'se fine. I'd'a been outta heah a week ago if Kloppman'd let me."

". . . cuz her head's always up in da clouds."

"Dutchy, where's da two bits ya owe me?"

"Jist a second, Fly."

"Da one wit da eye-patch . . ."

"Itey how's ya sista?"

"I'se right ovah heah, Specs, ast me."

"Dey's twins . . ."

"Handsome ain't da woid!"

"An' he ast ya ta dinna'?"

"So dis is da greenie."

"Dere's gotta be a law against it bein' dis hot in October!"

". . . cuz she's always writin'. . ."

"Yer two days ahead, Blink. It's still Septemba."

"Hair like gold, an' down ta heah! Real high class, though. Ain't like she'll evah look at me twice."

"Specs an' Dutchy got da glasses. Dutchy's da blond."

"Anybody know what's up wit Snyda's trial?"

"Three cheers fer da goil dat made it possible!"

"Aw, shut up ya bums!"

"Who's fer Black Jack? I got a winnin' hoss dat's boinin' a hole in me pocket."

"Dere's a pit'cha!"

"Shut yer filthy mouth, Pie!"

Somehow, the clamor settled into a card game. Clown, familiar with the game from long nights on the road between shows, joined willingly. The game was going fine until another newie arrived. Boots saw him first and went over to talk. "Heya! How's it rollin'?"

Jack looked up. "Poifect timin'! We gots a new one taday. Or did ya know dat awready? Clown-" Lacey stood up to be introduced and met the eyes of Spot Conlon.

"What are youse doin' heah?" Spot asked angrily. That girl had walked into his life on a very bad day, proceded to make it worse, and now she was refusing to leave.

"Spot." Jack was at his elbow.

"Spot-" Porter echoed him from across the room

Clown was furious. "Living here as if it's any business of yours." She had her fists up and was ready for a fight. Everyone knew that Spot didn't usually hit girls, but there was a certain look in his eyes right now.

"I t'ink I answered dat question two hours ago."

"Spot."

"Clown, back down on dis one. It ain't woith it."

"Non-satisfactory answer. I told you that two hours ago."

"Seven ta one Spot soaks her." said Race, half out of habit.

"Ya really t'ink he's gonna fight her?"

"Sorry, Race. I'd put my money on Clown she's done it before." Spitfire stalked across the room. "Spot-"

"Besides, I do believe this is Manhattan, not Brooklyn."

"Spot-"

"All da same ta me."

"Evan Michael-"

As soon as she got to his middle name, Spot turned and glared. Clown turned also to see Spitfire - now fully living up to the name - eyes flashing, mouth a thin line, glaring at them both.

"Dis betta be good, Spitfire." Spot warned. She could make him listen, but she couldn't calm him down.

"Foist a all, Clown's right, Spot, dis is Manhattan, not Brooklyn. She ain't a leadah, but as a dis evenin' it's coitainly more her territory den it is yers. Second, Clown, Spot ranks ya an' 'sides dat, if ya go pickin' a fight wit ev'ybody ya meet, soona or latah ya gonna get soaked, an' it'll be ya own fault. Thoid, Spot ya knows very well, an' Clown ya betta heah, dat fightin' in da lodgin' house could get da rest a us kicked out. An' if dat happens, ya betta become best friends real fast, 'cuz ya won't have da rest a us. Now, youse can declare a truce right now, or leave da rest a us alone ta fight. It'll be lights out by da time ya's done, so don't expect anyone ta come lookin' fer ya."

"Beautiful speech." smirked Spot, but it had taken his arrogance down a peg or two at least. Clown was surprised he took it. There was more between those two than having once worked together. The thought gave her a strange feeling - which is definately not jealousy. she told herself firmly. "Truce." he said grudgingly. "Clown, huh?" He held out his hand.

Only slightly mollified, Clown nodded stiffly. He smirked. "Suits ya."

Anger, along with that definately-not-jealousy feeling flared up. Slugging him was unfortunately out of the question, so she settled for verbal battle. "I guess another fight isn't worth my time." She shook, turned, then called over her shoulder. "Oh, how's your jaw feeling?"

It wasn't a difficult reference for the others to figure out. No one commented, and no one, but no one laughed at Spot Conlon, but the room was dead silent. "Jack, Mouth," said Spot in a strangled voice. "Downstairs, now."

His two best friends exchanged looks and followed him to Kloppman's office.

"Clown we ain't got ya settled in, yet." Truth said quickly. She led the girls, except Porter who had disappeared, out of the room also.