"Spitfire?" They were on a lunch break, making the most of two apples that Clown had considerately not seen Spitfire filch off a fruit vendor's stand. "I'm prying and I know it, but when was the last time you saw Spot that angry? Someone said something about Jack standing for you to him and I wondered-"

"Yeah, it was at me." Porter interrupted. "It ain't somet'in I like tawkin' 'bout, so if ya really wanna know, ast one a da odders, aw right? Dutchy, maybe. He knows most a it, an' he'll be fair. Tell 'im 's fine wit me, I jist don't wanna tawk about it. Heah." she polished off her apple down to the core, and spit out the seeds. "Ya been performin' most a da mornin', let's see ya sell a pape."

Clown had already looked through the articles and picked her first attempt. "EXTRA! EXTRA!" she called. "MAYOR'S DAUGHTER DANCING IN BAR! FAMILY REFUSES COMMENT!" Inspired, she added. "SHOCKING PICTURES!" She was mobbed by men, young and old who wanted to see these 'shocking pictures'.

When she had a chance to catch her breath, she looked over at Spitfire proudly. The other girl clapped silently. "Couldn't a done betta meself. Society pages?" she guessed.

Her friend nodded. "There was a ball last night."

"Well, ya's coitainly a fast loiner."

Clown shrugged. "Have you ever seen a circus poster?" When Spitfire nodded, she added. "Okay, have you ever been to a circus?"

"Naw, hoid about 'em, though."

"Well, let's just say, poster makers aren't too different from headline writers." Clown laughed.

Since they'd been distracted by the fight that morning, the girls did their bruise check when everyone returned to the lodging house in the afternoon. Pie Eater, sporting a large bump on his forehead, was their first victim. "How ya feelin', Pie?" Pen put an arm around his shoulders and smiled at him wickedly.

"Aw, ya ain't gonna soak a guy dat's been woikin' all day, is ya?" Pie Eater grinned winningly.

Pen looked over at Truth, Nickel and Clouds who had cornered Specs, Bumlets, and Kid Blink. "Whaddaya say goils?"

"I dunno, depends how sorry dey is." Truth answered. The unofficial leader of Manhattan's girls whistled. "Clown, Pounce, Fly, Porter, Pips, Grins - how'd youse like da royal treatment fer da next week or so?"

"Sounds fine wit me." Spitfire replied.

Firefly smiled. "I could go fer a poisonal maid fer awhile."

"Great!" Pips had no high opinion of boys anyway. "But if any a dem touches me rubber collection, I'll soak 'em!"

The older newsies, male and female laughed at this.

"C'mon, we din't mean anyt'in!" Blink protested. "An' we'se real sorry!" The boys turned their most contrite faces on their captors.

"Den ya can show it by keepin' da bunkroom neat fer us." Truth pronounced sentence and the four exchanged rueful glances. "Startin' now."

"Aw, c'mon! Jack-!"

"It's yer own faults." came a voice from the washroom.. It was the final word on the subject, since none of the defendants were foolish enough to take the matter to Kloppman.

"Get ta woik den." Nickel shooed them to the other room.

"I don't get to soak them?" Clown mock-pouted. This threat, serious or not, from a fighter of Spot Conlon's caliber was enough to hurry the four on their way with Grins and Pips close behind.

"We'se guardin' ya." Grins explained. The bunkroom filled with laughter.

"Pounce," Clown asked over a game of cards, her back turned very obviously on the Brooklyn leader who had just come back from selling and was ignoring her just as obviously.

"Hmm?"

"What was it you were going to say when Pen stopped you last night?"

"What? Oh!" Pounce grinned slowly. "Well, me sista'll kill me if she knows I toldja dis, but I was jist gonna mention da reason she's always so quick ta defend Cowboy."

Clown looked over her shoulder at where Pen was scribbling furiously in her book. "She likes Jack?"

Pounce nodded. "But he's goin' wit Davey's sista. An' dey's really in love. I mean, love as in Race is takin' bets on who gets hitched foist - Jack an' Sarah or Crutchy an' Spitfire."

"What other kind of love is there?" Clown asked in surprise.

Pounce was amused. "Where ya been all ya life? Oh, dere's love like Blink who's friends wit all his goils, even afta dey breaks up. An' dere's Bumlets an' Clouds who went out a coupla yeahs ago an' broke up. Dey still likes each odder no matta what dey says. An' den a coise dere's Spot-"

"Spot?" Clown raised her eyebrows at the other girl's tone and told herself that she was asking purely out of curiousity and not because the Brooklyn newsie's love-life interested her in the least. "Did I hear me name?" Spot stood, smirking, at her elbow. If he hadn't looked so smug she would have been embarrassed. As it was, she was just angry.

She stood up. "Actually, we were trying to figure out how to get this stain out of the floor." She looked him up and down and smiled. "Then again, maybe we were talking about you."

Pounce put her head in her hands.

"Can't youse two spend five minutes in each odder's presence witout fightin'?" Pounce asked after yet another fight had been averted and she and Clown who were quickly becoming best friends sat in the girls' bunkroom, finishing their card game as far away from Spot as possible.

"If his high and mightiness dropped the attitude, we might." Clown replied. Pounce couldn't help thinking that her friend's attitude could be at least as bad as Spot's. "What were we talking about?"

Pounce shook her head and tried to remember, then grinned. "Oh, Spot an' da goils! Dere is a ladies man! He's got a new one ev'y week practically. Dere's always someone ready ta take da las' one's place." "Really? I wouldn't have thought he was that popular. Speaking of which, what on earth does Firefly see in him?"

"Odder den da fact dat he's prob'ly da handsomest boy in New Yawk?" Pounce asked with amusement. "He can be a real charmer when he wants." Clown laughed. "I'se serious! Youse two wasn't introduced da best way, ya gotta admit. He's really nice, sometimes - not dat I'd get in da way a dat tempa! But I went out wit 'im once an' no hard feelin's now which is a lot ta say." She grinned ruefully. "Jist as happy we broke up, though. Spot ain't da steadiest guy in da woild. An' he's nice an' all, nevah treated anyone bad, 'cept dat he don't seem ta care dat much, ya know? Dey ain't even friends like wit Blink. He's wit 'em for a while, gets a few kisses - sometimes more outta dem an' den dey break up. An' ev'yboddy t'inks dey's gonna be dif'rent. Maybe dis one is - I din't tell ya, did I?" She leaned in, excited to share the news. "Spot's got a new goil - Lynn. Truth an' me overhoid."

"Aw right, Frankie, what's up?" Jack sighed. He was about to leave for a date with Sarah, but when Spitfire called him by his real name in that tone of voice it meant he wasn't getting rid of her easily.

"Whaddaya mean?" he asked, retying his bandana and checking his hair in the mirror.

"He's me cousin, Jack. Why's Spot so upset?" He turned to looked at her and saw she was really worried.

He glanced around to make sure no one else was listening. "One a his boys was killed yestidy an' he's blamin' hisself."

She gasped, and he remembered belatedly that she'd spent two months as a Brooklyn newsie and regreted being so blunt. Knowing how she got on with the younger kids, Gardner was probably one of her friends. "Who?" Not Legs not Pickles not Owl not Owl please, God, not Owl, not Splitz- Her mind babbled for several seconds.

Jack didn't want to tell her. "Ya know a kid named Gardner?"

"He's eight!" She whispered after several seconds. "Is - was - oh, God-" Oh,God! No! Why? She stared at him dumbly, grieving.

"I know." He hugged her for a moment, then went to get Crutchy and Truth before keeping his date with the person who could best comfort him.

"Porter?" Crutchy put his arm around his girl's shoulders.

It was a relief to cry. "One a me friends - in Brooklyn-"

"Jack told us." Truth said. "Ya aw right?"

"It's jist. He was such a liddle kid. I know - it happens all da time in dis city, but dat don't make it right, do it?"

"Naw, it don't. Nevah will."

Spot sought his bed early that night. David had gone home. Jack had a date. And he just didn't feel up to one of Truth's stories or Race's poker games. He couldn't get Karl's face out of his head. Eight yeahs old. Was I dat young at eight yeahs old? Gardner had been one of the rare innocents of New York City. Most newsies had had three times that many years' worth of heartache and growing up at that age than their years told. Spot certainly had . . .