Spot sat up in bed out of a sound sleep as the echoes of an earsplitting shriek faded away. Manhattan was not conducive to much sleep these days. Groans came from the other beds. He heard Jack curse, stumble out of bed and bang his way through the room. The door opened as he reached it. "It's aw right," came Pen's hushed voice.

"What happened?"

"Nightmares, I guess. It's Clown."

"She aw right?"

"Yeah, I got 'er calmed down."

"Ya betta now?"

Clown glared at the Brooklyn leader - why did that response seem familiar? "What's that supposed to mean?"

Spot's lips tightened. "It's a simple question. Ya any betta den ya was las' night?"

Clown blinked and glanced at the sky - yes, the sun was in its proper place. No earthquakes had shaken the ground yet, either. A civil word - a concerned word from the lips of Spot Conlon? Impossible. He was much more likely talking about her - as Joseph would have called it - shrewish behavior the night before. She smiled. "Much. Slapping you was immensely relieving."

He stiffened, but before he could retort, Spitfire broke in hurriedly. "Spot, ya gots any shooters?" She flinched when he turned to glare at her, but still waited for an answer.

"Shoa." He dug a couple of marbles out of his pocket, handed them to his cousin and walked away.

"T'anks." Spitfire aimed a few experimental times, but didn't actually shoot anything.

"Can ya really use dat t'ing, Porter?" Race asked doubtfully.

"Oh, jist cuz I don't fight, ya assume I can't do anyt'in else?" Spitfire retorted in mock anger.

"Spitfire," Pie Eater said with the air of one delivering a painful truth, "if ev'yt'in was measured by yer fightin' ability-"

"Hey, she can do odder t'ings very well." Crutchy defended, putting an arm around her. He had been allowed to accompany the others to the distribution center on the condition that he return to the lodging house afterward.

Snoddy clapped a hand over his best friend's mouth before Pie inserted his foot. "Dat was jist askin' fer it, though!" Pie Eater complained when the hand was removed.

Jack said it for him. "You'd know, huh, Crutchy?"

Porter couldn't seem to decide whether to glare at him or sink into the ground in embarrassment. "Ya both gots really sick minds, ya know dat?" she muttered to the ground.

"So let's see ya shoot it." Pounce changed the subject.

Spitfire glanced around speculatively. "Pick a target," she said with rare confidence. Clown had a feeling most of the newsies were going to be surprised. She glanced at Spot, wondering if he would be among the number. He didn't seem to be paying attention. As she watched him, he suddenly glanced up and looked straight at her. A corner of his mouth turned up. She glared back, and touched Spitfire's arm to stop her.

"Just a minute!" She turned to Race. "Half a dollar says she makes it."

He gave a surprised grin. "Bet."

"Aw, Clown, yer in fer it." Swifty shook his head, grinning. "Ya jist don't bet Race. It's askin' fer trouble."

The gambler swatted at him. "Yer jist mad cuz ya din't take me tip on Hot Box las' week."

"Dat was a one in a million chance! How's I s'posed ta know it'd win?"

Racetrack lit his cigar, then shook out the match and stepped on it. "I toldja, din't I?"

"Point?" Blink put in archly.

"Aw, shaddup! So anybody else bettin'?" Race looked around.

"I'll take it." Snaps gave Spitfire a smile. "Two bits."

Jack came in on Clown's side - "I'se loined betta den ta bet against Porter!" he explained to laughter - and Snipeshooter and Blink on Race's.

"So what's da target?" Spitfire repeated, grinning.

Race opened his mouth, but Clown forestalled him. "Someone that's not betting."

"I'll choose," Dutchy said. He gave Spitfire a measuring look. "Dat hole ovah da door in da old fire house." He gestured down the street. "From heah."

"Grins an' me'll judge," Pips said, running ahead with her best friend close behind her.

"Wait fer me!" Slider followed.

Clown had to squint to see the hole. Race beat her to the protest however. "Hey, I wouldn't picked somet'in dat hard!"

Spitfire gave a smirk that reminded Clown eerily of her cousin, aimed with less care than Clown expected, and let go.

"She got it!" came Pips' shout a few seconds later. While she and Slider argued for a moment, Grins retrieved the marble and brought it back to Porter, wide-eyed.

"Toldja! Toldja!" Jack was triumphant. Porter received several congratulatory slaps on the back, a smile from Crutchy, and a nod from Spot.

"Not bad!" Race exclaimed. "Almost woith losin'! Clown, heah's yer fifty." he said over his shoulder.

"Hey, what about me?" Jack exclaimed.

"Take me marker."

"She gets paid, an' I don't?"

"Youse ain't as good a fighta as she is," Race retorted. Everyone laughed at Jack's chagrined face.

"Ya knew she was gonna do dat!" Race accused Spot, who smirked. "Nobody warns me."

"Thoid best in Brooklyn," Spitfire said smugly, tucking the slingshot into the back of her pants.

"And who would be first?" Clown asked, thinking she knew.

She nodded at her cousin as expected. "Pea Shooter's a close second."

"He'd do great in the circus," Clown commented. "Eighth Wonder of the World! No, we have not yet found a thing he doesn't excel at. But we're looking! We're looking!"

Porter shook her head.

"Whaddaya got against me cousin, anyways?" Spitfire asked, as the two headed for Central Park, hawking the occasional headline as they went.

"He's too perfect," Lacey replied glibly. "It irritates me." In reality, though, Clown was feeling a little guilty. She'd had no real reason to assume Spot was trying to pick a fight earlier that morning. He could have been referring to her nightmares of the night before. The more she thought about it, the more she felt that - in that instance, at least - she'd deliberately misjudged him. She hated being in the wrong - particularly when someone as cocky as Spot Conlon was in the right.

"Well," Spitfire began. She never finished the sentence. "Cheese it!" An ear-piercing whistle answered any questions Clown might have asked. Porter swore. "I t'ought dey'd - Dis way! - I t'ought dey'd given up on me!" Clown found herself hard-pressed to keep up with the girl. They dodged wagons, climbed fences, and ducked down side streets until Clown was certain, the police could not have followed them. Another whistle proved her wrong. The neighborhood changed around them as they ran. Slums and street vendors gave way to ornate mansions and elegant coaches. It occured to Clown that the sparsely peopled streets of upper Manhattan was not the best hiding place. Just then, they found themselves heading down a street straight into the arms of a dozen more officers.

No. No. Clown panicked. I can't go back. She felt a yank on her sleeve, and swung out, poised to bolt.

Spitfire ducked hastily. "Down heah," she hissed, squeezing down through a basement window as she said it. "Dat was int'restin'," Spitfire said dryly, when she'd closed the window behind them. Her voice shook slightly.

"Quite," Clown replied ironically, sitting down gingerly, but finding nothing worse than dirt on the floor of the cellar.

"But dey ain't been dat anxious ta catch me," Spitfire muttered, almost to herself. "Not dat dey'd send out half a dozen cops. Not since Snyda' . . ." Clown heard her rise and move away.

"Wait for me," she said hastily.

"I ain't goin' nowheres," Spitfire replied. "Jist ta see - so dat's it!"

"What?" Clown followed the voice and saw her friend's head silhouetted against another window. What light filtered through the dirt had a slightly orange tint.

"Headlines," Porter sighed.

"What are you talking about?" Patience was not a virtue Clown possessed in any large measure.

The head vanished, and Spitfire was next to her. "Climb up an' see."

Feeling ahead of her, Clown found that enough boxes were stacked next to the wall for her to get a view out of the window. Between a great many soot-stained skirts and blue and red-trousered legs, she saw the sign of 'Madine's Finishing School for Girls' go up in flames. "Oh."

Clown sympathized with the girls. She understood Spitfire's comment. They'll be our next headline, she thought. And one of the servants will try to salvage anything that hasn't gone up in smoke and turn up at a place like the lodging house in a few days - if she's got any money to pay rent with. She sighed and sat down, unwilling to watch. Porter took her place, and interrupted several minutes of simliar thoughts with a shout.

"Spot?" Before Clown could so much as turn, Spitfire had climbed out the window and was threading her way carefully toward the building.

Lacey had nothing to do but follow, but she stayed close to the wall, keeping a healthy distance between herself and any blue uniforms. Spot was indeed on the scene. A terror-stricken girl clung to his neck as he made his way down a burning wall. When he finally jumped to the ground and turned, Clown almost thought she could see that infuriating smirk over the girl's blond head. To the rescue! she thought sarcastically, seeing the girl's adoring face fixed on the Brooklyn leader. A small part of her wondered at herself. She wasn't usually that cynical.

Spitfire reached her cousin, then. She caught his attention and gestured angrily. Spot was clearly even more angry. A nod at the policemen told Clown why. No doubt the same reason she's mad at him, Clown thought wistfully. Sam would act the same way if I went running into trouble like that. Two weeks ago, she would never have thought she'd miss her oldest brother's protectiveness, or Jimmy's teasing, but . . . Spot and Porter were still arguing, though they'd moved away from the bulls. Confident that she would have her privacy a few moments more, Clown reached into her pocket and pulled out a photograph.

Mama had insisted the children have their picture taken, but Lacey and Jimmy had been goofing off as usual. Sam looked decidedly annoyed with them. Peter was bent over laughing, and Joseph stared straight ahead, trying to ignore the antics of his youngest siblings. How Father had laughed when he saw it! Lacey's throat caught. That laughter . . .

"Clown?" Lacey looked up at Spot's voice. "Dat-"

"Oh, you know you're happy to see me." She met the cousins before they passed her, and patted Spot's cheek. "You just don't want to admit it."

Spot glared at her, taking hold of her arm and dragging both girls down the alley. "Of all da-"

"I thought you'd learned better than to do that," Clown said icily, removing his hand from her arm.

His scowl was the only sign that he'd noticed. "-idiotic-"

The argument was with Spitfire, however. "I wasn't da one-"

"Children, let's be nice." Taking a perverse pleasure in being the one to break up the fight for once, Clown smiled and started walking briskly. Spot abandoned the argument and took the lead. Clown bristled. True, she hadn't the least idea where they were, but he needn't assume that . . .

"Not too many," Jack cautioned as the newsies lined up to get their evening's worth of papers. "Memba, we'se got da dance tanight."

Clown was flipping through the evening's paper with very little expectation of finding anything worthwhile when she saw the story about the fire.

"In print!" She looked up to see Kid Blink grinning. "Hey, Spot, ya's a hero!"

"Wheah's dat?" Spot's eyebrows drew together.

"'Mystery Hero Saves Three from Raging Flames.'" The others crowded around the two. Clown joined them. "Dey don't got'cha name, but yer pit'chas in dere."

"An' on ev'y bull's desk, I bet," Clown heard him mutter. "Heah, let me see dat. Not a bad pit'cha, though."

"Dere won't be no livin' wit 'im afta dis!" Jack exclaimed in horror. "Put some ice on da swelled head a yers, huh?"

"Shaddup!"

"'I was shoa I was gonna die. He jist came outta nowhere,' says fifteen yeah old Leah Sherman," Race read.

"Oh, my hero!" simpered Specs, while the others laughed. Spot smacked him off-handedly.

"Leah, nice name," Race continued. "If he's readin' dis. I wish I could see him again an' t'ank him . . .'"

"If dat's her pit'cha, I wouldn't mind bein' t'anked by her," Blink said meaningfully. A yelp followed the remark. "Hey, Clouds, I din't desoive dat!"

"Yes, ya did."

"Why don't'cha bring 'er ta da dance tanight?" Pie Eater asked.

Firefly reddened and became absorbed in her paper.

"Hey, Spot, she as pretty in poison as in black an' white?" Bumlets asked, trying to get a closer look at the picture.

"Dat all you evah t'ink about?" Spot retorted. "Hey, give dat back! I'se readin' it!"

"Is she?"

"As a matta a fact, yes, she's prettier."

"Prettier den da mayor's daughta?" asked Blink.

"Prettier."

"Prettier den Medda?" asked Snoddy. There were scoffs from several of the other boys, Blink, Race and Itey foremost among them, at the impossibility of this.

"Prettier."

"Prettier den her?" Pie Eater asked reverently. All the boys came to their feet in appreciation, hats off, as they followed his gaze.

Clown rolled her eyes.

"I toldja," Clouds whispered, shaking her head tolerantly. "Twenty guys."

"Angel!" Clown thought that was Dutchy's voice. A girl in a brown, lace-trimmed dress was passing through the square. Her hair was covered by a brown hat covered in cream-colored flowers. Hats returned to heads when she'd passed, but Spot still had the last word.

"Prettier."

"Do we have ta lissen ta dis?" Pounce asked pointedly. "C'mon, we'se gotta get back early, rememba?" The newsies began to filter out of the square through the city.

Clown picked up her papers. In the bustle, she almost didn't hear when Jack nudged his best friend and asked mischievously, "Hey, Spot, she prettier den Clown?" She whirled, furious, to see the grin on Jack's face, but before she could hit him, Spot complicated matters.

With a smirk of his own, and without a split second for thought, the Brooklyn newsie replied, "Ain't no one dat pretty."

She solved the dilemma of which to hit first by utilizing both fists, turned around and stalked out of the square.

"Dat shina's gonna go real good wit yer outfit tanight, Spot," Jack snickered.

"Yeah, I'd like ta heah ya tellin' Sarah tanight 'bout da t'ree guys dat jumped ya," Spot retorted.

"Ain't no one dat pretty," his best friend mimicked.

Spot glared. "Honest compliment! Dave," He turned to the third boy, "next time I start t'inkin' about takin' dat bum's advice, hit me."

"Hey!" Jack protested. "She din't slap ya dis time, did she?"

"He's got a point." Dave, who had gotten off without injury, was laughing even harder than Jack.

Spot shook his head. "Dat goil is da most arrogant, stubborn, hot-tempered-"

"She sounds like a coitain leadah a Brooklyn," Jack commented to Dave in a whisper.

"If he hates her so much," Dave whispered back, "why didn't he leave Manhattan three days ago?" They both snickered behind their hands, drawing a suspicious glance from Spot. Jack replied with a saintly expression.

"Jacky-boy, ya wasn't born dat innocent." The problem was he didn't hate her - at least not fer more den a half hour at a time . . . Somehow, she just always seemed to bring out the worst in him.

"Hey, it's gettin' late." Jack wriggled off the hook. "Sarah'll kill me if I don't pick 'er up on time."

"Ya's blushin', ya know."

"What?" Belatedly, Clown realized what the girl had said. "I am not!"

"Jist t'ought ya should know." Spitfire shrugged. "EXTRY! EXTRY! LANDSLIDE WIPES OUT JOISEY!"

"Has anyone seen my handkerchief?" Clown asked, pulling apart her newly made bed in her search.

"Sorry. Ain't seen nothin' like dat," Pen answered, pulling on the one dress she owned.

"Ya gots a handkerchief?" joked Clouds. "Fancy, ain't we? It's a joke!" she added when Clown glared at her. "Hey, Kid!" she called into the boys' room. "Any a youse seen a handkerchief lyin' aroun'? What's it look like?" she added to Clown, turning back.

Lacey shrugged. "White - well, it used to be white. Hasn't been for a long time. There's an 'L.P.' in the corner."

"Got it." Clouds called back the description. She didn't comment on the initials. It was unspoken law on the streets that information that wasn't offered, wasn't asked for. After a few minutes, she turned back regretfully. "Sorry. None a da boys've seen it. Was it 'mportant?"

Clown shook her head. "Not really." Not as long as - Lacey, you are getting paranoid! He isn't going to find it. Of all the places in the world, he doesn't even know you're in New York! You could have hopped a train and be hundreds of miles away by now! She wasn't as worried about the handkerchief as she was about the picture anyway. And she had that with her. She stuck her hand in her pocket just to reassure herself.

"Clown, ya aw right?" Pen asked in concern. In just a few seconds, the new girl's face had paled to a color that better suited the sheets, and she seemed to be fighting for air. Clown didn't answer. "Clown?" When there was still no reply, she walked around the bed to put a hand on her friend's shoulder.

Clown jerked at the touch. She didn't hear a word of Pen's third query. She was too caught up in a vision of her father's face looking up at her over her mother's body. He. Doesn't. Know. Where. You. Are, she reminded herself, bringing her breathing back to normal.

With that bit of control regained, she was able to think rationally. It's not here. If one of the boys found it in their room, they'd recognize me in it and return it. I had it this morning because I took it out at - The fire! "Clown?" Pen's fear finally penetrated. "I'm sorry. I just - I-"

"Long as yer aw right," the older girl interrupted, forestalling any explanation. Clown was grateful; she didn't have one. "Most of us have t'ings we'd radda not tawk about," Pen added quietly to Clown's grateful expression.

"Thank you."

"Jist as long as ya don't scare me like dat again!" Pen replied. "C'mon. 'S time ta go."

"Um, Pen, where exactly are we going?" Clown asked.