Porter ran down the street, her eyes on the road, her hat pulled down low over her face to hide her tears. She bumbed into several people, but did not stop, ignoring their angry calling after her. A pebble lay in her path, and she began kicking it before her down the street with an expression on her face that made one feel sorry for the pebble.

Evening was fading in. Porter soon realized that wherever she was going, she was not going now. She found herself in Central Park, and sat down under a tree near the bandstand for a moment. I love ya sense a humor, God. she thought, noting that it was exactly the same place she'd met Crutchy a week before. Then she rolled over and cried into the grass. Why is it I'se cried more since I met da guy I love, den in me whole life before? The humorous thought did not stop her tears in the least. Dat shoulda tipped me off from da moment I foist saw 'im. Da moment I saw 'im . . .

"Ya aw right?"

I don't take charity." she said harshly, accepting the handkerchief, but not the money.

"Neidder do I. Look, ya can owe me." He gathered his things while she dried her eyes and wiped her nose, then turned back to her. "Ya got a name, so's I can apol'gize?"

She stood up, watching him suspiciously. "Porter. Apol'gize for what?"

"Trippin' ya. Pleased ta meet ya, Porter. I'se Crutchy." He spit in his hand and offered it to her. She considered him a moment, then shook, laughing suddenly. "What is it?"

"I tries ta rob ya, an' your apol'gizin' ta me?" He shrugged, and she laughed again. He offered her the penny again, but she refused it. "How's I s'posed ta pay ya back?"

"Become a newsie." Crutchy answered, handing her half of his remaining papes. "Start wit dese. Dat's ten papes, ya owe me six cents."

"Ya aw right?" Da foist t'ing 'e says, even afta I tries ta rob 'im. An' den 'e gives me 'xactly what I tried ta take from 'im. Lent me, but dat 'e even trusted me enough ta t'ink I'd pay it back. 'E never stopped trustin' me eidder. Not even when he hoid about Brooklyn . . .

"Yeah, well, he wouldn't a said a woid, if ya hadn't tawked ta him. What didja say, anyways?" She opened the door of the lodging house, and held it open for him.

He shrugged. "Ya din't do it."

Like it was dat simple. Like he wasn't da on'y one dat nevah doubted me. Like he was so shoa I couldn't do anyt'in like dat dat he din't even need ta ast. She shook herself out of her pity trip and walked down by the pond. It was no use. Central Park was the last place to go to get rid of memories of him. Hadn't they spent the almost every day of the pas<@Convert 002>t week selling papers here together?

Crutchy picked up a smooth flat stone and threw it. It skipped across the water seven times, and he grinned at her. She picked another one and easily managed twelve skips. He watched, then laughed. "Soives me right fer showin' off."

"Never compete wit a Brooklynite when it's got anyt'in ta do wit water." she grinned back.

"Oh yeah?" He pushed her into the pond. It was only a few feet deep, but she was so surprised that she managed to soak herself from head to toe. She came up sputtering, and glared when she saw him laughing. "Soives you right fer showin' off!" he said.

Porter picked up a stone and tried to skip it. It sank almost immediately and she glared at the ripples it left.

"Ya know, Porter," They were taking a brief lunch break.

"Mhmph?" she asked through a mouth full of sausage. Crutchy had discovered her weakness for them, and insisted on buying one to share. "What?" she asked more clearly after swallowing licking her lips of juice and crumbs - no sense letting them go to waste, after all.

"I was t'inkin'. Why don't we try Medda's afta da show?"

"Don't Boots and Snipes sell dere?"

"Yeah, but taday dey went ta da track wit Race. 'Sides Medda's got a great show. Ya evah seen it?" She had, actually, at the newsie rally, but if she said yes, she'd have to explain about Brooklyn. She shook her head.

"-An' while Central Park's usually guaranteed-" She looked around at the absence of potential customers and agreed. "Irving Hall it is."

Ten of the eleven boys to be arrested sat, stood, or paced angrily in a bunkroom in the House of Refuge. Boots had escaped, as had Dave, Bumlets, Specs, Nickel, Grins, Pip, Slider, Snaps, Itey, Swifty, Truth, and Jake. Jack had been given a cell of his own. Pounce, Firefly, Clouds, Pen, and the other girls were on the floor below.

"Would someone-" Race began, when the sound of a key in the lock of their door brought everyone to attention. Warden Snyder entered, carrying a cane and wearing an pious smile, almost as sickening as the cruel expression in his eyes.

Racetrack put an arm under Crutchy's shoulder to help him stand, unable, for once in his life, to come up with a wisecrack. Snipeshooter was no longer a smart-mouthed newsie. He was a frightened ten year old. Even Spot lost some of his usual attitude. Snyder had that effect on most street kids.

"Welcome." The warden said, still smiling. "Welcome back, to some of you. We must thank our mutual friend Porter for this reunion." Mush took a tight hold on Blink's arm at that. His friend tended to fly off the handle easily, and doing it now would only get him in trouble. Snyder looked them all over. "Well, I think those of you that have been here before can explain the rules to the others, so I'll leave you to-" he glanced at Crutchy, and smiled more broadly. "- make friends with the rats." He turned around and walked out.

I'se gonna regret sayin' dat. Crutchy thought wryly. Aw, well, da look on 'is face dat time was woith it though. An' woise t'ings have happened ta me. Like the previous afternoon which he didn't really want to think about. Studiously not thinking about it brought to mind another worry. Where's Porter? He concentrated on that thought, pushing the reason she'd left to the back of his mind.

As soon as Warden Snyder left, Race began fuming. "'Our mutual friend'" he mimicked. "Da scab! I'll soak 'er!"

"You'll have ta stand in line, Racetrack." said Spot, eyes burning. "When I gets me hands on dat goil . . ."

"I don't believe it!" Mush repeated to Skittery for the fifteenth time. "Afta Jack stood up for her an' ev'yt'in!"

"Believe it." Skittery replied, scowling.

Snipeshooter was punching pillows in anger. Blink just stalked around the room, daring someone to approach him. No one did. Dutchy sat in a corner and shook his head back and forth over and over. Pie Eater and Snoddy were arguing over who had mistrusted Porter first. "I knew it da moment I saw her. Ya rememba? I said 'dere's somethin' not right wit dat goil.'"

"Yeah, ev'ybody t'ought she was just shy, but I knew she was plannin' somet'in."

"Den tell me," Race retorted, momentarily distracted from his pacing. "Why youse in heah, an' she's out dere?"

"Ya shoulda lissened ta me when ya had da chance -"

"Shaddup, Spot!" Everyone looked at Crutchy who was standing, glaring at them all, and positively shaking with anger. "All a ya! She's ya friend, ya sista. Two days ago ya was tellin' each odder jokes an' playin' cards togedder an' prob'ly callin' 'er a hero. Ya woulda trusted her wit yer lives, an' she'd a trusted ya wit hers. An' when we'se all outta heah, an' it's proved dat she din't do it. I'se gonna see all a ya on ya knees, beggin' her forgiveness!" I can do that much for ya, Porter.

The newsies stared at him in utter shock. They had never heard such an outburst from Crutchy. Race was the first to find his tongue. "Ya know a betta reason for her ta run out on us da same day we'se arrested?"

Crutchy, not usually of a pale complection, turned paper white and turned his back on them all. He curled up on his bed without a word.

"Looks like ya put ya foot in it, Race." said Dutchy quietly.

Race started forward to apologize, but Mush pulled him back. "Leave 'im alone. She was 'is best friend."

"Some friend!" said Blink bitterly. At that moment any one of the newsies would have been glad to soak Porter for Crutchy's sake, their own troubles aside.

"More den a friend?" Snoddy asked.

Pie Eater shrugged. "Who knows? Neidder a dem evah said anyt'ing."

"I know one t'ing." said Dutchy, watching Crutchy's shoulders shake. The others looked at him in question. "I know what a broken heart looks like - an' dat's it."

Crutchy . . . Porter finally looked up to see where her thoughts had brought her. When she looked back the way she'd come, and saw the towers of the Brooklyn Bridge against the cloudy, night sky, she knew she was in trouble. She swore quietly, but feelingly. Not. Smart. Not smart at all. Porter ya idiot! She wondered why she hadn't been challenged yet. She would have been sighted, she knew, as soon as she set foot on the bridge. She looked around for the watchers she knew must be hiding around her - I's been on enough spyin' parties - but even knowing where to look, she saw no one. "Aw right, come out, youse." she called nervously, trying to remember whose post this would be. Mine once. "Legs? Pea Shooter? Fish?"

At a tap on her shoulder, she jerked around to see a very unpleasant smile on a normally handsome, very familiar face. "Cards! Long time no see!" Her eyes flicked nervously over the line of about five others behind him, and backed up slowly. There was Pea Shooter. And next to her was Legs, fastest newsie in Brooklyn, second only to Swifty in the rest of New York. And there was Pickles, ever-present pickle in hand. She was surprised Splitz wasn't with them. "How's it rollin'?"

"Heya, Spitfire. Sorry I din't greet ya earlier, but I wanted ta get a liddle welcomin' party tagedda foist." Porter really didn't like that smile on Card's face. She did not see Spot in the group which was encouraging in a way. If this 'welcoming party' wasn't official, she might have a chance on a bluff.

"So nice a youse." She said sarcastically, backing up a little more until she ran into someone's chest and was pushed back toward Cards. So dat's where Splitz is. she thought without turning around. She weighed her chances of escape and placed them at about nil. Her chances of recrossing the bridge without at least one broken bone were little more encouraging. She tried her bluff. "Does Spot know 'bout dis 'liddle welcomin' party? Cuz I'se wond'rin' if he'd approve."

That got her a sharp knee in the stomach. She doubled over, forcing herself not to strike back. In this case discretion seemed the better part of valor. 'Specially since I ain't nevah been much of a fighter. "Ya scab! T'anks, Spitfire." Cards replied. "I was almost t'inkin a lettin' ya go."

"An' ya ain't now?" she asked, straightening.

"Wit Spot in da Refuge - not ta mention most a Manhattan?" He struck her again angrily. "Ya betta bet I ain't!"

Surprise was the last thing besides pain that Porter registered for some time after that.

An hour and a half later, she lifted her head off the rough ground - Oh, God. I hoit. - and rolled over. She had bruises in every place she could think of - An' I few I din't know I had! She was also soaking wet. She just barely remembered someone - she didn't remember who - getting the bright idea of soaking her literally, by way of a quick dip in the East River. Least dey pulled me out again. It even hurt to think for goodness' sake. She groped around for her hat and pulled it onto her head as quickly as possible. She'd remembered something else. Spot's in da Refuge. An' 'most a Manhattan,' Cards said. She swore fluently, almost crying for the fourth time in a week. 'I din't want it happenin' again.' I told Spot. 'I din't want it happenin' again.' I said. No wonda dey soaked me. I'd'a soaked me! 'Most a Manhattan-' Truth, Race, Jack, Nickel, Pounce, Blink, Mush,Crutchy. . . Aw . . . She pulled herself to her feet, wincing with every movement. At least she'd beaten the odds on one thing. She had no broken bones to worry about.

An' a good t'ing, too. 'S gonna be tough enough gettin' back ta Manhattan as it is. Lessee. Right foot. Left foot . . .

Remebering that Dave was one of the few newsies with no police record, Porter decided to try the Jacobs' home first. Even if dey caught 'im, dey can't hold 'im. An' if he got away, well, den I don't hafta worry. She ran, painfully, up the stairs to their apartment.

The door opened on her first knock, and Dave stood in the entrance. He'd managed to get a black eye in the fight with the police. He stared at her for a few seconds, then as she began to talk, shut the door in her face. She stuck her foot in the door. "Dave! C'mon! I need yer help!"

He opened it again. "Trying to get the ones you missed?" he asked acidly.

"I din't-! Ya gotta lissen ta me! I din't know dey was comin'-"

"Sure." He nodded. He's as bad as Spot. Porter thought. "And it was just a coincidence that you took off less than two hours before the bulls came."

Raw wounds. "Why I left, ain't none a yer business!" she flared. "Da odders is in da Refuge-"

"-Because of who?" Dave retorted.

"Will ya help me, or not?" she said. "Cuz if not, I'se leavin' an' I'll do it on me own!"

"Good riddance!" He slammed the door in her face.

Sarah was carrying a basket of clothing to be mended up the stairs to her apartment, when Porter came running down the stairs, nearly knocking her over. She grabbed the girl's arm, letting go when Porter winced. "Porter, you weren't caught! What's-" Sarah got a look at her friend's face. "What happened?"

Porter had one black eye, a bloody lip, a rather nasty-looking bruise on one side of her face, and when she turned around Sarah saw that she was walking with a slight limp. All the legacy of Brooklyn. Porter looked at her blankly for a moment, then kept running.

She went into the house, put her basket down on the table and looked for her brothers. Les wasn't home, but Dave was out on the fire escape, brooding.

"David, what happened?"

Porter stood on yet another fire escape and tapped on the window of the lodging house. Why're ya doin' dis? she asked herself. Like ya really need anudder soakin'. Nickel opened the window, saw her, and glared.

"Whaddaya want? Lookin' fer da rest a us?" she asked.

In this state of desperation, Porter did not much care who said or thought what. "Dat line's gettin' old, Nick. I hoid it from Dave awready."

Nickel looked her up and down. "Dave did dat? I din't t'ink he could even throw a punch." Her expression said 'Good for Dave!'

"As a matter a fact, no. I made da mistake a wanderin' inta Brooklyn. If ya want a shot, yer welcome ta try, but it wouldn't be woith yer while. I ain't in much shape ta fight back. I came ta get one t'ing, den I'se leavin', an' ya don't hafta look at me again, aw right?"

"Let 'er in." Truth came up behind Nickel. "What're ya heah for?" she asked Porter, coldly.

Porter swallowed. Truth was one of her best friends. "If Jack's heah, I need his rope belt. If he ain't, well, did he leave it?"

"No, he ain't heah. An', yeah, he left it. Dat all?"

"If ya know who was caught, it might help me."

"Help ya what? Ya paid by da head?"

Porter nearly hit her. She pulled back her hand three inches from Truth's face. Her action surprised both of them. Porter hadn't realized her temper was that far gone, and Truth couldn't believe Porter would lash out at anyone like that. "Jist get da rope for me, aw right?" Porter said, dropping her eyes.

Truth got the rope.

Why're ya doin' dis? Porter thought again, scaling the wall of the Refuge. For the first time in her life she was grateful for her housebreaking skills. I got 'em in. I'll get 'em out. 'Sides, dey's me friends.

Climbing, she hit her head on the underside of a windowsill, and cursed silently. Ev'y one a which hates ya. Includin' -

I don't care! He can hate me all 'e wants, once he's out. Even in thought she said 'he', not 'they.'