"Anyt'ing good, taday?" Porter asked Crutchy, looking through the day's paper. He shook his head.

"Naw. About the usual. You find anyt'ing?"

She frowned at the dull news. Politics, politics, a new yacht for the mayor, Teddy Roosevelt to run for president - Big surprise! she snorted - then a story about shoplifters in a grocery market caught her eye. She grinned. "Dis has possibilities."

"Oh, uh, Porter." Crutchy added, trying to sound casual.

"Hmmm?"

"Ya said ya liked ta read, so I t'ought ya might want dis."

"What?" She took the book he handed her. "Oh - ah - t'anks. When da ya want it back?"

"Oh, ya can keep it. I'se read it a million times." He said, despite the fact that it was obviously new, he hoped she wouldn't notice.

"T'anks." Porter said again, unsure how to deal with gifts. She couldn't remember getting one. "Ya sure?"

"'Course! Anyways, it ain't like yer gonna be runnin' off anywhere wit it." he laughed.

"Yeah." she said quietly. "Hey, look da line's done. Let's go. EXTRY! EXTRY! RASH OF ROBBERIES LEAVE POLICE BAFFLED!" she called. The 'rash' consisted of three cases, but she decided not to mention it. "MYSTERIOUS CORPSE MAY BE CONNECTED!" Well, da story 'bout da dead horse is on da same page. She thought, giving Crutchy the page number. He didn't stop laughing for another five minutes.

Porter, sitting in the window, finished the first chapter of her book and looked around the lodging house. It was surprisingly quiet when you knew that over thirty boys and girls lived there. Firefly and Nickel were giggling about their respective crushes, while, on the opposite side of the room, Mush and Kid Blink whispered about the girl Mush had met that day. Pounce, Race, Specs, and Skittery were off playing craps somewhere, Boots was downstairs playing marbles with Snipeshooter and Les, and the rest of the newsies were involved in quiet conversations around the two rooms. She stood up, crossed the room, and waited for Crutchy to finish talking to Jack and Dave.

"It's sunset." she said shyly. "Ya wanna watch wit me?"

Crutchy, looked up, trying not to show how surprised (and thrilled) he was that she'd asked. "Shoa." Jack and Dave exchanged knowing glances. More than a few pairs of eyes followed the two up the stairs.

"Are dey a pair or not?" asked Snaps. With Porter and Crutchy up on the roof, the newsies had decided to solve the mystery once and for all.

"I t'ink dat's pretty obvious." said Blink. "I'se seen it before." he added wisely

"An' how many time's ya been wrong?" said Itey. "'Memba when ya t'ought Clouds an' me was a couple?"

"It was a honest mistake!" Blink protested.

"We'se sista an' brudda, Kid!" protested the girl in question.

"Yeah, well, how was I supposed ta know?"

"We'se twin sista an' brudda!"

"Yeah, well." He changed the subject quickly. "Has Crutchy said anyt'ing?" Everyone shook their heads.

"An he would have if dere was anyt'ing goin' on." said Mush. "C'mon, Blink. Crutchy ain't 'xactly the most secretive poison in da woild."

"Porter is." said Nickel, at which all the girls rolled their eyes.

"She's as shy as a mouse." said Clouds. "She barely says a woid ta anyone 'cept youse two," she gestured at Jack and Truth. "-an Crutchy." she added, grinning. "Maybe, ya ain't wrong, Kid."

"Don't call me dat!" Everyone laughed.

"She jumps like scared kitten whenever anybody mentions Brooklyn." Truth commented.

"The place or the person?" asked Dave, since Spot was sometimes called that.

"Eidder. I noticed da foist day." Truth shrugged, then grew speculative. "Ya t'ink Spot knows anyt'ing about 'er?"

"Maybe. Speakin' a Spot - he ain't been ta Manhattan since da strike." added Jack. "Anybody know what's goin' on wit dat?"

Everyone shook their heads again, and the conversation changed focus.

"Um, where ya from?" Crutchy asked. They'd been sitting in silence for nearly fifteen minutes and he felt the need to say something.

"Brooklyn." Crutchy nodded. He'd wondered about that accent. "Why'd ya leave? I mean, most kids there they stay there. 'Cept Jack, ya know Jack's from Brooklyn? Grew up wit Spot, in fact. Ya know, Spot, da leadah a the Brooklyn newsies?"

"I t'ink ev'y body in New Yawk has hoid a Spot Conlon." Porter smiled. "Ya gonna stop tawkin', so's I can answer ya?" She asked, not unkindly.

"Yeah, sorry. My tongue kinda runs away wit me sometimes. Part a me has ta." He joked, then blushed, realizing he was doing it again. "I'll shut up, now."

"Dat's okay." Porter lay back and looked up at the stars that were just beginning to fade into view. "I told ya dere's a lot a people lookin' for me? Da bulls, mostly, but some a dem - me pop, he's lookin' for me, an S-some odders - dey'se all in Brooklyn, an' I just don't want 'em findin' me, dat's all." She ended in a rush, mentally kicking herself. She come perilously close to telling Crutchy about that day. He was just so easy to talk to! And she wanted to tell someone. But the newsies would throw her out in a second if they knew - after they'd soaked her within an inch of her life. It was the first time she realized how much she wanted to stay in Manhattan. She had a family here, like Jack had said, thirty brothers and sisters. An' maybe - she glanced at Crutchy, and crushed the thought as soon as she realized where it was heading. Maybe more den dat?

"What about you?" Porter asked aloud. "Ya ain't from Manhattan, eidder, an' I know ya ain't from Brooklyn."

"Da Bronx. I came heah cuz da newsies dere (back den, I mean, 's dif'rent now) din't want a gimp woikin' wit dem." No one did. His mind added silently.

He sat up abruptly. "We betta get in, now. Kloppman'll be yellin' lights out soon."

It wasn't that soon, just past nine o'clock. "Crutchy, youse okay?" Porter asked, concerned for her friend, and sat up as well.

"Coise." he lied. She knew he was lying, but could tell she wasn't going to get anything else out of him. She stood up and helped Crutchy up, also, knowing he wouldn't ask for the help.

"Heya, Crutchy," Kid Blink called as usual as they came down from the roof. "How's you an' ya goil doin?" The other newsies laughed.

"Shaddup, Kid." Crutchy said shortly. He knew Blink was only teasing, but the words rubbed against certain raw wounds on this particular night.

Blink was taken aback. Crutchy was never short with anyone. Heck, he'd even been polite to Weasel, to Snyder, to Judge Monahan, for goodness' sake! He looked at Porter in question, but got no help.

"Lovers' quarrel?" Bumlets teased. "I was jokin'!" he protested when Porter showed him her fist.

"Hey, Crutchy, youse aw right?" Firefly called.

"I'se fine." came Crutchy's muffled reply from the washroom where he had retreated to change for bed, since the girls were still in the room. They others were still looking at him doubtfully when he emerged. "I'se jist tired, aw right?"

The newsies exchanged worried looks, but did not pursue the matter any further. "Don't pay attention ta Blink." Porter said, glaring at the aforementioned. "His mudda dropped 'im on 'is head when 'e was born, an' 'e ain't been da same since."

This brought a laugh from most, and they settled back to their former occupations. Race's arrival, fresh from a big win at the track and ready to challenge all who dared to a game of poker while his luck still held, served to completely erase the incident from everyone's mind. Porter returned to the girls' side fairly soon, but she wasn't missed.

Crutchy lay back in bed and closed his eyes, listening to Race describe the horse that had won for him. "It was a long shot, but I had a hot tip. She's small an' stocky. She don't look like much, but can she run! Ya shoulda seen 'er, guys . . ."

"Ya shoulda seen it, Scottie! It was great! We was runnin' like anyt'in'. Andrew nearly beat me, but I passed 'im at da las' minute."

"Aw, 'e never had a chance." Eight year old Scottie sat on his bed in their shared room and laughed at his older brother's modesty. "Nobody can beat me brudda."

"I wish you'd'a come." Thomas sat down by the window, next to his brother. "What'cha been doin'?" He looked at the book Scottie held up. "It good?"

"Yeah! Some a da parts I don't get, but it's really funny! Dere's dese four guys in England, an' dey get inta all dis trouble, travelin' aroun'. Da head guy's named Pickwick, an'-" he blushed when he realized he'd been babbling. He tended to run on when he talked to his brother. Their father never looked at him, except to yell at him, and their mother was always too busy to talk. Tom was the only one who listened. He closed the book and put it aside. "Anyways, I don't hafta go ta da race, cuz ya'se gonna tell me all about it - now." Fourteen years old, tall, strong and handsome, Tom was Scottie's idol, and Scottie secretly wished he had been able to see his brother run. The neighborhood races were held every week, and the winner won the right to lead the neighborhood kids until the next race.

Scottie remembered the first and only time he had watched one. Tom had carried him to the street where the races were held and set him on one of the crates that had been set up as seats on the curb. Scottie had been born with a weak right leg, and at four years old he still couldn't walk. He'd been watching Tom and the other boys get ready when something hit his back, knocking the wind out of him and sending him flying off the crate into the dirty street.

"C'mon, get up." Scottie rubbed the dirt out of his eyes and looked up. The boy, a big boy - at least eight years old - jeered. The others gathered around and joined in. Scottie pushed at them ineffectually, crying. It seemed forever before Tom shoved his way through the crowd, lifted him up and took him home. They were followed the whole way by taunts about the gimp who had to be carried. Scottie had decided then and there that he would learn to walk, that he would never go back to the races, and that no one would ever carry him again - ever.

Sixteen years old, Crutchy opened his eyes, blinking away tears at the memory. The lodging house was dark now; most of the others had fallen asleep. He heard Jack come in from seeing Sarah, and heard him argue with Kloppman about it being after hours. He closed his eyes again.

"C'mon, Scottie." Tom coaxed. "I gotta present for ya, but I ain't givin it ta ya till ya get down here." Eight years old again, Scottie clutched the railing and hopped down the stairs of the tenement building, refusing to take the easy route and slide down the steps on his rear. Tom waited at the bottom in the doorway, smiling encouragingly and holding something behind his back. Scottie made it to the bottom and stumbled. Tom grabbed him and supported him. Then he brought out his gift, a wooden crutch just the right size for an eight year old.

"Hey, t'anks, Tom!" Scottie gave his brother a one-armed hug, slipped the crutch under his right arm, and tried to walk. He fell face forward, with the doorframe approaching at an alarming speed. Tom reached out a hand, but Scottie caught himself on his own and managed a short, unsteady step. He grinned up at his brother and tried another step.

Tom grinned back. "Okay, try it outside."

"Dis is da day." Crutchy whispered to the wooden slats of the bunk above him.

"Dis is da day." Tom had said. "Meet me at da factory when I'se finished."

It was Scottie's ninth birthday, and Tom had promised a surprise, so Scottie was making his way toward the rubber factory where Tom worked - "Till ya's old enough ta leave an' we can go ta sea." - and trying to ignore the taunts that followed him down the street. Invisible hands shoved him into a storekeeper who had just come out with a broom to sweep out his store. The man cursed his clumsiness. He just tipped his hat, apologized, and moved on quickly. He didn't protest his innocence or look around to see who had jostled him, knowing from experience that it would do no good. It was impossible to tell in the crowd. He didn't cry, either. He saved that for late at night, after a long day of the same thing over and over, when even Tom was asleep, and no one could hear him.

He saw the factory ahead and sped up, looking for his brother in the evening shadows. A clod of mud, hard from baking all day, hit him in the back of the head as he was crossing the street, causing him to lose his balance completely and see stars for a second. He fell at a strange angle, and the street twisted around him, all of it - people, buildings, and traffic, seeming to rush in on him. He started to get up, searching for his crutch, heard his name, felt something - someone? - twice his size slam into him, knocking him to the ground even as he started to rise. He felt like he was being stomped on and kicked, for several seconds he couldn't breath. He heard the clatter of hooves, a rattle like cart wheels, four quick thuds, that seemed to matching with the stomps, and all this shouting. Within a minute it was over, all except for the shouting. He couldn't see a thing.

"Dey aw right?"

"Where'd ya t'ink ya was goin' so fast?"

"What happened?"

"Come along, dear, it's just a few street rats."

"Get dat cart outta da way!"

"Dey aw right?"

Finally, he realized he was not blind. There was just something lying on top of him. He pushed gently. At his movment, strong arms lifted it off of him, and he could see it clearly. It was Tom.

"Ya awright?" A man asked, kneeling down next to him. Scottie nodded distractedly, craning his neck to see where the other two men had placed his brother.

"How's Tom?"

"Tom? Da odder boy?"

"Me brudda, yeah. How is 'e?" Scottie was becoming anxious.

"He's dead, son." One of the other men walked over.

Scottie was home again. He didn't quite remember getting there, didn't remember telling the men his address, didn't remember them telling his parents what had happened. He could hear his mother crying in the next room - she never cried. And his father was yelling, but at least that wasn't unusual. He kept trying to wake up from the nightmare. This couldn't have happened. Things like this just didn't happen. And it was his fault.

"It's aw da fault a dat boy a yers! Yer fault fer havin' 'im!"

"Half yers!" his mother screamed back, still sobbing.

"Dat t'ing in dere don't have my blood in him!"

Scottie had always known his parents were ashamed of him, but he'd never thought that they hated him. He'd thought that nothing could hurt after Tom died.

He'd been wrong.

Four years old again. "Gimp!" "Freak!" "C'mon get up!" Tom shoved his way through, and Scottie looked to him in relief, but instead of picking him up, his brother joined in the jeers. And his parents were behind him. More faces joined his tormentors. Faces unfamiliar to Scottie at four or nine, but ones that Crutchy knew. His best friends, Jack, Race, Truth, Mush, Dutchy, Porter . . .

"Crutchy! Crutchy! Wake up!" He started awake in the pitch black lodging house. "Ya was havin' a nightmare." said Jack. "Must a been a bad one, too. Ya awright?"

Finally, Crutchy realized where he was. He looked around the room, but no one else was awake.

"Ya din't wake up anybody, but me." Jack confirmed. "Ya wasn't screamin', but ya was tossin' so much, I nearly fell of da bunk."

He laughed at that. "Sorry. Yeah, I'se aw right."

"What was ya dreamin' about?" Jack asked.

"Da Bronx." Jack had been the first Manhattan newsie he met, and was just about the only one who knew what 'da Bronx' meant for Crutchy.

"Oh. Sorry. Ya know, I been meanin' ta tell ya - goin' dere fer da strike last month. Was pretty brave a ya."

"I had ta do somet'in." He said uncomfortably.

"Ya ready ta sleep now, or ya gonna stay up?" Crutchy's silence was answer enough. "Aw right, den I got da best prescription for ya." He launched into a series of hilarious stories, half exaggeration, half completely false that soon had them both laughing, and Bumlets waking up to tell them to shut up and go to sleep. "Dere." he said at last. "Betta now?"

"Yeah."

"Aw right. G'night."

"G'night. An' Jack?"

"Yeah?" he yawned.

"T'anks."

Read Part 4

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