"Ya know all deir names?" Porter asked, getting lost in the sight again.

"Yeah, Tom - me brudda - wanted ta be a sailor an' he taught me. See dat?" He pointed. "That's the Big Dippa. An' if ya follow dose two stars dere, ya find da North Star. It's da on'y one dat nevah moves. All da odder stars move around it."

"I t'ink me mudda told me about dat one. Da slaves used ta follow it north ta freedom. Dey's anudder kinda sailors, I guess." Porter could almost here her mother singing her to sleep.

"What?" Porter hadn't realized she'd been singing aloud. "Uh, I'se sorry. I din't mean ta bother ya." She scrambled to her feet.

"Ya ain't botherin me!" Crutchy got up to follow her. "Youse got a beautiful voice." He blushed as he said it, and silently blessed the darkness. "Sing somet'in else."

She shook her head. More recent memories than those of her mother singing intruded on Porter's thoughts. "Ya squeak like a ole carriage wheel! An' don't sing dose slave songs, eidda!" SLAP! Pop never could get used ta da fact dat 'e married a black woman. She thought.

"Porter, ya aw right?" Crutchy asked anxiously. It was the second time that day she'd gone distant.

She shook her head to banish the memory. "Yeah, I'se aw right."

"Den youse gonna sing?" he asked tentatively. She half-smiled and shook her head shyly. "C'mon. Da odders are gonna wanna heah ya." he coaxed, encouraged that she hadn't refused outright. She continued shaking her head as he put a hand on her back and propelled her through the door, and down the stairs.

"No! No! Crutchy, no! I'm not goin' ta!" she protested laughing.

In the boys' bunkroom below, the others heard her and exchanged bemused glances. "Jist what are dey doin' up dere?" Nickel whispered to Firefly.

"Ah, youse two aw right?" Race called up the stairs. Blink snickered. There was silence from above at the question as the two realized how they sounded, then they both burst down the stairs laughing and red-faced.

"So," said Blink, eye brows raised. "how's you an' ya goil doin, Crutchy?"

Porter stopped giggling long enough to glare at him. If on'y. she thought.

As if. thought Crutchy, pretending to ignore him. "We gots a singer, heah." he said. "Porter-" he gestured at Porter who was now shaking her head frantically. "- is gonna sing for us." He looked at her expectantly.

She shook her head a few more times, then sighed when it became obvious he was not letting her off the hook, and no one else was going to come to her rescue. She picked another song she'd heard her mother sing, closed her eyes and began.

As soon as the applause began, Porter dove for the first unoccupied corner (which happened to be Jake's bed) and hid her face. Crutchy followed and sat on the bed across from her. "Dat was wonderful!"

"T'anks." came her muffled voice. She emerged a few seconds later, grinning slightly.

"Do you know any odder -" The sound of approaching voices interrupted him.

"Heya, Spot." came Jack's voice from the stairs. Crutchy turned to greet the visitor, so he didn't see Porter tense and shrink back into the corner. "What'cha doin' in Manhattan?"

"Heya, Jack. I was lookin' for somebody - little boid told me dey might be around heah - an' t'ought I'd stop by." Spot's voice - as well as his face when he came up the stairs into view - was cold. Most of the younger newsies involuntarily shrank back as he entered. Several of the older newsies even moved away. Everyone was watching the guest, with the sole exceptions of Race, who was busy checking the next day's scratch sheet, Pounce and Clouds, who were discussing a guy, and Crutchy, who had just noticed Porter hiding and was trying to find out the problem.

"Who're ya lookin' for?" Jack frowned at the smaller boy. The last time he'd seen Spot this angry was - he wasn't sure if he remembered seeing Spot this angry.

"Hey, Spot!" said Snoddy. "Ya met our newest newsie? Her name's Porter."

"Porter?" repeated Spot sharply. Porter's heart sank.

"Yeah. Hey, Porter, come meet -"

"Spitfire, get out heah." Spot's voice cut through the other boy's. All chatter in the room died, then resumed as Porter uncurled and emerged from her corner hesitantly.

"Yeah, Spot?" she answered, her voice a shade higher than normal.

Spot advanced on her dangerously. She held her ground, although her eyes flickered nervously. Jack, standing just behind Spot, gave her points for bravery, if not for intelligence. Not many newsies could stand up to Spot when he wore that expression. Of course, she didn't have much choice with the night stand at her back and beds to either side of her. Spot poked the handle of his cane against her chest. "Ya got one minute ta tell me why I shouldn't soak ya."

The room was dead silent again. Even Racetrack looked up at that.

"Spot-" Jack began.

"Spot, I know why ya's mad-" started Porter at the same time.

"Oh. Yeah?" Spot interrupted them both. "Tell me."

"It ain't-"

"I'se mad cuz Splitz, Cards and Pickles all spent da las' 2 weeks in da Refuge, an' dey tell me youse da one as got 'em t'rown in dere." He stepped back and looked over his shoulder. "I din't know ya was in da habit of welcomin' scabs, Jacky-boy." The newsies not immediately involved in the drama, looked at Porter, who winced when Spot said 'two weeks', but showed no other sign of surprise at his words, and began whispering. She heard them and bit her lip, then saw Crutchy looking at her earnestly and shook her head. He nodded.

Jack looked from Spot to Porter and back. "Ya sure, Spot?" he asked finally.

In answer, Spot turned back to Porter. "Da same day you disappear, dere's a raid on da lodgin' house, an' dose t'ree get caught. Da boys walk inta court da next day, an' who da dey see, standin' by da door wit Snyda', gettin' congratulated on da 'fine woik' she done-?"

"-An' den gettin' t'rown in da Refuge after dem." Porter interrupted. "C'mon, Spot, yer smarter den dat-"

He ran right over her. "-Unless youse got a twin sista da rest of us don't know about, it was you, Spitfire."

"Was it you, Porter?" asked Jack quietly.

"Yeah, it was me." she answered. His face hardened. "But it ain't da way it looks!" She saw doubt or outright anger in every face surrounding her. "Snyda's a sadistic bastard, youse all know dat! I escaped twice, an' he wanted a way ta get back at me." She looked at Jack pleadingly - he, at least should understand that. She turned back to Spot. "Ask Pickles who got da key for 'em."

"An if dat's true, why'd ya leave Brooklyn?" Spot asked contemptuously.

Porter took a deep breath. She was terrified and trying not to show it. "Two reasons. Ya believe a woid I'se said?"

"No."

"Yeah, well, dat's one reason." Spot was not amused. "I din't want da bulls followin' me back, aw right?" she added quickly. "I din't want it happenin' again."

"Once was enough." Spot shifted position slightly, as if growing restless. "Da clock's tickin' an' I ain't convinced yet, Spitfire."

"Leave her alone, Spot. She din't do it." The voice belonged to Crutchy who stepped between the two. The surprise in the room was tangible.

Porter pushed him aside. "Stay outta dis!"

"Dat's dangerous ground, Crutchy." Spot warned.

"Let's take dis outside." Jack interrupted quickly, stalling for time. "Kloppman'll kick us all out if dere's fightin' in heah."

All thirty newsies, male and female, trooped down the stairs, Spot keeping a hand on Porter's arm - "I'se comin' aw right!" - while Firefly gave her murderous glances. Race was giving odds ten to one on Spot with no takers. Jack and Crutchy were last. Halfway down, Crutchy caught Jack's sleeve and whispered. "Do somethin', Jack!"

Jack sighed. "I know ya likes her, Crutchy -"

Crutchy looked around furtively to see if anyone had heard. "Dis has nothin' ta do wit dat!" Not much, anyway. he amended silently. "She din't do it."

"But she says herself she was dere." Jack protested. "It don't look good."

"T'ings ain't always da way dey look, are dey Jack?" Crutchy stopped on the landing and stared his friend in the eye. He hated to do this, but . . .

Jack nearly fell the rest of the way down the stairs when he caught Crutchy's meaning. He met his friend's eyes for a moment, then dropped his own. "No, dey ain't." He looked up again. "Ya sure?" Crutchy nodded seriously. "Aw right."

They emerged on the street in front of the lodging house and joined the others under the streetlight where a circle had formed around Porter and Spot. Jack pushed his way to the center with Crutchy behind him. Everyone was talking. "Hey! Hey! Lissen up!" The clamor began to die down, and he continued. "Now, I been t'inkin -"

"Dat's a foist!"

"Shut up, Truth. I been t'inkin, an' dere's anudder newsie heah dat's been in Porter's sit-too-asun." There were questioning whispers and shrugs from the group. "Wasn't dat long ago, eidder. T'ings looked as bad for him den as dey do for her now - woise. But dere was anudder side ta da story, an' we all know dif'rent now." He turned to Spot. "So I say we give Porter da benefit a da doubt, cuz if ya wanna soak her, ya gonna hafta soak him, too - ya gonna hafta soak me." Porter gaped at him, then looked at Crutchy who had pushed his way through the circle to her side as Jack crossed his arms and waited for the whispers to gain coherence.

"What's 'e tawkin about?"

"Don't ya rememba?"

"Jack's right."

"If Jack trusts her-"

"Yeah, let 'er go."

"So, what da ya say, Spot?" Jack asked.

The Brooklyn newsie looked back at him, at the other newsies in the circle, at Crutchy, and finally at Porter. "Ya got lucky, Spitfire." he said softly, blue eyes unreadable. He turned back to Jack and smirked. "I say dat what you say . . . is what I say." He replied. He turned to go and the newsies cleared a path for him. "But don't say ya wasn't warned." he added over his shoulder. He walked (to the amusement of many who did not dare show it) right into Dave who had come looking for the newsies.

"Hi, Spot." greeted Dave, stepping back quickly when he saw the expression on Spot's face. He looked around at the other newsies, all of whom had turned to look at him. "What-?"

Jack shook his head. "Tell ya latah. C'mon, ev'ybody inside." The others followed them in. Crutchy and Porter were left behind, Crutchy waiting for Porter who had taken a moment to be sick in the back of a nearby alley.

"Ya aw right?" She nodded. "Da Delanceys scare me like dat." he confessed.

She smiled weakly. "I just don't like fightin'." Then relief made her angry. "Dat was a stupid t'ing ta do!"

It stung. "Ya welcome, but I din't do anyt'ing." answered Crutchy, turning his back on her and following the others.

She swore silently. "I din't mean dat, aw right?" she called after him. "Look," she caught up to him. "It was a stupid t'ing ta do, but t'anks for doing' it?"

"T'ank Jack. I told ya. I din't do anyt'ing." said Crutchy, wishing he had been the one to convince the others.

"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."

Porter marveled. "Ya know, youse da on'y one back dere dat believed me." An' ya act like it's nothin'! she thought in frustration. On da odder hand, for him it is nothin'. Ain't one in a million dat t'inks like dat an' trusts like dat. "Ya crazy, ya know dat?"

"Ya know somebody tells me dat at least once ev'yday?" They both laughed.

"By da way," said Crutchy as they walked up the stairs. "Spitfire?"

Porter laughed self-consciously. "Yeah, I gots a bad temper. Got mad 'bout bein' teased one too many times, an' chased Spot off da pier. When he got outta da water dat's what he called me, an' da name stuck."

"Our Porter?" exclaimed Race incredulously, who had heard the end of the exchange. "A bad temper?"

"Porter, ya ain't lost ya temper yet." Nickel, famous for her own temper, scoffed.

"She ran Spot off da pier?" repeated Mush wide-eyed.