"Porter Conlon!" Porter looked up from her paper to see Jack looking at her in triumph. She glanced around to see if anyone else had heard. No one had. Even Crutchy was standing across the lot, talking to Racetrack.

"So." she said calmly, crossing her arms. "Ya finally remembaed."

"Yer Spot's cousin." he added unnecessarily.

"Really?" she said sarcastically. "Could ya yell a liddle louder? I don't t'ink dey hoid ya in Queens, yet."

He grew serious and sat next to her. "Why din't ya tell me?"

She looked at him as if he'd just said the world was flat. "So's ya could tell Spot ya found me?"

"Since den, I mean he knows yer heah now, an' he ain't touched ya."

She sighed. "He told me not ta, aw right? He don't want anybody knowin', so don't spread it around."

"Why not?" Jack knew Spot had always been fond of his cousin. They'd been more like brother and sister than cousins back then. When his family moved, he'd tried several times to come back and find her, without success. He must have been thrilled when she joined his newies.

Porter's mouth twisted, and she held up her hand alongside her face. "I'll give ya one guess."

Jack looked skeptical. "I don't t'ink yer readin' him right, but I won't tell anyone."

She grinned. "T'anks, Frankie."

"Hey, Cowboy." Porter called. It had been a good selling day, and the gang was hanging around Tibby's, all in an extremely, good mood. Adding to the air of festivity, was the fact that Bryan Denton was visiting, so they had free food as well as money in their pockets.

Jack looked up from his conversation with Dave and Denton. "Yeah?"

"Ya evah tell da odders how ya came up wit da name Jack?" The other newsies traded bewildered looks. "Jack be nimble, Jack be quick-" she chanted with a wicked smile on her face. "Betcha 2 bits ya can't do it again."

At the word 'bet' Race's head snapped up. Jack grinned. "Done. Dat an' anudder 2 bits says you can't do it at all."

"Taken." They spit-shook.

"Les, will ya ast Mista Tibby if he's got any candlesticks wit holders" Jack called, adding, "- nice tall ones."

"Rememba ya gotta do it, too, Kelly." Porter warned.

"Hey, Jack, what're youse two tawkin' about?" asked Blink.

"Ya mean ya din't tell dem?" Porter exclaimed in mock disbelief. "Guess, da all-mighty Jack Kelly wouldn't want his friends hearin' 'bout how 'e nearly boined all his toes off." She dodged the tomatoe that flew her way in reply. "Well, I'll tell 'em, den."

"What is it, Porter?" Crutchy asked. The others were crowding around her with interest.

"Jack be nimble. Jack be quick. Jack jump over da candlestick . . ." Porter chanted again. "See dese goils was skippin' rope . . . an' he just barely made it. Singed both his big toes." Porter finished, laughing. She ducked another tomatoe. "Evan called him Jack-be-nimble, Jack-be-quick from den on."

"That sounds familiar." said Dave.

Jack looked over is shoulder. "Yeah, ya might a hoid it before. Dat's cuz it's Evan Conlon, odderwise known as Spot, an' don't tell him I told ya his real name. Or da fact dat he din't even do dat well."

"So ya ready ta try it again, Jacky-boy?" Porter called, as Kid Blink and Mush pushed the tables up against the walls to clear an aisle for jumpers.

The manager came out to watch the upheaval in his restaurant and assumed a long suffering expression. "Newsies!" he said to Denton. He did not, however, neglect to place his bet with Racetrack.

The aisle turned out to be about 20 feet long, with the candle (candlestick, holder, and flame) standing about three feet in the air at the end of it. "Ready when you are." Jack called back, gesturing grandly. "Ladies first?"

"Age before beauty." Porter replied, smirking.

Jack glared at her and stepped to the beginning of the 'runway'. He cleared the flame by three inches, turned to look at her. There were a few cheers and groans as money changed hands between winners and losers. "Where's me two bits?" he said.

She held up a hand, then bent down at the runway, ran, jumped, and sailed over the candle, with the flame an inch from her bare feet. "My two bits." Porter corrected smirking at him. "Two if ya made it, four if I did." She held out her hand. "I give ya two, ya give me four back, or ya can jist give me two an' call it even."

Jack's face when he worked out the math, was one of the funniest sights Tibby's Restaurant had ever seen. He looked at Race, the gambling expert, for confirmation. Race nodded. He looked at Dave who also nodded. Jack shook his head, handed over the money, and sat down at a booth. "Remind me nevah ta bet dat goil again?" he said to noone in particular. Everyone laughed.

"Spitfire, Cowboy, why din't ya tell us youse two knew each odda?" Jake asked, as they walked back to the lodging house. About half the newsies had adopted Spot's nickname for Porter, although most considered it as descriptive of her as Truth's.

"It was a long time ago." Jack answered. "In Brooklyn. I jist remembered yestidy. Spot wanted ta innerduce me ta his-" Porter shot him a look. Ya promised. she thought. "-friend." he completed. "We climb up dis fire escape, an' he taps on a window. Someone opens it, an' I look down at dis scrawny liddle rat of a four year old, an' say 'Dis is who ya wanted me ta meet?'"

Porter glared at him, and broke in. "An' I took one look at him wit dat worn out hat, dats two sizes too big fer him, an' ast 'Hey, Evan, who's da cowboy?' So he puffs out his chest, an' says how he's Frankie Kelly, an' right den when he's lookin' all proud a hisself he leans on da window an' falls right t'rough on his face."

"Why do you pick on Jack so much, Porter?" Truth asked when they were through laughing.

"I ain't pickin' on 'im!" Porter defended herself. "I'se jist makin shoa he don't get a swelled head, dat's all!"

"Wit you around, I'se safe from dat!" Jack said fervently. This drew even more laughter.

"Hey, Porter, what's wrong?" It was the busiest part of the day, and she hadn't sold a single paper. In fact, it was fairly obvious that she wasn't trying to sell a paper. She was, to put it bluntly, brooding.

She jerked back to reality suddenly. "I, ah, nuthin'." She said unconvincingly. Crutchy frowned at her, took her arm and pulled her away from the crowd. He found a reasonably private spot beneath a large tree and sat her down.

"What is it?" he asked, sitting next to her.

"I-" Porter really didn't want to tell anyone what she had been thinking just then, least of all him. "It - I don't-"

"Trust me?" he completed, hurt.

"It ain't dat! I jist - I been t'inkin' I oughta leave soon." she mumbled in a rush, without looking at him.

"Leave! Why? Porter-" He managed to get her to look at him, and saw why she'd been trying to hide her face. She was just barely holding back tears. He put his arms around her, and she began sobbing.

Clouds, glanced up at the sky. It looked like rain. She cut through Central Park, hoping to make it to Tibby's before the storm broke. The newsies would gather there while it rained, then try the streets again if it cleared before mid-afternoon. If it didn't clear - well, she'd sold in worse weather. She noticed a couple under a tree and averted her eyes, smiling a little. Someone was enjoying the grey day, at least. Suddenly, realizing what, or rather who, she'd seen, she did a double-take. Holy-! Dat ain't Crutchy an' Porter! Wit dere arms around each odder, no less. Oh, I gotta tell Kid dis!

"So what's wrong? Why ya wanna leave us?" Crutchy asked Porter's bowed head when her shoulders stopped shaking. She mumbled something into his chest. "What?"

"Ya shouldn't be - I ain't da poison ya t'inks I is. Ya shouldn't trust me so much. I'se jist gonna get ev'ybody in trouble. Dey's still lookin' fer me - da bulls. I know dey is. An' when dey find me dey'll do in Manhattan same as dey done in Brooklyn. Don't t'ink dey can't! Snyda' knows jist what ta say. "Lookin' fer evidence." he'll say. Dat's how he got away wit raidin' Brooklyn."

She ran out of words and tears at the same time and finally began to relax and just enjoy being held. It wasn't a luxury she was used to, and it felt good. I could stay right heah forevah. she sighed. Then she became concious of just where 'here' was, in the arms of the boy she was fast falling in love with - who ain't nevah gonna love ya back. a little voice reminded her. I can't stay heah. She looked up to find Crutchy's face a scant two inches from her own. Jist witin kissin' distance.

Two inches ta cross, an' I could kiss 'er. Crutchy thought, mind racing almost as fast as his heart. I could - His heart sank despairingly. - I could - if she wasn't awready in love wit somebody else, if I wasn't - me.

Later each would say the other pulled away first.

"Ya don't want me heah." Porter found her voice and continued hurriedly. "Ev'ybody dat evah cared about me got hoit. Ev'ybody I evah cared about hates me, an' I ain't lettin' dat happen heah!" Not wit you. she thought fiercely.

"Ya mean Brooklyn? Porter-"

"Brooklyn, yeah, but dat ain't it. I-" She bent her head and rubbed her eyes angrily before she could start sobbing again.

One tear escaped and rolled down her cheek, and Crutchy automatically lifted a hand to wipe it away. "Ya could water Central Park at dis rate!" he teased gently.

She laughed, a gasping half-sob that bordered on hysterics, but never quite crossed the line. She shook her head. "Ya don't unnerstand. I-I killed me mudda."

The storm broke.

The Manhattan newsies, with four exceptions, were gathered in Tibby's watching it pour and hoping against hope that the rain would not last through the afternoon. "An' it was lookin' like such a great sellin' day, too!" complained Boots.

"A great day!" Les echoed glumly, gazing out the window at the grey wall of rain.

"Dat's da way da dice fall." said Race philosophically, trying to coax a waiter into giving him a free meal in exchange for a 'hot tip' on the horses.

"Deep!" mocked Skittery. "Really deep!"

"Aw, put a lid on it!"

"Who's missing?" asked Pounce of no one in particular, looking around.

"David an' Jack." piped up Les. "Dey's at Medda's."

"Crutchy an' Porter." said Truth with a raised eyebrow. "Dey's gonna be soaked an' froze when dey gets in."

"Well," smirked Clouds, deciding that this was the best time to reveal what she'd seen. "Dey's shoa gonna be soaked, but when I saw 'em, dey was doin' a good job o' keepin' each odder warm!"

"What was dat?" asked Blink, turning (along with every newsie in the restaurant) to stare at her with interest.

"Why din't ya tell me?" exclaimed Itey.

"C'mon, Clouds, tell us." begged Pounce, a self-confessed gossip.

She smiled enigmatically. Race pulled a wrinkled scrap of paper out of his pocket and waved it in her face, then slapped it down on the table in front of her. "Yer marker for a dolla'. It's yers, if ya tell."

Clouds looked interested. "In advance?" He tore it up and gave her the pieces, not bothering to hide his eagerness. More than twenty newsies were pushing for space to hear what she would say. Even Pip, Slider and Les who still considered the opposite sexes 'icky' wanted in on the gossip. "Well, actually, I din't see all dat much, but I'd be willin' ta bet ya couldn't slip a piece a paper between dem, dey was dat close."

"Porter, ya was a liddle kid when yer mudda died." Crutchy tried to reason with her. "What can ya's a done to 'er?"

"Ya'll hate me, too." she said, looking away.

Crutchy breathed in sharply. "I could nevah hate ya, Porter." he said quietly. Then, frightened of giving away too much, he added quickly. "Ya's me best friend. Now, tell me about it, aw right?"

"It's rainin' . . ." she hedged.

"Well, if we move out from under dis tree, we'll get wetter den we is now." he laughed a little. "Ya was tellin' me, 'bout yer mudda?" She stared hard at the yellowing leaves of the tree above them and was stubbornly silent. "Lissen, I know what it's like ta t'ink ya caused somet'in bad, but ya can't always blame yaself-" She watched the water dripping, just so, off the the leaves and onto the grass. "-Porter!" He racked his brain for something to convince her, and said what he would never say to anyone. "Ya know I said I ran away when I'se nine? Da reason I ran away was cuz me brudda died." She whipped around to look at him. He'd gotten her attention. "Da two a us was run ovah by a cart, an' he was killed. He was on top. 'E saved me life an' he was killed." He was near tears himself at this point.

She looked at him in surprise - and concern. "I t'ought he was a sailor."

"He was gonna be."

Her eyes were red and her face was lined with dirt and teartracks, but she seemed to have forgotten her own woes. "Ya aw right?"

"It was seven yeahs ago." he tried to laugh, but under the laughter, even under the pain he still felt, he thought. She's been cryin' her eyes out, an' she's worried 'bout me?! A lump that had nothing to do with Tom's memory formed in his throat.

"Dat ain't what I meant. Ya brought it up fer a reason. Tawkin' 'bout me blamin' meself-" Her eyes wandered, and she gestured self-conciously at his right leg. "Dat how-?"

"Naw." he said quietly. "Dat's why."

She did not quite dare put an arm around his shoulders, but she moved closer. "Ya wanna tawk about it?"

He started to object that she was changing the subject again. She frowned back at him, as if anticipating the words. He knew from experience how stubborn she could be. And when he thought about - "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

By the time they returned to the lodging house, it was dark, and the others were already there. "So, da loveboids is back, huh?" greeted Race with raised eyebrows. "I see youse been doin' lotsa woik, too." he added, eying the bundles of soggy newspapers each of them still carried.

"An' how's you an' yer goil, doin', Crutchy?" Typically, Blink.

"Ya know, it's dat sorta t'ing dat made me chase Spot off da pier." Porter retorted. Blink's teasing was getting to be unpleasantly like torture, knowing that everyone took as given the one thing she only wished was true. She couldn't imagine how Crutchy - who had made it quite clear, without having to say it, that he liked her only as a friend - must be feeling.

I jist hope she don't t'ink I put 'im up ta sayin' dat all da time. Crutchy thought, echoing Porter's request that the two shut up. Maybe best friends ain't as good as - well, but at least, it's betta'n havin' 'er hate me.