"Whoevah came up wit da sayin' 'No news is good news.' nevah had ta peddle papes fer a livin'." Porter grumbled, flipping through the morning's paper.

"Hark! What is this?" she looked up to see Dave leaning against the Horace Greeley statue nearby. "I do not hear Porter 'Miss hundred and fifty papes' Spitfire complaining about headlines!" Dave teased.

She swatted at him. "Did I say headline? Did anyone hear me say the word headline?" she looked around for support.

"Well, that's good." said Dave. "Because if I had, I would have been forced to tell you that headlines don't sell papes-"

"Yeah, yeah, I hoid it before: Newsies sell papes. Speakin' a which, da line's endin' an' ya betta get out here if ya wanna get any sold before I gets ta all da customers."

"Why don't ya jist tell 'er?" Jack asked, gesturing across the square at where Porter was joking around with Dave.

"I ain't-"

"Dis ain't 'Liza we'se tawkin' about, Crutchy." Liza Rose. He'd almost forgotten. He tried to interrupt again, but Jack continued. "It's Porter. Now, I know she keeps secrets, but she's honest! She ain't gonna pretend she likes ya if she don't or dat she don't if she does, but ya ain't gonna know eidder way 'less ya ast 'er."

"She likes somebody else, awright!" Crutchy blurted, slightly desperately and not wanting to give his other reason for keeping silent. Goils like tough, strong guys like Spot or Jack or Mush, or smart, funny guys like Race or Blink. Dey do not - he reminded himself firmly - like gimps. He echoed his thought of the night before. "An' best friends is betta den nothin', so will ya jist let it go?"

"Somebody else? Who?"

"I dunno. Ifergit! It ain't -" Jack stared him down. "It ain't me secret!" Jack just looked at him. "It's somebody she's known a long time." He gave in, finally, thinking miserably of Spot. "Longer den she's been a newsie." He hated telling Jack this, because it was true, yes, but also because it meant he was betraying Porter's confidence.

Somebody she's known a long time . . . Jack's eyes widened as he reached the obvious conclusion - Me. Porter liked him. He never even considered Spot. He'd simply assumed that Porter had told her best friend they were cousins, and it had happened before - his friends' crushes, even his friends' girls, thinking they liked him, and it always upset him, but - Oh, sh-t. "I'se sorry." He looked closer at Crutchy's face. "Ya's dat serious about 'er, too, huh?" he stated.

"Let's jist say dat if she felt da same way, ya'd be hearin' weddin' bells soon - an' not fer you an' Sarah." Crutchy only half-joked, returning to himself. "C'mon, our partners are waitin' fer us. We gotta sell."

Porter and Dave both looked up as they approached. Dave called Les, and the Jacobs and Jack left. "Hey, Crutchy, ya wanna sell near Wall Street taday?" Porter asked, standing. "Da on'y big news's about some 'Open Door' business wit China. Central Park ain't gonna woik."

"Good idea." he said with open admiration. "Let's go."

"EXTRY! EXTRY! PRESIDENT NEGOTIATES NEW POLICY FER CHINA! 'OPEN DOOR' SPEECH SENDS MESSAGE TO EUROPE!" Porter couldn't see what was so interesting about it, but the businessmen and investors seemed to think it was important. They managed to sell more papers than either had expected. She nodded to one well-dressed man, handing him a paper and accepting her penny.

"Hey, Porter!" Crutchy called from across the street. She could just barely hear him above the noise. It wasn't as hot as it had been the last few days. The rain had cooled things off a little.

"Yeah?" she called back, waving her newspapers as she edged through the crowd to where she could hear him better.

"Ya wanna take a lunch break?" he asked in a lower voice when she was nearer. "I'se gettin' a liddle hungry."

"I dunno. Maybe we should wait till we gets a few more papes sold - Oh -" Porter produced a word fifteen year old girls were not supposed to know, forgetting all about the conversation. Her eyes were riveted on two men walking down the street. Da two people I coulda really done witout seein' fer da rest a me life. There were no alleys nearby this time, and she could see a familiar black bowler moving through the crowd in their direction. Please, God, don't let 'em a seen me! She made herself as small as possible and pulled her hat down low over her face.

"Porter?" Crutchy asked. Her face had suddenly lost all color, and she was staring into the crowd of people with an expression he'd never seen on her face - stark terror. She hadn't even looked at Spot like that.

"Shhh!" she hissed, squeezing her eyes shut, then opening them to look again. "Dey knows me name!"

"Who?" She shook her head, and held a finger to her lips.

After several tense minutes on her part, and several bewildered ones on his, Porter stood up and said weakly. "I t'ink I'se ready ta eat now." There were a few minutes of silence in which they walked down the street. Crutchy managed to keep from asking any of the million questions on his mind, but only by heroic self-restraint. Finally, Porter took a deep breath and gave him a lopsided grin. "Ya wanna know, huh?"

"If ya don't mind tellin' me." Crutchy answered.

"Snyda'. I was surprised ya din't see 'im. He's sorta got it in fer me. 'Bout as much if not more den 'e does fer Cowboy - an' dat ain't no exaggeration. An' a coise me pop." She sighed explosively, and sagged against the corner of a building.

Crutchy knelt down next to her, trying to help. For seven years he'd blamed himself for his brother's death. In an hour she'd eased his conscience. He wanted to pay back the favor. Besides, it hurt him to see her that scared. "It's aw right." he reminded her. "Dey din't see ya."

"But we did." said a smug voice. "Morris, look what we gots heah - a gimp an' a nigger goil." Author's note: No offense intended, you know that right? I mean, I'm a 'nigger goil.'

If Porter's greatest fear was Warden Snyder, Crutchy's was the Delancey brothers. He blanched when he looked up to see both standing over them. "Heya, fellas!" he greeted, voice cracking with nervousness. "How ya doin'?" He reached for his crutch, but Oscar was there first.

"Uh, uh, uh." he mocked. "Hey, Morris, look at dis!" He tossed it form hand to hand, then dropped it just out of Crutchy's reach and stepped on it hard enough to break it. "Oops! So sorry!" he smiled.

Morris put a hand n Porter's arm. She yanked it away. He grabbed both her arms and pulled her to her feet, shaking her. She gave in and stopped struggling, far more accustomed to taking beatings than to giving them. She knew how to fall, how to take a punch so it did the least damage. She stayed limp until Morris gave up on her and threw her against a wall. She stuck firmly to her mother's pacifist principles -

- until she saw what they were doing to Crutchy. She couldn't believe she'd been deaf to his cries for this long. Morris, after dropping her, had begun kicking him, while Oscar cruelly twisted his bad leg. Crutchy was actually crying. Porter, who knew he'd normally rather die than show pain, was furious.

She charged the Delanceys, stomping on Oscar's toes, scratching his face and kicking him in the shins. This was how she'd earned the name 'Spitfire' - get her angry enough and she'd go after every available piece of skin. She didn't accomplish much. Morris pulled her off his brother, pinned her arms at her sides and slammed her head into the wall. She blacked out. The last thing she heard was Crutchy calling her name.

When she woke up an hour later in an alley, the Delancey brothers were long gone and Crutchy was lying several feet away, unconcious. She pulled herself to her feet and ran over to him. She'd seen worse - she'd gotten worse, but she still got a shock when she saw what they'd done to him. He didn't look like he was going to wake up soon. She knew she couldn't carry him, and she couldn't leave him, unless . . . She walked to the mouth of the alley to see where they were. Broadway. I owe ya one, God.

Checking on Crutchy first, she ran across the street to a small theater. She waited for a moment until it looked like no one was going in, and called to a nondescript boy standing out front. "Hey, Keet!"

He turned around in surprise. Before he could start talking, she rushed on. "I know me credit ain't dat good wit Brooklyn right now, but I need a favor."

He glanced around and came over. "What?"

"Jist keep a eye on dat alley, till I come back aw right?"

Now if I on'y knew where I'se goin'. Porter thought. She knew Keet wouldn't go out of his way to help her, which let out him and any of Spot's other 'liddle boidies.' She didn't think Kloppman would be in that day or she'd try the lodging house. Anyway, that was so far. Wait, ain't Dave's apartment close ta Broadway? Well, as close as anyt'ing is in a city dis big. With a destination in mind, she took off running.

Porter found out from the landlord that the Jacobs lived in apartment 51 on the fifth floor. She knocked on the door, and it was opened by brown-haired girl who looked a little like Dave. "Is Dave or Jack heah?" she asked, without wasting time.

"No, who're-"

"Porter. I need - are you Sarah?" The girl nodded. "Help me, please? He won't wake up, an' I can't even move 'im on me own. Dere ain't nobody-"

Sarah was having difficulty following Porter's story. "Who?" she interrupted.

"Crutchy. Da Delanceys-" That was enough.

"Just a minute." Sarah closed the door and disappeared into the apartment then came out with a small bag. As soon as she reappeared, Porter grabbed her arm and practically dragged her to Broadway.

When Sarah saw the state Crutchy was in, she didn't stop to ask any more questions. Her mother had been a nurse and taught her, so she knew more or less what to do. After checking his pulse and breathing, she got Porter to take his head and between them they carried him back to the lodging house.

"What happened?" Kloppman rarely got upset over anything, but one thing guaranteed to make him see red was harm to one of his kids. As soon as the two girls entered the lodging house he was on his feet and helping them.

"We was sellin' on Wall Street, an' ran inta da Delancey bruddas." Porter explained as they carried Crutchy up the stairs. They laid him in his bed and Sarah started working. Her heart was pounding painfully. Dis ain't my day, God! She watched anxiously as Sarah and Kloppman ran back and forth. She tried to help, but not very experienced at this sort of thing, and the others kept ordering her to sit down. She did so, finally, on the bed next to his, her hands fisted in her laps. So tense was she that her fingernails were drawing blood where they dug into her palms. Eventually, Sarah turned to her.

"He'll be all right as long as he wakes up soon." she said. Porter was not reassured. It seemed like a very big 'if' to her. An' I ain't nevah been dat lucky. Sarah took her right arm, and Porter looked at her in surprise. "I have to check you, too. I'm assuming you didn't just stand there while they went after him." she said with a hint of humor.

"I'se jist got a headache. One a dem t'rew me against a wall." Sarah rolled up her sleeve to check her pulse, anyway, and gasped. The entire arm was peppered with round, blue-black bruises. When the other sleeve was rolled up, similar bruises were revealed.

"What-?"

Porter was equally surprised. She hadn't even noticed the arm hurting. "I din't - revenge, I s'pose. I kinda lost me tempa wit 'em. It's jist pinces."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "You can tell? I couldn't."

Porter looked down. "I'se useta it. Me pop - Dat ain't important. Ya said he'll be aw right?" She gestured at Crutchy.

"Hopefully. You said you have a headache. You can see straight, and all that? Kloppman, I made some tea, could you get it?" Sarah turned back to her. "It'll help with the headache."

Porter wasn't paying much attention. Her friend - more den a friend? That little voice was becoming annoying - was lying in his bed, very still, and frighteningly pale. "Ya's shoa?" she asked.

"You like him, don't you?" Sarah asked suddenly. Porter looked at her in shock. "It isn't that< obvious, but - if it was Jack there - you're looking at him the way I would."

Porter's mouth worked. "I - yeah. But don't tell anyone, aw right? I mean, not Dave, not Jack, ya heah? He ain't nevah-"

Kloppman returned, followed by Jack, Dave, Les, Itey, Clouds and several of the other newsies, and she shut her mouth quickly. The tea was thick and dark green and did not look in the least appetizing to Porter. Under Sarah's eye, she drank it anyway and found it surprisingly good.

"What happened?" were Jack's first words. Sarah met him coming and explained.

"The Delanceys. Porter came looking for someone and got me."

"Are you all right?" Dave asked Porter.

"I'se fine. He's woise." she answered quietly, not really wanting to talk. Dave opened his mouth for another question. "I'se fine! Aw right!"

He didn't say anything more, but stood behind her. As more and more newsies arrived the bed became more and more surround.

"Porter, what happened?" That was Truth.

"Da Delanceys. I'se fine. Crutchy's-"

Then Racetrack entered. "Hey, what-"

"Da Delanceys. I'se-"

Snaps. "Spitfire, are youse aw right? I hoid-"