"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 deey 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.
He would be getting the proof of that all too soon.
"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 fifteenn 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-"
"I'se fine. Crutchy's-" She became more and more tired of the
litany. And she'd discovered that, as when her mother died, it was impossible
to cry. She wanted to cry. Even in front of all these people, she wanted
it. Tears seemed the only way she could release all the emotions building up
inside her, but they wouldn't come. I need him for dat. It was
like a sign that he wouldn't wake up.
It's my fault. I shouldn't'a suggested we change sellin' spots.
Porter had been sitting by Crutchy's bed since the previous afternoon, and he
hadn't moved once. She closed her eyes. God, give me dis one t'ing an' I
won't ast fer anyt'in again, I swear Send me back ta Refuge, even, an' I won't
complain! All dat he's been t'rough, don't ya t'ink ya owe 'im dis once? Ya
ain't gonna hold ev'yt'in I done against Crutchy, is ya? Cuz if dis is yer way
a punishin' me, den we need ta have a serious tawk. She laughed at that
thought, a short, harsh sound. Lissen ta me, 'a serious tawk' wit God!
Porter Conlon, dis is jist one more example a how messed up ya is. She
opened her eyes and looked at Crutchy again. Oh, wake up, please. "Crutchy
Morris, if ya die on me I'se gonna kill ya!"
"Ain't dat defeatin' da poipose, a liddle?" he croaked, opening
his eyes, and managing a smile.
Porter was speechless for several minutes, then: "If it wasn't a waste
a all da time I spent takin' care a youse, I'd kill ya now!" she
exclaimed. "I nearly had a heart attack! Don't do dat ta me!"
"All da time - how long has it been? Ya aw right?"
"Ya been lyin' heah, scarin' da life outta ev'ybody fer a day an' a
half. An' I'se fine." She didn't mention what had been done to her arms.
"I met Sarah, by da way. She helped me get ya heah. She's loinin' ta be a
nurse." she paused. "I'se sorry. I'se so sorry." she said in a
rush. "It was my idea we go ta Wall Street. I shoulda been payin'
attention. I shoulda seen 'em comin'. If I hadn't been so wrapped up in meself
- I shoulda stopped 'em. I ain't nevahh been a good fighta. Even Spot couldn't
teach me anyt'in."
"It's aw right!" he stopped her, upset that she should blame
herself so much. "Da Delanceys've got it in fer da newsies. Always have. I
shoulda remembered dey might be around dere." A vivid memory of Morris
grinning as he put on a pair of brass knuckles surfaced, but he pushed it
aside.
"But dey din't hardly touch me! I was dere, too, an'-"
"Ya wanna get soaked?" he reasoned. I don't know. Maybe.
Aloud she said. "No, I jist-"
"No buts. It. Ain't. Yer. Fault." He said forcefully, then
laughed. "'Sides, ya ain't dat bad a fighta. Oscar must have some pretty
bruised shins!"
She had to laugh, too. "What can I say? I was mad." He tried to
sit up, and she saw him wince. "Ya aw right?" she started
immediately. "Ya hungry? thoisty? need anyt'in? Sarah said ta ast if ya
gots a headache."
"Not much a one. I t'ink I slept off ev'yt'in 'cept da bruises. An' I
don't need anyt'in. Ya shouldn't be so worried 'bout me."
"Five minutes ago I wasn't shoa if ya was gonna wake up! O' coise, I'se
worried 'bout ya! Anyways, thoisty or not, ya's s'posed ta drink dis tea dat Sarah
made." She got up to get it, then turned in the door, grinning wickedly.
"I 'ad ta drink it, too. Ya gonna hate it!" He stuck his tongue out
at her, and they both laughed.
"Here." Porter came back several minutes later, carrying a mug of
steaming tea. She bowed mockingly and handed it to him, still relieved past
expressing it.
He was starting to take a sip when he realized there was no one else in the
lodging house. Oh, he supposed Kloppman was downstairs, but the other newsies
were gone. O' coise. Dey's out sellin'. Which made him wonder . . .
Perhaps it was the pain, greater than he'd admit, that made him ask the
question. "Why you?" Normally, he would have bitten off his tongue
first. "Why're ya doin' all dis fer me? stayin' heah wit me, an' not one a
da odders?"
Porter was less hurt, but equally tired, and certainly as emotionally
drained as Crutchy. Which could be why she drew in her breath, and actually
answered 'the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth' like they'd
told her in court. "Cuz if anyt'in happened ta ya, I'se not shoa what I'd
do, cuz ya me best friend - an' cuz maybe we could be more den best
friends."
"Why Crutchy?" He heard Carrie ask, as he approached the school
building. Neither of the girls had seen him yet. "All dose handsome boys
in da newsies, an' ya pick him?"
"He's nice!" Eliza defended. "Prob'ly da nicest one a dem
all. He's sweet an' funny an'-" she blushed - "he likes me."
"I know, but-" Carrie shifted her books and called good-bye to
another friend.
"An honestly, I feel sorry fer 'im. He can't help bein' a
gimp."
"So, ya don't like 'im."
"I like 'im! He's one a me best friends. Ain't dat enough?"
"No."
"No!"
He'd said it quietly, then, but he said it louder this time - and more
angrily - which was probably also a side effect of the pain and the weariness
and a week's worth of pent up emotional anguish but Porter was feeling all
three, too. Neither could be expected to be rational at the moment.
Porter gave a credible impression of someone who had just been slapped, but
Crutchy continued. "No! I don't need yer help! I don't need yer pity! An'
I don't need yer friendship, eidda!"
The Delanceys hadn't hit this hard.
Stiff and tight-lipped, Porter stood, lifted her chin, and stalked out of
the room with all the dignity she could muster.
Crutchy was regretting his words almost as soon as the door closed behind
her.
Ya idiot!
But she din't mean it. She couldn't have-
Yeah? his conscience replied acidly. Dat's why she jist left da
room cryin'!
She wasn't cryin' . . .
As if ya din't know 'er well enough ta know dat da on'y reason she wasn't
was cuz she's too proud ta cry in front a someone dat hates 'er.
I don't hate 'er - I love 'er. "I love 'er." he repeated
aloud. There. He'd admitted it.
A great way ya got a showin it, too. His mind replied sarcastically.
She's ya best friend, for goodness' sake! Even if ya wasn't in love wit 'er.
An' if she did mean it. She hates ya now, anyways. Ya jist lost ya best
friend.
Porter didn't let herself cry until she was halfway down the stairs. By
then, the tears refused to be held back. She pulled her hat down over her eyes
so Kloppman wouldn't see them. She stopped at the desk. "I'se on me way,
now, Kloppman. T'anks for lettin' me stay. Tell da odders g'bye for me, will
ya?" Despite her attempt at carefree farewell, her voice trembled just a
bit. She ran out of the lodging house before he could stop her.
"Hey, Spot!" greeted Jack. He and Dave were the first to return to
the lodging house that afternoon, and had met Spot on his way in.
"Well if it ain't Jack-be-nimble, Jack-be-quick." Spot smirked at
him. "Heya, Mouth." he nodded at David, also.
Jack grinned. "So ya spies at woik, Spot? Oh, I forgot, 'a little boid
told ya'. Can ya believe I lost money on a bet I won? I nevah t'ought da day'd
come when I'd be dat stupid."
"Aw, I had faith." teased Spot. He grew serious. "Me little
boidies been tellin' me odder t'ings dat ain't so funny." He gestured at
the upstairs window with his head. "He aw right?"
Jack shrugged his shoulders, worried and angry. "He wasn't awake when
we left. Porter's staying wit him. By da way," he added, making sure only
Spot and Dave were listening. "Speakin' a Porter, I know who she is."
Spot raised his eyebrows. "She tell ya, or ya figure it out for
yaself?" He asked, as they walked upstairs.
"Kinda both. She called me Frankie once. Reminded me a dat liddle
cousin a yours in pigtails dat useta tag along afta us."
"An' dare ya ta jump ovah candlesticks?" Spot smirked.
"Yeah, yeah. Give it a rest awready." said Jack. He was going to
as why Spot was so set against anyone knowing, but saw Crutchy sitting up in
bed as he rounded the top of the stairs. "Heya, Crutchy!" he got a
low 'heya' in reply. "Ya aw right?" he asked anxiously. "Where's
Porter?" This time the reply was even softer. He walked around to the side
of the bed and looked at his friend in concern. "What?"
"She left." said Crutchy aloud.
"Left?" asked Spot who had joined them. "Jist when I was
gonna apol'gize to 'er!" Dave looked at him in something akin to shock.
"Yeah, apol'gize, an' don't spread it around, awright!" He turned
back to Crutchy. "Left as in-?"
"Left as in poimanently."
"Where'd she go?"
"I don't know! Kloppman says she says g'bye ta ev'ybody. She-"
Crutchy stopped.
"What-?" Jack did not like the look on his friend's face, or the
sound in his voice.
"Why-?" started Dave.
"She say anyt'ing else?" Spot began at the same time. He had
always felt a certain responsibility for his younger cousin, even when he was
mad at her. He'd noticed how Crutchy defended her, and he could could put 2 and
2 together. If Crutchy didn't know anything-
Crutchy looked away from them all. "I don't know, aw right." he
said to himself, more than anyone. Jist-"
"Leave him alone." whispered Dave to the other two.
The others began entering in bunches, everyone coming over once to see that
Crutchy was all right, Specs and Snaps bearing the get-well gift of a new
crutch. Truth soon launched into a tall tale of how she had escaped from the
bulls by hiding in the mayor's office - while he was in it.
"You know, Truth," commented Dave when she finished. "That
sounds an awful lot like a certain 'Teddy Roosevelt and the carriage' story -
which we do not want to hear again, Jack!" he added to laughter that grew
when Jack snapped his mouth shut on yet another 'improved' version of the
infamous story.
"Porter hasn't hoid it." said Blink. "Where is ya
goil, Crutchy?" he asked. Three elbows, belonging to Dave, Jack, and Spot,
respectively, caught him in the side. He was complaining about his bruised ribs
when Boots came racing up the stairs.
"Jack! It's da bulls. Dey's downstairs an' all ovah outside. Kloppman's
stallin' 'em, but dey'll be up heah soon."
Jack was on his feet in seconds. His first thought, coincided with his first
words. "Pip, Boots, Les, Grins, Slider, Snipes, youse out foist!" He
said, trying to get the youngest newsies out as quickly as possible Spot, more
experienced than Jack at dealing with police raids, was helping to organize the
others. Manhattan, however, did not fare as well as Brooklyn with its network
of escape routes, considered necessary by Spot, but that Jack had dismissed as
paranoid. Jist don't say I told ya so, till we'se outta heah. he thought
grimly, glancing at his friend. Spot, probably guessing at the thought grimaced
back at him, resumed working.
Grins was the last person to make it down the fire escape before the police
blocked it. Several others, either good climbers or just plain fast, escaped by
way of the roof. Snipeshooter almost got away by running through an officer's
legs, but he and everyone else was caught.
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.'
'Cuz ya's in love wit 'im. taunted a little voice. She told the
little voice to stuff it, and pulled herself onto the roof.
Jack tipped his head back and stare at the ceiling. It looked the same as it
had a month ago, the same as it had 5 years ago. Back then he'd spent his time
here dreaming about Santa Fe. At the moment he was preoccupied with getting
himself and his friends out. And den I'll find Porter an'-
"Pssst! Jack!" He looked down and across the room. The flap
through which his 'meals' entered was open, and a face was looking in at him.
"Porter!"
"Hey, Cowboy. How ya doin'?" The face disappeared, and he heard
the scratching of a key in a lock.
He crossed the cell in a few seconds. "Porter," he whispered
through the door. "I don't know whedda ta kill ya or kiss ya! What
happened? Where ya been?"
"Why, Jack! I din't know ya cared-"
"Porter!"
"Aw right!" She paused, still fiddling with the keys. "What'd
Crutchy tell ya?"
"Nuthin'." he said in exasperation. "Youse guys fight or
somethin'? I t'ought ya was best friends."
"We are." Dat's da problem. She found the right key at last
and opened the door. "Dere ya are, sir. I hope you enjoyed ya stay at da
Waldorf."
Jack grimaced, waving an unfond farewell to the cell before shutting the
door. "Thoid time's da charm. Wit luck I won't hafta look at dis place
again." He turned back to Porter expectantly as she relocked the door.
"So what happened?"
For a moment, Porter actually considered telling him. But that would make
him laugh at her or worse, pity her. "Nuthin' woith tawkin' about."
"Nuthin' woith-! Ya run off witout a woid. Two hours latah we's all up
on charges. An' ya say it ain't woith tawkin' about??!!"
"Quiet! Ya wan't Snyda' ta heah ya?" She listened carefully for
any sound from the adjoining corridors, took his hand, and edged along the
wall. When they reached the next corner, she paused, listened again, and
continued moving.
"Ya gonna tell me or not?"
"Not! Now, c'mon. We gotta get da others out."
They froze as Snyder himself walked past.
"Ya good at dis, ya know?" Jack whispered when Snyder was out of
earshot. "Ya had practice?"
Porter didn't particularly care who knew at this point. Spot hated her.
Crutchy hated her. She didn't see the revelation changing their feelings any.
"I was a boigler, if ya must know. Pop was too big ta climb in windows so
he sent me." She said over her shoulder, listening for where the warden
had gone. "Dat's how I wound up heah in da foist place. Guy woke up."
She laughed very softly. "Da funny t'ing is. Snyda's da guy Pop used ta
sell ta."
Jack went very still. "He is?"
"Ya din't t'ink he wants me back so bad, just cuz a his pride?"
She scoffed. "Not dat his pride ain't hoit or dat he wouldn't be happy ta
have both a us in heah, for dat matta, but da main reason he wants me is cuz I
could tell da bulls about him." She led him down another corridor.
"Why don't ya?" Jack asked.
"Wit me name an' exact description in ev'y copper's files? Ya t'ink
I'se stupid or somet'in?"
"Well, tawk ta Denton about it sometime, anyways. We could print a new
issue a Da Newsies' Banna', like we did for da strike."
"You fergit somet'in. Snyda' or no Snyda', I'se still wanted. It's
called Grand Theft. I don't really want me name gettin' aroun'."
"Dere's gotta be somet'in-"
"If we'se gonna tawk, can we tawk 'bout how we'se gettin' da odders
out, an' save Snyda' for sometime when we'se all warm an' comfortable in da
lodgin' house?" she said sarcastically. It didn't occur to her that she
spoken as if she was actually going back to the lodging house.
When they got to the boys' room, Porter stopped. "You go in
foist."
Jack shook his head. "You gots da keys."
"Take 'em, den!" He shook his head again, and crossed his arms.
"We ain't got time for dis! Dey don't trust me."
"So make 'em trust ya by gettin' 'em out. I gotta be ready on the roof,
rememba?" He disappeared before Porter could argue anymore. She sighed,
flipped through the keys on the ring, and tried one in the door. She could hear
the reaction from the boys at the sound of the door. Stand in front a da
beds, hats off, eyes down - Snyda's usual orders. Except they weren't going
to see Snyder. Not dat I'se any more welcome den him. Oh, well, heah goes.
She opened the door and stepped through, to be greeted by ten gaping mouths.
"Heya, boys." she greeted nervously. "I betta warn ya, it's fly
season." All ten mouths snapped shut. Blink started forward, but Mush and
Race grabbed his arms.
"What're ya doin' heah, Spitfire?" Spot asked dangerously.
"Come ta gloat?" Pie Eater added, echoed by several others.
She glared at him, silently cursing Jack for setting her up for this.
"Actually, I came - why I'se beginnin' ta wonda - ta get youse outta
heah." She scanned the room, comparing faces with the names in Snyder's
book. In the process she met Crutchy's eyes. He was wearing that sad, 'serious'
expression as if he'd lost something precious. Her heart contracted. He
t'inks I did it. She wanted to hug him, then she wanted to kiss him -
neither of which would be welcome. She shook herself angrily and took her eyes
away, resolving not to look at him again. Which brought her back to Spot.
Spot was - if possible - even more angry than the last time she'd faced him.
"Yeah," he said disbelievingly. "Ya tried dat one wit Pickles
an' da odders-"
Porter snapped. She'd been chased, beat up, dumped in the river, and yelled
at by the people she loved best. "Evan Michael 'Spot' Conlon," She
stepped forward dangerously, the 'Spitfire' temper taking over. Spot actually
stepped back. "I know ya don't trust me. I know ya don't like me. I know
ya hate me. I don't care! Snyda's downstairs. We got maybe an hour
before he notices dat Jack's gone, more likely less. Odder den Jack an' me,
none a youse evah got outta heah on ya own. I'se da on'y chance ya got right
now, so shut up an' lissen ta me!"
There was a single moment of stunned silence, then. "So dat's why she's
called Spitfire." Race's comment broke the tension. Even Porter laughed,
although she was half crying at the same time. She turned to lean her head on
the nearest shoulder until the hysterics wore themselves out. "Dat's twice
ya been told off taday, Spot." Race added. "Dis gettin' ta be a
habit?"
"I was tawkin' ta all a youse." Porter said, raising her head
finally and jerking back quickly when she realized the shoulder she'd been
leaning on belonged to Crutchy. Since she was avoiding his eyes, she didn't see
the stricken expression on his face.
"Porter-" Spot finally found his tongue to reply. She looked at
him in surprise. He always called her Spitfire. "-Margaret-"
She caught on and shook her head. "Don't-" He smirked.
"-Louise-" She hung her head in shame. "-'Spitfire' Conlon.
Get ovah heah." She faced him with her hands on her hips. He pulled her
closer, whispered, "I'll soak ya if ya tell anyone I said dis, but I'se
sorry." then pulled her cap down over her eyes.
She adjusted it and tweaked his nose. "Apol'gy accepted."
Spot started to retort, but when she readjusted her hat he - along with
everyone else - got a good look at her face.
"What happened ta ya?" exclaimed Mush. "Dat ain't all da
Delancey's woik!"
"Aw, jist a misunderstandin' 'tween friends." She adjusted her hat
again, so the black eye wasn't quite so obvious. As she did, a thought struck
her, and she smiled wryly. "Spot," The Brooklyn leader looked up in
question. "nevah, evah, doubt da loyalty a Brooklyn."
"Brooklyn did dis?" he started angrily. "I told 'em-"
"When dey hoid dat youse all was in heah, yeah. An' don't pretend ya
wouldn't a been happy ta do it yerself a few minutes ago." She ducked any
more questions and tapped on the window, then opened it. "Hey, Cowboy.
We'se ready down heah." she hissed. There was no verbal reply, but the
knotted end of a thick rope dropped down in front of the window.
"Bars?" Mush asked.
Porter looked at him scornfully. "Ain't none a ya evah hoid of a
file?" She produced one and set to work, not on the actual bars of the
window, but on the eight smaller iron pieces that attached them to the wall. Author's
note: I noticed this! Can you tell I've watched this movie a lot? Or at least
that I pay close attention to all scenes involving Crutchy. :)
"Um, jist outta curiousity," began Pie Eater hesitantly, glancing
from Spot to Porter. He had no wish to get either Conlon mad at him.
"Youse two related?"
Still filing, Porter bit her lip and glanced back at Spot. "Yeah, we'se
cousins." said Spot. "Ya wanna make somet'in outta it?" he asked
with mock anger. Pie Eater shook his head quickly and backed up to the
amusement of most of the newsies. Spot smirked, and slapped him the shoulder
reassuringly.
"Now, if all a youse is done?" said Porter, finishing the bars.
"We can get outta heah. We gots t'ree ways set up, aw right? Jack's on da
roof, ya can get dere by da rope or by da stairs. Or ya can take yer chances
waitin' near da gate till Snyda' finds out ya gone an' da bulls show up. I
don't reccommend it 'less ya really fast or ya jest can't climb." She
started to go, then turned back. "Oh, an one a youse come wit me ta da
goil's room? Doubt dey'll trust me any more den youse did, an' I don't got time
ta tell dem off, too. Speakin' a which, remind me ta put somet'in cold an'
slimy in Cowboy's bed when we get back."
Spot stayed to organize the newsies into three groups, getting Snipeshooter
as the youngest newsie out first by way of the rope. Racetrack, Mush and Dutchy
also chose that way. Kid Blink, Skittery, Pie Eater and Snoddy chose the
stairs. Crutchy followed Porter.
Porter tried to ignore him, while still keeping them both out of the sight
and hearing of any guards. She soon realized, however, that ignoring your best
friend, two days after a huge fight, two days after telling him you're in love
with him, is not easy. Trying to keep both of you out of jail in the process,
makes it harder. "Ya din't hafta come, ya know." she said over her
shoulder in a harsh whisper.
"Dat's why I'se comin'." he replied. "Anyways, I ain't
'xactly suited ta climbin', so we'se stuck tagedda."
Don't sound so happy 'bout it! she thought sarcastically. They
reached the stairs, one of the most dangerous places for a sneak. Cuz dere
ain't no doors ta duck t'rough or corners ta hide in. Ya can't go anywheres but
up or down. "Careful." she said over her shoulder.
"I'se doin' fine." He started to protest, then stumbled on the
stairs, nearly knocking them both all the way down, loudly, not to mention
painfully, since both were still nursing bruises.
She swore. "Yeah, jist wonderful! Watch it, will ya?" She offered
her shoulder to help him, but he refused. Jist don't let Snyda' come t'rough
heah, right now. she prayed.
Jack lowered the rope at Porter's signal, and waited for the first of his
friends to climb up. "I see you didn't need my help." came a voice
from behind him. He turned around to see Dave standing next to a stove pipe.
"Hey, Dave." Jack looked back down at the window, but no one was
coming out yet. "Porter din't tell me ya was comin'."
"Need help there?" Dave started when he realized what Jack had
said. "You mean she's actually here? I thought she was just - looks, like
I owe her one."
"I coulda told ya dat." Boots stepped out from a shadow. "Da
way she took off from Brooklyn-"
"Is dat where ya was?" Truth stepped out of yet another corner,
accompanied by the remaining Manhattan newsies. "We was worried sick. An'
Porter's heah? She wanted da rope, but I din't actually t'ink - Ya know she
nearly decked me when I got smart wit 'er? I din't t'ink she had it in
'er."
"Hence da name 'Spitfire'." Racetrack was first up the rope, with
Snipeshooter close behind him. "We havin' a party?" he asked looking
around at the gathering on the roof. At about the same time, Dutchy led several
of the newsies up the stairs to join them. "Ya know we don't give dat goil
enough credit. Ya shoulda hoid 'er yellin' at Spot a few minutes ago."
Completely oblivious to the conversation going on a few stories above their
heads, Crutchy and Porter stopped at the door to the girls' room. This time,
Porter had less trouble with the keys. She opened the door on yet another angry
group of newsies. Dis is gettin' jist a liddle old, God. she thought,
when she saw Pounce glaring at her.
"Don't say it, aw right?" she said before anyone could start.
"I'se hoid it enough times in da past twenty-four hours, dat I don't need
ta lissen again."
"Spitfire?" A girl, unknown to most of the Manahattan girls,
stepped from the back of the room to look at her.
"Owl?" Porter was actually surprised. "How long ya been heah?
You was in Manhattan jist a few days ago."
"I'se reportin' on da raid an' Snyda' saw me. Jist fer tellin' Spot
where ya was? I din't t'ink ya'd go dat far, Spitfire." The brown-haired
girl said.
"Spare me from Mid town logic!" Porter said. Owl glared at her.
"Look I don't got time ta argue wit ya. Crutchy, explain for me,
huh?" she tossed over her shoulder, and pushed through the room to the
window where she started work on the bars.
"Hey, any a youse know what's wrong wit Crutchy an' Porter?" Blink
asked. Only he, Dave, Jack, Dutchy, and Truth were left on the roof, after
getting all the boys out.
"Other than the fact that they're both head over heels for each
other?" asked Dave. "Not really."
Jack looked at him in surprise. "How do you know?" Then he
realized what he'd just given away. "I mean-"
"I've got eyes, ears and a brain." Dave said. "It wasn't too
difficult to see. I take it you already knew?" "Well, not about
Porter. Las' I hoid on dat subject - never mind."
"But Crutchy?"
"Like ya said, eyes, ears an' a brain."
"You gots all t'ree, Jack?" exclaimed Truth in mock surprise.
"Shaddup. Are dey comin' up dis way?" He asked Kid Blink who shook
his head.
"Spot's goin' down ta meet 'em an' bring some a da goils up, but dey's
goin' out t'rough da gate from what I gathered." He returned to the first
subject. "Cuz yestidy he made a pretty good speech 'bout why we shouldn't
blame 'er, den Race makes some comment - jist bein' Race, ya know - an' he
starts cryin'."
Jack frowned. "I tried ta get somet'in outta Porter earlier, but she
wouldn't answer me. I t'ink dey had a fight. Dave, ya sure she likes 'im?"
"Sarah's sure."
"I ain't astin' how she knows, but she's prob'ly right. In which
case-"
"Dey's both jist really mixed up." Dutchy put in his two
cents worth, when Truth started laughing.
"What's the matter with you?" David asked.
"Do youse guys realize we'se sittin' on da roof a da Refuge,
discussin' our friends' love-lives, like we was at Tibby's!"
Porter finished the bars on the window and whistled. "Jack!" The
rope dropped down again and she pulled it in and handed the end to Clouds who
was right behind her. "Aw right, whose goin' up, an' whose comin' wit
us?"
Firefly, Clouds, Pen and several of the other girls chose to climb the rope.
Most preferred to take the stairs, although Owl opted to stay with Porter.
"Wanna keep a eye on me?" Porter said wryly.
Owl shrugged. "Naw, I figure ya got enough - or ain't dose bruises from
Cards? Anyways, it woiked once, why not twice?"
"Yeah, I been ta Brooklyn. Youse'll rememba, though, dat da las' time
we had t'ings a liddle easier?"
"Uh, huh. Like me not knowin' how ta climb an' you t'rowin' me ovah
walls-"
They all froze at a sound from the hall. "I t'ink I wanna heah dis
story-" Spot entered. "But right now ain't da time."
Porter looked around the room. "Aw right, ev'ybody goin' upstairs, go now.
If yer comin' wit me, I'se leavin' now, too."
Two others besides Owl decided to join Porter and Crutchy. The five of them
were the last to leave and Porter locked the door behind them. "Da more
time it takes 'im ta realize somet'in's wrong, da betta our chances."
This was also her rational for sneaking into Snyder's office and replacing
the keys, despite the others' protests. "I got 'em once, din't I?"
"Ya wasn't draggin' four people aroun' wit ya dat time." Owl
pointed out. "Youse da on'y one dat knows yer way aroun' heah."
"As ya pointed out earlier." added Crutchy.
"Fine. See dat?" Porter gestured at a hallway, just off the one
they were in. "Dat takes ya ta da door. If I'se caught, youse all go out
dat way, an' wait dere till da gates open. Den youse run. Simple as dat."
"Like we'd leave ya heah." Crutchy was upset. He knew how
scared she was of Snyder.
Da problem wit lettin' people know ya too well. Dey won't beleive ya when
ya's lyin'! "Like youse could get me out. Ya don't owe
me, aw right! Dis is my pay back."
'Send me back ta da Refuge, even-' Ya holdin' me to it, huh, God?
Porter thought, looking through the window of the office door, and easing it
open. I betta warn ya, till I'se actually caught, I'se gonna fight. I ain't
jist walkin' up ta Snyda' an' toinin' meself in, howevah amusin' dat might be
ta youse. Fortunately, Warden Snyder was not in his office just then.
Unfortunately, this meant he could enter at anytime. The keys belonged in the
second drawer of the huge desk that filled the center of the room. She'd just
replaced them when he walked in and lit a lamp.
I shoulda known ya had it covered, God.
Snyder smiled. "I was wondering when you'd come back for your
friends." God . . . Porter couldn't even find words to think,
let alone speak. She'd been expecting this, really, but- "You've been
missed."
I bet. Dis really ain't fair, God. Snyder still hadn't moved
toward her. He was standing across the room, chatting companionably with a very
upsetting gleam in his eyes. As someone once pointed out, the game of cat and
mouse is only a game to the cat, and Porter was not feeling at all feline.
"I had a wonderful talk with your father the other day. He thought I
might know where you were. He misses you even more than I do, you know."
Porter just stared at him. "Now, were you taking that key out or putting
it back?" She shook her head. Off-handedly he raised his whistle to his
lips and blew. "Not to take any chances, you know."
Then he fell over face-forward, leaving both (Sndyer, literally, Porter,
only figuratively) stunned. Her legs folded under her and she sat down on the
floor. Crutchy was leaning against the door, crutch in hand, looking almost as
taken aback as Porter. "I din't t'ink it'd really woik." he said. They
both dissolved into hysterics again.
"Hey, Dave?" They were several miles from the Refuge, and more or
less safe, and yet another question was on Jack's mind.
"Hmm?"
"What do dey call dat - when ya says somet'in in da paper, an' dey
don't tell yer name, jist what ya said?"
"Anonymous?" What this had to do with anything at all was a
mystery to Dave, but Jack usually had a reason for questions like that.
"Dat's it!"
Finally, Porter looked up at her friend. "Ya was s'posed ta run."
she said.
"So, I ain't a runner." Crutchy retorted, coming over to give her
a hand up.
"Naw, ya's jist da most stubborn, proud-"
"Takes one ta know one. 'Sides, ain't dat what friends're for?"
"We still friends?" she asked.
"A coise! Ya can't pay attention ta what comes outta dis mouth a mine -
not when I'se jist been knocked ovah da head a few times." He smiled
tentatively.
Porter grinned back. "Same heah. We'll blame da Delancey's den."
"Fine wit me." Snyder stirred on the floor. "C'mon, let's
go."
"For she's a jolly good fe-ell-low! Which nobody can deny!" Specs,
Jack, Skittery, and Dutchy, the tallest of the newies dropped her on the
nearest bed.
"Hey! Watch me bruises!" Porter yelped. "Ya shouldn't
have!" She added, teasing.
"Ya can say dat again. Boy, yer heavy!" said Jack. He was a little
slow in ducking and the pillow caught him full in the face. This led to a
full-fledged pillow fight.
Afterwards Porter allowed herself - 'against me betta judgment' - to be
drawn into a poker game for the first time. "As long as I'se still a hero,
nobody'll cheat me outta dat much." she explained.
"Me? Cheat?" Truth protested with the innocence of an
angel. "I am as honest-"
"As dis ace up yer sleeve?" Snoddy finished, pulling it out.
"I can explain dat!" she retorted. "See, me fadda was trick
shooter. He useta shoot at bottles, an' t'rough rings an' cards an t'ings. He
was da best dere evah was." She said softly. "We traveled aroun' wit
dis show. But dis odder guy in da act was jealous, cuz me fadda was so good. He
rigged his gun, an' one night when me fadda was performin' it blew up. Before
he died, da las t'ing he told me was ta always keep dis ace a spades for 'im
cuz it was his favorite. He said he nevah shot t'rough it, but he always
carried it, an' it brought 'im luck. It's da on'y t'ing I got a his
anymore." A tear ran down her cheek, and she looked up sadly, then
grinned. "Truth!"
Everyone who still had a pillow to hand threw it at her.
A very, red-faced Pickles, accompanied by Spot came up to Porter halfway
through the game and tapped her on the shoulder. "Um, I'se heah from da
guys in Brooklyn." He took a bite out of his endless pickle. "Cards'd
be heah, too, but, um-" he glanced at Spot, and added hurriedly.
"Anyways, um, we's sorry."
"Forget about it." Porter shook her head, more than a little
embarrassed herself. "Da raid was sorta me fault, after all." As an
afterthought, she added. "Ya can do one t'ing fer me, though. Tell Splitz
ta take a dive in da river for me?" She'd remembered whose idea her own
enforced swim had been. She saw Spot looking at her meaningfully, and followed
him to the other room. "Yeah?"
He took a deep breath. "Spitfire, odder den da fact dat I was mad as
anyt'in at ya recently cuz I t'ought ya sold us out, I love ya. Ya me cousin.
So what gave ya da idea dat I hated ya?"
She dropped her eyes. "Ya din't want anyone knowin' we was cousins. Ya
said dat da foist day I joined in Brooklyn. An' I unnerstand dat. I mean it was
one t'ing six yeahs ago when we was kids. Most people wouldn't want deir
friends knowin' deir uncle married a black woman, so dat's aw right-"
"Porter Margaret Louise 'Spitfire' Conlon." he echoed both their
words. "I happen ta know ya, an' youse da most stubborn, proud person I
knows. If da guys had known we was cousins, dey'd'a treated ya like glass an'
you'd'a hated it." He smirked. "At least until ya finally lost ya
tempa an' decked one a dem. I had ta protect me newsies! So don't let me heah
anymore about me hatin' ya, awright?" he added seriously.
She wriggled a little with embarrassment, smiled grudgingly, then laughed
back, tweaked his nose and ran for the other room.
Porter sighed. The celebration was still going on early the next morning.
Just before dawn, Crutchy had pulled her away from the others to watch the
sunrise. It was a relief just to be friends again, but she still hoped . . . Don't
be stupid. Dat's what caused all da trouble in da foist place. I wonda what
he's t'inkin.
"It's beautiful, ain't it? Even betta den da sunset." Crutchy
said. "Beginnin' somet'in, 'stead a endin' it."
Porter was a little hurt. Well what didja expect? Dat should teach ya ta
be careful what ya wish for.
"Porter," Crutchy said quietly, all of the sudden. "Ya know
what ya said before ya ran away?"
Startled she look away from the sunrise to study his face. He wore his
'serious' expression - the one that always made her heart ache - but he wasn't
looking at her. "Yeah, I rememba."
Crutchy took a deep breath. "Did - didja mean it?"
She looked away from him, her face feeling hot, and silently blessed her
dark skin; he couldn't see her blush. "Yeah, I meant it, but-" Her
voice turned harsh. If this was an offer- "-I don't take charity from
nobody, no matta what form."
"Neidder do I, but, well, ev'ybody needs somebody ta watch deir back,
right? ta kick somebody in da shins for dem?"
She laughed at that. "Or smack somebody wit a crutch for dem?"
"Or tawk sense back inta dem."
"Or trust dem."
"Yeah. Well, I t'ought, if ya did dat for me, I could do it for
you?"
They looked back at the same moment and smiled at each other, smiles that -
after a few moments - became a kiss. As was only natural.
They returned downstairs when the sun was well and truly risen, and the
party was beginning to die down. Kid Blink looked up from his poker game with
Nickel, Mush, Race, Pounce, Spot, and Itey. "How's you an' ya goil doin',
Crutchy?" he teased as usual.
Crutchy, his arm around Porter's shoulders, smiled. "Oh, we's doin'
fine."