Spot stormed back to Brooklyn, his anger growing every second. When he reached Brooklyn he flung the Lodging House dooor open, and entered. The Lodging House fell silent when the newsies saw the look on Spot's face. Bowler, a medium sized newsie Spot didn't particuraly care for, stood up and was about to walk to his bunk as Spot passed. Spot didn't even look at him, he just swung his fist and hit Bowler in the jaw. Bowler was knocked to the floor. Spot never broke his stride. He walked into his bedroom and slammed the door.

Spot threw his hat on then floor and ran his fingers through his hair. He paced across the room for a long time, trying to handle his anger, and decide what to do. He didn't go to sleep that night. Instead, around midnight he climbed out of his window and went to the pier. He sat on the boxes over looking the river until morning. The Brooklyn newsies didn't speak to him, and were better off for it. When Spot was angry like this, he was more dangerous than usual, and was liable to soak anyone for any reason, if he had one at all. That included his newsies, and anyone else in his way. He bought twice as many papes as usual, and spent the entire day selling, buying more whenever he ran out. He didn't return to the Lodging House until after dark. Once he arrived he informed Tricks that while he was gone, Tricks was in charge. Then he walked out and didn't come back for a week.

During that week, Spot was in Little Italy. He helped Pierre with his restaraunt and seldom thought of Brooklyn or Raindrop, choosing to avoide those thoughts, and concentrated on enjoying himself. His attitude concerned Pierre. Pierre knew Spot loved Raindrop, and certainly wasn't going to give up all his power as a newsie to work in a restaraunt and serve people food. Yet there he was. At last Pierre insisted they have a talk.

"My dear boy, what are you doing here?" Spot shrugged and grinned.

"Jist havin' some fun I guess. Nuthin' special." Pierre looked at him harder.

"You know you should be in Brooklyn, or with Miss Lissa." Spot sighed.

"Pierre, it ain't all dat easy. Raindrop ain't too keen on seenin' me right now, and I jist need some time away from da boys." Pierre nodded and thought for a minute.

"You have till the end of the week. By then I expect you to be ready to go back to Brooklyn, and stay there." Spot agreed.

"Awright. Till the end of the week."

Raindrop ran to the Lodging House desperatly trying to avoid getting any wetter than she already was. Rain poured down from the sky, thunder rolled tremendously, and lightning flashes lit the cold wet streets of New York. She dashed into the bunk room, already throughly drenched in water. She grinned sheepishly at the newsies she had run into during her entrance.

"Skit! Specs! Oh, I'se sorry about dat!" Specs laughed.

"Oh, it's awright, Raindrop." She went to her bunk and grabbed her spare cothes and went to change. She had just returned when the lights went out.

"Hey!" someone yelled. The Lodging House was in instand uproar.

"All of you'se jist calm an' shuddup!" Jack shouted. The room gradually quieted down.

"Slider, you go downstairs an' see if ya kin find some candles 'n' matches. Crutchy, you kin count 'eads, an' make shoah we's all heah." In a few minutes Slider returned with several candles. Jack pulled a table to the center of the room, and lit the candles. Race, being in a very unusually good mood, pulled out his worn cards, and began dealing. The newsies spent a good couple of hours playing poker, along with other various activities. At last they grew tired and went to bed. Awhile later, near midnight, the candles were burning low, and almost out. Racetrack climbed out of bed, and sat down on the floor, leaning against the foot of his bunk. He lit a cigar and rested his head on one of the posts on his bunk. Raindrop woke from a restless sleep, and sat up. She saw Race sitting on the floor, and got up and joined him.

"Heya Race·" she said quietly, unsure of whether his jovial mood of earlier still lasted. He didn't move, but replied, "Heya Raindrop." They sat in silence for a few minutes. At last he turned and looked at her. His eyes were dark, and barely visible in the dying candlelight. The pale glint Raindrop could see showed pain and hurt. She frowned.

"Race·der sumpt'in' wrong?" He smiled slightly.

"Sumpt'in' wrong·sumpt'in' wrong·" he said, half to himself, looking at the candles. Then he looked at her again. "Sumpt'in's been wrong fer a long time. But dat, dat ain't what's both'rin' me right now. Not really." He put out his cigar and turned to her. "Raindrop," he said, "I'se been a real joik lately, an'I kin jist hope dat you'se won' hate me fer it." He looked in her eyes, expecting the worst. To his surprise, she smiled.

"Race, I kain't hate ya! Yer one o' me best pals! I ain't even mad at ya·jist worried." Racetrack grinned slightly.

"Dat's·dat's·t'anks Raindrop. Dat shoah means a lot ta me." She laughed.

"Coulda fooled me. C'mon, let's git some sleep." She partially stood up, but Race stopped her.

"Hold on der. I still wana tawk ta you'se." She looked at him curiously.

"What?"

"What's goin' on 'tween you 'n' Conlon?" Raindrop's face darkened.

"Dat's what I'd like ta know." Racetrack looked at her.

"What d'ya mean?" She shrugged.

"Nuthin'. Der ain't nuthin' goin' on." Race gave her an accusing look.

"C'mon. Tell me." At last she relented.

"Really Race, nuthin'. Maybe der was gonna be, but der ain't now." Race frowned.

"Ya mad at 'im? Why don' ya wanna see 'im?" Raindrop shook her head.

"I ain't mad at 'im. I'se mad meself. Jist t'ought if I'se gonna live heah, den it ain't gonna do me no good seein' 'im, 'r any one else from Brooklyn," she ended lamely.

"Mad at yerself?" Race questioned. Raindrop didn't answer. Then it dawned on Race.

"Ya like 'im," he said. In a minute Raindrop nodded. "An' when 'e kissed ya·dat meant sumpt'in' ta ya·an' nuthin' ta 'im, an' yer angry fer fallin' fer 'im jist like half da uddah goils in da city." Raindrop shrugged.

"Race, if dat's all ya got ta say, you'se kin say it to yerself while I sleep. It ain't like I need ta be reminded." He nodded.

"Hey, hey·I'se sorry. I didn' mean ta hoit ya." She shrugged again.

"It ain't yer fault."

"Maybe not, but yer me pal, an' I still feel poitty bad 'bout it. List'n, if der's sumpt'in' I kin do, you'se jist lemme know, awright?" She nodded. "Good," Race said, "Now let's git ta bed."