Just then, a familiar voice interjected in her self-pity. "Heya, Pocket!" Race bolted over to her side, smiling. "How's it rollin'?"

"I'm comin' from Medda's. She has a new show, a real great one," she praised. "What about ya? Comin' from da tracks, as usual? Maybe from a new goil's place?" She used a teasing manner for the last sentence, although prayed he wouldn't answer in the positive.

"Da tracks, of coise," he answered, much to Pocket's relief.

"Ya gonna be takin' me out ta lunch tahmarrah?"

Race shook his head in disappointment. "Sorry, 'Ket. Da tip I got was a lousy one. Boy, dat's da last time I trus' a Queens newsie about da tracks. Dey don't know a damn t'ing, always givin' me da wrong information."

"Ya shoulda come ta Medda's wid me. It was da best, all da songs were perfect." Pocket leapt onto a nearby wooden crate, staring out into the empty street as though gazing at a huge, cheering audience. She mimicked Medda's bow perfectly and laughed, using the singer's 'accent'. "Thank you, gentlemen!" Then Pocket jumped back to the ground and began sauntering along with Race again. "Man, dat was a great show. I loved dis one song she did especially, da second-ta-last one. It was wid her swing, maybe ya saw it befoah." She hummed a few bars of the jaunty tune to jog his memory.

Race tried to recall the particular number. "I prob'ly have. Jack and I go deah a lot. Not as often as ya go, of coise, but often enough. But I bet Davey-boy goes a hell of a lot more den even you'se!" The two fell into a fit of laughter at the thought of David's 'secret' crush on Medda.

"Geez, dat boy has it bad," Pocket murmured and a quick reminder automatically resonated throughout her mind, So do ya, ya know. She was grateful for the darkness because otherwise Race would have been able to see her crimson cheeks quite clearly. Then she realized that her companion had been asking her something. "What? Sorry, I wasn't listenin'."

"I was wonderin' if ya know dose guys ovah deah," he repeated and motioned to a small group of rough-looking boy who were loitering on the next corner and staring at the newsies like a group of viciously hungry wolves.

Pocket's stomach leapt into her throat, which was rapidly closing up on her. She yelped, nearly inaudibly, and her scarlet-stained cheeks were immediately drained of their color. "Damn, it's da Dodgah," she murmured and grasped Race's hand. "Come on, maybe dey won't notice us."

"Who?" Race wanted to know, studying the group of pickpockets. "Da Dodgah?"

"Yeah, da boss of da Manhattan Pickpockets. Not one to be crossed. He's-"

"Heya, Hetty!" the Dodger's familiar, ever chilling voice echoed across the streets and the newsies halted in their tracks as though physically frozen. Pocket's manner suggested to Racetrack that of a guilty puppy who was certain of receiving a beating from its master.

The group of boys sauntered over, and Pocket recognized them all now- The Dodger led the group of course, with the huge Spit and Dragon loyally by his sides as usual. With them were Hatter (the strangest boy ever to walk the streets of Manhattan), Spider (the best pickpocket anyone could mention), Green (the near-silent boy), Quarter, and roughly five others. Pocket wondered how could she and race escape without being cut off by Spider and tackled by Spit and Dragon.

"Ya weren't gonna walk by widout sayin' hello ta your old boss, would ya, Hetty?" the Dodger growled low and lit a cigarette. He dew a long breath and exhaled, a cloud of dirty smoke releasing from his lips.

"I, ah, didn't see ya theah, Dodgah," Pocket made a swift excuse, careful not to stare at the boy directly in the eyes.

He smirked slowly. "Yeah, I guess ya make mistakes sometimes, huh?" When Pocket couldn't conceive an answer, he went on, "So, I'se hoid dat ya joined up wid da newsies- Jack Kelly's gang."

"Yeah, she's a newsie now," Racetrack spoke up with a threatening undertone rumbling in his voice. "Gotta problem wid dat?"

The Dodger merely smirked at Race for a moment before chuckling in a low manner and turned his attention back to Pocket. "So, Hetty, how t'ings been goin' for ya ovah deah? Ya friends wid da newsies? How ya likin' bein' one of dem now?"

She squirmed uncomfortably for a second, like a small child under the evil stare of a vicious schoolmaster ready to make her life miserable if she dared to speak the wrong answer. "Ah...not bad, Dodgah," she murmured a feeble reply. "How's about ya?"

He didn't answer, only glowered at her with that penetratingly animal stare.

"Ya know, 'Ket, we'd beddah be goin'," Racetrack spoke up, not liking the way Pocket's former boss was eying her. The newsie grasped Pocket's arm firmly. He cast the Dodger a challenging glare before starting down the sidewalk, towards the Lodging House. The Dodger and his gang of ruffians merely stared at the two as they rushed away, only to fall into a fit of sinister laughter once the newsies were out of earshot.

Racetrack and Pocket didn't speak until they were safely inside the Lodging House, where they found Kloppman calmly sorting through his many dusty books which were ready to disintegrate at any moment. He gazed up when the two entered and pushed an open book towards them. "Late tonight," he remarked in a parental tone. "It's going to cost you another two cents each."

Race expected Pocket, ever the talkative one, to immediately begin blurting out a wild but somehow believable response. Yet the girl remained silent, almost brooding.

"Yeah, whatevah," he muttered and clamped down several coins onto the counter, and Pocket wordlessly did the same. Kloppman nodded at the two in satisfaction, and they then climbed silently up to the bunkrooms. As Pocket turned to enter the girl's bunkroom, Race longed to inquire about the Dodger, her past (which she spoke so fleetingly of, at least the truth of her past), and what caused her to become silent all of the sudden. But he didn't know how to go about it, especially not with the girl seeming so upset and distant, and strode into the boys' bunkroom instead where he found the other newsies preparing for bed.

"Heya, Race, wheah was ya?" Kid Blink wanted to know. "Out wid some new goil?"

"Nah, jus' Pocket. I'd bet me track money dat somet'in's wrong wid her," he murmured and slumped onto his bed while kicking off his shoes.

"What, she actually shut up for five minutes?" Specs chuckled and the others (save Race) joined in. When they caught sight of how solemn Racetrack was, they immediately ceased their guffaws.

"We met up wid dis group of kids..." Race gravely began to tell the tale of their meeting with the Dodger and no one spoke until he was finished. "I don't know much about dis Dodgah guy, but I know'se one t'ing- he's got it in for Pocket.

*****

"Come on, mistah! Don't ya wanna know about da trolley wreck in Chicago?" Pocket questioned a man as he passed her by and refused to buy a paper. "Me parents are dead, mistah! Me liddle sistah's dependin' on me!" A few fake tears sparkled in her eyes, though the man was unmoved. He merely rushed away, probably t go tattle to the bulls that he had been accosted by a psychotic newsgirl, and then maybe to kick a few orphans to the gutter as he spit on a few elderly nuns. "Yeah, yeah, run away ya wussbag," she muttered under her breath and cast a sinister stare at the retreating figure.

Pocket sighed heavily and leaned against the wall behind her. It had been such a lousy week, she had to wonder if she were in some prolonged nightmare. That would have been a very nice explanation for it all. Of course, she could see the reality of it all, she should have known this would happen someday. What can I do about it? she questioned herself with unusual graveness. Could always run away, maybe head ta Santa Fe and tell Jack what it's really like out deah. Or maybe Tornado or Aussie could suggest somewheah, dey been around. Or maybe-

Her thoughts were interrupted by a dark shadow thrown over herself. She gazed up to see Blitz standing beside her, a half smile pressed on his lips. "Hey," she muttered with forced calm, and he did the same. They were both silent for a moment before Pocket rose to her feet to stare her former fellow thief directly in his uncomfortable eyes and demanded, "What are ya doin' heah? I got sellin' ta do, in case ya forgot."

"It's dat, ah, well," he stuttered nervously and fidgeted with the edge of his wrinkled, stained shirt. The pickpocket was unable to meet the newsie's intense stare. "It's jus' dat da...da Dodgah, ya know? He's plannin' ta hoit ya and da oddah newsies. I jus' t'ought I outta warn ya."

Pocket was immediately contrite at her cold manner. "T'anks, Blitz, dat was decent of ya.Ya beddah get goin', since da Dodgah'll kill ya, too, if he gets woid of dis visit."

"Yeah, I beddah go." He began to turn on his heel but then whirled around again and began to speak very swiftly, though still unable to look Pocket in the eyes. He shoved a piece of crumpled paper into her hand and explained, "Meet me heah tahnight at 9:30, okay? Be on time. It's impoitant." Without further clarification, he dashed off and skillfully disappeared into the masses.

She turned her palm over to study the scrap of paper: 'Fifty-Sixth, ally between the bakr's and the boukstor.' Pocket vaguely realized he had spelt a few words wrong, since David had taken to teaching the newsies a bit of grammar and script to help them later to life. "I wondah what he wants ta tell me dat's so secret," she mused aloud and shoved the note deep into her back pocket.

Suddenly another voice invaded her wonderings. "Heya, Pocket!" Bumlets called out from several feet behind her. She turned and forced a smile at the boy as he strolled over, greeting, "Hey, Bumlets, how's it rollin'?"

"Great sellin' day, huh? Nice headlines tahday," he remarked pleasantly, and then leaned nearer to whisper, "Jus' don't tell Jack I said dat. He'll t'ink I'm turnin' scabbah."

Pocket giggled, glad that Bumlets had appeared. He never failed to cheer up a fellow newsie. "I'll wait 'till ya start dressin' in dorky suits and shiny shoes. Den can I soak ya?"

"You'se got my full permission, Pocket." he leaned against the wall and took out a cigarette, which he gracefully lit. Proceeding to take a long drag, he then offered the poorly-made cigarette to Pocket. As she drew a breath, Bumlets inquired with strained smoothness, "So, Pocket, who was dat ya was hangin' out wid jus' now? I ain't nevah seen him befoah."

"Uh, no one special, jus' a kid I used to know." Pocket's lie automatically appeared before she could even consider telling the truth. Bumlets nodded, believing her story, and the girl's heart dropped into her stomach. She had lied, plain and simple, to a fellow newsie. A menacing voice in her mind laughed wickedly, remind her that she was nothing but a common thief with no respect for anyone save herself.

"Say, 'Ket, ya seen Race tahday?" Bumlets wanted to know, snapping her out of her guilt. "I got a hot tip for him, seen him around anywheah?"

Pocket shook her head, quite glad that he had changed the subject. "No, why? We don't sell tahgethah too often."

He looked at the girl for a moment as though he couldn't understand why she would ask. "Well, you guys are tahgethah a lot. I t'ought ya might know wheah he'd be tahday."

"Prob'ly down at da tracks," chuckled Pocket. "If ya see him and he lost all his cash, tell him he's an idiot for goin' down deah and blowin' it all aftah he lost yestahday, too."

Bumlets nodded and strolled down the sidewalk, waving to Pocket as he left. "I'd do dat. See ya, 'Ket."

*****

Leering shadows seemed to appear at every corner and eerie sounds echoed in the nearby alleys as Pocket marched by, on her way to visit Blitz. Perhaps it was the ferocious wind, the chill in the air, or the empty streets which caused Pocket to be unlike herself tonight. The girl was unusually skittish this evening, reminding herself of her days as a Manhattan Pickpocket when she would have to watch out for the Dodger's wrath at every turn Her heart leapt into her throat at the yowl of a nearby alley cat fighting with a trash can, and denied her any voice until she reached her destination.

The alley between the baker's and the bookstore was long and narrow, decorated only with broken wooden crates and garbage. There was no source of light so she anxiously remained at the entrance, rocking on her feet. "Blitz?" she called out apprehensively. "Ya deah?" When there came no reply, Pocket sighed, "Gee, he's not. Too bad." She swiftly whirled around and was about to dash away when she was shoved by an unwelcomed presence into the alley, falling onto the frozen, unclean pavement.

"Who's deah?" she demanded with more confidence she felt existed in her spirit at the moment, and began to rise to her feet.

"Ya stay down!" a vaguely familiar, rough voice answered and kicked her in the stomach so hard Pocket was certain her spleen would fly up and make an appearance on the sidewalk. She gazed up and once again found herself unable to speak, only gulp in fear.

Spit and Dragon chortled evilly. "Yeah, Hetty, surprise," Dragon growled. "Ya didn't t'ink we'd actually let ya off da hook, did ya?"

"Hiya, boys," she answered with forced calm and clutched her stomach in pain. I got no chance, she realized, dull horror filling her mind. Dey'se biggah den da Delancys and I can't even take dose two morons on me own. "Ya beddah watch out, creeps. I got friends now, dey can help me."

"Not gonna happen," Spit snarled and slapped Pocket down with the back of his hand. "Not aftah what ya did ta dem."

The girl turned slightly, tears due to both physical pain and fear lighting her eyes. "What do ya mean?"

"Ya're gonna find out soon," Dragon answered simply, laughing wickedly with his accomplice, and lifted the newsgirl up by the back of her collar. He tossed her against a nearby wall like she was a rag doll, and Pocket wished she had hit her head on the bricks to bring peaceful unconsciousness. She tried to kick and punch against the two boys but found herself too weak after being hit so violently, and wouldn't have been a match for Spit and Dragon even n the best of circumstances. The two menacing boys only chortled at her attempt to fight back.

"Ya shoulda known dis would happen," Spit sighed in disappointment for the girl's lack of ability to follow orders. He extracted a pair of large brass knuckles, glimmering in the dull streetlight. At that, Spit and Dragon proceeded to beat Pocket until she was properly bleeding, black-and-blue, and left her barely conscious in the alley.

The last sound she heard was their vicious laughter and Dragon's mumble, "She shoulda known. Da Pickpockets nevah leave." Then Pocket closed her bruises eyelids and drifted out of reality.

*****

The night had turned cold and windy, with the threat of rain in each violent gust. The newsies and newsgirls were only too happy to be getting back to the Lodging House after selling the evening edition (which had been particularly stale compared to the afternoon paper). Jack, Violet, David (though Les was stuck at home with the bitter end of the sniffles), Sabrina and Bumlets were the first of the newsies to arrive home that evening, meeting up outside of the building.

"So, how's school going, Dave?" Sabrina inquired politely as the five entered the Lodging House.

"History is great this year. My teacher, Mr. Naleson, is great. Geometry, well, that a different subject all together." He chuckled and the other newsies rolled their eyes at his lame joke.

Jack sighed and shook his head miserably. "We teach da kid all we know, tell him how ta sell da papes, and what does he do aftah goin' ta school for only a couple of months?"

"He turns scab on us," Violet repeated in a similarly woeful tone. "First he dresses in a scabber outfit whenever he goes to school, and then he starts with the dumb jokes. I just don't know about you, Dave. I thought we had you on the right track, but I guess the bad influences at school are just too much." She whimpered for dramatic effect and held her hand up to her forehead to strike a pitiful pose.

"I'm not a scab!" Dave cried, distressed. "Really, they make us wear that stuff."

"Ah, we'se jus' foolin' wid ya, Davey," Jack assured his friend and playfully whacked him on the shoulder. Dave 'fought' back, and the two laughed as they traded mock-punches.

Sabrina and Violet turned to each other in confusion. "It must be a male thing," Sabrina announced with a shrug. "You never see girls beating each other up for fun."

"Yeah, we're weird like that," Violet laughed and gazed around the entrance to the Lodging House. Kloppman wasn't sitting behind his counter as usual, which worried the newsies. "Where'd he go?" she questioned in concern, not bothering to mention who 'he' was.

"Beats me, maybe he's upstairs," Bumlets replied and bounded the rickety staircase to the second floor. Almost immediately, the others heard him call frantically, "Guys, come up heah!"

Hearts pounding with anxiety, the newsies dashed up the stairs like streaks of lightning and followed their friend's cry. They bolted into the boys' bunkroom to find Bumlets standing there with a countenance of bewilderment as he stared at the room, which had been cleaned out. The only items remaining were the old brass beds and nightstand; other than that, everything belonging to the newsies had disappeared without a trace.

"What da hell?!" Jack shouted when he surveyed the scene.

"I'll check the girls' room," Violet suggested, only to appear a moment later and informing that the same thing had happened to the newsgirls. "Who could've done this?"

"I dunno, but dey're gonna get soaked woise den anyone before," Jack answered ferociously, his eyes glimmering with rage.

Slowly, other newsies began to trickled in, all drawing upon the same emotions- first shock, then anger. They raved and ranted until nearly all of the newsies and newsgirls had collected in the bunkroom, all uncertain as to what to do next.

"They had to get Kloppman out of here first, or else he would have gone for help," rationalized Dave as he sat on one of the beds and spoke as though he was trying to solve an extremely difficult Chemistry equation. "I hope he's okay...the guys who went to search for him aren't back yet, are they? Hmm...It has to be someone who knows the newsies well enough to know exactly now long we'd be selling for, and about Kloppman."

"Everyone dat knows us dat well is heah," Snoddy answered sadly.

Snipeshooter's eye illuminated with realization. "Deah is someone missin' heah tahnight- Pocket!" Everyone stared around and waited a moment for the girl to shout that she was indeed present, that it couldn't be her because even though she had been a pickpocket for years (and even though everyone knew pickpockets were loyal to the end), she wouldn't dare do such a thing to her friends. After the moment of silence, Snipeshooter went on, "Come on, guys, she was a pickpocket! She was prob'ly plannin' dis t'ing all along."

"No, no, ya got it wrong," Racetrack insisted forcefully and rose to challenge the younger newsie. "Pocket would nevah-"

"Ya said yahself, Race, dat ya and her met up wid her ol' friends da oddah night," Skittery spoke up from a corner of the room. "And the Pickpockets are a tough group; ya stick wid dem forevah."

Tornado's eye's flashed angrily and she growled, "Pocket's me best friend, she'd nevah go back ta dem creeps. I sweah, she wants not'in' ta do wid dem now."

In a pathetic, quiet manner, Bumlets remarked, "Ah, tahday I saw her wid some strange kid. She said she used ta know him."

"Well, theah ya have it," Shadow replied as though that was the answer to everything. "Dat was obviously some pickpocket. She lied ta ya, Bumlets, ta all of us. She's been plannin' dis t'ing wid da pickpockets, prob'ly for a while now."

"Guys, look," Painter said and, entering from the hallway, pushed her way to the center of the room. She displayed a piece of paper and read aloud, "'Thanks allot, morrons. Pickpockits is loyal to the end.- Hetty.'" She sighed heavily and passed the note to Jack and Violet, vaguely realizing that Pocket had spelt several words icorrectly, not to mention the fact that she had neglected to use her newie nickname.

Racetrack and Tornado traded shocked and betrayed expressions. How could Pocket do this to them? How could she just turn against them after all of these years? Race snatched his hat up and stormed out of the room, no one daring to approach that boy for fear that he would bite their head off. Tornado merely scowled and marched angrily to a corner (the newsies formerly occupying that spot having dispersed when they saw her approach), and leaned against the wall, glowering with fire lighting her eyes.

*****

The starving, inquisitive eyes of a gray alley cat were the first things Pocket awoke to. She shrieked in surprise, sending the cat leaping into a shadowy corner. It arched its back, which was enveloped in a blanket of grime and dust, bared its pointed teeth, and hissed violently.

"Shut up," the newsgirl muttered and slowly lifted up her head. She had never received such a beating, not even when she had made the mistake of not bringing the Dodger enough money after a long day of stealing. Now I knows why no one leaves da Pickpockets. Geez, dey nearly killed me. Too bad dey didn't, dat'd be some relief from dis damn headache.

She grimly surveyed her injuries- several large, purple bruises spread over her arms, legs, back, and face. The cuts (which, thankfully, had ceased bleeding excessively) covered her countenance and arms, though the most painful of them was definitely the long gash running across her forehead. She was grateful, however, that none of her bones had been broken. At least now she could hobble back to the Lodging House; she didn't recall what Spit and Dragon had said...

Pocket was four blocks away from the house and nearly ready to fall unconscious into the gutter when she bumped into a familiar shadow. "Race," she murmured in relief and clutched his arm for support. "I was-"

But Racetrack was glaring at the girl in a fashion she had never seen; he never even glowered at the Delancy brothers nor Pulitzer in this manner. She immediately withdrew her hand and her eyes widened in shock as he spoke.

"What da hell do ya t'ink ya're doin'?" he demanded ferociously, ignoring her wounds. "Da least ya could do is stay away."

Pocket gaped at the boy in perplexity. "What do ya mean?" Why would I stay away?"

"Ya know why!" Race exclaimed. "I can't believe I trusted ya; I t'ought ya were on our side. What, were ya plannin' dis from da beginnin'? I shoulda known soonah dat ya'd end up like dis."

"Like what?!" Pocket screamed, frustrated.

The dark-haired newsie stepped so the two were practically touching and Pocket had to wonder if Race was prepared to strangle her. "I guess Pickpockets stick tahgatha 'till da end, huh? Ya got all of our stuff now, what else do ya want? Jus' get lost." With a final glare which should have reduced Pocket to ashes, though she was unable to notice his stare for her eyes were already blurred in pain, Race stepped passed the girl and marched further down the street until he whirled around a corner and vanished from sight.

Pocket crumpled to the ground as Race's words sunk in and she finally understood the Dodger's plan. She couldn't tell which was worse- the physical abuse of her beating or the mental torment of knowing that she could never return to her friends. If Race was any example of the others, they certainly hated her. Shoa dey would, she admitted silently and brushed a few stray tears away with the back of her hand. If I was dem, and I had done to me what dey t'ink I did to dem but didn't really do ta dem but da Dodgah made dem t'ink I did ta dem, I would be pretty steamed at me, too. She chuckled bitterly. Man, I don't t'ink I could repeat dat sentence if I tried.

"What da hell am I gonna do?" she inquired aloud and leaned against the brick wall of a massive building behind her. The suggestion of a simply closing her eyes and allowing the darkness to envelop her forever was tempting. After all, how could she even enter the Lodging House when the newsies would be ready and willing to soak her the moment she set her first toe inside? She'd need a miracle to pull that off.

Suddenly an idea struck Pocket like a bolt of white-hot lightning. Maybe she knew just the person who could perform such a miracle....


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