Clowning Around

by
Spitfire

PART I

Lacey Peterson shook brown curls out of her face and pulled her hat down closer. She ran the rest of the way across the bridge, keeping her head down and holding onto her hat, a bright red, yes red, bowler with a yellow flower in the cap. It matched her white and red jumpsuit and yellow shoes. As soon as I get some money, I have to buy some new clothes. she thought. She hadn't had much time to pack when she ducked out of the tent during the show and took off on her own, and Lacey was getting thoroughly sick of the comments she got on her wardrobe.

Still running, she slammed into someone, knocking them both off their feet. "Sorry!" she said, and started to keep going.

"Hold it!" he said. "Where da t'ink yer goin'?" He looked about her age, and (amazingly!) her height. At a towering five foot and one-half inches, Lacey found herself looking up to people frequently, but this boy was reasonably close to eye level. He had blue eyes, she noticed, blue eyes that were glaring at her.

She glared back. "What business is it of yours? I thought this was a free country!"

"It's me business when ya's in me territory, like ya is now." he retorted.

"Your territory, huh?" Lacey hated people who acted tough. "Well, hot shot, I don't see your name on it, and unless your the mayor, I don't expect to anytime soon. Now, goodbye!" She pushed past him and continued on.

---

Spot had very rarely had someone turn their back on him, particularly a pretty girl. It was a thought Lacey would have killed him for had she known about it, so he was lucky mind reading was not among her talents. He grabbed her arm to stop her. That was when the fight started.

Lacey had grown up with four older brothers and helped set up and pull down the big top every time the circus changed location. She had a bad temper and was strong enough to back it up. Spot had been running wild on the streets of New York since he was six and living on them permanently since he was ten. He'd been the leader of Brooklyn for three years, against all challengers, and had a temper to match Lacey's. Needless to say, what followed was not pretty.

---

Both were panting half an hour later, neither had gained much of an advantage and neither had finished what they had been doing when they ran into each other. A crowd had gathered, Brooklyn newsies ready to jump in at any time if it looked like their leader needed them.. . Ducking a punch, Lacey rolled and came up on the boy's other side. One advantage of being short. She thought she heard a whistle blow somewhere nearby. She would have ignored it, but the others did not-including the boy she was fighting with.

"Cheese it! It's da bulls!" Someone yelled. There was a mad scramble to get away. Lacey's opponent said a word not meant for the ears of ladies or small children and stopped fighting imediately, allowing Lacey's fist to catch him in the jaw - hard.

"D-n it! What was dat for?" Lacey, bewildered, stopped fighting also, but just stood there. "Come on!" he grabbed her arm, getting yet another bruise when she tried to pull away, and half-dragged her down an alleyway.

She was furious. "What are you-?"

He glared at her. "Put a lid on it, will ya? Ya want da bulls ta catch ya?" He rubbed his jaw. "I don't why I bodder!"

Still having absolutely no idea what he was talking about, Lacey stormed out of the alley, then backed up quickly when she saw several policemen searching the street. When she turned around the boy gave her a sardonic smirk. "Bulls. Police." He said as if to a small child. She glared at him. "An' if ya don't wanna 'em findin' ya, might I suggest gettin' rid a dat clownsuit?"

She caught him in the stomach this time, just a hair too fast for him to block, and left the alley through the back way.

---

"EXTRY! EXTRY! FIRE AT DA STATUE A LIBERTY CLAIMS HUNDREDS A LIVES! EXTRY! EXTRY! READ ALL ABOUT IT!" Spitfire smiled an tipped her hat to a man, giving him a paper.

"Always knew that place was a hazard . . ." she heard him saying to friend as he walked away. She didn't stop to worry what he'd do when he read the story about a lantern dropped on an ant hill near New York's pride and joy. That was why she never gave out page numbers. She did worry about her partner. After a recent meeting with the Delancey brothers, Crutchy had been forbidden to leave the Lodging House for a month and was chafing at the restrictions.

Porter saw a crowd gathering some 100 ft away, and decided to take advantage of it. Still calling out headlines, she squeezed in among the people. In the center of the crowd was a tiny brunette (well, taller than Truth, but not by much) in a brightly colored jumpsuit, doing flips. She was barefoot - Porter guessed the floppy yellow shoes nearby weren't conducive to acrobatics - and her brown hair was pulled up in a bun. About ten cents lay in the red hat nearby, and more coins were being thrown into it.

Never one to pass up an opportunity, Porter resumed her cries, selling the rest of her papes in record time. After a half an hour, the girl was looking tired and the people began moving away. Spitfire walked over, and started to speak.

---

Not again. Lacey thought, going on the defensive. I'm not leaving this time. She glared at the girl who was coming towards her. "What do you want?" she asked crossing her arms.

The girl held up her hands in self defense. "Nuttin'! I was jist gonna t'ank ya. Ya helped me out taday." She was black with short, dark brown hair, and lighter brown eyes.

Lacey was taken aback. The girl actually seemed a little frightened of her, not at all like the boy she'd met in Brooklyn. "Your welcome - oh, don't look so nervous! I thought you going to try to kick me out like the last person I met."

The girl looked at her warily for a few seconds more, then grinned. "I get da feelin' 'tried' is da important woid in dat sentence."

"I don't like show offs." Lacey said smugly. "And 'territory' is not a word in my vocabulary."

"It should be." Her new friend said seriously. "In New Yawk if ya wanna live more den a few days, ya should know where ya can an' can't go."

"I can take care of myself." she retorted with a slight edge to her voice.

"Ya prob'ly can. An' I'd bet on ya in a fight against most people I know, but not against five or ten. We'se pretty loyal ta each odder."

"We?"

"We. When ya friend's is all ya got . . . An' dat ain't a threat. I don't threaten. I'se jist lettin' ya know. Though," she added grinning. "I don't t'ink ya'll have any trouble wit da newsies. Wit dat act, yer a newsie's best friend!"

Comprehension dawned. "Is that what you wanted to thank me for?"

"Shoa. I'se got a dolla' in me pocket an' it's on'y aroun' seven. I don't hafta worry 'bout bein' home before sunset." Since Lacey knew very well that some people worked on to midnight on a regular basis, she wondered what sunset had to do with anything. "Youse gave me da crowd ta sell ta."

"Does that pay well?" Lacey asked, a little unsure how the question would be taken. The girl had admitted to being territorial.

"Well enough. Fifty cent profit if ya's real good. Fifteen, 25 if ya's average. Hey, I ain't even told ya me name yet!" She spat in her hand and held it out. "Porter. Dey usually calls me Spitfire, though."

Lacey could not see this slightly shy girl earning such a nickname, but she took Porter's word for it. She didn't really want to shake the girl's hand after it had been spit on, but she held out her hand anyway. Porter must have seen her expression because she wiped her hand on her pants before shaking. "Greenie." she said tolerantly. "So what's yer label?"

Lacey looked down at her outfit and grinned. "Call me Clown."

"So, Clown." Spitfire started walking. "I take it ya wanna join?" 'Clown' nodded. "Den I'll take ya ta da lodgin' house - unless ya gots some odder place ta sleep tanight?"

"Sounds fine to me. Better than the park bench I was planning on." Clown smiled.

"Aw right, yer best bet is ta pair up wit somebody an' do dat act part a da time while dey sells. I'll show ya da ropes, but I can't take ya poimanently-"

"Why not? You have a problem with me?" Clown asked a little angrily.

"Coise not!" Spitfire looked at her in amusement. "Ya's woise den me wit dat tempa!" Again that reference to a bad temper when all she showed was good humor. Lacey shook her head. "As a matta a fact, I gots a partner aw ready, dat's all. He was soaked pretty bad a few weeks ago, an' ain't been able ta sell. . ." Her eyes clouded, then she shook herself out of it. "Once da month's out, though, dere won't be no keepin' him off da street."

"Sorry, it's just that boy in Brooklyn-"

"Brooklyn!" Porter's interest was caught. "Ya was fightin' ovah territory in Brooklyn? God, goil, ya must be good! Who was it? I might know 'em."

"Just some hotshot." Clown tried to remember anyway. The first thing that came to mind was - "Blue eyes. He had blue eyes. And he wasn't very tall. Taller than me." She admitted, grinning. "Probably even taller than you, but a lot shorter than some of the others I saw."

"Like me." Spitfire said agreeably. "Short side a medium."

"He had a slingshot." she offered, still thinking.

"Brooklyn an' a newsie, den. Spot won't let anyone go witout one." Spitfire interrupted. "I lost mine in da Refuge, though. Oughta t'ink about makin' a new one. Ya was sayin'?"

"He was handsome." Clown had to admit. "Attitude left something to be desired, but he was handsome. He wore a hat like yours, a cane, pink suspenders-"

"Pink suspenders!" To Clown's utter bewilderment, Spitfire collapsed on the ground and began laughing. "Pink suspenders! Oh, God! Oh, God!"

"It isn't that funny." Clown found herself defending the boy.

"An' she don't even know what she done! Oh, my -" Porter was unable to say anything through the laughter for several minutes.

"What? What did I do?"

Spitfire pulled herself to her feet. "Dere ain't but one boy in Brooklyn - heck, dere ain't but one boy in New Yawk dat could go aroun' wearin' pink suspenders an' get away wit it! 'Sides da cane!" She stopped to laugh again. "Youse on'y soaked Spot Conlon! Don't ya realize-?"

"Who is Spot Conlon?" Clown asked.

"So uninformed." Spitfire shook her head. She'd finished laughing - mostly. "Spot Conlon is da leadaah a da Brooklyn newsies. Da cane, da key - he had a key aroun' his neck, too, riight? - dey's his trademarks. Da suspenders, well we went on strike durin' da summer, an' da papes make a big deal 'bout it. He was mad, too!" She smiled fondly. "Spot's da toughest, smartest, best fighta in New Yawk. 'Sides which, he knows jist 'bout ev'yt'in dat happens in dis city. An' ya soaked 'im!" She paused, laughing once more. "Ya din't hoit 'im, did ya? - I can't believe I'se astin' dat!" But she looked genuinely concerned.

"He shouldn't be too hurt." Clown answered. "I only hit him a couple of times. He didn't seem so tough to me."

Spitfire shook her head again. "Well, anyways, we's heah." She stopped in front of an open doorway, and Clown looked up at the sign.

Newsboys Lodging House, hmm. He wouldn't expect to find me here, anyway.

"Clown, ya comin'?" Spitfire, was halfway through the door already. "Greenie, Kloppman." she said, slapping two coins down on a desk in front of an old man. She opened a large, brown book and wrote something down. "Ya gots a last name?" she asked over her shoulder. "Ya don't really needs one, but it don't hoit. Kloppman nevah shows da book ta anyone."

"If I don't need one I don't have one."

"Dat's fine. Whedda I gots one or not usually depends on who I'se tawkin' to."

At that moment, three people entered. "Spitfire! Back so soon?" a tall boy with a cowboy hat exclaimed. A younger boy with an identical hat kept close to his side, and a curly-haired boy who looked about fifteen joined him.

"It's a gift." Porter retorted. "Clown, meet our esteemed leader-" The sarcasm in her voice was heavy.

"Can it, Porter." Teasing appeared to be an old game with them.

"Cowboy, dis is Clown, da new goil."

The curly haired boy surveyed Lacey's outfit and opened his mouth. In a second, she was glaring up at him from the vicinity of his chest. "Say it, and you'll regret it."

"Brought us a fiery one, haven't you, Spitfire?" he commented over Clown's head.

"Ya don't know da half a it." Spitfire answered.

He stepped back and held out a hand as a peace offering. "David Jacobs a.k.a. the Walking Mouth. For future reference, call me that, and you'll regret it."

"But if you didn't say it, someone else would." Clown grinned. She never stayed angry long.

David nodded, and somehow they all began moving upstairs. "Someone named Jack Kelly, if he didn't know what was good for him and if he still wanted to see my sister-"

The boy Porter had called Cowboy yanked off David's hat and threw it up the stairs at that. David ran after it, pulling off his friend's at the same time. They seemed very close. The youngest boy joined in the game. "Dat's Les." Spitfire said. "Davey's brudda. T'inks Jack hung da moon, but most a da liddle guys do." She ran up the rest of the way, turning right into a room filled with bunkbeds. To the left was an identical room. It was empty, but the other held (Besides Les, David, Cowboy/Jack, Clown and Spitfire.) a tall, curly-haired boy reading a book by the window. A crutch leaned against the wall beside him.

"Heya." Porter leaned over his shoulder and smiled when he turned his head in surprise.

"Heya, Porter. What'cha doin' back so soon?" he asked, putting a bookmark in the book, but not bothering to close it.

"I missed ya. How's ya leg?"

"Been betta, been woise. How ya been, out settin' records?" They didn't touch and they didn't say anything more than that, but Clown got the feeling that interrupting them would be breaking some spell.

Spitfire broke it first, she turned to Clown, motioning her over. "Liddle bit a luck named Clown. Looks like I ain't da rookie anymore. Meet me partner, Crutchy."

"Ya wasn't a rookie when ya got heah!" A blond-haired wisp, shorter even than Clown laughed aloud, dragging another, taller girl into the room. "Clown, ya said? Please ta meet'cha." She spit in her hand as Porter had.

Spitfire grinned. "She don't spit, yet. Clown, dis is Truth - called dat cause she don't tell it -" Truth grinned. "Pounce, Snoddy, an' Pie Eater." She nodded to a pair of boys that had just entered. Faces and names began coming in a flood then, as more and more newsies finished selling and found their way home. Clown was introduced to each, and usually told a little about them. The bunkroom filled with chatter.

"Heya, Crutchy, how ya doin'?"

"Heya, Skittery. I'se fine. I'd'a been outta heah a week ago if Kloppman'd let me."

". . . cuz her head's always up in da clouds."

"Dutchy, where's da two bits ya owe me?"

"Jist a second, Fly."

"Da one wit da eye-patch . . ."

"Itey how's ya sista?"

"I'se right ovah heah, Specs, ast me."

"Dey's twins . . ."

"Handsome ain't da woid!"

"An' he ast ya ta dinna'?"

"So dis is da greenie."

"Dere's gotta be a law against it bein' dis hot in October!"

". . . cuz she's always writin'. . ."

"Yer two days ahead, Blink. It's still Septemba."

"Hair like gold, an' down ta heah! Real high class, though. Ain't like she'll evah look at me twice."

"Specs an' Dutchy got da glasses. Dutchy's da blond."

"Anybody know what's up wit Snyda's trial?"

"Three cheers fer da goil dat made it possible!"

"Aw, shut up ya bums!"

"Who's fer Black Jack? I got a winnin' hoss dat's boinin' a hole in me pocket."

"Dere's a pit'cha!"

"Shut yer filthy mouth, Pie!"

Somehow, the clamor settled into a card game. Clown, familiar with the game from long nights on the road between shows, joined willingly. The game was going fine until another newie arrived. Boots saw him first and went over to talk. "Heya! How's it rollin'?"

Jack looked up. "Poifect timin'! We gots a new one taday. Or did ya know dat awready? Clown-" Lacey stood up to be introduced and met the eyes of Spot Conlon.

---

"What are youse doin' heah?" Spot asked angrily. That girl had walked into his life on a very bad day, proceded to make it worse, and now she was refusing to leave.

"Spot." Jack was at his elbow.

"Spot-" Porter echoed him from across the room

Clown was furious. "Living here as if it's any business of yours." She had her fists up and was ready for a fight. Everyone knew that Spot didn't usually hit girls, but there was a certain look in his eyes right now.

"I t'ink I answered dat question two hours ago."

"Spot."

"Clown, back down on dis one. It ain't woith it."

"Non-satisfactory answer. I told you that two hours ago."

"Seven ta one Spot soaks her." said Race, half out of habit.

"Ya really t'ink he's gonna fight her?"

"Sorry, Race. I'd put my money on Clown she's done it before." Spitfire stalked across the room. "Spot-"

"Besides, I do believe this is Manhattan, not Brooklyn."

"Spot-"

"All da same ta me."

"Evan Michael-"

As soon as she got to his middle name, Spot turned and glared. Clown turned also to see Spitfire - now fully living up to the name - eyes flashing, mouth a thin line, glaring at them both.

"Dis betta be good, Spitfire." Spot warned. She could make him listen, but she couldn't calm him down.

"Foist a all, Clown's right, Spot, dis is Manhattan, not Brooklyn. She ain't a leadah, but as a dis evenin' it's coitainly more her territory den it is yers. Second, Clown, Spot ranks ya an' 'sides dat, if ya go pickin' a fight wit ev'ybody ya meet, soona or latah ya gonna get soaked, an' it'll be ya own fault. Thoid, Spot ya knows very well, an' Clown ya betta heah, dat fightin' in da lodgin' house could get da rest a us kicked out. An' if dat happens, ya betta become best friends real fast, 'cuz ya won't have da rest a us. Now, youse can declare a truce right now, or leave da rest a us alone ta fight. It'll be lights out by da time ya's done, so don't expect anyone ta come lookin' fer ya."

"Beautiful speech." smirked Spot, but it had taken his arrogance down a peg or two at least. Clown was surprised he took it. There was more between those two than having once worked together. The thought gave her a strange feeling - which is definately not jealousy. she told herself firmly. "Truce." he said grudgingly. "Clown, huh?" He held out his hand.

Only slightly mollified, Clown nodded stiffly. He smirked. "Suits ya."

Anger, along with that definately-not-jealousy feeling flared up. Slugging him was unfortunately out of the question, so she settled for verbal battle. "I guess another fight isn't worth my time." She shook, turned, then called over her shoulder. "Oh, how's your jaw feeling?"

It wasn't a difficult reference for the others to figure out. No one commented, and no one, but no one laughed at Spot Conlon, but the room was dead silent. "Jack, Mouth," said Spot in a strangled voice. "Downstairs, now."

His two best friends exchanged looks and followed him to Kloppman's office.

"Clown we ain't got ya settled in, yet." Truth said quickly. She led the girls, except Porter who had disappeared, out of the room also.

PART II

"Jack, I don't care if dis is Manhattan. I ain't sharin' a house wit dat goil!" Spot sat back in a wooden office chair while his friends sat on Kloppmann's desk.

"Den go back ta Brooklyn." Jack replied calmly. He could tell his friend wasn't as angry as he acted, or at least not at Clown. Something was bothering him. "I ain't t'rowin 'er out, Spot."

"Ya t'rowin' me out, den?" Spot challenged.

"Ya hoid me. Go back ta Brooklyn, if ya want." Jack retorted.

They glared at each other for a several minutes. Spot finally backed off, turning his glare on the wall. "I can't."

"Jack, check the window quick!" Dave exclaimed. "I think I just saw a pig fly by!" When Spot turned to him, he added seriously. "What is it, then?"

The Brooklyn newsie didn't answer and turned back toward the wall. "We ain't leavin' till ya tell us, Spot." Jack said.

"Ya know dat kid Karl, little guy, we called 'im Gardener cuz 'e was always swipin' flowers from people's gardens ta give ta his sista?"

"I t'ink I rememba him." Jack said exchanging glances with Dave. Was? he thought.

"Yeah, well, he's dead. Got caught by some big thugs las' night. We found 'im dis mornin'. Five minutes from da docks, too! I was five minutes away an' din't know anyt'in about it! I got spies all ovah New Yawk, an' I don't know when one a me boys is gettin' attacked right under me nose!" He pounded a fist into the desk. "Dammit, Jack! I'se s'posed ta protect 'em!"

"It ain't yer fault, Spot." Jack offered. He hadn't expected this.

"He wanted a sellin' partner cuz t'ings'd been rough aroun' his spot lately." Spot went on more quietly, not really hearing him. "Ast me - but no one was free an' I always sell alone - ya know dat."

"Yeah, I know."

"An' da next I see 'im, he's lyin' dere in dat alley, an' 'e still gots dose flowers fer 'is sista!" He pulled a wilted bouquet out of his pocket. "Said ta make shoa she gets 'em. So I cann't go back ta Brooklyn. I gotta stay heah in Manhattan an' find dat orphanage an' tell Lynn dat 'er brudda's dead an' it's my fault."

"Spot-"

"It ain't really da goil's fault." He admitted. "Jist - I ran inta her jist afta we found 'im, an' I was pretty hot fer a fight anyways. I was lookin' fer da scabs dat got Gardener - still gotta find 'em." His eyes shifted from blue to a dangerous grey. It was a grey that meant no one he turned on would be quite safe, not even his best friends, not even his family, not even himself. They turned back to blue, and both Dave and Jack breathed silent sighs of relief. "I s'pose I'd betta apol'gize."

Dave tried not to stare. Apologize? Spot? The last time he apologized to someone it was Porter. He never even apologized for nearly killing Jack when he showed up at the lodging house after switching sides again. He gave Jack a questioning look.

Cowboy looked suspiciously like he was laughing. Dave would have to get the joke out of him later. "Come on, den." Jack said. "Let's go tell 'er."

Spot looked less enthusiastic. Dave checked his watch. "Les and I should be going." He grinned ruefully. "We were supposed to be home a couple of hours ago.

---

"Since da loveboids is up on da roof, I betta show ya aroun'." Truth said. "How tall is ya, by da way?"

"Five feet, one-half inch - why? And who are the lovebirds?"

"D-n! Still taller! I'se four-eleven. - Oh, jist so's ya know in da mornin' da washrooms t'rough dere." Truth waved at a door to their right. "We gotta share wit da boys, but Kloppman gets us up foist. - What was I sayin'? Oh, yeah, da loveboids is Spitfire an' Crutchy. Dey's got dis t'ing 'bout sunsets. Jist as well dey ain't down heah wit da rest a us. Dey goes really sappy sometimes."

"Oh, give 'em a break, Truth." laughed a brunette Lacey remembered as Nickel. "Dey ain't been tagedda fer a month even yet."

"Take any a da bunks dat ain't got stuff on 'em." Truth said to Clown waving around the room. "Still, da way dey goes on-"

"Long as ya live heah, ya'll never need sugar!" said Pounce in laughing agreement. "Aw right, we gots a new goil - gossip session!"

All the girls laughed at her, but they formed a circle in the middle of the room. Clown smiled as she noticed the Pips and Grins, much younger than the others, squeezing in importantly. As she sat down, she saw a short red head glaring at her. "What's your problem?" she asked angrily. The girl dropped her eyes and muttered something under her breath. "What?"

"It's short, gots brown hair, an' looks like it jist left da circus." She said louder.

"Fly, don't start-" Nickel sighed as Clown shot to her feet, temper flaring. Another girl tucked her writing book under her arm and put a hand on Clown's shoulder.

"I don't unnerstand ya - alla ya!" The red head stood herself in one of her extremely rare outbursts. "Dis goil jist waltzes in an afta what she jist doen ta one a yer friends, ya's treatin' 'er like yer best friend. Ya wanna find anudda one, Nickel?" She ran out of the room, with Nickel following her.

"Don't pay attention ta Fly." Truth said when Clown would have gone after the girl. "She's liked Spot since day one, an' if he's mad, she's mad. She'll get ovah it."

"Speakin' a Spot bein' mad," Pounce wasted no time in getting to the gossip. "Whadja do ta 'im, anyways?"

"I was walking through Brooklyn and ran into him. He was a jerk - hasn't changed, I might add - and we got into a fight."

"An' ya got out witout a scratch? Youse eidda incredibly lucky or a d-n good fighta!" Clouds shook her head with appreciation. "Honestly, do ya know how few people's even drawn even wit Spot Conlon?"

Pen nodded. Of the girl's she and Pounce had been at the lodging house the longest. "Da las' one was Cowboy, an' dat was a friendly fight. 'Sides even dose two ain't fought since-"

"-'Fore I came." Truth interjected. "An' I'se been heah goin' on t'ree yeahs. I'se hoid da story, though." Everyone rolled their eyes and smiled slightly as she turned to Clown. "Somebody - I t'ink it was Race - convinced 'em ta settle who's betta, once an' fer all. So ev'ybody gathers in da Bronx - neutral groun', ya know? (Though, honestly, Spot knows New Yawk like da back a his hand, not jist Brooklyn.) An' Jack an' Spot is in da middle a dis ring a newsies - dis is like da biggest t'ing since da las' good headline. Ev'ybody's takin' bets on whose gonna win.

"So dey starts fightin' 'bout nine in da mornin'. Ev'ybody 'xpects it ta be a long fight, so dey ain't surprised when Noon goes by an' dey's still fightin'. Nobody wants ta leave ta eat, though, cuz dey don't wanna miss da end a da fight or get cheated on deir bets. So dey stay. An' it gets aroun' seven - dey's still fightin'. Nine o'clock - still fightin'. Midnight, one, two, nine da next mornin' an' dey's been fightin' fer twenty-four hours an' still ain't nobody won. A week goes by, an' even da papes're coverin' it, but dey don't stop. Anudda week goes by, an' soon it's been a month an' still ain't nobody won da fight. Da mayor's come ta see, an' he steps in an stops da fight, fin'ly cuz alla New Yawk is dere in da Bronx, cuz da papes ain't bein' sold an' dere ain't nothin' bein' done cuz alla New Yawk is dere in Da Bronx watchin' dis fight. So Jack an' Spot, dey agrees ta stop, an' wouldja believe da one dat comes outta dat fight da woist is da mayor! Truth!"

"Truth!" Pounce groaned. "Dat was horrible. Neidda one, did win, though." she added to Clown. "An' it lasted a few hours. Dere's a few people say dey faked it-"

"Uh, uh." argued Pen. "Cowboy wouldn't, an' even if he would, Spot definately wouldn't."

"Cool it, Kathleen." Pounce said. "I din't say I agreed wit 'em!"

"I'se two yeahs ya senior-" Pen mock threatened the other girl with her writing book. "When ya catch up, ya can call me by me real name. Until den, I'se Pen, an' yer -"

"Ya sista! An' if ya start, I can always tell ev'ybody-"

"Pounce, if ya do, I will kill ya, I swear!"

Pounce ducked and scrambled to the other side of the circle. "Guess what, goils! I know-"

"Pounce-" Seeing she was about to be unmasked so to speak, Pen caved in. "Oh, aw right, I give up!" She swatted her sister with the book again. "But jist you wait-"

"Truth?" Clown had been thinking.

"Yeah?"

"Jack and Spot - they're good friends, aren't they?"

"Da best!" the tiny blond replied. "Dey grew up tagedda. Ev'ybody t'ought Spot's gonna be jealous when Davey joined, but dey all jist got closer. Toined out as bad as da t'ree musketeers - dat's Race an' Mush an' Blink." she added.

"Then I don't think I started out very well." Of course, if Cowboy was going to hold his friend's feelings against her, then that was his flaw.

"What, cuz Spot don't like ya?" Clouds asked in surprise. She had caught everyone's attention. Clown nodded.

"Jack ain't like dat." Pen stopped bickering with Pounce and joined in the conversation. "Heck, he stood for Spitfire once against him, an' she Spot's cousin - so ya know he musta been mad if he was even t'inkin' 'bout touchin' 'er!"

"They're cousins?" The revelation that Porter's partner was also her boyfriend had already surprised her. Why it should, she didn't know - she'd seen the way they acted together - but she was surprised. This added news surprised her even more. It also embarrassed her for some reason she didn't understand, and (for a reason she understood even less) relieved her.

"Couldn't ya tell from da tempa?" joked Truth. "Yeah, dey don't always tell people - an' it coitainly don't show much, but dey is."

"Who is what?"

"Da Conlons - answer two question's at once." Truth replied, tipping back her head to look at her friend upside down. Spitfire was approaching. "Enjoy watchin' da sunset?"

"Was ya even watchin' da sunset?" Pounce added meaningfully. They all laughed.

"As a matta a fact, we was, I did, an' dat's all any a ya needs ta know, so content yer filthy minds wit dat." Spitfire retorted. "What about me an' Spot?"

"Jist lettin' our rookie in on all da fam'ly secrets."

Spitfire nodded. "Where's Firefly an' Nickel?"

Truth shook her head. "Fly got mad an' stormed out. You know."

Spitfire made a face. "Nick's wit 'er den?"

"Yeah. So what was ya tellin' us 'bout yer date on da roof?" Truth teased.

"Absolutely nothin'." Porter retorted, finally sitting down. "-An' it wasn't a date!" she added quickly.

"What da youse call it den?" Clouds asked.

Spitfire shook her head, smiling a little too broadly.

"C'mon, Spitfire!" begged Pounce. "I tell ya all 'bout my love life."

"What love life?" Clouds laughed.

"Not ta put too fine a point on it, Pounce - ya ain't got one!" pointed out Pen. "Not dat I can tawk. None a us do, 'less youse gotta guy?" She asked Clown who shook her head.

"Tell me." said Pips loudly to Grins. "Jist what makes boys so great dat oldah goils is always tawkin' 'bout dem?"

"I dunno." The second youngest female newsie replied. "I t'ink somet'in happens ta yer brain when ya hit 10."

"C'mon, let's go play marbles." Pips jumped up and ran for the door. "Boots might have some." The older girls tried not to laugh.

"Dere, ya see!" Truth had the air of one presenting an indisputable argument. "Ya gotta be da voice a experience fer da rest a us."

Spitfire looked exasperated. "We wasn't doin' nothin', aw right! Leave it alone, awready!"

"I'se crushed!" Truth stayed crushed for all of five seconds, after which Spitfire took off her hat and hit her, then ran for the other end of the bunkroom with her best friend hot on her heels.

They nearly slammed into Kloppman who had just entered. "Carefull!" He caught them before either could fall. "Runnin' aroun' at all hours a da night! An' dey complains when I tries ta wake 'em up!" The two collapsed giggling. He watched them for a few minutes, grumbling unconvincingly.

"Aw right! Dat's enough! Ta bed all a youse! Truth! Spitfire, you are not takin' dat book ta bed! An', Pen, no writin' till all hours tanight, eidda! C'mon! Lights out! Ev'ybody ta bed! Nickel! Firefly!" When the last two appeared, he continued on to the boys bunkroom. "Game's ovah for da night, Race! C'mon, ev'body ta bed! Youse two, Spot! Same rules for visitors! Pips! Grins! Back ta da goils' room! C'mon! Ta bed! Ta bed!"

"It'd be a lot easier ta go ta sleep witout him shoutin'!" commented Truth.

"Oh, no." Clown put in. "This is perfect! Yelling to Dream By." The girls laughed and began changing for the night.

"Clown, ya got a nightshoit or anyt'in?" Clouds called across the room. She shook her head. "Heah, borrow somet'in a mine." An unknowing new girl, Lacey walked past the door carrying her jumpsuit over her arm to get the shirt.

Clouds made a face at her, and hissed "Don't go by da door like dat."

"Why not?"

"Shhh!" Truth joined them. "Da problem wit livin' wit twenty or so guys." She whispered and nodded at the door. "Keyholes."

Clown's eyes widened and flashed angrily. "You've never stopped them?"

"I din't say dat." Truth grinned mischeviously. "Dis is what'cha do. Pen!" The older girl walked over. "What'cha writin'?"

"Nothin' much. Jist-" They strolled nonchalantly over towards the door, chatting. Suddenly Truth pushed the door open very fast and pulled it shut. There was a yelp from the other side.

"Boys," called Pen in a sing-song voice. "If ya ain't back in yer own room before we opens dis door again, ya ain't gonna be able ta even t'ink about spyin' fer da next yeah, at least."

"Nice an' subtle, huh, Pen?" laughed Spitfire, climbing into bed.

"I wasn't tryin' ta be." The writer replied. She turned to Clown. "Now we wait an' see who gots da black eyes in da mornin'."

---

Spot, Dave and Jack returned upstairs. "Where's da goils?" Spot asked as David dragged his brother away from a game of marbles to return home.

"Ah, Truth dragged 'em away fer a gossip session." Race replied, without looking up from the card game.

"Dave, ya t'ink yer parents'd be upset if youse two stayed heah tanight?" Jack asked.

Dave shook his head regretfully. "I'd like to, but I'm already in for it for being out this late. See you tomorrow. Carrying the banner."

"Carryin' da banna'."

Kloppman entered yelling, shooing them all into their beds. Pie Eater and several of the other boys, knowing he always called the girls first, ran over to the door that separated the two bunkrooms in the hopes of catching them at least a little less than fully dressed. Spot rolled his eyes and removed his cane, placing it next to his bed as always. He'd go see Lynn tomorrow. What am I gonna say ta 'er? and he' apologize to Clown in the morning, too. After all, she was knew to New York - and he had to admire anyone who could stand up to him, particularly someone that pretty . . .

---

Clown found a top bunk, next to Pen and Pounce's bed. She thought she was going to like this new family of hers. She wasn't really angry at Spot anymore - she never stayed angry for long at annyone. After all, he'd grown up according to different rules than she had. She shook her head at the darkened room. She still thought him a more than a little arrogant and his temper definately needed work, but he was an interesting person, to say the least. Lacey smiled remembering her own words to Porter The attitude leaves something to be desired, but he is handsome. And somehow she fell asleep thinking of those blue eyes.

PART III

Porter slapped a dollar down on the counter of the distribution center. Mr. Burrin raised an eyebrow. "Feeling confident today, Spitfire?"

"I can sell 'em, an' ya know it, Bore." she replied. "Anyways, I gots a partner taday." She handed half the papers to Clown who nearly dropped them, not realizing how heavy they were. "Me back t'anks ya." Porter grinned, hefting the rest of the papes onto her shoulder.

"They are heavy aren't they?" Lacey replied. Once she'd gotten an idea of the newspapers' weight, however, it didn't take Clown too long to adjust. "I've carried heavier things in the circus."

"Good. Jist t'ink a it as a motive fer gettin' dem sold." Spitfire replied. "Now how is we splittin'? Normally, I'd jist say fifty-fifty-"

"But you're selling for Crutchy, too, right?" Clown nodded. "I understand. Is sixty-forty-?"

"Fine. I hate ta ask fer dat much-"

"Don't let 'er apol'gize too much." Truth had overheard. "Pounce! We goin' or not?" She called across the square.

"I'm comin'! I'm comin'!"

David agreed. "Most people would ask seventy-thirty without a qualm." He gave Jack a meaningful look.

"Who? Me?" Cowboy was all innocence.

"If the shoe fits-"

"Hey, I on'y cheat people wit da money ta afford it." Jack defended. Spitfire laughed.

"Jist whaddya call affordin' it, Cowboy?"

---

Spot watched from across the square. Apologizing was not something he did very often. Aw right, so it ain't somet'in I do evah! So I'se makin' a exception! So sue me! At least Clown gave him something to think about besides Gardener and Lynn.

"Hey, Spot!" he jumped and turned back to Racetrack. "Ya bettin'?"

"Oh, yeah, shoa. Madison. A dollar." He handed the money to Race and strolled across the square to intercept his cousin and her partner. When Race saw where Spot was heading, his eyes widened and he followed. Something told him that another confrontation between those two was going to be memorable at very least.

---

"Clown." Lacey turned in question to see Spot looking his cockiest and most self-assured. He exuded confidence - the kind of confidence that immediately set her on edge. "Sell wit me taday? Ya couldn't have a betta teacha." he added.

Dave raised a surprised eyebrow and would have commented, if he hadn't had to assist Jack who had bent over in what appeared to be a sudden heart attack. Spitfire was having similar difficulties.

"Thank you, no. I have a partner." She didn't mean to be that short.

For a moment he looked slightly taken aback, but he recovered quickly. "Well, I gots ta tawk ta ya." That arrogance.

Lacey stiffened and looked straight at him - a bad sign. "You've got five minutes."

Tempers were very obviously rising on both sides. No one could smell a coming fight like a newsie, and everyone was gathering. As before noted, Spot rarely apologized. Spot hated apologizing. In particular he hated apologizing in front of one hundred raucous newsies many of whom (he thought) would love to see him humbled. The Conlon pride matched the Conlon temper. "It'll take a liddle longer an' a lot fewer people."

That was enough to make most of the newsies clear out of the square. David, Jack, Porter and Race (whose gambling bug out argued his good sense) stayed. It only made Clown angrier. "Oh, very nice, Mr. I'm-so-tough-big-leader-of-Brooklyn-I-can-make-people-run. Just what kind of a leader, are you?"

Spot's eyes flashed grey. Jack and Porter sobered instantly. Racetrack and David both backed up very quickly. Even Spitfire wouldn't get in the way of this mood.

"Spot-" Jack said carefully, but stopped almost as soon as he had begun.

Absolutely out of words, Spot clenched his fists, then released them suddenly, turned on his heel and walked away. Dave and Jack gave him a few moments to cool down before following.

"Holy -!" Racetrack exclaimed when Spot was safely out of hearing distance. "You're playin' wit fire, goil!"

"I don't take bullying from anyone." she retorted and stormed off angrily in the opposite direction.

Porter figured she'd give her a few minutes to calm down as well. A thought struck her and she laughed unexpectedly. "Hey, Race?" she said.

Race shook his head after Clown and hefted his papes onto his shoulder. "What is it? I gotta get ta da track."

"Ya can wait a few minutes ta lose yer money." He glared at her. "Five ta one dose two are a couple witin a month."

He gaped at her. "Spot an' Clown? Ya serious?"

She scribbled out an IOU on a piece of paper, folded it into an airplane and flew it across the square, hitting him in the side of the head. "Dat serious enough?"

He read it, then folded it up and tucked it into his vest. "If ya likes losin' yer money. Fine wit me."

She just smiled at him. "Jist rememba in a month dat ya owe me." Then she ran off after her new partner.

He shook his head disbelievingly. "Glutton fer punishment."

---

"Spot," Jack argued. "Ya know she din't mean it like dat."

Spot glared ahead of him, his papers under his arm. "I ain't tawkin' about it." he answered between clenched teeth. She was right. he thought.

"How many times have you said something you didn't mean when you were angry?" David added. Not that he'd ever admit it. he thought to himself, but pressed the point anyway.

Spot turned and they could see his eyes shifting between angry grey and hurt blue. "I ain't tawkin' about it." He said dangerously. Dey don't unnerstand. he thought. It don't matta whedda she meant what she's sayin' or not, or whedda she knows 'nuff ta judge or not. It's still true.

Neither answered at first. "Ya gonna go see Lynn?" Jack finally asked.

Spot's thoughts had turned inward. He saw an eight year old boy, dying in his arms on the docks of Brooklyn.

"I fought 'em, Spot."

"I know, kid."

"Dere's a lotta a dem, though."

"I know. It's aw right."

"Lynn, she's gonna miss 'er flowers dis week."

She's gonna miss you. Spot thought. "No, she won't. I'll get 'em to 'er."

What kinda leadah are ya, Spot?"

He saw that same boy only hours earlier asking for a partner, for help. He saw, somewhere, a girl he'd never met with the boy's same gold hair and blue eyes. And he saw another girl he had met with flashing grey eyes, curly brown hair and a complete freedom from fear. He shook himself. "Tamorra."

Clown half expected Spitfire to comment when the more experienced newsie came running up after her. When Porter didn't say anything, she decided to get it over with herself. "He may be your cousin, but-"

Spitfire shook her head, trying to think. She was fairly certain that Spot liked Clown, equally certain that Clown liked Spot, but - "He's mad."

Clown laughed. "Really?"

"No, I mean, madder den he normally'd be. Ya musta hit a noive or somet'in, cuz da las' time I seen 'im like dat - I gotta tawk ta Jack."

"Not Spot?" Clown asked, a little surprised.

"Not in dat mood! Evan ain't nevah hit me, but - he ain't safe when he's like dis!"

Clown shook her head a little disbelievingly. She honestly couldn't see anything in the Brooklyn leader to fear. Evan. His real name's Evan. she thought, then. Why do I care?

"C'mon, we's wasted too much time awready." Porter started. "Now, da foist t'ing ya gotta loin is headlines. Good headlines mean good sellin', right?"

"Right." Clown said cautiously. It sounded like a trick question.

"Wrong. Headlines don't sell papes. Newsies . . ."

---

"I don't like seein' 'im like dat." Jack shook his head. "He's gonna hoit somebody, an' it's prob'ly gonna be hisself." Then he laughed a little. "But, oh, I ain't seen anyt'in so funny since yer foist day as a newsie!"

"What is it?" David was getting a little annoyed with this.

"He likes 'er!" Jack replied.

"Is that all?" It had been fairly obvious for a while now.

"No, I mean he likes 'er, like I ain't seen Spot dat gone on somebody." His mind jumped tracks again. "Dis business wit Gardner an' Lynn-"

David nodded soberly. "I'm worried too."

---

Pounce and Truth passed by, overhearing and exchanged glances. Spot had a new girl? One his best friends didn't like? And her name was Lynn? It meant only one thing to them - fresh gossip.

"EXTRY! EXTRY! LADIE'S UNDERCLOTHES FOUND IN DRAWER A POLICE CHEIF'S DESK! SCANDAL ROCKS POLICE DEPARTMENT!" Spot hawked the headlines loudly and enthusiastically in an effort to drown out his own thoughts. It was unsuccessful. He was more than a little angry with himself. He'd snapped at his best friends. He'd been responsible for the death of one of his own newsies - one of his youngest newsies, for goodness' sake! His attempt to apologize with Clown had backfired miserably. And speaking of Clown, there was something disturbing in an entirely different way about the new girl.

PART IV

"Spitfire?" They were on a lunch break, making the most of two apples that Clown had considerately not seen Spitfire filch off a fruit vendor's stand. "I'm prying and I know it, but when was the last time you saw Spot that angry? Someone said something about Jack standing for you to him and I wondered-"

"Yeah, it was at me." Porter interrupted. "It ain't somet'in I like tawkin' 'bout, so if ya really wanna know, ast one a da odders, aw right? Dutchy, maybe. He knows most a it, an' he'll be fair. Tell 'im 's fine wit me, I jist don't wanna tawk about it. Heah." she polished off her apple down to the core, and spit out the seeds. "Ya been performin' most a da mornin', let's see ya sell a pape."

Clown had already looked through the articles and picked her first attempt. "EXTRA! EXTRA!" she called. "MAYOR'S DAUGHTER DANCING IN BAR! FAMILY REFUSES COMMENT!" Inspired, she added. "SHOCKING PICTURES!" She was mobbed by men, young and old who wanted to see these 'shocking pictures'.

When she had a chance to catch her breath, she looked over at Spitfire proudly. The other girl clapped silently. "Couldn't a done betta meself. Society pages?" she guessed.

Her friend nodded. "There was a ball last night."

"Well, ya's coitainly a fast loiner."

Clown shrugged. "Have you ever seen a circus poster?" When Spitfire nodded, she added. "Okay, have you ever been to a circus?"

"Naw, hoid about 'em, though."

"Well, let's just say, poster makers aren't too different from headline writers." Clown laughed.

---

Since they'd been distracted by the fight that morning, the girls did their bruise check when everyone returned to the lodging house in the afternoon. Pie Eater, sporting a large bump on his forehead, was their first victim. "How ya feelin', Pie?" Pen put an arm around his shoulders and smiled at him wickedly.

"Aw, ya ain't gonna soak a guy dat's been woikin' all day, is ya?" Pie Eater grinned winningly.

Pen looked over at Truth, Nickel and Clouds who had cornered Specs, Bumlets, and Kid Blink. "Whaddaya say goils?"

"I dunno, depends how sorry dey is." Truth answered. The unofficial leader of Manhattan's girls whistled. "Clown, Pounce, Fly, Porter, Pips, Grins - how'd youse like da royal treatment fer da next week or so?"

"Sounds fine wit me." Spitfire replied.

Firefly smiled. "I could go fer a poisonal maid fer awhile."

"Great!" Pips had no high opinion of boys anyway. "But if any a dem touches me rubber collection, I'll soak 'em!"

The older newsies, male and female laughed at this.

"C'mon, we din't mean anyt'in!" Blink protested. "An' we'se real sorry!" The boys turned their most contrite faces on their captors.

"Den ya can show it by keepin' da bunkroom neat fer us." Truth pronounced sentence and the four exchanged rueful glances. "Startin' now."

"Aw, c'mon! Jack-!"

"It's yer own faults." came a voice from the washroom.. It was the final word on the subject, since none of the defendants were foolish enough to take the matter to Kloppman.

"Get ta woik den." Nickel shooed them to the other room.

"I don't get to soak them?" Clown mock-pouted. This threat, serious or not, from a fighter of Spot Conlon's caliber was enough to hurry the four on their way with Grins and Pips close behind.

"We'se guardin' ya." Grins explained. The bunkroom filled with laughter.

---

"Pounce," Clown asked over a game of cards, her back turned very obviously on the Brooklyn leader who had just come back from selling and was ignoring her just as obviously.

"Hmm?"

"What was it you were going to say when Pen stopped you last night?"

"What? Oh!" Pounce grinned slowly. "Well, me sista'll kill me if she knows I toldja dis, but I was jist gonna mention da reason she's always so quick ta defend Cowboy."

Clown looked over her shoulder at where Pen was scribbling furiously in her book. "She likes Jack?"

Pounce nodded. "But he's goin' wit Davey's sista. An' dey's really in love. I mean, love as in Race is takin' bets on who gets hitched foist - Jack an' Sarah or Crutchy an' Spitfire."

"What other kind of love is there?" Clown asked in surprise.

Pounce was amused. "Where ya been all ya life? Oh, dere's love like Blink who's friends wit all his goils, even afta dey breaks up. An' dere's Bumlets an' Clouds who went out a coupla yeahs ago an' broke up. Dey still likes each odder no matta what dey says. An' den a coise dere's Spot-"

"Spot?" Clown raised her eyebrows at the other girl's tone and told herself that she was asking purely out of curiousity and not because the Brooklyn newsie's love-life interested her in the least. "Did I hear me name?" Spot stood, smirking, at her elbow. If he hadn't looked so smug she would have been embarrassed. As it was, she was just angry.

She stood up. "Actually, we were trying to figure out how to get this stain out of the floor." She looked him up and down and smiled. "Then again, maybe we were talking about you."

Pounce put her head in her hands.

---

"Can't youse two spend five minutes in each odder's presence witout fightin'?" Pounce asked after yet another fight had been averted and she and Clown who were quickly becoming best friends sat in the girls' bunkroom, finishing their card game as far away from Spot as possible.

"If his high and mightiness dropped the attitude, we might." Clown replied. Pounce couldn't help thinking that her friend's attitude could be at least as bad as Spot's. "What were we talking about?"

Pounce shook her head and tried to remember, then grinned. "Oh, Spot an' da goils! Dere is a ladies man! He's got a new one ev'y week practically. Dere's always someone ready ta take da las' one's place." "Really? I wouldn't have thought he was that popular. Speaking of which, what on earth does Firefly see in him?"

"Odder den da fact dat he's prob'ly da handsomest boy in New Yawk?" Pounce asked with amusement. "He can be a real charmer when he wants." Clown laughed. "I'se serious! Youse two wasn't introduced da best way, ya gotta admit. He's really nice, sometimes - not dat I'd get in da way a dat tempa! But I went out wit 'im once an' no hard feelin's now which is a lot ta say." She grinned ruefully. "Jist as happy we broke up, though. Spot ain't da steadiest guy in da woild. An' he's nice an' all, nevah treated anyone bad, 'cept dat he don't seem ta care dat much, ya know? Dey ain't even friends like wit Blink. He's wit 'em for a while, gets a few kisses - sometimes more outta dem an' den dey break up. An' ev'yboddy t'inks dey's gonna be dif'rent. Maybe dis one is - I din't tell ya, did I?" She leaned in, excited to share the news. "Spot's got a new goil - Lynn. Truth an' me overhoid."

---

"Aw right, Frankie, what's up?" Jack sighed. He was about to leave for a date with Sarah, but when Spitfire called him by his real name in that tone of voice it meant he wasn't getting rid of her easily.

"Whaddaya mean?" he asked, retying his bandana and checking his hair in the mirror.

"He's me cousin, Jack. Why's Spot so upset?" He turned to looked at her and saw she was really worried.

He glanced around to make sure no one else was listening. "One a his boys was killed yestidy an' he's blamin' hisself."

She gasped, and he remembered belatedly that she'd spent two months as a Brooklyn newsie and regreted being so blunt. Knowing how she got on with the younger kids, Gardner was probably one of her friends. "Who?" Not Legs not Pickles not Owl not Owl please, God, not Owl, not Splitz- Her mind babbled for several seconds.

Jack didn't want to tell her. "Ya know a kid named Gardner?"

"He's eight!" She whispered after several seconds. "Is - was - oh, God-" Oh,God! No! Why? She stared at him dumbly, grieving.

"I know." He hugged her for a moment, then went to get Crutchy and Truth before keeping his date with the person who could best comfort him.

---

"Porter?" Crutchy put his arm around his girl's shoulders.

It was a relief to cry. "One a me friends - in Brooklyn-"

"Jack told us." Truth said. "Ya aw right?"

"It's jist. He was such a liddle kid. I know - it happens all da time in dis city, but dat don't make it right, do it?"

"Naw, it don't. Nevah will."

---

Spot sought his bed early that night. David had gone home. Jack had a date. And he just didn't feel up to one of Truth's stories or Race's poker games. He couldn't get Karl's face out of his head. Eight yeahs old. Was I dat young at eight yeahs old? Gardner had been one of the rare innocents of New York City. Most newsies had had three times that many years' worth of heartache and growing up at that age than their years told. Spot certainly had . . .

PART V

"Where's mama?"

"Shaddup!" Patrick Conlon picked the pan off the stove like it was a foreign object and filled it with water. "Go get some bread." He handed his son a few cents.

"But-"

"Go!"

The eight year old took the money ran down the stairs, still wondering. 'Mama' wasn't his real mother - only his aunt. He'd never met his real mother. He didn't know her face, not even her name. An' I don't wanna. His father's younger sister came by the house every evening to cook, clean, gossip, an' criticize her brother's care for his only child - or she had until a couple weeks ago. His father refused to talk about what had happened to her. Evan knew she couldn't be dead. He'd known people who had died before - he'd been to the funeral of his best friend's mother barely a few months ago. So his father couldn't be protecting him from that. He ran down the street, still thinking.

"Hey, Evan, wait up!"

He slowed as his best friend came running up beside him and grinned. "Heya, Jack."

Frankie "Jack Kelly" Sullivan, who used his mother's maiden name and would fight anyone who called him different, rolled his eyes. "What, is dat jist da funniest t'ing ya evah hoid dat ya gotta keep bringin' it up?"

"Jist about!" Evan retorted.

Jack shoved him. He pulled off his hat and bowed mockingly. "I'se so sorry, Mista Sullivan."

"Don't call me dat!" In a few seconds the two were rolling down White Street (an entirely unfitting name, considering how dirty the neighborhood was). A few ladies pulled their skirts out of the way and several wagon drivers cursed, but most people ignored the fight. The sight was common enough and the grins on both faces made it clear that that they were friends.

"Ya comin' ovah tanight?" Evan asked, in the midst of the wrestling match.

Jack shook his head, just barely escaping a headlock. "Naw, I'se gotta poimanent residence now. Pop's out again."

"I give it two weeks." His friend predicted. The other boy laughed.

"I give it one, if dat! Ya really t'ink my pop could keep outta jail for two weeks?"

"It is a longshot, ain't it?" Evan replied. Jist as well, too. "Cowboy, why da ya stay wit 'im, when all 'e does is hit ya?"

They wound down and broke apart. "Yer one ta tawk!" the bigger boy retorted. "He'd hit me woise if I left. Anyways it ain't like I see 'im dat much. An' by da next time 'e's out-"

"Yeah, I know, ya'll be in Santa Fe."

"Dat's right." Jack pulled his cowboy hat onto his head proudly. It completely covered his ears, and he had to tip it back to see, but it remained his most prized possession. "So what'cha doin' out?"

He nodded at the baker's as they approached. "Gotta get some bread."

Jack looked in the window of the shop. "How much?"

'Bout five cents more den I got. Evan thought, but didn't say. Jack caught his eye and understood.

"Same routine?" he whispered as his friend entered. Evan nodded. He did his best to look small and pathetic, but honest as he studied the loaves of bread on the counter. For the money he had he could buy two day old rolls from the back room. With a little maneuvering, though . . .

"Boy!" Evan looked up innocently, taking an instant dislike to the imposing, flour-covered woman leaning over the counter.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"What do you want?" Mrs. Kesey barely looked at him as she spoke, searching the store for more likely customers. Evan had the feeling, however, that if he'd made the slightest move toward one of the cookies in the basket on the counter, she'd have had the police in there in seconds.

"Jist loaf a bread, ma'am."

"I see, and can you pay for this loaf of bread?" The woman asked, clearly expecting otherwise.

"A coise, ma'am! Me mudda gave me a whole quarter-" Jack, where are ya? he thought. Right on cue, a loud crash sounded in the back of the shop. Even Evan, who had been expecting it, jumped. It was one of Frankie's better efforts. The woman immediately ran for the back, yelling all the way. Evan quickly grabbed two loaves of bread from the shelf, snatching two cookies for good measure.

Jack tore around the front, grinning. "Glad I don't woik fer her!" He laughed. "C'mon, if we'se caught we'se dead."

"Den help me heah!" Evan shoved one loaf into his friend's arms.

"Oh, don't I get a cookie?" Jack teased.

Evan glared at him. "Can we get outta heah?"

They cut through an alley and down another street, running until they were sure the baker could not have followed them.

"Heah, come dis way." Jack shinnied up a porch pole of one of the many tenement buildings. They collapsed outside a window to enjoy their ill-gotten spoils. Evan graciously handed one cookie to Jack, saving the other for himself. "Dis is where I'se stayin'." Cowboy explained, through a mouthful of cookie. "I don't t'ink Pop's home yet."

Not while da bars're still open. Evan thought. Michael Sullivan was actually fairly popular in that part of Brooklyn. Handsome and charming, he never lacked a friend willing to buy him a drink. Evan tended to take his friend's opinion of Jack's father, however and it was not a high one. His own father, at least, never started drinking until after supper. Speaking of which - "I betta be gettin' home."

~*~

"An' where were you?" Patrick asked glowering.

"Jist at da baker's. Frankie got a loaf, too." Evan pointed out the obvious. Jack, who had opted to come along, nodded, and Patrick seemed just to notice him.

"An' runnin' wild all ovah New Yawk, 'tween heah an' dere." he muttered. "I heah yer fadder's back in town, Francis."

"Yes, sir."

~*~

'Mama' had still not appeared by that evening, so Patrick undertook the cooking on his own. Watching, Evan was glad the bread was made and unspoilable. The final result was inedible, but by then the boy had eaten almost half of the loaf and was satisfied. His father gave up on the cooking, ate the rest of the bread, and sent Evan to the other room to collect a book and a bottle of beer. The former was for Evan, the latter, for Patrick. Evan began reading, watching his father warily. About four pages (and two bottles) later, Patrick stood up and began pacing agitatedly.

"Life coulda been betta fer us." his father said.

Evan closed his eyes recognizing the coming speech. Every time he got a few drinks in him, Patrick would begin this.

"If yer mudda had stayed-" Evan began to wish he could close his ears as well. He had no wish to hear more about his mother, the woman who had left him behind on a door step barely a day after he was born. "I loved 'er." Patrick mourned over his bottle. "I loved 'em both." He seemed to see his son once again. "Did I evah tell ya 'bout Elizabeth?"

On'y a hundred times.

"Her eyes was grey. Always laughin' dey was. She was always laughin'. She laughed when I ast 'er ta marry me. Said who else was I plannin' ta ask, if not her? She'd decided I'se da man fer her yeahs ago. She useta say I had da key ta 'er heart." He reached for the string that hung around his neck and twisted it around his finger. A small, silver key flashed in the lamplight. "She always wore dat liddle lock on a chain. People useta laugh cuz it was such a strange kinda jewelry fer a goil ta weah. Liz'd jist laguh back an' kiss me. An' I'd laugh, too, cuz I knew what dey din't. I knew it meant she was mine. She was mine."

Until he came. Evan's thought was not impatient, only a little pitying - and angry that anyone could reduce his usually strong father to a state of tears.

Because Patrick was crying. "Until he came." he echoed, too lost in memory to see the lamp burn out and leave the two in darkness. Evan turned it up and relit it, finding the wick by memory as he listened.

"I knew he wanted 'er." his father said quietly. Evan felt another surge of anger at this nameless man as well as at the woman he had never met. "I knew I couldn't fight 'im, but I nevah t'ough she'd leave me . . ."

That was the end of the speech. Evan slid out of his chair and moved around the table to his father's side. "Aw right, Pop." he said as if he were the parent calming a bewildered child.

"I loved 'er. Trusted 'er . . ."

"I know, Pop. It's late. Why don't ya go ta sleep?" Patrick stood up as Evan peeled his fingers off the bottle. He followed drunkenly as Even led the way to the apartment's single bedroom.

His father rolled into bed and soon began snoring away. Evan tucked him in, and stared at him for a few moments. He could never see himself exposing so much of himself to one person like that. It was asking for trouble.

Tink. Tink. "Psst! Evan!"

He heard a tap on the glass of the bedroom window. Cowboy's face peered in. Even raised the window and nodded over his shoulder warningly. "Pop's sleepin'." A dark bruise covered one side of Jack's face, but he didn't comment on it, just pulled his friend inside. There were no extra blankets in the apartment - Evan's father was using the only one. The boys curled up together in a corner and fell asleep, their faces exhibiting for the first time that day, the innocence that eight year olds were meant to show.

~*~

Spot smiled sadly. He hadn't thought about those days in a long time. A sound at the door of the room caught his ear, and he looked up to see Jack entering - late as usual. "Jack!" he hissed quietly as his friend came over to climb into the neighboring bunk.

Jack turned, surprised. "Yeah?" the Manhattan leader asked. He was too keyed up from his date to sleep, so he didn't mention the after-midnight hour.

"'Memba da old bakery routine?"

Jack smiled. "G-d, dat was yeahs ago! 'Fore-"

"-'Fore you left Brooklyn fer da las' time."

~*~

"I ain't waitin' fer 'im ta come back again." Jack explained. "I'se sick a it. I'se gonna try somet'in else. I'll woik da trains or somet'in. Dat'll get me ta Santa Fe! Why don't'cha come?"

"Not while Pop's sick." Evan said adamantly. Jack looked like he wanted to protest, but didn't say what both knew - that Patrick Conlon's illness would likely be over all too soon, and permanently.

"Aw right." Jack stood up uncertainly. Evan rose as well. They spat in their hands and shook. What was there to say? They'd been best friends for all of their ten years and now they would probably never see each other again.

"Rope a bull fer me when ya get dere." Evan faked a grin.

"Shoa. Ya's on yer honor ta keep drivin' old Kesey mad." Jack said the same way.

"I'll stop by an' see yer mudda ev'y time I gets da chance." Evan referred to the small plot in the cemetery several blocks away.

"T'anks." Then, since there seemed nothing else to say, Jack turned and headed off.

Evan watched him go for a moment, then turned himself. He had things to do, after all. People left all the time. They died or changed or just disappeared like his aunt. It wasn't something to cry about - especially since ten-year-old boys were far too grown up to cry. It was the law of change.

~*~

"Buy me las' pape, Miss? Please? 'S only a penny."

"Hey, Spot!"

The boy did not turn from his sale. "Jist a minute! Can't'cha see I'se woikin'? T'ank ya, Miss." He favored the woman with his most grateful smile, pocketing the dime she'd given him with delight. Only then did he turn, tilting up his gray hat to look up at Piano. The present from Sky was one of his most prized possessions, but it was still a bit large.

"Yeah?" He asked, digging out his remaining papers from where he'd hidden them.

"Sky wants ta see ya. 'Bout yer pop, I t'ink."

At that, Spot shoved the newspapers under his arm and took off running for the docks where the Brooklyn leader sold. Since his father's ailing condition had forced them both onto the streets a year ago, Evan had taken up the job of selling newspapers. Sky was a fair leader who always watched out for the younger newsies, and (though the eleven-year-old would never admit it) Evan's idol. He was waiting when Spot skidded to a stop in front of him. "Slow down! Kid, I-" Sky's expression said it all.

"He's dead." Spot said quietly.

"Kid-"

The eleven-year-old had disappeared with his own words, not to be seen or heard from until the day of the pauper's funeral at the same cemetery he'd promised to visit regularly.

"Ashes to ashes . . ."

~*~

". . . dust to dust." said Mr. Greenbarrow in a shaking voice. The leader of the Brooklyn newsies stood at his side, tight-lipped and expressionless until the last words were spoken. At the end, feeling all the eyes of Brooklyn on him, Spot turned to leave, his hand convulsing once around a drooping bouquet in his pocket.

"Keet, take charge." he said, his voice dangerously quiet.

"Where're ya goin'?" the blond boy asked in surprise. His surprise had nothing to do with being placed in charge. He and Splitz were about tied for the place of Spot's second-in-command, and with Splitz in semi-disgrace at the moment over a certain incident involving the East River, Keet was the obvious choice. No, he was surprised that Spot would leave Brooklyn at all under the present circumstances.

"Manhattan." Spot replied shortly.

"But-" Keet did not often challenge his leader, and his nervousness was evident.

"Gard'ner's sista is in Manhattan." Spot stopped and turned, his expression showing that further questions would be unhealthy. Fortunately, Keet was satisfied with that, his own expression showing he would rather deal with all the hotheads and thugs in Brooklyn than with one hysterical sister. Keet didn't even ask when Spot would be back, knowing Spot never left Brooklyn for more than three days at a time.

Spot headed for the bridge, his eyes alert for any sign of Gardener's murderers, his mind full of the funeral sermon. Ashes to ashes . . .

~*~

When Kloppman came through, rousting the newsies out of their beds with shouts and a few well--aimed pokes with the broom handle, Spot had not yet closed his eyes.

PART VI

"C'mon lazybones, outta bed! Rise and shine!" Lacey grumbled and pulled her blanket over her head. Jimmy always did this. He knew full well she never got out of bed until noon, anyway.

"Go jump off a bridge, Jimmy." she murmured grumpily.

"C'mon, da boys'll be up awready!"

"She's as bad as Firefly!" another voice exclaimed.

Firefly? Lacey's head cleared and she remembered that she was not lying in her cot in the Petersons' circus wagon, but in a bunk bed in the Newsboys' Lodging House in New York City. The voice sounding evermore persistently in her ear did not belong to her youngest brother, but to Pounce. Which means I probably should get up.

"Not a mornin' poison, huh?" Pounce laughed when Clown had finally dragged herself out of bed, nearly falling several feet before she remembered she was on the top bunk. When Clown told her quite pleasantly to drop dead, she laughed again. "So, now dat ya's been heah awhile, whaddaya t'ink a da guys?" Several of the other girls groaned, and the entire group converged on the washroom.

"Pounce, youse got a one-track mind." Truth shook her head.

"I waited a full day an' a half 'fore I ast!" Pounce protested. She splashed some water on her face, then splashed Clown as well.

Lacey sputtered indignantly. "T'ought dat'd get ya up."

"Why I ought to-"

"What?" Pounce grinned back.

The resulting water fight left the wash room a mess and drew Kloppman's good-natured wrath down on them all.

~*~

"Evan." Spot, flipping through his papers in search of a good story, turned as his cousin approached.

"Ya hoid." he answered quietly. Race had always told her the reason she could never win at cards was her sad lack of a poker face.

"I wish ya'd told me. I-" She shifted her papers on her arm uncomfortably. "G-d, I'se so sorry!"

He glanced around to see if anyone was listening. "Don't be. It ain't yer fault."

"An' it's yers?" Porter retorted. "I tawked ta Jack. Spot, ya know-"

"Spitfire, drop da subject or ya's gonna get a soakin'."

She backed up in surprise and hurt. "Sorry."

He felt guilty, but turned his back on her anyway. He'd made up his mind to search out that orphanage today and he was not in a good mood.

~*~

Lacey didn't hear the conversation, but she saw the expression on her partner's face and grew angry. Truthfully, she'd been angry at Spot all night and this morning made no difference, but to her it was the last straw. She stalked up to him. "I don't know what you just said, but you've got a lot of nerve-"

"An' where da you come off wit da right ta tell me anyt'in?" Another fight with Clown was the last thing Spot wanted, but he couldn't seem to help himself.

Clown acted as if she hadn't even heard him. "-a lot of nerve hurting someone who cares about you. Personally, I don't know why she bothers with you - cousin or no cousin."

"Clown-" Spitfire was reaching the pinnacles of humiliation.

Spot was through with eloquence. "Shaddup! Yer lucky I don't hit goils, cuz-"

Clown gave him a very good excuse to break that rule. Spot came within a millimeter of taking it, before stopping himself. He glanced at his cousin just once before turning around and walking away.

Clown followed his gaze and saw, to her surprise, that Spitfire appeared to be wavering between tears and anger. The younger girl flinched when Lacey touched her arm and ran in another direction.

She wasn't sure whether to be angry or worried. She started to follow, but Pounce stopped her. "Leave 'er."

"But-"

"Leave 'er. She prob'ly don't wanna be found right now, an' ya'd end up fightin' if ya did - if ya din't get lost lookin'. Hey, Truth!" she called. "I'll meet'cha, aw right?"

"See ya, den." Truth nodded, and Pounce steered Clown away from the square.

"Spitfire don't like lots a attention." Pounce said quietly. "Truth says she don't like being fussed ovah, whatevah dat means. She'll go somewheres, an' 'ventually she'll get back ta da lodgin' house an' tawk ta Crutchy. An' she'll be fine latah. C'mon."

"Where are we going?" Clown asked, as Pounce practically dragged her down the street.

"Ta get'cha some normal clothes." Pounce replied. "'Less ya's plannin' ta wear dat ferevah?"

Lacey rolled her eyes at the comment. Pounce was right, though. And anyway, a girl wandering around New York in a clown suit isn't exactly inconspicous. I might as well stand in the middle of the street and yell, "Hey, dad! Here I am!" She shivered involuntarily.

"Somet'in wrong?" her friend asked. Clown shook her head.

Pounce frowned at her. "If yer shoa. So, who's Jimmy? I t'ought ya said ya din't have a guy anywheres."

"Jimmy?" Clown thought of her older brother and laughed. "No, I don't have a guy anywhere. Jimmy's-" She stopped suddenly, wondering how much it was safe to tell. Not that she didn't trust Pounce, but her friend couldn't keep a secret to save her life. Lacey, you are getting paranoid! She rebuked herself. How many Jimmys are there in the world, anyway? If he finds you, it won't be because of that, anyway! "Jimmy's my brother. He's one of those people that believe everyone can live on two hours of sleep." She smiled.

~*~

"Let's see." Pounce said, scanning the door numbers. "It's numba thoity, if I rememba right."

"What is?" Clown asked, looking around the dingy tenement building a little uncertainly.

"Ha! Heah." Pounce found the door she had been looking for. "Da woman dat lives heah does da mendin' fer a boys' school. We gets what dey t'inks too worn or old fashioned. It's all boys clothes a coise, though, if ya don't mind."

"Hardly!" Clown replied.

~*~

Saint Catherine's, now where- Try as he might, Spot couldn't concentrate on his search. His mind kept wandering back to Clown and the morning's fight. He silently cursed her. He never started the fights! He always resolved to be polite. He'd even prepare himself to apologize, for goodness' sake! Did she have any idea how rare that was? Not dat I'se evah got far enough fer her ta know dat's what I'se doin' - and then she'd throw him something like that and make him lose complete control. Only a very few could push him to that point. Speaking of which . . . Don't'cha t'ink ya owe Spitfire one, too?

She shoulda known betta, at least! he answered his conscience uncomfortably.

Known betta den what? Den ta try ta help?

She can't help. Ain't nobody can help. Dead is dead. An' it's my fault.

Lost in those thoughts as he was, Spot was taken by surprise when he looked up and saw the battered sign identifying Saint Catherine's Home for Children right in front of him.

~*~

Mother Anne looked up from her letter and put her pen down with a sigh. She'd been writing petitions all morning, and she was beginning to loathe the sight of the her own handwriting. She glanced out the window at the warm autumn street, and raised her eyebrows. That newsboy on the corner had been standing there the last time she looked up over an hour ago, and his stack of newspapers had not decreased by much since then. As she watched, the boy crossed the street to the door of the orphanage, paused, then retreated back across the road. Seemingly disgusted with himself, he shrugged his shoulders, gathered up his courage and marched back to the door. A few seconds later the doorbell rang.

When she opened the door the boy - sixteen or seventeen - Anne guessed - quickly pulled off his hat, but there was something about him that belied the gesture. Deference did not sit well with this boy - nervous as he was trying not to appear. "Aftanoon, Sista. I - me name's Evan." His eyes flickered as he said it. "I jist-"

"Come and tell me inside!" Anne protested. She motioned him toward her office just to the right of the door, eyes taking in the bundle of newspapers under his left arm, his immaculate - if worn - attire, the silver key that hung over his neck and particularly the gold-topped cane that stuck through his belt like a sword.

~*~

'Evan' followed her, warily, looking suspiciously at the foreign and possibly hostile surroundings. A hand jumped defensively to the cane at his side, like a knight's to his sword, though he dropped it as soon as he noticed what he was doing. Interesting.

Mother Anne made a show of opening the drapes further to relieve the closed in feeling of the study, and tidying up what little there was to tidy while the boy made him self more at ease. "So," she folded her letter. "Tell me what brings the famed Spot Conlon to our humble halls."

She sensed him freeze even before she looked up. His second reaction was calmer than the instinctive response to danger, but while he was clearly attempting to keep most of the threat out of his posture he was more than ready to fight any enemy that might appear. "Where'd ya come up wit dat name?"

Anne had dealt with wilder strays than this in seventy years, though few of the sisters would guess now. She smiled, facing him directly with her hands in plain view - a posture that he reacted to without even knowing it. "After all the stories? The undefeated leader of the Brooklyn newsies? The hero of the summer's strike? The most respected and famous newsie in all of New York?" Spot relaxed a little and started to grin, knowing full well that he was being flattered, that it was working - to a point - and not minding in the least. "This is an orphanage after all. You're quite the hero with the boys."

"Dat so?" He tried to appear indifferent, but he was clearly pleased. Then his expression clouded over abruptly. She wondered what was troubling him.

~*~

Hero, huh? Spot thought bitterly. Shoa. Look where all that adulation had gotten Gardener. The boy had trusted him without question when Spot told him he'd be fine on his own. An' it was a lie. An' he's dead. Spot Conlon! Lynn's only connection with the name would be the boy who took her brother away from her. A fleeting, cowardly impulse nearly sent him bolting out the door again, but he mastered it. "Sista-"

"Mother," the nun corrected. "Mother Anne."

"Mudda Anne," it felt strange to say, "I'se lookin' fer a goil named Lynn Hosmer. She's got a brudda, Karl, wit me boys." One-fifth of the Brooklyn newsies were female as Spot was by no means unaware, but he chose to overlook that fact for the moment. The nun's eyes lit.

"Lynn? Of course." She picked up a small bell Spot had not noticed sitting on her desk and rang it. A few minutes later a younger nun with a few shockingly red hairs escaping from under her wimple entered through the door behind him. "Sister Sarah, could you bring Lynn, please, I believe she's at lessons." The younger nun nodded and left after a wide-eyed look at Spot. "Why are you looking for her?"

Spot quickly returned his attention to Mother Anne. "Her brudda. He's-" His hand convulsed once on air, remembering the wilted bouquet. "He died two days ago."

Suprised, Anne opened her mouth to reply, but she never got the chance.

"Mother Anne, I'm sorry I picked the roses. I know you said not to, but Catherine was sick and she likes the smell so much I had to bring her some . . ." The girl trailed off, looking at Spot curiously. Her blond hair had most likely been brushed neat earlier that morning, but now it was filled with leaves, and stray strands fell into her blue eyes.

Spot was equally surprised. Gardener had never described his sister, but somehow Spot had been expecting an older girl. This voluble, wide-eyed, untidy five-year-old caught him completely off guard - and somehow made him more at ease. "Heya, Lynn. I'se a friend a yer bruddas."

She looked him up and down. "You're Spot!" Mother Anne had not been the only one to hear the stories. "Never fear, Brooklyn is here!" she quoted proudly. "Karl told me about you."

"Dat's right." Spot found himself smiling. "Yer a smart kid. Since yer Gard'ner's sista, though, youse can call me Evan." He squatted down and added confidingly. "Dat's me real name, but don't go tellin' nobody, awright?" She nodded, glowing at the compliment both to herself and to her brother.

"Cross my heart. I won't tell anyone."

"So what's dis about da roses?"

"Well, Catherine . . ."

Neither noticed when Mother Anne left the study, smiling to herself.

~*~

Spitfire appeared in Central Park a little after noon, trying unsuccessfully not to appear self-conscious. Clown didn't know what to say, and since Porter didn't appear to want comments, she said nothing.

"Ya plannin' on changin' yer name, too?" Spitfire asked on the way back. It was the first comment on her new outfit. Clown was now dressed in a shirt, vest and pants very like the other newsies'. They were several sizes large for her, but at least they were warm. She still wore her red bowler, however. It sat at an angle on her brown hair.

"No, that's why I kept the hat." Lacey replied, still a little uncomfortable. "I'm sorry-" she began.

"I'se a idiot." Porter replied, equally uncomfortably. "Don't be."

~*~

Spot decided to stay in Manhattan a little longer. There was a dance in a few days, after all. He'd be able to see Lynn again - he smiled to himself at the thought, then frowned. He hadn't been able to bring himself to tell the girl about her brother yet. - and he still hadn't apologized to Clown. Dat goil! A pesky thought told him he was taking the coward's way out, but he ignored it. He rounded the top of the stairs to hear loud complaints from the girl's bunk room - loud, good-natured, male complaints. He poked his head around the left door instead of turning right and saw Specs, Kid Blink, Bumlets and Pie Eater busy making beds and sweeping up.

The complaints came primarily from Blink and Pie, both of whom grinned despite their words. It took a lot to upset Pie Eater, and while Blink could get over-excited sometimes, this wasn't the sort of thing to bother him.

Pie Eater looked up, saw him and grinned. "Heah ta help us?"

Spot smirked. "Aw, I dunno. Ya look like ya's doin' fine on yer own."

His gaze wandered around the room, and he noticed a scrap of white cloth on the floor sticking out from under one of the bunks. A paper of some kind lay next to it. When he picked up the cloth, he realized it was a handkerchief. It held the initials 'L.P.' He probably would have left it on the night stand if the paper hadn't caught his eye. It was a flyer, or playbill, announcing in bold curly letters the Flying Petersons, acrobats and fearless trapeze artists. They were Samuel Peterson Sr., Elizabeth Peterson, Samuel Peterson Jr., Joseph, Peter, James and Lacey. He knew the names and history of most of Duane Street's girls. Only one could possibly have a background in the circus, and only one could own that handkerchief. Lacey. He tried to fit the name to Clown. It implied a delicate nature that was difficult to reconcile with the red welt on his cheek. D-n, dat goil hits hard!

Kid Blink glanced his way. "What'cha doin', Spot?"

"Nothin'." Without really thinking about what he was doing, he replaced the flyer and slipped the handkerchief in his pocket. It bore further thought. "Hey, any a youse know wheah I can get some wood an' a piece a string?"

They exchanged glances. "Dere's some broken crates back a da store on da corner." Specs replied. "Kloppman's probably got some string."

Spot nodded, and turned to go. "Den I'll leave ya ta yer woik." he smirked.

They rolled their eyes.

~*~

By the time Spot returned with the wood and the string, the lodging house was full of newsies. Truth was animatedly involved in telling some story at one end of the lodging house. Blink was attempting to cross the bunk room on his hands as part of a bet Spot probably didn't want to know about. Pen sat on Jack's bunk gnawing on the end of a pen and staring into space. Porter and Crutchy were talking by the window, apparently oblivious of anyone else.

"Heya, Spot." Race looked up. "Craps? Dere's a game down behind McClosky's bar." (AUTHOR'S NOTE: 'But Mrs. McClosky ain't a good scout!' I just couldn't resist the Guys and Dolls reference.)

"Naw, hey! - how'd da race go yestidy?"

Race thought. "Oh, yeah! I toldja to go wit Flame-"

"So who won?" Spot asked.

Racetrack grinned ruefully. "Blue Fire. Madison came in second, though. I took da odds on foist an' second fer ya, so dat gives ya-" He dug in his pocket. "-six dollars - t'ree a which I seem ta rememba ya owe me?"

Spot took half his winnings without arguing.

"Ouch, that does look like it hurts." Spot winced, and turned to come face to face - or rather neck to face - with Clown. She touched his red cheek, with mock sympathy. Spot concentrated on his already mounting anger; he didn't want to think about his own reaction to her touch. "Not too bad?" she asked.

"Jack," Spot called over her head, teeth clenched. "Keep dis goil away from me."

"Oh, I won't hurt you." Clown said with an innocence Truth couldn't match.

Snickers escaped several newsies. Pie Eater - the only one Spot identified - quickly became engrossed in discussing the game with Race and Skittery at the Brooklyn newsie's glare. Spot continued to ignore Clown. "I don't wanna lose me tempa tanight."

"You found it?" Clown gasped. This time the snickers were louder.

He gave up on trying to ignore her. "More den you can do." He took in her change of wardrobe, and made a push to get ahead in the argument. "Nice clothes. Much betta. Practical."

She didn't seem to get where he was going yet. "Thank you." She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"Ya can weah jist da shoit ta da next dance."

~*~

"Ya know, if ya gave da goil a honest compliment, ya could avoid dat." Jack nodded at Spot's glowing cheek which now matched the other one. He leaned against the edge of Spot's bunk.

"Shaddup, Jack." Spot replied, distractedly. Most of his attention was on the piece of wood he was carving. A shaving fell to the floor. He was also trying very hard not to think about the newest addition to the Duane Street crowd, and his best friend was not helping. He gave the block, slowly forming into a Y-shape, an angry stroke with his knife that it had done nothing to deserve.

Clown. His cheeks were already too red for either anger or embarrassment to show which was just as well because he wasn't certain which he was feeling at the moment. She drew him like no one else did. He liked her. He hated her. She made him more angry, more humiliated, and more frustrated than anyone he'd ever meet. He couldn't stand her - but he found himself looking for her at every unguarded moment in places she couldn't possibly show up. She regularly insulted him in a way no one else had dared to since he was thirteen; it angered him, but in a perverse way he admired her for it. An' admit it, she ain't shown a bit a interest.

Jack had already made hints about the lure of the unattainable. Spot, with the greatest of courtesy, had told him to can it. The carving done, he began drilling through one arm of the Y with his knife. Lacey. He remembered his earlier thought. No, delicate, dat goil ain't! That was another thing to turn his face red. He swore silently. Spot it's jist a goil, fer goodness' sake! But it was hard to think of Clown as 'just' anything. He looked up from one completed hole and glanced across the room at the girl in question while starting on the next.

A goil like dat's trouble, anyways. She's stubborn, bad-tempered- And he could sense the possibility of becoming far more attached to her than he wanted to be to anyone. Dat settles it, den. He tied the ends of the string through the holes in the wood, and tested the slingshot, then made one final adjustment.

At that moment, his cousin walked by the end of the bed on her way up to the roof. "Hey, Spitfire." Porter stopped questioningly. Spot tested the slingshot once more and handed it down without looking at her. "I believe ya's been needin' one?"

"T'anks! Um-" Out of the corner of his eye he saw her debating whether to say something, but she closed her mouth and dropped it, accepting the apology for what it was. Spot was grateful. Now if only Clown were so easy to deal with . . .

PART VII

Spot sat up in bed out of a sound sleep as the echoes of an earsplitting shriek faded away. Manhattan was not conducive to much sleep these days. Groans came from the other beds. He heard Jack curse, stumble out of bed and bang his way through the room. The door opened as he reached it. "It's aw right," came Pen's hushed voice.

"What happened?"

"Nightmares, I guess. It's Clown."

"She aw right?"

"Yeah, I got 'er calmed down."

~*~

"Ya betta now?"

Clown glared at the Brooklyn leader - why did that response seem familiar? "What's that supposed to mean?"

Spot's lips tightened. "It's a simple question. Ya any betta den ya was las' night?"

Clown blinked and glanced at the sky - yes, the sun was in its proper place. No earthquakes had shaken the ground yet, either. A civil word - a concerned word from the lips of Spot Conlon? Impossible. He was much more likely talking about her - as Joseph would have called it - shrewish behavior the night before. She smiled. "Much. Slapping you was immensely relieving."

He stiffened, but before he could retort, Spitfire broke in hurriedly. "Spot, ya gots any shooters?" She flinched when he turned to glare at her, but still waited for an answer.

"Shoa." He dug a couple of marbles out of his pocket, handed them to his cousin and walked away.

"T'anks." Spitfire aimed a few experimental times, but didn't actually shoot anything.

"Can ya really use dat t'ing, Porter?" Race asked doubtfully.

"Oh, jist cuz I don't fight, ya assume I can't do anyt'in else?" Spitfire retorted in mock anger.

"Spitfire," Pie Eater said with the air of one delivering a painful truth, "if ev'yt'in was measured by yer fightin' ability-"

"Hey, she can do odder t'ings very well." Crutchy defended, putting an arm around her. He had been allowed to accompany the others to the distribution center on the condition that he return to the lodging house afterward.

Snoddy clapped a hand over his best friend's mouth before Pie inserted his foot. "Dat was jist askin' fer it, though!" Pie Eater complained when the hand was removed.

Jack said it for him. "You'd know, huh, Crutchy?"

Porter couldn't seem to decide whether to glare at him or sink into the ground in embarrassment. "Ya both gots really sick minds, ya know dat?" she muttered to the ground.

"So let's see ya shoot it." Pounce changed the subject.

Spitfire glanced around speculatively. "Pick a target," she said with rare confidence. Clown had a feeling most of the newsies were going to be surprised. She glanced at Spot, wondering if he would be among the number. He didn't seem to be paying attention. As she watched him, he suddenly glanced up and looked straight at her. A corner of his mouth turned up. She glared back, and touched Spitfire's arm to stop her.

"Just a minute!" She turned to Race. "Half a dollar says she makes it."

He gave a surprised grin. "Bet."

"Aw, Clown, yer in fer it." Swifty shook his head, grinning. "Ya jist don't bet Race. It's askin' fer trouble."

The gambler swatted at him. "Yer jist mad cuz ya din't take me tip on Hot Box las' week."

"Dat was a one in a million chance! How's I s'posed ta know it'd win?"

Racetrack lit his cigar, then shook out the match and stepped on it. "I toldja, din't I?"

"Point?" Blink put in archly.

"Aw, shaddup! So anybody else bettin'?" Race looked around.

"I'll take it." Snaps gave Spitfire a smile. "Two bits."

Jack came in on Clown's side - "I'se loined betta den ta bet against Porter!" he explained to laughter - and Snipeshooter and Blink on Race's.

"So what's da target?" Spitfire repeated, grinning.

Race opened his mouth, but Clown forestalled him. "Someone that's not betting."

"I'll choose," Dutchy said. He gave Spitfire a measuring look. "Dat hole ovah da door in da old fire house." He gestured down the street. "From heah."

"Grins an' me'll judge," Pips said, running ahead with her best friend close behind her.

"Wait fer me!" Slider followed.

Clown had to squint to see the hole. Race beat her to the protest however. "Hey, I wouldn't picked somet'in dat hard!"

Spitfire gave a smirk that reminded Clown eerily of her cousin, aimed with less care than Clown expected, and let go.

"She got it!" came Pips' shout a few seconds later. While she and Slider argued for a moment, Grins retrieved the marble and brought it back to Porter, wide-eyed.

"Toldja! Toldja!" Jack was triumphant. Porter received several congratulatory slaps on the back, a smile from Crutchy, and a nod from Spot.

"Not bad!" Race exclaimed. "Almost woith losin'! Clown, heah's yer fifty." he said over his shoulder.

"Hey, what about me?" Jack exclaimed.

"Take me marker."

"She gets paid, an' I don't?"

"Youse ain't as good a fighta as she is," Race retorted. Everyone laughed at Jack's chagrined face.

"Ya knew she was gonna do dat!" Race accused Spot, who smirked. "Nobody warns me."

"Thoid best in Brooklyn," Spitfire said smugly, tucking the slingshot into the back of her pants.

"And who would be first?" Clown asked, thinking she knew.

She nodded at her cousin as expected. "Pea Shooter's a close second."

"He'd do great in the circus," Clown commented. "Eighth Wonder of the World! No, we have not yet found a thing he doesn't excel at. But we're looking! We're looking!"

Porter shook her head.

~*~

"Whaddaya got against me cousin, anyways?" Spitfire asked, as the two headed for Central Park, hawking the occasional headline as they went.

"He's too perfect," Lacey replied glibly. "It irritates me." In reality, though, Clown was feeling a little guilty. She'd had no real reason to assume Spot was trying to pick a fight earlier that morning. He could have been referring to her nightmares of the night before. The more she thought about it, the more she felt that - in that instance, at least - she'd deliberately misjudged him. She hated being in the wrong - particularly when someone as cocky as Spot Conlon was in the right.

"Well," Spitfire began. She never finished the sentence. "Cheese it!" An ear-piercing whistle answered any questions Clown might have asked. Porter swore. "I t'ought dey'd - Dis way! - I t'ought dey'd given up on me!" Clown found herself hard-pressed to keep up with the girl. They dodged wagons, climbed fences, and ducked down side streets until Clown was certain, the police could not have followed them. Another whistle proved her wrong. The neighborhood changed around them as they ran. Slums and street vendors gave way to ornate mansions and elegant coaches. It occured to Clown that the sparsely peopled streets of upper Manhattan was not the best hiding place. Just then, they found themselves heading down a street straight into the arms of a dozen more officers.

No. No. Clown panicked. I can't go back. She felt a yank on her sleeve, and swung out, poised to bolt.

Spitfire ducked hastily. "Down heah," she hissed, squeezing down through a basement window as she said it. "Dat was int'restin'," Spitfire said dryly, when she'd closed the window behind them. Her voice shook slightly.

"Quite," Clown replied ironically, sitting down gingerly, but finding nothing worse than dirt on the floor of the cellar.

"But dey ain't been dat anxious ta catch me," Spitfire muttered, almost to herself. "Not dat dey'd send out half a dozen cops. Not since Snyda' . . ." Clown heard her rise and move away.

"Wait for me," she said hastily.

"I ain't goin' nowheres," Spitfire replied. "Jist ta see - so dat's it!"

"What?" Clown followed the voice and saw her friend's head silhouetted against another window. What light filtered through the dirt had a slightly orange tint.

"Headlines," Porter sighed.

"What are you talking about?" Patience was not a virtue Clown possessed in any large measure.

The head vanished, and Spitfire was next to her. "Climb up an' see."

Feeling ahead of her, Clown found that enough boxes were stacked next to the wall for her to get a view out of the window. Between a great many soot-stained skirts and blue and red-trousered legs, she saw the sign of 'Madine's Finishing School for Girls' go up in flames. "Oh."

Clown sympathized with the girls. She understood Spitfire's comment. They'll be our next headline, she thought. And one of the servants will try to salvage anything that hasn't gone up in smoke and turn up at a place like the lodging house in a few days - if she's got any money to pay rent with. She sighed and sat down, unwilling to watch. Porter took her place, and interrupted several minutes of simliar thoughts with a shout.

"Spot?" Before Clown could so much as turn, Spitfire had climbed out the window and was threading her way carefully toward the building.

Lacey had nothing to do but follow, but she stayed close to the wall, keeping a healthy distance between herself and any blue uniforms. Spot was indeed on the scene. A terror-stricken girl clung to his neck as he made his way down a burning wall. When he finally jumped to the ground and turned, Clown almost thought she could see that infuriating smirk over the girl's blond head. To the rescue! she thought sarcastically, seeing the girl's adoring face fixed on the Brooklyn leader. A small part of her wondered at herself. She wasn't usually that cynical.

Spitfire reached her cousin, then. She caught his attention and gestured angrily. Spot was clearly even more angry. A nod at the policemen told Clown why. No doubt the same reason she's mad at him, Clown thought wistfully. Sam would act the same way if I went running into trouble like that. Two weeks ago, she would never have thought she'd miss her oldest brother's protectiveness, or Jimmy's teasing, but . . . Spot and Porter were still arguing, though they'd moved away from the bulls. Confident that she would have her privacy a few moments more, Clown reached into her pocket and pulled out a photograph.

Mama had insisted the children have their picture taken, but Lacey and Jimmy had been goofing off as usual. Sam looked decidedly annoyed with them. Peter was bent over laughing, and Joseph stared straight ahead, trying to ignore the antics of his youngest siblings. How Father had laughed when he saw it! Lacey's throat caught. That laughter . . .

"Clown?" Lacey looked up at Spot's voice. "Dat-"

"Oh, you know you're happy to see me." She met the cousins before they passed her, and patted Spot's cheek. "You just don't want to admit it."

Spot glared at her, taking hold of her arm and dragging both girls down the alley. "Of all da-"

"I thought you'd learned better than to do that," Clown said icily, removing his hand from her arm.

His scowl was the only sign that he'd noticed. "-idiotic-"

The argument was with Spitfire, however. "I wasn't da one-"

"Children, let's be nice." Taking a perverse pleasure in being the one to break up the fight for once, Clown smiled and started walking briskly. Spot abandoned the argument and took the lead. Clown bristled. True, she hadn't the least idea where they were, but he needn't assume that . . .

~*~

"Not too many," Jack cautioned as the newsies lined up to get their evening's worth of papers. "Memba, we'se got da dance tanight."

Clown was flipping through the evening's paper with very little expectation of finding anything worthwhile when she saw the story about the fire.

"In print!" She looked up to see Kid Blink grinning. "Hey, Spot, ya's a hero!"

"Wheah's dat?" Spot's eyebrows drew together.

"'Mystery Hero Saves Three from Raging Flames.'" The others crowded around the two. Clown joined them. "Dey don't got'cha name, but yer pit'chas in dere."

"An' on ev'y bull's desk, I bet," Clown heard him mutter. "Heah, let me see dat. Not a bad pit'cha, though."

"Dere won't be no livin' wit 'im afta dis!" Jack exclaimed in horror. "Put some ice on da swelled head a yers, huh?"

"Shaddup!"

"'I was shoa I was gonna die. He jist came outta nowhere,' says fifteen yeah old Leah Sherman," Race read.

"Oh, my hero!" simpered Specs, while the others laughed. Spot smacked him off-handedly.

"Leah, nice name," Race continued. "If he's readin' dis. I wish I could see him again an' t'ank him . . .'"

"If dat's her pit'cha, I wouldn't mind bein' t'anked by her," Blink said meaningfully. A yelp followed the remark. "Hey, Clouds, I din't desoive dat!"

"Yes, ya did."

"Why don't'cha bring 'er ta da dance tanight?" Pie Eater asked.

Firefly reddened and became absorbed in her paper.

"Hey, Spot, she as pretty in poison as in black an' white?" Bumlets asked, trying to get a closer look at the picture.

"Dat all you evah t'ink about?" Spot retorted. "Hey, give dat back! I'se readin' it!"

"Is she?"

"As a matta a fact, yes, she's prettier."

"Prettier den da mayor's daughta?" asked Blink.

"Prettier."

"Prettier den Medda?" asked Snoddy. There were scoffs from several of the other boys, Blink, Race and Itey foremost among them, at the impossibility of this.

"Prettier."

"Prettier den her?" Pie Eater asked reverently. All the boys came to their feet in appreciation, hats off, as they followed his gaze.

Clown rolled her eyes.

"I toldja," Clouds whispered, shaking her head tolerantly. "Twenty guys."

"Angel!" Clown thought that was Dutchy's voice. A girl in a brown, lace-trimmed dress was passing through the square. Her hair was covered by a brown hat covered in cream-colored flowers. Hats returned to heads when she'd passed, but Spot still had the last word.

"Prettier."

"Do we have ta lissen ta dis?" Pounce asked pointedly. "C'mon, we'se gotta get back early, rememba?" The newsies began to filter out of the square through the city.

Clown picked up her papers. In the bustle, she almost didn't hear when Jack nudged his best friend and asked mischievously, "Hey, Spot, she prettier den Clown?" She whirled, furious, to see the grin on Jack's face, but before she could hit him, Spot complicated matters.

With a smirk of his own, and without a split second for thought, the Brooklyn newsie replied, "Ain't no one dat pretty."

She solved the dilemma of which to hit first by utilizing both fists, turned around and stalked out of the square.

~*~

"Dat shina's gonna go real good wit yer outfit tanight, Spot," Jack snickered.

"Yeah, I'd like ta heah ya tellin' Sarah tanight 'bout da t'ree guys dat jumped ya," Spot retorted.

"Ain't no one dat pretty," his best friend mimicked.

Spot glared. "Honest compliment! Dave," He turned to the third boy, "next time I start t'inkin' about takin' dat bum's advice, hit me."

"Hey!" Jack protested. "She din't slap ya dis time, did she?"

"He's got a point." Dave, who had gotten off without injury, was laughing even harder than Jack.

Spot shook his head. "Dat goil is da most arrogant, stubborn, hot-tempered-"

"She sounds like a coitain leadah a Brooklyn," Jack commented to Dave in a whisper.

"If he hates her so much," Dave whispered back, "why didn't he leave Manhattan three days ago?" They both snickered behind their hands, drawing a suspicious glance from Spot. Jack replied with a saintly expression.

"Jacky-boy, ya wasn't born dat innocent." The problem was he didn't hate her - at least not fer more den a half hour at a time . . . Somehow, she just always seemed to bring out the worst in him.

"Hey, it's gettin' late." Jack wriggled off the hook. "Sarah'll kill me if I don't pick 'er up on time."

~*~

"Ya's blushin', ya know."

"What?" Belatedly, Clown realized what the girl had said. "I am not!"

"Jist t'ought ya should know." Spitfire shrugged. "EXTRY! EXTRY! LANDSLIDE WIPES OUT JOISEY!"

~*~

"Has anyone seen my handkerchief?" Clown asked, pulling apart her newly made bed in her search.

"Sorry. Ain't seen nothin' like dat," Pen answered, pulling on the one dress she owned.

"Ya gots a handkerchief?" joked Clouds. "Fancy, ain't we? It's a joke!" she added when Clown glared at her. "Hey, Kid!" she called into the boys' room. "Any a youse seen a handkerchief lyin' aroun'? What's it look like?" she added to Clown, turning back.

Lacey shrugged. "White - well, it used to be white. Hasn't been for a long time. There's an 'L.P.' in the corner."

"Got it." Clouds called back the description. She didn't comment on the initials. It was unspoken law on the streets that information that wasn't offered, wasn't asked for. After a few minutes, she turned back regretfully. "Sorry. None a da boys've seen it. Was it 'mportant?"

Clown shook her head. "Not really." Not as long as - Lacey, you are getting paranoid! He isn't going to find it. Of all the places in the world, he doesn't even know you're in New York! You could have hopped a train and be hundreds of miles away by now! She wasn't as worried about the handkerchief as she was about the picture anyway. And she had that with her. She stuck her hand in her pocket just to reassure herself.

"Clown, ya aw right?" Pen asked in concern. In just a few seconds, the new girl's face had paled to a color that better suited the sheets, and she seemed to be fighting for air. Clown didn't answer. "Clown?" When there was still no reply, she walked around the bed to put a hand on her friend's shoulder.

Clown jerked at the touch. She didn't hear a word of Pen's third query. She was too caught up in a vision of her father's face looking up at her over her mother's body. He. Doesn't. Know. Where. You. Are, she reminded herself, bringing her breathing back to normal.

With that bit of control regained, she was able to think rationally. It's not here. If one of the boys found it in their room, they'd recognize me in it and return it. I had it this morning because I took it out at - The fire! "Clown?" Pen's fear finally penetrated. "I'm sorry. I just - I-"

"Long as yer aw right," the older girl interrupted, forestalling any explanation. Clown was grateful; she didn't have one. "Most of us have t'ings we'd radda not tawk about," Pen added quietly to Clown's grateful expression.

"Thank you."

"Jist as long as ya don't scare me like dat again!" Pen replied. "C'mon. 'S time ta go."

"Um, Pen, where exactly are we going?" Clown asked.

Pen glanced over her shoulder as they ran down the stairs. "A dance hall on Fifty-second - ovah in Liddle Italy. Snaps' parents useta woik dere."

~~*~~

Clown waited only until she was within sight of the club and certain she could find it again. Then she made her excuses and took off. She was briefly grateful none of the girls had owned a dress in her size. The skirts would have hampered her running. Besides, she wasn't completely oblivious to the danger to a girl on the streets of New York City at night.

She had only a vague idea of the site of the fire. The girls had raced down so many back streets in their flight from the police, and she hadn't been paying much attention to the route when Spot led them back.

~~*~~

By moonrise, Clown finally began to face the facts. Sinking into a crouch on the curb, she admitted it. She was - quite undeniably - lost. Her photograph was lying somewhere on the streets blocks away with Samuel Peterson loose somewhere on those same streets . . .

You don't know that! she reminded herself forcibly. As far as he knows you could be across the country. He could be across the country by now!

"I'm safe," she said aloud. But . . .

"I don't know either of you!" Joseph muttered. He glared at the snickering Peter. "You're encouraging them! Children!"

"Oh, children!" Lacey rolled her eyes. "Mister, almost an adult, going to be 21 in two months-"

"-And is going to tan the hide of little miss youngest in the family, if she doesn't sit down," Joseph continued.

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Wouldn't I?"

"That's enough, you two! Let him take the picture!"

"Jimmy, stop it!"

"Quite a picture." Father smiled dryly when Sam handed it to him. "Lacey, did you have to give your brother a black eye?"

Clown laughed into her folded arms. Uncontrollable laughter trailed into hiccoughs that dissolved further into tears. "Daddy . . . Mama . . ." She hadn't let it out since she started running. "Daddy . . ." He'd loved them. Surely. It made no sense. Her parents had always been the perfect couple. Those silly, romantic stories her mother had told about her first love had been . . . She fingered her necklace, then gripped it tightly, sobbing. Just stories! That's all they were . . .

"Miss?" The voice surely held nothing more than honest concern, but Clown was hearing a voice out of memory. "Lacey!" He sounded only surprised, confused, as if he didn't understand the blood on his hands . . .

Clown bolted.

She raced blindly down the street, unable to think, barely able to breathe, with no destination in her mind except away. People, carts, buildings were all shapes in the wind as she past. An alley presented itself in her line of vision and she dashed down it.

"Lost, milady?" She knew that voice. She knew the smirk that always accompanied it. Someone up there had decided her day wasn't bad enough.

Lacey glared up at Spot.

"Is it jist me, or is dis a habit wit you?" Spot replied with something that almost sounded like a smile - a genuine smile. He seemed more relaxed then Clown had ever seen him. "I t'ought youse was goin' ta da dance."

"I'm on my way there," she said stiffly.

"You even know wheah ya is?"

"And you do?" It was a warning signal. She could do with a fight right about now . . .

"Corner a twenty-second an' - watch it!" He shoved her out of the street, tumbling after her just as a carriage passed through the area they'd been standing. When she looked at him again, the smile had gone. "Ya's bad fer me health! Dis," He helped her roughly to her feet. "Is da corner a twenty-second street. About six blocks in dat direction is da lodging house." He turned. "Right dere is St. Catherine's cathedral, an' dis is da way ta Liddle Italy. Comin'?"

Seething, she followed.

~~*~~

"Heya, Clown! Find it?"

Clown guessed the other girls were curious about how she and Spot had come to be walking together, but forbore asking because of Firefly's presence. She was grateful.

She shook her head. "No, unfortunately." The club had filled up in the time she'd been gone. "Who is everyone?" Those ink-stained faces could not all belong at Duane Street.

"Let's see." Truth scanned the crowd. "Da redhead at da poker game is Souther. He's Bronx. A friend a Race's. An' da two boys ovah dere tawkin' ta Pen, da twins, are Corks an' Smithy. Bronx too. Dey's always bringin' trouble." From the way Truth's eyes sparkled, Clown gathered 'trouble' was more than welcome. "I dunno da goil wit Blink. Pounce? Nickel? Fly?" The other three shook their heads. "Well, Clouds'll prob'ly know. Da goil dancin' wit Jack is Dave's sista Sarah. I'll innerduce ya when dey stop dancin'."

"'Scuse me ladies." Pie Eater came over, grinned and gave Pounce a little half bow. "May I have dis dance?" Pounce grinned back and accepted.

"What's the story with those two?"

"Good friends." Truth replied. "Dey went tagedda fer awhile, but now dey's jist friends - an' sellin' partners a coise, da four a us. Pounce says she ain't found nobody she wants ta stay wit yet."

"Not for lack of looking!" Nickel put in, smiling. "Our Pounce can be jist a liddle bit - uh-"

"Boy crazy." Firefly completed bluntly.

"Oh, ya're one ta tawk!" her best friend retorted.

"I'se on'y crazy ovah one boy," Fly replied, looking over her glass at the piano where Spot stood surveying the club.

Nickel gave Clown a look which she pretended not to see.

"Speakin' a couples," Truth added, "Dere's da Siamese twins. Porter'll prob'ly be ovah heah latah."

"An' Owl an' Snitch," Firefly added, smiling.

"'Strictly friends!'" they chorused together in what appeared to be an inside joke. "So dey say. Owl's Brooklyn," Truth added to Clown. "I'll innerduce youse two, too."

The song ended, and Pie Eater and Pounce joined them. Pounce was brimming with excitement. "Guess who's got a new goil!"

Nickel laughed, but guessed. "Corks?"

"Unh uh."

"Blink!" Firefly tried. Kid Blink was popular.

Truth hazarded the next guess. "Uh, Snaps?"

Pounce shook her head again. "Snoddy!"

"Snoddy?" Nickel repeated.

"But, he's woise den Mush aroun' goils!" Firefly exclaimed. "Ya mean he actually got up da noive ta ask somebody?"

Truth had been struck dumb.

Pounce nodded. "Kirstin's her name. See, dey's ovah by da drinks. Pie says he met her when dey was carryin' aroun' papes fer da strike." She added conspiratorily, "I don't t'ink Pie's too happy about it. He din't say as much, but I'll bet anyt'ing he likes her, too."

"Snoddy," Nickel repeated wonderingly once again. "Hey, I'se gonna see if I can get in on da next game, okay?"

"See if Skittery's willin' ta dance, she means." Pounce grinned, noting him among the card-players. The group broke up further when Firefly accepted a dance with Mush. "Mush an' Blink'll dance once each wit ev'y goil heah, den da rest wit dere dates if dey's got any."

"Dey don't like nobody ta feel left out," Truth explained, then added laughing. "Race's jist as even-handed in dat he don't hardly dance wit nobody. He's playin most a da time. He's pretty good, though, if ya can get him out on da floor.

"Pen'll dance wit ev'y boy dat asks her fer da same reason - an' a few dat don't got da noive ta ask."

"Bumlet's'll do da same fer ev'y goil, 'cept Clouds, fer an' entirely dif'rent reason," Pounce said mischievously. "An' she'll dance wit ev'y boy. Den dey'll both hang aroun' da piano, pretendin' dey don't notice each odder."

"Exactly why did dey break up?" Truth asked her. "Nobody seems ta know."

"Beyond me," Pounce replied. "Hey, now dat Fly's dancin' - jist what was you an' Spot doin' earlier tanight?"

"I was looking for something I lost," Clown replied, a little touchily. "What his Highness of Brooklyn was doing when he ran into me I neither know nor care!" She didn't miss the knowing looks the two exchanged.

"Uh huh." Pounce rolled her eyes.

~~*~~

"All right, spill."

Spot, who had been surveying the club lazily, looked at David in startlement. "Whaddaya tawkin' about?"

"Clown."

Spot rolled his eyes. Of all the subjects he'd least like to discuss. "What about 'er?"

"Oh, for some reason, she decides to go back to the lodging house for something. Then half an hour later, you two walk in together. I was just wondering why."

"When ya nearly kills someone, it polite ta help 'em up again," Spot retorted. "She came tearin' outta nowheres an' nearly t'rew me under a carriage. I swear, dat goil is dangerous."

David said something else, but Spot tuned him out. She came tearin' outta nowheres, but she wasn't comin' from da lodgin' house, or anywhere near dere. She nevah went out again eidda. His eyes narrowed. What's she tryin' ta pull?

Clown was standing across the room, chatting with some of the other girls. Truth and Pounce were pointing out the couples, and introducing her to some of the newsies from other lodging houses. While Spot watched, the song ended, and Spitfire and Crutchy joined the group, Crutchy only for a few moments before moving away. Spot raised an eyebrow. The 'Siamese twins' as Dave liked to call them, didn't separate often, but then Porter (being a horrible card player) rarely gambled, and Crutchy was joining Race for a poker game.

"Yeah, he likes her." Spot shook his head and looked back at Dave. With the end of the song, Jack and Sarah had come over to talk. "Absolutely head over heels."

"What're youse tawkin' about?" Spot asked, fairly sure he knew.

"Oh, ya fin'ly got yer head outta da clouds, didja?" Jack grinned. "Ain't Clown lookin' pretty tanight? Oh, I fergot, 'ain't nobody dat pretty.'" Spot hadn't believed he'd heard the end of that earlier.

"You know, she hasn't danced all night," Dave joined in. "In fact, I know someone else who hasn't danced yet."

"So do I!" Jack exclaimed. "Hey, Mista Moonstruck-" Spot scowled at him. "Lookin' fer a dance partner?"

"As a matta a fact, no, Mista Sullivan."

"Oh, he's shy!" Dave sympathized.

"Mouth."

"She's right ovah dere. Why don't ya go ast 'er?" Cowboy teased.

"Politely," Dave added.

Spot shot the two a death glare and walked over to where Clown, Firefly (the two had finally resolved their differences), Pounce, Truth and Spitfire were talking, looking much more sure of himself than he felt. At least he'd get away from his friends' teasing, he told himself. And he did have a few things to discuss with Clown . . . As casually as possible, he held out his hand to Clown. "Ya wanna dance?" he asked.

She looked him up and down disdainfully. "No, thank you,"she said coolly.

He didn't flicker an eyelash, but offered the hand to Firefly who took it with ill-concealed eagerness.

~~*~~

"Well, ya jist made Fly's day," Porter commented as the two walked away and began dancing. "Ya din't hafta do dat, though. I mean if ya din't wanna dance wit 'im, it'd be dif'rent-"

"Who says I do?" Clown retorted hotly.

Truth laughed. "You do, ev'y time ya look at 'im. Goil, we ain't dat blind."

"No, just cross-eyed!"

'Have it yer way," said Porter. Lacey glared at her. She held up her hands. "Hey, don't jump down me throat! It's yer bisness."

"I've seen it before, anyway," said Clown, cooling down. She held out her hand to Porter, in imitation of Spot. "Ya wanna dance?"

Porter looked at her for a second then answered 'yes' as was obviously expected. Clown pulled her hand away quickly. "I don't." She grimaced. "Or 'I changed my mind' or 'Well, that boy over there,' or '-Truth.'" She gestured to the girl next to Porter.

"Oh, c'mon!" Spitfire protested. "Spot wouldn't do dat."

"He's your cousin," Clown replied skeptically.

"'Xactly! Don't get me wrong, he gots plenty a faults, but pettiness ain't one a dem." She looked at the dancers. "Though he shouldn't be doin' dat. He knows poifectly well dat Fly's head ovah tail for 'im, an' he shouldn't do dat to 'er. Ya' s got me permission ta hit 'im for me, if 'e asts ya again."

"That I would be perfectly willing to do."

"I noticed," another voice put in, amused. Clown turned to see that Jack's brown-haired dance partner had joined them. She held out her hand. "Sarah. So you're the one who blacked Spot's eye?" She smiled.

Clown smiled back and shook. "Clown. I'm afraid I don't know as much about you as you know about me."

Sarah grinned. "I only know what all of Manhattan knows. Besides, I had to squeeze out of Jack how he got that shiner." She nodded across the hall. "Poor boy," she sympathized, mouth twitching.

Clown shook her head regretfully. "I can't help it. I pulled the punch."

Laughter answered her. "Jist don't say dat aroun' Spot!" Pounce giggled. "At least, not while I'se aroun'!"

"You don't gotta worry!" Spitfire replied.

Clown nodded. "I'm sure he'll be far too annoyed at me to even notice you."

"Thank heaven for small favors."

"I dunno, I'd call dat a pretty big favor!"

Clown giggled. "How many shades of red can he turn, I wonder?"

Spitfire swallowed her laughter abruptly and winced. "Uh oh." Spot had obviously heard at least part of the conversation. "Now ya's made 'im mad."

"It's a talent I have." Clown retorted, turning to come face to face with the subject of their conversation as the song ended. She raised an eyebrow.

Spot could tell from the moment she turned around that anything he said was going to end in him looking foolish. That didn't stop him, of course. Steaming, he crossed his arms and glared. "Miss Forgetful, ya evah find it?" He'd intended to ask her privately, but if she was pulling no punches.

"Find what, pray tell?" She lifted the other eye in amusement.

"Da lodgin' house is a long ways from da upper east side," he commented.

He barely caught a flicker of something in her face before it was gone. "Bravo! It understands distances! Can it count, too?"

Spot's teeth grated. "Whaddaya t'ink yer doin'?" he growled.

She smiled. "It's a circus trick. We teach the monkeys to perform. You're doing very well so far."

Someone choked. Spot balled a fist. Clown's eyes danced, daring him to hit her. She was the only animated figure in the circle. He'd just noticed there was a circle.

Clown clucked her tongue. "Now, that's no way to get yourself a banana."

Spot's fist tightened. Clown smiled serenely, unmoved by the deafening silence. She patted his arm. "Don't worry. You'll do better next time. Poker, Race?"

Spot stood staring straight ahead as she walked past, dismissing him. He realized his fist was still raised and dropped int in disgust. He knew no one was going to laugh - aloud. Why is it she always does dat ta me? Why do I let 'er?

~*~

Clown lay back in bed, staring at the ceiling above her. Normally, she fell asleep immediately, but tonight her mind was working too fast. "You do ev'y time ya look at 'im." But I don't! The last person I want anything to do with is Spot Conlon.

You have to give him credit, though, another part of her whispered. Look how he rescued that girl.

And remember how she looked at him. Remember what Pounce told you. C'mon, you weren't this set against him before you found out he had a girl, insinuated a third part. "I am not jealous! The last person on earth I would ever want to go out with is Spot Conlon!"

"Shoa, Clown," mumbled Pounce, half asleep. "Now, go ta bed."

Lacey buried her blushing face in her pillow. I said that aloud?!

The rest of Clowning Around...