STANDARD DISCLAIMER: Porter, Catherine, Mr. Greenbarrow Pea Shooter, Worm, Cards, Robin and Reaper are my characters. In fact almost everyone in this story is a character of mine. The others belong to Disney and are being used without permsission. I'm making no money off of this story, so Disney, please don't sue me.

Many, many, many thanks to Tuesday for helping me with this story.

You Don't Get Your Money Back

by

Spitfire

"Dis-" Catherine grunted as she pulled herself another inch up the wall of the Refuge. "-Has gotta be da most dim-witted t'ing ya's evah tawked me inta!" She paused a moment to regain her breath.

"Me?!" Porter glanced over her shoulder at her struggling friend and stopped herself to wait. "Who was it t'reatened ta scream bloody moider if I din't take her along?"

"I dunno." Catherine replied innocently, resuming her climb. The guard passed underneath them, whistling and both girls froze, praying he wouldn't notice two irregular protuberances on the wall. Porter breathed a silent pray of thanks when he'd passed. "What I wanna know," her friend whispered shakily once both had recovered enough to begin climbing again, "is how you can be so calm."

Calm? Porter thought, trying to remember a time when she'd been more terrified.

~*~

The case of Porter Conlon, grand theft and resisting arrest-" She hadn't resisted, though. She'd been too paralyzed with fear and shame to resist - just as she was now. She wanted to tell them that, but she couldn't bring herself to lift her eyes. Her mouth felt too dry, her arms, too heavy, the gaze of the judge, too accusing.

". . . sentence you to one year in the House of Refuge."

~*~

Aw right. Point taken. Fergit I ast, God, Porter thought, pushing back the shame of the memory.

"I'se gonna fall. Catherine whispered. "I hate heights. I'se gonna fall."

"Ya ain't gonna fall." Porter replied. "Even if ya let go, ya wouldn't fall, cuz I'se got one end a dis rope."

"We'll both fall." Catherine answered. "Dey'll find our broken bodies at da bottom a da wall in da mornin' an' figure we jumped."

Porter fought down a surge of frustration. She knew Catherine didn't mean to be querulous. "No, dey won't. It's jist a liddle foither."

"Tell me again why we'se climbin' up instead a down?"

Porter's fingers reached the roof, and she dragged herself over the edge. "It ain't actually between climbin' up an' climbin' down," she explained. "It's climb up or climb sideways - fer a longa distance. Cuz we'se gotta get ta da west wing. It's on'y one story, so da roof's low, an' dere ain't but a coupla feet 'tween it an' da outside wall. Dere!" They both stood on the roof. "See, ya din't fall." She couldn't see Catherine's glare in the darkness, but she was sure it was there. "We'd betta untie ourselves." That done, and the rope coiled over her shoulder, she led the way along the roof to the west wing.

When they reached the end of the west wing, Catherine balked. "I toldja how I feel about heights." She shook her head at the three foot wide, eight foot high gap.

Porter sighed. "Wouldja radder wait heah till Snyder notices we'se missin'?"

"Porter-" Catherine's voice held genuine fear.

"Jist a second-" Porter waved her silent. "Look, I'll go foist." She leaped with the ease born of practice from the edge of the roof, and landed safely on the top of the wall. "See. It ain't really hard - jist looks dat way. Take my hand, stepp over, an' don't look down."

"Dat's easy fer you ta say." Catherine replied in a strained voice.

"Don't worry." Porter coaxed. "We got dis far. Come on . . . dere! See?"

Catherine swallowed. "How do we get down?"

"We'se still got da rope, rememba? Heah, sit. Dis is easier, dat way." She looped one end of the rope around Catherine's waist, and directed the girl to jump.

"Jump?! Ya mad?"

"I'se gonna lower ya down. Trust me, aw right?"

"I ain't got no choice," Catherine muttered, as Porter began easing her gently down.

"An' don't make a sound!"

"Jist let it be over wit soon."

Catherine was actually almost to the ground, when the merry whistling warned them of the passing guard. Porter, whose nerves were already as taut as the rope, started and let go. Catherine yelped when she hit the ground. Terrified of being caught, Porter jumped after her, and ran as soon as she could force her bruised body off the street. Dat hoit. Dat really hoit.

"Hurry!"

"I'se hurryin'!" The rope, trailing behind them, caught on something, and tripped both. "Get me outta dis!" Catherine whispered. The whistling had stopped. Porter fumbled with the knots in the rope. Her fingers refused to cooperate. "C'mon!"

"I'se tryin'!"

"Try harder!"

"Is he comin'?"

"I don't know!"

Finally, the knot gave. "Got it!" Porter scrambled back the way they'd come.

Catherine was apalled. "Whaddaya doin'?! Scram! We'se gotta get outta heah!"

"I need da rope." Porter found the place where the end of the rope had caught, and yanked on it, heart pounding. Voices came from the prison courtyard. Someone had woken Snyder. "D-n! D-n! You stupid rope, come ON!" On the last word it came free, leaving her sprawled on her back.

"Porter!" Catherine yelled, torn between waiting for her friend, and running for dear life. Fortunately, she didn't have to make the decision because Porter caught up to her then. "What was ya doin' dat for?" She grabbed Porter's arm, and one trailing loop of roof and ran.

"I toldja," Porter gasped, "I need da rope."

~*~

"But what da h-ll for?" Catherine shouted. "Ya had me scared back dere, Porter! I was shoa we's gonna be caught!"

"We wasn't, was we?" Her friend pointed out logically, leaning against the wall of the church that had sheltered them through the night. The rector had thrown them out that morning, but by then, they were no longer hunted. "I need da rope, cuz I can sell it, an' wheah I'se goin' ya needs money."

"Well, wheah is we goin'?" Catherine asked.

"We?" Porter turned her head in surprise. "Ya wanna come?"

"Coise I'se comin'! Ya got me outta dat rat trap, I wanna see what odder tricks ya's got up yer sleeve!"

A smile appeared on Porter's face and vanished again. "Ya shoa. I mean-"

"Look, I ain't got nothin' I wanna go back ta. Youse got a place yer plannin' ta stay, an' I can't do woise."

~*~

When she learned her friend's destination, however, Catherine was less enthusiastic. "Brooklyn?!" She stopped dead. She ran to catch up with her friend. "Ya's takin' us ta Brooklyn? Do ya gots a death wish or somet'in?" The Brooklyn newsies were renowned throughout New York for their prowess as fighters and their preference for fighting over conversation. Catherine was no coward, but any child knew that Spot Conlon's crowd was trouble. "Walk right up ta Spot Conlon an' say we wants ta join? Dey'll moider us 'fore we gets dat far!"

"Jist trust me." Porter quelled her protests. "I know what I'se doin'." I t'ink, she added silently. If he don't soak me as soon as he sets eyes on me, we should be fine. If I'se even right about dis . . . She'd been putting off this meeting for years, and she was not at all certain of her welcome. "Sides, Spot ain't nevah hit a goil - an' he won't hit me." I don't t'ink.

Catherine looked at her strangely. "Ya know 'im? I wouldn't'a t'ought . . ." she trailed off awkwardly.

Porter snorted. "I ain't one a Spot's many goils!"

"But den-"

"Look, ya can't live in Brooklyn witout knowin' who Spot Conlon is." she argued speciously. Her mind drifted back years.

~*~

"Porter!" She looked around in surprise. She rarely heard her own name. She could not remember her father calling her by it. Her mother, who would have - a lump formed in her throat - was five weeks dead, and as far as she knew, no one in this neighborhood knew it. Her father had made certain to cover his traces when they moved.

A boy from her old building leaned against the wall. She turned to him warily. Any attention from the younger set was usually the precursor to a fight - with her on the losing side. She was gglad they had moved. Her mother had wanted a neighborhood with children to keep her only daughter company, but the idea had backfired.

"Evan's been lookin' fer ya."

A strange emotion came over Porter. The last time she'd seen her cousin had been just after her mother's death, before either family moved. (The propinquity of the events was no coincidence. Jonathan had stayed in the neighborhood as the one concession he ever made to his wife.) Evan knew nothing of the circumstances surrounding Bess' death, and Porter wanted to keep in that way.

~*~

"Porter." Catherine nudged her shoulder, and she jumped. She covered her nose at the pungent scent wafting from the fishing boats. After two months in the Refuge, she was no longer accustomed to the smell. "Wheah do we go from heah?"

Porter surveyed their surroundings. They were right on the edge of the docks, a storm of sound and motion. Carriages rolled up and down in every direction. Huge crates flew over the girls' heads hauled by ropes as thick as Porter's arm to be caught by muscled laborers. Dozens of raggedly-clothed boys darted through the bustle, shouting, laughing and singing. If she'd been on her own, Porter might well have turned back right then. Her cousin had never been known for keeping his temper and from all she heard he hadn't changed. She wasn't sure how he would react to finding her own his doorstep after six years. She took a deep breath. "Da middle a da action, I guess. Wheah else would Spot be? Come on." They walked down the street, unsure who they were even looking for. For the most part, people ignored the two girls. They drew a few whistles, but that was all.

"Well, well. Mornin', ladies. What brings ya ta dese parts?" A tall, dark-complected boy several years older than either girl stood over them. He tipped his hat, but Porter caught a predatory look in his eyes that unnerved her.

At her side, Catherine stiffened as well. "Nothin'."

"Nothin'? Dat can't be true!" He held out a hand. "Da name's Reaper. You looks like you needs a guide."

Why did he make her so nervous? Never mind, she'd always trusted her instincts and wasn't about to stop now. "We'se fine." Porter stammered, backing up a little.

He came closer, and Porter suddenly realized they were backing away from the crowd. "I insist. Dis town ain't safe fer two goils like yerselves all alone."

"Let da goils alone, Reaper. I'se got poifect aim, an' from dis distance even Smoke couldn't miss."

Porter looked over her shoulder in surprise. A boy perched on the roof of a low building, holding a slingshot that seemed to be aimed strangely low. The shadows of another building obscured much of his face, but Reaper identified him for her.

"Aw, Spot, I ain't bodderin' them. We'se jist enjoyin' ourselves, right?" A hand closed firmly on her arm.

"Right." Catherine squeaked at the same time. Porter felt guilty for bringing her friend into this.

"Five seconds, Reaper."

"Ta tell da truth, Spot-" The boy gave an embarrassed laugh. "-Ya's kinda interruptin', if ya know what I mean."

Something zinged passed Porter, and Reaper dropped her arm as if he'd been burned. He cursed. That was when Porter realized the Spot's aim had been perfect - his target was low. She tried to bring herself to feel some sympathy for Reaper, but gave up when the effort proved too much.

"One a da stupider stunts ya's tried, Reaper." Spot dropped lightly down from the roof, and bowed. "Spot Conlon, at yer service." He led them away, ignoring Reaper's cursing. "Reaper won't bodder youse, no more. Do da damsels in distress got names?" he asked, smirking over his shoulder when both hesitated at first. "I figure I gots da right ta know who I rescued."

At her first opportunity to examine the boy, Porter had to stifle a gasp. She hadn't been certain what kind of seventeen-year-old her cousin would have grown into. He'd always been punctilious about his dress, with the result that his clothing, while only slightly finer than any other street kid's was always neat. He had a face guaranteed to break hearts, and an aura of power he had not possessed six years previously. If only that face didn't look so like her father's.

"Catherine Delaware." One look at her friend confirmed that Catherine had fallen fast and hard.

Spot kissed her hand. "I'se honored ta be able ta help ya, Catherine." Catherine blushed. "And you?"

Porter watched his eyes narrow as he took his first good look at her. Heah goes. "I'se Porter."

~*~

"What kinda name is dat fer a goil?"

"It's me grandfadder's name," she replied stiffly, eyeing the blond 'cowboy' who had appeared with her cousin with distrust.

"I t'ought yer grandfadder's name was Liam, Evan."

"My grandfadder." Porter corrected. "Not his."

~*~

He didn't reply at once, but she the slightest light of recognition appeared in his eyes. "Ya know, I t'ought I knew ev'y pretty goil in Brooklyn, but I don't rememba seein' youse two before."

"Well, I'se from midtown Manhattan, but Porter's from aroun' heah." Catherine answered, surprised. She realized he'd called her pretty and blushed again. "She said-"

"It ain't important." Porter said hurriedly. "We wanted ta join da newsies." She gave him a pleading look.

"Den I can help ya again." He appeared delighted. "Pea Shooter!" The girl who appeared out of nowhere, sported a head of dark brown hair and wielded a slingshot with practiced ease. "Dese is our new goils. Show 'em da ropes, aw right?"

"Shoa, Spot." She smiled. "Heya. I'se Pea Shooter. I'll take ya ta da distribution center." As they started to follow her, however, Spot caught Porter's arm.

"Jist a minute. Naw, youse two go." He nodded at the others. "I wanna tawk ta Porter heah fer a minute."

Porter winced, and waited uncertainly until the others were out of earshot. Then Spot almost threw down her arm. "Wheah da h-ll has you been? Ya know how long I spent-?!" He stopped. "Well?"

"Well what?" What was there to say?

"What?" Porter winced again. She couldn't remember her cousin ever hitting her, but she didn't know how much 'Spot' had in common with the boy she'd known. "All dis time? I figgered ya musta left da state, da way nobody knew wheah ya'd gone! An' now ya show up heah-" He crossed his arms. "I'se waitin' ta heah wheah ya's been all dese yeahs."

"I din't go nowheres."

"'Cept to midtown?" He nodded down the street. "Who's yer friend?"

"Jist dat. A friend. Ya want me story, fine. Dere ain't nothin' ta tell anyways! Ya'll hafta ask her fer hers. We needs a place ta stay an' dat's all. I ain't askin' fer nothin' else. I wouldn't take it if ya offered. Jist two beds, an' fair warnin' if da bulls come aroun'. I'll earn me own money, pay me own rent, buy me own supper - an' if dere's fightin'-"

He interrupted her. "If dere's fightin', ya'll stay da h-ll outta da way, less ya's got any betta in da las' six yeahs." That so-familiar smirk had appeared on his face. Porter wondered what he thought was so funny, but didn't ask. All that mattered was that he was going to let her stay.

"T'anks."

"Ya's a newsie, now! Yer one a mine - an' dere ain't no freeloaders aroun' heah, so ya betta get ta woik if ya's gonna pay tanight's rent!" He put a hand on her back and propelled her down the street, still smirking. After a moment's thoughtfull silence he added "By da way, ya betta keep da fam'ly business quiet. I handle da boys on somet'ings, but dat ain't one a dem."

She was unexpectedly hurt, but shoved the feeling down. He'd grown up, after all. The rest of the family - white and black - refused to acknowledge her existence, so why should he be any different? He useta be, a small voice whispered. Shaddup, Porter, she replied immediately.

~*~

Spot glanced aside at his cousin and marveled inwardly. He couldn't believe she shown up after all these years. He'd been furious at first. He'd said a lot of good-byes in his life, but that one had hurt. It had hurt almost as much as his father's death. He shook off that thought, and smirked again. She hadn't changed a bit - that stubborn pride, that spark of temper that so rarely showed - that closed mouth. He'd press her for more of her story later, but privately he doubted he'd learn any more.

They reached the distribution center, and she ran to join the other girls.

~*~

"So?" Catherine asked.

"So?" Porter replied.

"What happened?" Catherine's attempt at casualness failed utterly.

Porter smiled sideways. "Absolutely nothing has evah happened or evah will happen between me an' Spot. He's like a brudda to me." She could say that without breaking her promise. "So da field's free," she teased.

"Dat face an' dat charm, an' dat's all ya t'ink a him?" Catherine teased back, blushing. "You need help, Porter."

"Not dat it's any a me business," Pea Shooter cut in cheerfully. "Don't get yer hopes up too high. He's got his pick a most any goil in New Yawk, an' da longest I'se evah known him wit any single one was t'ree weeks."

Catherine nodded, but Porter doubted much of the warning took hold. "He wit anyone now?"

The more experienced girl sighed. "No, he ain't. C'mon, youse two got woik ta do."

~*~

"An' a lot ta loin!" she added as they entered the lodging house that evening. "Heya, Mr. Greenbarrow!" Pea Shooter called to a man in his middle thirties. He nodded to her. "Five cents fer me, an' anudda ten fer da new kids."

"We pay our own way," Porter said stiffly.

Pea Shooter gave her an amused look. "Ya shoa do! I ain't got dat much money. C'mon up. Dere's on'y one room, but we hang up a sheet 'tween us an' da boys."

~*~

"Pea Shooter!" A girl in a bright red vest called out a greeting.

"Fresh blood!" grinned a tall blond boy. "Eidder a youse two beauties play poker?"

The vested girl rolled her eyes. "Give da goils a chance ta get settled in, Cards! Da name's, Robin." She spat in her hand and held it out. Porter did the same, shy in the midst of all these people. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Catherine eyeing the proffered hand with disgust.

"Ya'll get useta it," she whispered.

"Is it jist me, or do we gots one extra bunk free den we had dis mornin'?" Pea Shooter tied her earnings up in a bandanna, and tucked it under a mattress.

"Reaper left dis mornin'." Spot replied with no inflection.

Porter raised her eyebrows, and tried not to smile. She found herself with a bed close to the dividig line between the boys' and girls' sides of the room. On the nightstand beside hers, she saw the her heart's desire. "Who gots all da books?" she called quietly.

"Huh?" Robin turned. "Oh, dose is Worm's." She gestured at a boy Porter had almost missed. He sat as close to the light as was possible, completely engrossed in a book.

"Can I read one?" she asked even more quietly.

"Shoa. Hey, Worm! Can da new goil look at yer treasure?" Worm didn't look up, and Robin crossed the room with an exasperated smile. "Bookworm!" she shouted, almost in the boys ear. He jumped.

"What?! Dere a fight? a fire? What is it?"

Robin shook her head. "Hence da name. Da new goil - uh"

"Porter."

"Porter heah - wants ta look at yer books."

"If it's aw right." Porter shrank a little.

He smiled engagingly. "A coise. Take anyone ya one - long as I get it back. Dis crowd needs a liddle culture." He winked. The pillow missed him by a mile, but knocked over the lamp he was reading by.

"Hey! Watch it, ya bums!" Spot shouted. "Ya tryin' ta set da place on fire or somet'in?"

~*~

Porter took Bookworm at his word. In fact, Catherine - or Owl, as Spot had dubbed her - teased that the two made the perfect couple. "Ya'll grow up, get married, an' run a bookshop tagedda!" she laughed.

"Aw shaddup." Porter was trying to concentrate on her book. She'd nearly finished, and had so involved herself in the hero's tribulations that she was more and more on edge as the book tension mounted.

"My point, exactly!" Owl said. "Spot, wouldn't Porter an' Worm make da best pair?" She said his name with a certain amount of pride, since the day before he'd asked her to be his girl. Warnings that Spot's flings never lasted long fell on deaf ears. "Ain't it betta ta be wonderfully happy fer a liddle while, den ta nevah feel dat at all?" she argued. The three were lounging on the docks along with most of the Brooklyn newsies, waiting for the evening papers to go one sale.

"Poifect!" Spot replied. "So, Porter, when's da weddin'? Do I get ta give da bride away?"

"Shaddup," she said again.

He pulled her hat off. "I do believe she's blushin'!"

"I said shut up!" Porter stood up. It was a silly thing to get so angry about, but she didn't care. At her tone, the entire company sat up and took notice. No one who valued his or her health talked that way to Spot Conlon. He stood up as well. "I'se tryin'-" She stepped forward. "-ta read me book, an' I don't-" She pushed him back. "Wanna heah anymore stupid comments!" She pushed him again.

The story was told a dozen times over later with a hundred different variations. After all, it wasn't often someone got the best of Spot Conlon. In reality, though, it was pure accident - and the fact that Spot happened to be standing right on the edge of the pier. When he fell backwards, the entire docks fell silent.

Porter bit her lip, anger suddenly gone. Spot surfaced, sputtering and glaring. She held out a hand apprehensively. He took it, still glaring and climbed out of the water. Everyone watched as he wrung out his hat, waiting for the axe to fall. He returned it to his head, and crossed his arms to look at her.

Porter didn't dare say a word, although she flinched when he lifted a hand. He pulled her hat down over her eyes. "I'd fergotten what a spitfire ya was." He smirked, and patted her shoulder. She went practically limp with relief. The other newsies suddenly decided silence was not the best reaction and began talking loudly as if nothing had happened. Then he pushed her in.

~*~

"What did you two do? Go fer a swim?" Mr. Greenbarrow asked, when they returned to the lodging house dripping wet.

Porter didn't reply, just looked at the ground. Spot smirked. "Shoa, it's great exercise, ya know."

The landlord shook his head and muttered something about 'kids these days.' "I'd expect it from him." He nodded at Spot. "But I thought you had more sense!"

Embarrassed, she didn't reply. "Spitfire!" Spot called from the washroom. "Heah!" She caught a towel in the face and dried herself off. "Now, come on, we'se gotta woik."

~*~

"Will ya stop laughin' aw ready?" Porter glared. "It ain't really dat funny."

To Porter's chagrin, the nickname Spot bestowed upon her had stuck. After the incident on the pier, he'd refused to call her anything else. As for the rest of the newsies - well, they generally followed Spot's lead. At least, dey don't tease me dat much no more, she thought with a mixture of smug satisfaction and embarrassment.

"Yeah, it is!" Owl retorted. "Look at it dis way," she added, "Ain't no one heah dat ain't got a nickname. Even I gots mine a coupla days afta we moved. So it's like a rite a passage. Ya's officially a newsie, now. One a da fam'ly."

Porter snorted. "Ta really be a Brooklyn newsie, ya needs a nickname - an' ya needs ta have been soaked at least once by Spot Conlon."

Owl snickered. "Dere must be a lot more a us den lives aroun' heah den."

Porter couldn't help laughing as well. One a da fam'ly. It's a nice t'ought.

THE END