The next few days, the newsies fell into a sort of waiting pattern. Jack and Davey worked to secure Irving hall for the rally. Brooklyn and Manhattan sent teams to every borough, telling them about the strike and inviting them to the rally. They continued to strike outside the World. Fights broke out every day as more scabs showed up to take their jobs.

The goon squad did not appear again.

Sammy didn't trust this. Obviously, Pulitzer wasn't giving up, since the price hadn't gone back down. He wasn't ignoring them. He was planning something.

Sammy was spending most of his time in Manhattan, which bothered him. He spent his evenings at the theater, doing odd jobs for Bailey. Not working the flies like he wanted, but it was the theater and it was work.

Trouble was, he got out so late that there was no way to get back to Brooklyn in time to make curfew at the lodging house. Spot didn't want him sleeping on the street, so Sammy had been ordered to stay at the Manhattan lodge. Which was fine. It contributed to the general sense of comradery between the boroughs. Sammy got to know the boys better, and they got to know him, as much as anyone but Spot did. It was good.

But Sammy spent all his time worried about Spot. And Victor Prentiss.

His stomach turned over every time he thought about that man. And his parties. And his wanting to try something new with Spot. Sammy could only imagine what that meant.

He knew Spot didn't want to go back. He'd said as much. But Sammy knew Spot. If he thought his boys needed that money, he'd go back. He wouldn't even think of himself, he'd put the others first.

If Sammy wasn't there to stop him… to protect him…

Sammy rolled onto his back and stared at the bunk above him. It was late, but he couldn't sleep. Not after all morning of striking and all night working at the theater. He should be exhausted. Instead, he was worried about Spot.

He wasn't used to being separated from the other boy. Now, he was surrounded by the sounds and stinks of a bunch of kids that wasn't his family. Not the one he was used to. Not the one whose snores lulled him to sleep each night.

But this was only temporary. Just until the strike was over. It couldn't last forever. One of these days, Pulitzer was going to have to give in

Or they were.

He sighed and rolled onto his side, curling into a ball. He couldn't think like that. He had to keep faith.

"I say that what you say? Is what I say," Spot declared. The hundreds of newsies packed into Irving Hall immediately broke into raucous cheers.

Brave words. Bold words. Stop soaking the scabs and let 'em sell. Try and talk 'em down with words instead of fists. It was a crazy idea, but Spot could see the logic. The had to show the world they weren't just dumb kids out for a fight. They was serious.

Unfortunately, so was Pulitzer. And, at the rally, everything went to hell. The bulls and the thugs came busting in with clubs and chains, out for blood. And with every newsie in New York packed in the hall, things went turned bad real fast.

"Sammy!" Spot shouted, pushing through the panicking bodies surrounding him. "Sammy!"

"Spot!" he heard.

He turned in time to see Race being dragged away by a bull, dead to the world. He didn't see Sammy anywhere.

Someone grabbed his shoulder. He turned, swinging his cane.

The figure ducked. "It's me, Spot!"

"Sammy!" He threw himself at the other boy. Their heads knocked together, but Spot got his arms around Sammy and hugged him tight. "We gotta get out of here."

"They're here for Jack."

Spot nodded. "We get him out too. Any idea where he is?"

Sammy shook his head. "We'll find him." He grabbed Spot's hand and pulled. "Let's go."

They fought their way toward the front of the theater. It was like fighting a wave. They was pushed back and jostled. Sammy fell once and came back up bleeding from the mouth. Spot got punched and kicked, and there were bodies everywhere. Everyone was screaming, and Spot was glad he'd insisted that the littlest ones stayed in Brooklyn. They'd have been crushed in this.

They finally made it to the front hall. There were bulls all over, some on horses.

They saw Spot and Sammy. One of them shouted.

"Go back, go back!" Sammy cried. He turned and started pushing Spot back the way they'd came. Then he yelped and was ripped away from Spot.

He turned. "Sammy!"

Sammy swung at the man who'd grabbed him. Punched him square in the jaw.

The bull responded by smashing Sammy's face in with his baton.

Sammy went down like he was dead.

"No!" Spot screamed. He rushed to the other boy but was caught up off the ground by a strong pair of arms. "Let me go!" He squirmed and kicked and lashed out, but he was caught good. No matter what he did, he couldn't get free and, in no time, he was thrown into a police wagon.

There was other boys in the back. Race was lying in a heap on the floor, groaning as he came to. Boots was there, too along with Blink and Mush. They were all looking demoralized and beaten.

"Where's Jack?" Spot asked.

Blink shook his head. "They got him."

The doors to the wagon opened and another body was thrown in.

"Sammy!" Spot moved to the other boy and pulled him deeper inside. Pulled his head into Spot's lap. He stroked his hair back, wincing at the blood flowing down his face. "He's bleeding. I need… anyone got anything?"

Blink pulled out a handkerchief and passed it to Spot.

Spot wiped at the blood, dabbing at it gingerly until he was able to see where it was coming from. There was a flap of skin that'd gotten torn away at Sammy's hairline, and it was gushing blood. As the wagon started swaying, he pushed the handkerchief against the wound.

"Wake up, Sammy," he said. With his free hand, he stroked along Sammy's jaw. It was slightly swollen from where he'd been stepped on before. His teeth were all bloody, but they all seemed to be there. His face was a mess, fading greenish purple bruises mingling with the new darkening ones. And all of it covered with blood.

"He'll be fine, Spot," Blink said. "You know how head wounds are. They bleed like mad."

"I know." He swallowed and shook his head. "Poor kid's gonna forget what he looks like, he's been beaten up so much lately."

"You did that, right? The old ones."

"Yeah. Him and me had a stupid disagreement. Should never have done it."

"Eh, it's the price of life." Blink leaned his head against the wall of the wagon and closed his eye. "What do you think's gonna happen?"

"Disaster," was what he wanted to say. "They're going to throw us into the Refuge and throw away the key. Pulitzer is going to do what it takes to make us disappear."

But he couldn't say it. He was one of the leaders of the strike, and it was his job to keep up moral.

"We'll cool our heels in a cell overnight. They'll let us go in the morning. We didn't do anything wrong. They was after Jack."

"You really think so?"

Spot gazed down at Sammy. Shrugged. "I don't know, Blink. I really don't."

In his lap, Sammy stirred. His face scrunched up and then he opened his eyes.

Spot smiled gently down at him. "How you doing, Sammy?"

"What's going on?"

"You got clubbed by a bull. We's head to jail." He checked to see if Sammy was still bleeding. "How's your head?"

"Hurts." He made like he was going to sit up, but Spot held him down.

"Just rest. Don't worry about nothing right now."

"I might throw up," he said sleepily, closing his eyes.

"If you do, aim for Race."

"Hey!"

"Okay," Sammy said, voice slurred with sleep. "You okay, Spot?"

"I'm fine."

"Good."

They continued to move for about ten more minutes. Then, the wagon stopped, and the back flew open.

"Get out one at a time," a bull yelled. "And don't try anything funny."

Groaning, Sammy sat up. He clutched his head and swayed, skin a sickly green under the bruises. Since he was closest to the door, he scooted to the edge of the wagon and let the bull roughly pull him out. Spot followed.

There was a cop for every one of them it seemed, iron hands on their shoulders, pushing them through the station. They were led to the back and shoved into a small cell, all them at in one. Once inside, Sammy crumpled to the floor, and Spot came up behind him.

"Up." He put his hands under Sammy's armpits and tugged until the other boy staggered back to his feet.

There was one cot in the cell, pushed against the wall. The thin mattress looked like it'd seen better days, but it was better than the grimy floor.

"I say we let Race and Shadow have the cot," he said, propelling Sammy to it. "They was knocked out the worst."

No one dissented, and Blink helped Race over to the cot. They got the boys arranged on it; there was barely enough room for the both.

Spot crouched next to Sammy and stroked a hand over his blood smeared forehead. "There's a bucket. You feel like you's gonna throw up, let me know." He looked over a Race. "That goes for both of you."

Race nodded, then immediately his face screwed in pain, as if moving hurt too much.

Spot caressed Sammy's face one more time, then stood up.

"Where do you suppose Jack is?" Mush asked.

"Probably got him in a separate cell. He's the one they was after," Blink answered. "You know Snyder and his obsession with Jack."

"You think they're gonna throw us all in the Refuge?" asked Boots after a moment.

The boys fell silent, contemplating that idea. Spot couldn't imagine anything worse. The stories one heard about that place… the bad food, the fact that you hardly ever got food, three boys to a bed, rats…

He bet the place was worse than advertised.

"They won't throw us all there," he said, finally. "We didn't do anything wrong."

"Since when does a kid haveta to do wrong to end up there?" Mush pointed out.

They fell silent again, subdued.

"Well. Standing around worrying ain't gonna change nothing." He shook his head and managed a smile. "I say we try and get some sleep."

"I'm not tired," Boots protested.

"Then what do you suggest we do?"

He thought about a moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a bag of marbles. "Wanna play?"

Spot exchanged looks with the other boys. They all looked worse for the wear: bruised and demoralized.

And they was all looking at Spot for guidance.

He smiled at Boots and took a seat on the floor. "Let's play."

"I fine you each five dollars or two weeks confinement in the house of Refuge."

Spot's stomach did a nose dive at the judge's pronouncement. He and Sammy looked at each other, horror written on their faces. Five dollars each. Ten dollars for the two of them. And the rest… There were near ten newsies that got taken last night all told, not including Jack. Fifty dollars.

The hell of it was, Spot had the money. He could get them all out, if the judge let him go back to Brooklyn for it. Which he doubted. But that fifty dollars could go to food for his boys during the strike. Clothes when it got cold. Blankets for the winter. Medicine for sick kids.

But two weeks in the refuge…

"I'll pay the fines, your honor. All of them."

Relief washed over Spot, but he didn't trust the newspaper man. Not fully. He got that Denton was in this for the story; as long as the newsies was news, Denton was going to keep feeding them and such. But was food was one thing. For a man like Denton, it was pocket change. Maybe this was too, but on the other hand…

What did he want in return?

Life had taught Spot that he couldn't trust adults farther than he could throw them. They always wanted something. Obedience, labor, a story, sex. What was Denton after? What was Spot going to have to give him?

He didn't like it. As he and Sammy were processed, he leaned over and said, "I don't trust this."

"I think he's sincere."

"Oh, yeah? What in it for him? What does paying the fines get him?"

Shadow shrugged and turned to look at Spot. "He's probably just a bleeding heart."

"Didn't Mouth say something about him being an ace war correspondent?" He turned and looked at Denton. "They ain't known for their bleeding hearts."

Just then, Jack, bruised and looking exhausted, was led into the courtroom. "Hiya, fellas! Hey Denton, guess we made all the papes this time, huh? How'd my picture look?"

And that's when Denton dropped the hammer. "None of the papers covered the rally. Not even the Sun."

Spot snorted. "And there we go. Goodness of his heart, sure. His guilty heart."

"Let's hear he has to say, at least. Maybe there's a good reason."

"Oh, yeah. I'm sure." He shook his head. "We never shoulda trusted him. He…"

"Quiet," Race hissed. He nodded at the court, where Snyder was silkily unveiling Jack Kelly's sordid history.

Jack Kelly… Francis Sullivan. Mother deceased, father in prison. Not out west, like Cowboy had always said. Poor kid. But Spot had heard worse. Sammy's father had killed Sammy's mother in front of him. Spot'd never even known his father, and his mother hadn't been anything to write home about.

And then the judge delivered his sentence: incarceration until age twenty-one.

No matter how much they shouted and screamed, no one listened. They were hustled out of the room, still shouting their heads off, fighting against the court bulls.

"Keep fighting, and it's straight back to the cell," one of them finally said.

"All right, stop!" Spot shouted. He threw his hands up and stopped fighting. "Boys. Let's just go."

Davey was waiting outside. He looked like someone had kicked him in the face. Well. He had the look of a believer, someone who'd swallow whatever he was told. Spot? He'd never quite bought Jack's story about his parents. For one thing, it kept changing depending on who he told it to. Sometimes his ma was dead, sometimes his dad. Sometimes they was out west. Sometimes, they'd died going out west. Sure, it was consistent: someone was always going or had gone out west. But one consistent fact did not for a believable story make.

"Hey, Mouth," Spot said as they approached Tibby's. "Me and Shadow's going to go."

"What? Where? Why?"

"We need to get back to our boys in Brooklyn, sees how they made out. If they made it out. See to the state of things." He gave the Mouth a small smile. "We'll be back tomorrow to strike. We just needs today."

"Yeah, I get it." He held out his hand. "Thanks for your help last night."

Spot shook it. Then, he turned and clapped his hand on Sammy's shoulder. "Let's go."

They were silent as they traversed the city, lost in thought. They were almost to the bridge before Sammy spoke.

"Lucky Denton paid for us," he said. "I mean, I know you thinks he was trying to ease a guilty conscious, but that was a lotta money."

"Half our savings," Spot said.

"Is it, Spot? Is it really half our savings?"

Spot fell silent, poking out his lower lip. He swallowed hard and glanced at Sammy.

Sammy was looking at him with an expression of knowing.

He sighed. "Okay, no. I gots more."

"How much?"

"Near a hundred."

Sammy stopped in his tracks. "A … a hundred? You has a hundred dollars?"

"Well… I never spent any of the money they gaves me. I kept it, just in case something happened."

"So, we could have covered Roger when he broke his ankle."

Spot shook his head. "I only had twenty then." He swallowed. "I asked for more after that. Raised my prices."

"Don't."

He ducked his head. "It's the truth." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I wasn't ever going to use it on me."

"I never thought you were. Spot, you's noble. Too noble for your own good. I know that you'd do anything for us and wouldn't hold out on any of us." He slipped his hand onto Spot's shoulder and squeezed. "But you don't gotta do what you was."

"Double the price."

"No."

His eyes pricked suspiciously, and Spot nodded. He still didn't quite believe that he wasn't ever going back to Victor's house. He wasn't ever going to have to do those things never again, not with any of those men. He wasn't going to ever feel the humiliation of someone coming on his face, or making him come when he didn't feel like it, or of being exhausted and drunk and sick and still being touched like he was an object.

He was free.

"Spot!" Bruiser crowed when he and Sammy made it to Brooklyn. "What happened? We saw you get carried off by the bulls."

"Eh, it was nothing. A night in the cell, a day in court, nothing we couldn't handle." He slung his arm around Sammy's neck and pulled him close. "He's the real hero. Took a club to the face and lived to tell about it."

Sammy snorted and rolled his eyes. "'cause my head's made of wood. Not much to damage."

The boys all laughed.

"What's been going on here?"

Bruiser shrugged. "Nothing much. We all scrammed last night from the rally. Didn't make it back in time for curfew, but they actually let us in anyway. I think it's because there were only five boys without us. We've been striking all morning." He frowned. "Sent Sonny to get a copy of the Sun, like you said. But there wasn't story about the rally in it. Thought you said that newspaper man was going to write one?"

"He said none of the papes covered it but didn't say why. And we didn't stick around to find out." He rubs his face. "I think me and Sammy are heading back to the lodge now. We need to scrub the stink of prison off us."

The boys all laughed at the idea they'd been in prison. "You want us to keep protesting?"

"Only way to let 'em know. And keep the kids collecting; we need the money. Tomorrow, most of us will go back to Manhattan. Keep the pressure up there."

"Sounds good."

Spot turned and tugged Sammy with him. "Let's go get some rest, Sammy. I think we've earned it."

"Amen."