"Boy!"

Race, long accustomed to being called nearly anything but his name, turned. "Yeah?"

"Where's the pape?" a burly man asked, about to enter the track area. "Ya always got 'em here. Where's they?"

Race was also long accustomed to gauging situations. Was the man a threat? Was he the type to pull brass knuckles for not getting his paper? As accustomed as Race was, though, to accurately gauging situations, his mouth never worked in tandem with his mind. "Didja check under your fat rear?"

The man froze for an instant, sorting out what Race had just said. Race too was still sorting out what he had just said. Oh shiiii—

Race took off at a dead run, the man not far behind. However, in addition to answering to just about any name he heard and gauging the dangers in situations, Race was also well accustomed to running from Sheepshead and various taverns. He knew he could make it away safely.

But he still didn't have any money.

The thought didn't worry him excessively, but it was certainly something to think about before returning to the lodging house for the night. Kloppman had told him that one more night in debt meant he'd be locked out. Race didn't believe it—Kloppman'd never do that—but he felt bad for putting the old man out at all.

A glance back told him that the man had stopped chasing him and had disappeared around a corner, so Race slowed to a walk. It was going to be a long one. Walking from Sheepshead to Manhattan always took longer when his pockets were empty. Wait—no—Race sprinted off suddenly and managed to latch himself to the back of a carriage heading in the right direction. Maybe it wouldn't take so long now. Certainly less tiring to ride than to walk.

Race had to grip the edges of the carriage step on which he was perched, but the action was so familiar to him that it had become mechanical, and he trusted his mind to wander as his fingers gripped on tight. In this manner, he very nearly fell asleep on the way, and, it was lucky that the carriage was indeed headed for Manhattan.

"Race!"

The sudden yell jarred him from his reverie, and he jerked awake and automatically hopped from the carriage, glancing around briefly to be sure of his whereabouts. Manhattan, good. How long was I asleep? Then he turned to the speaker. "Spot."

The familiar sneer of a smile crossed Spot Conlon's face. "Havin' some trouble, Racey? You's back awful early."

"Nah," Race said, waving a dismissive hand. "Just the usual."

Spot nodded toward Race's empty arms. "Where's your papes?"

"Where's yours?" Race returned. "An' whadda'ya doin' this side a' the Bridge, anyways?"

Spot's sneersmile widened. "Sold 'em and visitin'," he answered, then repeated, "Where's your papes?"

"Dunno." Race shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "Stolen, I s'ppose. Saves me from eatin' them."

"Also 'saves' ya from sellin' them."

Race waved a hand. "Little details, Spot. Not a problem."

"'Cept that you's a newsie."

The Italian laughed. "So they tell me."

"Ain't seen ya for a while," Spot said, tapping his cane idly against his leg. "Y'ain't been to Brooklyn to visit lately. Couple a' me boys's lookin' for ya to have a poker game or somethin'."

"I's been busy."

Spot tilted his head toward Race's empty arms again. "Yeah, I can tell. Ya lose your papes often?"

"Nah," Race said. "Only when I's in the mood to go a little broke."

"You's a gambler, Race," Spot said, raising his eyebrows. "You's never wantin' to go a little broke."

"Sure, sure." Race lifted his hat, smoothed his hair, and set his hat back down. "Heya, Spot. Can I ask ya somethin'?"

"What's that?"

"I's been hearing things," Race said. "'Bout'ch'you. That you's avoidin' 'Hattan 'cause a' Jack."

"Jack?"

"Ya know. The kid that thinks he's in charge a' 'Hattan."

"Oh, that Jack." Spot said.

"Yeah," Race said, sticking a cigarette in his mouth and wishing it was a cigar. "That Jack. The only Jack we'd be talkin' 'bout right now."

"How's Jacky-boy been treatin' ya?" Spot asked abruptly

"Huh?" Race chewed on the end of the cigarette. It didn't hold up to chewing as well as a cigar.

"He been awright?"

"Sure," Race replied, puzzled.

"I just don't know anymore wit' him," Spot said slowly. "Can't trust him, ya know?"

"Why not?"

"Aw, come on, Race. Y'ain't stupid. You's seen what he done durin' the strike."

"Whadda'ya mean?"

"Maybe you is stupid," Spot said, snorting. He shoved his cane back into his belt loop. "Ya saw how he sold out to the scabbers. You's was there."

"He came back."

"He came back," Spot repeated and snorted again. "He came back? Why'd he even got to come back, Racey? Think 'bout it. He left. He left for the dough Pulitzer gave 'em. He left the newsies for that dough." He scowled and shook his head. "An' ya thinks I can trust him now. I can't. Don't see how nobody can."