"So that's it then?" Mush asked, crestfallen, "We can't in sell Brooklyn?"

"If we can't sell in Brooklyn, we can't sell at all!" Skittery exclaimed, "Me an' Bumlets an' Snitch looked all ovah the city for anothah pape that still uses newsies—Brooklyn is the last place in the city where a newsie can still woirk."

"Spot really ain't gonna let us in Brooklyn, Cowboy?"

"That's not exactly what he said," David nettled, "He won't forbid us from selling in Brooklyn, but he said that the Brooklyn newsies don't take kindly to other newsies getting in on their territory—something to that effect."

"So, he threatened to sic his army of slingshot sharpshootehs on us if we are caught in Brooklyn?" Boots looked nervous about this prospect.

"Sic the slingshot sharpshootehs," Racetrack muttered to Lunch Money in hushed tones, "Say that one five times fast." The Higgins snickered, highly amused with themselves as they both attempted the tongue twister.

David ignored their laughter and spluttering to address Boots's question, "More or less, yes, he did threaten us."

"I guess we ain't newsies anymore than." Snitch said mournfully, "Let's face it, Jack, Pulitzer's got us beat. Between him and Spot Conlon, we'll neveh sell in this town again."

The restaurant was quiet. Each newsie was deep in thought, either running through the thin list of hopeless ideas to save their job, or else studying the restaurant itself, remembering all the happy times that had come from it during their lives as newsies.

"Maybe we'se can get jobs at the newsstands," Snipeshooter suggested hesitantly, "It wouldn't be much different than bein' a newsie." Lunch Money couldn't believe it. Had he no loyalty? No pride? Would Snipeshooter feel no shame in working for Pulitzer as a blue-collar stooge? Then to her very great surprise, a few boys nodded and murmured their assent to Snipeshooter's idea—like they thought it had merit. Fortunately, Lunch Money wasn't the only one scandalized by this proposal.

"No!" Jack cried, "No! Woirk for Pulitzer?! You'se would all be happy gettin' a fixed salary from that tightwad? A newsstand ain't nothin' like bein' a newsie! It ain't dodgin' the bulls and runnin' around the streets, tryin' ta get away with some extra pennies and a good time—it's real woirk! Are ya outta your mind?!"

"Yeah, come on fellas," Crutchy said brightly, "Don't give up hope so quickly, we may find a pape to sell for elsewhere."

"And if nothin' else, we can just sell in Brooklyn." Lunch Money shrugged, as though stating the obvious.

"Now, ya see Jack, she's outta her mind."

"What? I met Spot Conlon. He ain't so tough." She said in what she hoped was a nonchalant tone.

"Lunch Money, if we hadn't held you back, you wouldn't even be heah ta talk about it." Jack said reprovingly. This statement caused an instant uproar among the boys.

"Lunch Money tried ta take a swing at Spot Conlon? Does she have a death wish?!"

"Are you crazy, Lunch?"

"What's a'mattah wit' ya, goil?!"

"Oh please, I could have taken him down." Lunch Money was adamant about this. Well really! Conlon was like two feet tall. Not even exaggerating. Despite still being miffed at the little incident in Brooklyn, Lunch Money was quite enjoying the attention she was getting from just taking a shot at Conlon. Maybe for once those boys would respect her as fellow newsie—not Racetrack's little sister, not some prissy little girl trying to be tough. Ever since joining the newsies, Lunch Money had had to fight the stereotypes of her gender, not to mention the denigrating position in Racetrack's shadow.

Jack, on the other hand was keen to get back to business, "Actually, I'm inclined ta agree wit' Lunch Money. Sure, sellin' in Brooklyn won't be easy, but it's all we'se got right now. It'll be a challenge, fellas." The other boys shifted uncomfortably in their seats, avoiding eye contact with Jack.

"It ain't woirth it, Jack." Skittery finally broke the shuffling silence.

"It ain't." Snipeshooter and Bumlets agreed in unison. Jack got to his feet, pacing in indignation.

"Spot was right, there ain't a union anymore, is theah? You're all too spineless to risk trespassin' in Conlon's territory? You'se willin' ta take lousy blue-collah jobs? You guys ain't woirkahs—we're all just street rats! Ain't that how ya like it?"

"Jack, we don't got a choice."

"Yeah, yeah ya do!" Jack argued, still pacing the length of the table that most of the boys were gathered at. "You'se got a choice, but you're takin' the weasel way out! Remembeh the strike, fellas, huh? If stick togetheh, not no one can bust us up. Come on, Davey, back me up." Jack turned to his best friend, who hesitated.

"Jack," David said quietly, also getting to his feet, "Me and Les, we can't sell in Brooklyn."

"Whaddya mean?!" Jack demanded, obviously disconcerted.

"I'm not taking my ten-year-old brother to sell papes in a part of town where they'll just beat him up." David told Jack firmly, "Besides, Brooklyn's way across the city from our apartment—it'd be a lot easier on my parents if I just got another job." Jack took a couple steps away from David, looking thoroughly disgusted.

"That fine." Jack snapped in a voice that suggested it was not fine at all, "Fine. I see you all would rather let the papes win this round. I can't say I blame you. But I'm a newsie. I sell papes. If I gotta go ta Brooklyn ta do it, then I'm gonna. Who's with me?" Jack turned to leave, his decision made. For a few moments no one moved. The remaining newsies just traded glances illustrating the surreal nature of the scene. Jack Kelly, their renowned leader, has just deserted them.

"I'm with ya, Jack." Crutchy struggled to his feet, grinning from ear to ear and limping after Jack.

"Me too." said Mush.

"And me." added Kid Blink.

"Me too!" Boots announced with conviction.

"Wait up, guys." Lunch Money said, leaving the table as well.

"Lunch—" Racetrack started in a disapproving voice.

"Race." Lunch Money gave her brother a look.

"Wait for me too." He stubbed out his cigar, and with final tip of his hat and shifty, wise guy grin to the boys still seated around the tables, he followed his sister out into the street.

Outside, the new, edited crew of newsies waited for a few minutes in the cold night air, letting the stragglers give the offer time to think over. None bothered to come out, to their disappointment. The other boys just stared out the windows, wondering whether Jack was really going to lead the small company into Brooklyn. A half hour later, the last of the Manhattan newsies were trekking back toward Brooklyn. Seven all told: Jack, Crutchy, Mush, Boots, Kid Blink, Racetrack and Lunch Money.

"Those wimps." Lunch Money groused as they slowly made there way though the streets, "So we'se gonna get roughed up a bit—who the hell cares? Conlon can't have that much influence ovah all those newsies."

Mush and Crutchy exchanged an incredulous look, while Kid Blink and Jack just laughed. Racetrack on the other hand, frowned and said in an uncharacteristically serious voice, "Look, Lunch Money, you're gonna go live in Brooklyn, against the orders of Spot Conlon. Of all people, you should be the last to underestimate him."

"Yeah, yeah. How many times do I gotta get that lecture today?" Lunch Money sighed dramatically, "Let's the just get back to Brooklyn and show Conlon we ain't gonna be scared off that easy."