The sun streamed in through the cracks in the roof. I sat up from a dreamless sleep and was awake when Spot knocked on the door. He still looked the same, even his clothes were still dirty and ink-stained.

It wasn't a long walk. St. Lucy's Church was positioned near the distribution center. Even though it was super early, there were clusters of newsboys waiting for their papers.

"There's a lot of different papes out there, but I sell the Journal. It's one of the yella kid," Spot explained, expecting I should know what all the meant.

"What's a yella kid?"

"No, yell-ow." Spot enunciated properly.

"Ah, yell-ow." I said stupidly.

"The leading papes in New York are Pulitzer's World and Hearst's Journal, yeah?"

I had no idea what he was talking about, so I lied. "Yeah, yeah of course,"

"Anyways, they hate each other," Spot explained. "A couple of years ago, Hearst took the illustrator who drew comics to illustrate the yella kid for his pape. Ya know what I'se sayin'?"

I shook my head 'no.'

"Really? The yella kid: bald head and gets into trouble? Gosh, it's like youse from another time."

"You have no idea..." I muttered under my breath. He didn't seem to hear me.

"The comic is printed in color, and the kid is all dressed in yella. So Pulitzer kept printin' his comic strip even after Hearst was printin' the same cartoon, symbloizing their rivalry. So "yellow kid papes" is what the World and the Journal has become to us newsies. Personally, I think the comic is kinda stupid."

A bell rang, and a gate to the circulation office opened.

"I only have a nickle," I said to Spot as the line moved up quickly.

"If we're partners, we'll both sell the papers, and ya can pay me back the cost of what ya sell."

Why was Spot helping me? I'm sure if I asked, he would just make up something. Hey, maybe the kid was smart and figured having a chick next to him would attract customers, but Spot was too good of a newsie to need me.

It was suddenly our turn to buy papers.

"Hundred fifty papes." Spot clanked down seventy cents on the counter. The man behind the counter mumbled something horrible and then shoved the papers at him.

"A hundred fifty?" I asked as we walked to the street.

"And that's just the morning edition," he muttered.

It seemed like all the boys in the line knew Spot. Shouts of "Eh, how's it rollin', Spot?" and "Mornin'!" chorused around as we walked by. But he never greeted any of them back, but just nodded to them.

"So you like working alone?" I wondered aloud.

"Eh, sometimes."

I tried to not to question it further.

"You don't go to school?"

"The streets are my classroom. I'd hate being cooped up in some dusty school-room all day."

Spot was a fast walker. He was on a mission, and I didn't want to interfere.

"First thing useful to know about sellin' papes is to have a good sellin' spot. The boys, and some girls, are real territorial on these streets. Every newsie has their spot. Most of the girls like to sell by the bridge or in Central Park."

"So those are good spots?"

"Nah, it depends. If ya sellin' the morning edition, I'd hit Delancey Street. Afternoon, sell next to restaurants. And at night, the docks. I like to keep moving, but it's easy for me since I sell alone usually."

"Well, you got me now."

He paused. "I guess ya right. But you'll be independent soon enough."

I wanted to take that as a compliment, but I also didn't want to leave Spot. If I was as bad at selling as I was yesterday, I should be selling with Spot for at least a year before I'm ready to stand on my own.

The journalists and bankers crowded Delancey Street like bees to a flower. They walked quickly towards the towering buildings. Spot took action.

Spot wasn't all in their faces like the younger newsies were. He pushed back his shoulders, held the newspapers up high and shouted out a headline with self-assurance. His stature seemed to attract the businessmen, who seemed to avoid the younger newsies. They quickly bought their papers from Spot and hurried along their way.

As the businessmen disappeared into office buildings, the other newsboys began to turn their attention to me selling with Spot.

"Who's the chick?" one newsboy sneered at Spot.

"What's it to ya?" Spot waved him away.

"She with you?"

"Yeah, never ya mind."

"I wouldn't be sellin' with partners, especially now." the newsboy said.

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"The 'Hattan boys, didn't ya hear?"

Spot shook his head 'no.'

"Talkin' about striking, first our Brooklyn Trolley strikers and now Manhattan newsboys."

"Striking?"

"Yeah, uh, I'se just trying to sell as many papes as I can before the strike reaches Brooklyn. Anyway, Jackey-boy's on his way. Saw him headin' across the bridge with two others." the newsboy said as he hurried over to a wealthy man stepping out of a carriage.

I stared over at Spot. He looked thoughtful. In fact, I'd never seen him think so hard.

"Don't hurt yourself," I said lightly.

"We got to go."

"Where?"

"The docks. 'Hattan boys'll be waitin'." Spot said to himself.

I ran to catch up with Spot, who was already walking. I remembered him saying something about the "'Hattan boys" but having no clue as to who they were. As we stepped onto the wooden docks, Spot climbed some crates and motioned for me to stay there. He looked around and spotted three figures reaching the docks. I looked up at him. He smirked something. I was hesitant.

Spot noticed my nervous expression. "You'll be alright," Spot laughed. "They ain't gonna bite ya, definitely not the 'Hattan boys."

I nodded and looked down the docks. Sure enough, there was a band of about three boys, from ages ten to seventeen, walking toward us. I wondered what it was about them that could make them different from the Brooklyn boys.

The one who seemed to be leading them had dirty blonde hair and a black cowboy hat.

"Well, if it ain't Jack-be-nimble, Jack-be-quick." Spot smirked. The boy looked up, obviously Jack-be-nimble, Jack-be-whatever.

"So I see you've moved up in the world, Spot. Got yourself a river view and everything?" The joking and playful way he said it made me relax a bit. Spot hopped down from the crates and they spit shook. I grimaced.

"Hey, Boots, how's it rollin'?" Spot asked a younger boy with them.

A boy of about eleven stepped forward cautiously. "Yeah, gotcha 'couple of real good shooters here." He opened his palm revealing some marbles.

Spot raised his eyebrows and picked up one inspecting it. Yeah," he said, nodding approvingly. He took out the slingshot in his back pocket and fiddled the marble into the little launching basket. "So, uh, Jackey-boy," he began. "I've been hearing things from little boidies."

I frowned. He called his messenger newsies "birds." What a strange cat.

"Yeah?" Jack asked, crossing his arms.

"Things from Harlem, Queens," Okay, now he was just making up stuff. I watched as he launched the marble. It hit an empty beer bottle, shattering it. Okay, that was almost cool, I had to admit. "All over." He walked around Jack. "They're chirpin' in my ear: Jackey-boy's newsies is playin' like they going on strike."

"Yeah, well we are." Jack said sternly.

"But we're not playing, we are going on strike." the third boy mumbled. He looked about Jack's age, and unlike Jack, looked extremely terrified and was dressed in rather clean clothes.

"Oh yeah, yeah?" Spot asked in his face. He shook his head in disbelief. "What is this Jackey-boy? Some kind of walkin' mouth?"

The boy looked shocked and turned to look at Jack for help. Jack clamped a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Yeah it's a mouth, but a mouth with a brain. And if you got half of one you're gonna listen to what he's gotta say." Spot nodded as if to say 'fair enough,' and sat down on one of the crates, crossing his arms. Jack motioned for the boy to go on. "Tell 'im, Dave."

The boy, or 'Dave', began to speak again. "Well we started the strike, but we can't do it alone. So we've been talking to other newsies all around the city-"

"Yeah, so they told me." Spot cut him off. "But what'd they tell you?"

The boy swallowed. "Well, they're waitin' to see what Spot Conlon's doing. See, you're the key. That Spot Conlon is the most famous and respected newsie in all of New York, and probably everywhere else. And if Spot joins, then they'll join. So you gotta join us, because...well you gotta."

Spot looked over at Jack and nodded. "Yeah, you're right Jack: brains. But I got brains too, and more than just half of one." He stood and brought his cane close to Dave's face. "How do I know you punks won't run the first time some goon comes at you with a club? How do I know you got what it takes to win?"

Jack sighed. "'Cause, I'm tellin' ya, Spot."

Spot looked from Dave to him. "That ain't good enough, Jackey-boy. You gotta show me."

Jack looked upset. "The Staten Island boys were right, though. Their circulation manager was cheatin' them and gave them a stack of papes twenty short of what they paid for. They had to soak 'em."

Spot leaned forward. "Look, I don't need a strike. My newsies gotta eat. They gotta pay board."

"But, Spot, ever since the war, it's been raised to six cents a ten. It's different news these days, but we'se still payin' the same amount," Jack argued.

"I know what we pay, Jack," sneered Spot.

"It's Pulitzer and Hearst as well. Both aren't lowering the price," added the eleven year old boy.

Jack then took notice of me, and his smile faded.

"Spot, why the dame?"

I didn't say anything.

"Why the interest?" Spot countered.

"I'se takin' all my boys up to City Hall Park tomorrow. Queen's newsies are going to. We'll make a decision about the strike there." Jack took a seat without recognizing my presence. I kept standing.

"We need to stand on our own no matter what," the eleven year old chimed in.

"We always have, Boots." Spot said.

"It seems like all boroughs will be on their own even if we strike." Jack seemed to be the leader of the 'Hattan boys, and they listened to his every word.

"Will enough newsies want to strike?" Spot challenged.

"There'll be about a hundred boys at City Hall Park. That's gotta be enough to strike. I think us 'Hattans should lead the cause, rally the others around us," Dave added.

"We ain't leadin' anything just yet, David." Jack said, sighing. "But imagine it, Spot, if you got your Brooklyn boys behind us, even Jersey."

"What about the bulls?" Spot took a pair of Dice from Boot's hand that were used as shooters and shook them in his hand.

"They're all focussed on the trolley strike to care about us." Boots said.

Spot nodded, thinking it over.

"So, you with us?" Jack asked.

Spot rolled the dice: snake eyes.

"If ya can prove you have what it takes." Spot answered.

The boys turned and stared at me. Spot saw my uncomfortable expression and quickly spat in his hand, shaking hands with Jack. "City Hall Park," Spot said.

As the three walked off, I finally voiced my worries.

"Spot, I can't strike. I have to earn money."

His face grew serious and concerned.

"As much as I know you're right, Hailey, I gotta do this. I really do wanna help ya, but I've known these boys for a long time. If I don't strike with 'em, the Brooklyn-Manhattan alliance will be terminated. But youse a girl. They ain't gonna try to soak ya."

"But I can't sell without you."

"Imagine though, if it works we can get the price back where it was: fifty cents a ten. We'd make two dollars a month..." He seemed to lose his train of thought throughout all of this.

"Spot."

"I get it, I'se sorry I got you into all this."

"I don't get it, though." I stopped myself, still in shock that Spot was already agreeing to their strike. "Who were those boys?"

"They're my allies from across the bridge. Most know them around here as the 'Hatten boys. The one with the cowboy hat is Jack. David Jacobs, the one with the blue eyes, he's actually got a family on the East Side. He had to drop out of school, a smart kid. He's got a little button of a kid brother who never shuts up and is the smallest one. He's a loyal little kid, though. Ya could tell him a secret, and he'd take it to the grave. Then there's Boots."

"Why 'Boots?'"

"He used to shoe-shine shoes before he was a newsie."

"And the other boys?"

"I don't know all of them, but there's Kid Blink, another sharp one. But Kid's finished with school, like me. The annoying one is Snipeshooter. He's always got somethin' to say, even if ya got know idea what he's blabberin' about. Then there's Racetrack Higgins. He's a lanky guy and could be one of the best newsies if he wanted to be, but he spends more time at the races than he does sellin'. And then there's a lot of others. Sorry I didn't introduce ya, but that's not how it normally works."

"How does it work, then?"

"Eh, ya gotta prove your worth. But ya shouldn't worry about that. Youse ain't gonna be strikin'. They're are other papes ya can sell without me, like the Sun."

Spot slung the stack of papers over his shoulder. "I guess I just got one afternoon to show ya the ropes of bein' a good newsie."

I followed Spot to sell papers, forgetting about the up-coming strike.

Spot was correct. Selling papers in the afternoon was much more fun than any school lesson. The New York streets were alive with people more interesting than any school book.

Wandering through the market with our papers, Spot was easily distracted by the shoestring sellers and the fiddle players on the corner. Sometimes he would dance along to a fiddle player, bringing extra tips to the fiddle players hat.

My favorite were the hokey-pokey carts, selling ice cream.

"O che poco!" an Italian peddler shouted from his cart with a striped awning. I quickly translated his phrase to 'how little.'

Little boys rushed to his cart with wide eyes. In a lively manner, he scooped the ice cream and placed it on a clean white sheet of paper, handing it to a boy with a nickle in return.

Other peddlers flocked his cart to get a relief from the hot sun.

I licked my lips enviously, watching them. Being Italian, I know I should've had gelato before in my life; but I haven't.

"I've never had any."

"Ya never had gelato?!" Spot said in an adorably awful fake accent.

Before I could do anything more, Spot handed the man a nickle and received ice cream in return.

"For ya, my lady," he said, bowing and giving me the treat.

"Really? But you can't afford..." Spot hushed me by shoving a wooden stick with a scoop of ice cream on the end into my mouth.

The flavor melted from cool ice to warm cream.

"Mmm...that's amazing!" I said.

"See? The streets ain't so bad!" Spot sing-songed.

He grabbed my hand and we took off laughing at the businessmen who tried to work their way around the crowds. We sang along with the peddlers as they drew customers to their carts. We even were succesful at scaring the private school boys in their spoiled rich outfits by shooting marbles from Spot's slingshot at them.

When we reached the bridge, Spot brought my attention to three girls about my age selling papers.

"Those are the Harlem girls."

Instantly, I felt a twinge of envy.

"They're good newsgirls. They attract a lot of customers."

"Do I need," I tried not to sound to desperate, "to sell with them?"

Spot laughed. "No. Ya got nice eyes. That should do."

I smiled a bit. The rest of the day consisted with more selling around town. When Spot got his hundred papers for the evening edition, there were even more rumors circulating about the City Hall Park meeting and the strike. Spot just subtly ignored them.

At the docks, he let me hawk some of the papes. But as evening turned to night, we walked back downtown to the church.

"We didn't sell out last ten."

"That happens a lot lately, even with two newsies sellin'."

"Then what do you do?"

"Sometimes I head over to the train yards. They'll buy the rest of the papes for a few cents to wrap fish in."

"Oh."

"Ever since the end of the war, the boys have been takin' it hard. We didn't make a big deal about six cents a ten during the war, we was sellin' so good, but now it actually counts. We just assumed they would lower the price back to where it was. Now Pulitzer and Hearst just want the money, takin' the food out of our mouths. That's why the Manhattan boys wanna strike, and now Queens, too."

"I get it. It's unfair."

Spot walked ahead.

"Is the Brooklyn Lodging House where you sleep?" I asked suddenly when we arrived at the church.

"Sometimes."

"Do you have a family?"

"Everyone's got someone."

As we opened the church gate, I noticed it was lit up inside. Spot turned to me and smirked. Whatever was inside made him excited.

"Come on," he whispered.

We climbed into the attic, but what had been a silent dark church last night was now lit up. From below came the most heavenly sound I've ever heard.

"What is that?" I asked, closing my eyes.

"The boys' choir."

The voices of the young boys blended into one in perfect harmony was beautiful.

Spot leaned back against the blanket, placing his hands behind his head and closing his eyes. I mimicked his lead. We sat in silence, listening to the enchanting siren-like voices.

"They come here twice a month."

"It's peaceful. I didn't know you liked music," I teased him, smiling.

He opened his eyes. "I like a lot of different things. My mother used to sing to me every night, and that's how come I like it so much."

I smiled a little at that. "You don't always wanna be on the streets, do you?"

"Nah, I plan on movin' back to Ireland when I'm a man."

"Ireland?"

"Yeah, it's where I'm from." Spot's eyes looked distant, like he was trying to remember something. "I still remember the green landscapes and rocky hill sides." He smiled. "Not that I don't love Brooklyn."

"Could you really leave New York?"

"Of course I could, but I like it here on the streets for now. Life back in the old country is going to have to wait."

The choir continued to sing a song in Latin.

"What do you dream about doing?" he smirked over at me.

I shrugged. "Getting my father out of jail." I said, remembering to say father.

Spot's face fell. "Oh God, I'se sorry..."

"No, it's okay. You didn't mean to."

"I feel self-absorbed, now. I'll take you to the Auburn tomorrow. But I ain't lettin' ya go in, unless ya wanna get shipped back to the asylum."

I nodded in understanding. We continued to listen to the angelic voices. I finally blurted, "Why are you helping me, Spot?"

His eyes looked elsewhere. The choir finished and it grew silent. "We're friends," he said nonchalantly.

Quickly, he sat up and walked to the door.

"You don't have to tell me where you're going. I just wanna know you'll be safe," I finally spoke.

"Don't worry about me, girlie. I'se tough."

I wanted him to stay, but I was too exhausted to move. Spot closed the door, and the attic was left in darkness.

I'd never worked a whole day outside in the hot sun before, and I was tired. I wondered how long I would last in the streets, for I wasn't tough like Spot. But the strike promised new things for tomorrow.