Very short chapter, but I wanted to update. Thanks again to all the reviewers. Your opinions mean a lot to me (yes, even your's Twinks... although not much....)! Oh, and a reviewer asked about Race. In the movie, he was Italian, but Higgins is an Irish or British name, so I made him Irish instead. Thanks a lot, and enjoy!


Chapter Eight
Monday was uneventful. The new policy of nonviolent protesting ensured that there were no fights and no riots. Not to say the newsies didn't keep the scabs from selling. But with the cops constantly standing guard at the distribution center, it wasn't the easiest thing to do.

That was where things stood Tuesday morning, when the first- and in fact, only- newsie standing in line for his papes at the Journal headed out to sell them. There was a cop waiting there, staring at the small crowd of strikers off to the side, daring them to make a move. The kid stood beside the giant, a smirk on his snooty mug.

Mush groaned in anger and leaned in to consult with his friends. "We make a move, that bull is gonna be all over us."

Boots grimaced. "I know. We don't need anyone else getting arrested."

"Or shot."

Boots and Mush both turned to David, who was staring sullenly at his shoes. Mush nodded. "Or shot," he conceded with a sigh, looking down as well.

Suddenly a fourth pair of boots joined theirs, familiar boots, scuffed and worn, accompanied by an even more familiar voice that softly asked, "Need any help?"

They all looked up at the face that went with the voice. Morris looked pale and somber, but his eyes were hopeful. Boots and Mush looked to David, who, after staring at Morris for a moment, bobbed his head in an almost imperceptible nod.

Mush grinned. "Welcome back." Before anyone could say another word, he continued with, "I have a plan."
*
Sergeant Thomas Stone was bored. The only reason he was stuck baby-sitting these dirty brats was because the chief hated him. If he was chief, things would be different. Namely, the annoying brat standing beside him would be rotting in the Refuge, like the scum he was, not being protected by New York's finest.

He was so caught up in his thoughts, he didn't notice one of the strikers moving closer until it was too late, and the skinny kid had grabbed half of the little rat's papers and taken off through the square. Stone hesitated; he wasn't in the best of shape, and running after him would be tiring. But the little rat was yelling and Stone figured it was better to run after the striker than stay with the whiny brat. So he took off, huffing and puffing before he even got ten feet.
*
The scab knew he was in trouble as soon as the bull had dashed off. Behind him, the other three strikers moved in. A fist landed solidly against his chin; he had been right, he was in *big* trouble.

A few punches later and it appeared like the newsies were done with him. The tallest of them offered him a hand. "You got a choice. We either work you over here, or you do the right thing. What's it gonna be?"

The scab carefully wiped a smear of blood from his lower lip, then took the offered hand and it pulled him to his feet. His remaining papers tore as the four walked over them, but he didn't care. With a mental shrug, the boy thought, *If you can't beat 'em, join 'em*.