August 10, 1899, 6:00 A.M.
"Becomin' immune ta da smell o' smoke, Flick? Do I need ta actually boin ya dis time?"
"Ya really do 'ave a deathwish, don'cha, Race?" Flick muttered without opening her eyes.
"Yeah, prob'ly. So, ya sellin' t'day, or does pokah really take dat much outta ya?"
"Not when I'se playin' 'gainst a rookie," Flick retorted, finally peeling her eyes open and promptly pushing Racetrack off the bunk ladder. With a yelp, he fell past an amused Secret to land in a crouch, hands shooting out to break his fall.
That day, to the absolute astonishment of all the newsies, Racetrack Higgins, Kid Blink, Mush Myers, Flick O'Grady, and Secret all sold their papers along the street outside Irving Hall. They did not isolate themselves; some witnesses even claimed that Flick and Race spent the entire morning arguing amiably about poker techniques. The boldest insisted that Secret even tolerated Mush's flirting. It was Snitch who stubbornly maintained that Blink once grabbed Flick's hat and took off with it, and when she inevitably caught him, she only reclaimed her hat, shook her head, and returned to her selling spot. Whether all of these eyewitness accounts were entirely accurate or not remains a mystery, but the most unbelievable event took place that afternoon: when the Three Musketeers arrived at Tibby's for lunch, Manhattan's only two newsgirls...fiery Flick, who dished out shiners like handshakes, and introverted Secret with her icy eyes who barely ever said a word...followed their selling partners into the restaurant and casually sat down at a table in the midst of two dozen slack-jawed newsboys.
Bumlets was the first to speak. "Welcome ta Tibby's," he said softly, smiling shyly at Secret. Secret nodded slightly in acknowledgment.
"How'd youse guys do it?" Dutchy demanded of the Three Musketeers. "Youse brought 'em outta deyre shells."
Flick snorted at this. "Yer handin' out credit ta da wrong guys, Dutch. Secret an' me jist got sick o' wilted sandwiches an' bruised apples."
"Aw, c'mon," Pie Eater spoke up. "Ya can't e'zactly get delicacies from Manhattan street vendas, but youse can at least get fresh food."
"Only if ya can afford it," Flick snapped, turning to give her order to the waiter.
"Afford it?" Blink repeated blankly once they had all ordered and the waiter had scurried off to the kitchen. "Why don'cha jist snitch sometin'?"
Flick's eyes flashed dangerously. "I don't approve o' stealin'," she replied curtly.
"She don't," Secret whispered confidentially to Racetrack on her left side, "but she's also hopeless at it."
"Well, it shoah is good ta know she's hopeless at sometin'!" Race exclaimed, drawing laughter from the other newsies, and earning Secret a glare from Flick.
Things were going remarkably well. Flick and Secret were chatting cheerfully with the boys they had been living with for four days, but had barely spoken to the entire time, much less gotten to know. At first they were all more than a little wary about addressing Flick; there wasn't one among them who didn't have the remnants of a bruise she had inflicted. But it soon became clear that Flick's temper wasn't quite so violent as to explode completely unprovoked. And when Jack, clearing his throat and sounding almost embarassed, asked Flick how the selling was, and she responded perfectly civilly, the atmosphere in the restaurant seemed to become considerably more relaxed.
Unfortunately, such moods seemed to have a tendency of being short-lived lately, and this one was no exception. The waiter had just delivered their orders when the door to Tibby's burst open, and three young boys dashed into the restaurant. Ignoring stares from the few non-newsie customers, they hurried over to the newsies' section. One of them leaned against the table that the girls were sitting at, panting heavily.
"Snipes!?" Jack was on his feet in an instant. "What 'appened!?"
A nasty shiner was swelling on Snipeshooter's cheek, and another glowed on his right arm. His two companions crowded in on either side of him, and a collective gasp came from the newsies. Tumbler was sporting a black eye, and Slider had a grubby handkerchief pressed to his heavily bleeding nose.
"Snipes?" Cowboy pressed, hurrying over to support the younger boy. Skittery, meanwhile, had leapt to his feet, his expression a mixture of alarm, concern, and anger, and hurried over to Tumbler. Specs saw to Slider.
"We was sellin' in Central Park like usual," Snipeshooter explained, sinking into a chair, "an' dese t'ree boys came up ta us an' started bodderin' us, sayin' we was in deyre sellin' spot. Well, y'know we always sells dere, so we told 'em ta get lost. An' den..." Snipe trailed off.
"Dey soaked us," Slider finished glumly.
"We fought 'em an' all," Tumbler spoke up, gratefully accepting a fresh handkerchief from Skittery and claiming a chair of his own, "but dey was a lot bigger'n us."
"An' one o' dem," Snipeshooter added, "I t'ink dey called 'im Muscles, 'e said, 'Tell yer leadeh dat Manhattan's days o' easy sellin' are oveh'."
Jack's face was hard. "Queens," he said coldly.
"Queens," Race agreed, scooping several ice cubes from his drink into his napkin, and handing them to Snipeshooter for his bruises. Specs did the same for Slider.
"Da one called Muscles was prob'ly da kid we met in da park a couple days back," Race confirmed. "Da one dat said deyre leadeh was gonna wanna 'tawk' wit us."
"Big woids," Flick mused dryly, eyes the hue of soaking-wet denim, "but apparently deyre 'tawk' consists o' soakin' liddle kids dat ain't got a chance at fightin' back. Typical."
Ignoring the rugrats' indignant protests at Flick's words, several of the newsies glanced at Flick in surprise. She was so clearly accustomed to soaking people herself, it hadn't occurred to most of them that she actually had ethics on the subject. But of course, now that they thought about it, she had never touched any of the rugrats.
"So what're we gonna do?" Skittery demanded.
"Soak 'em!!"
Jack and Flick stared at each other, aghast. Had they just yelled the same thing at the same time? Most of the other newsies looked no less surprised.
"Um...did I jist heah da two o' youse agree?" Snitch stage-whispered, looking blankly from Jack to Flick and back. "Should I call da Woild an' tell 'em so dey can stick it on da front page tomorra? Sellin' should be easy; da whole city'll be shocked."
"Deyre a lot moah alike den dey know," Secret declared wisely. Cowboy and Flick each pinned her with their trademark scowls; she crossed her eyes at them. Jack shook his head in disgust.
"Wheah were we?" he demanded.
"You an' Flick were tellin' us how we's gonna soak Queens," Blink replied helpfully.
"Dat ain't e'zactly practical, though, is it?" Skittery protested.
Jack raised his eyebrows at him. "How come? Don't 'cha see what dey did ta t'ree o' our newsies? We ain't jist gonna let 'em get away wit dat!"
"I second dat notion," Flick volunteered.
"You jist want an excuse ta fight," Secret grumbled, then raised her voice to its normal level; soft, but clear and audible. "Skittery's right. Chargin' inta Queens an' startin' a full-blown war ain't gonna do us no good. Dey'd be prepared, expectin' us, an' it'd be on deyre own territory; we wouldn't 'ave a chance."
"I t'ink," Bumlets spoke up hesitantly, "dat da best t'ing ta do would be ta let 'em come ta us. Deyre obviously plannin' on dat anyway, an' we can all be prepahed ta defend ourselves. In da meantime, da liddle kids can get olda sellin' partnas ta look out fer 'em."
"T'anks a lot, Secret," Jack moaned, smiling. "Ya's started a mutiny among my newsies."
"Nah," Secret replied seriously, "I'se jist t'ought 'em ta t'ink fer demselves." She yelped and dodged several catapulted spoonfuls of potato.
"Guess dat's settled, den," Jack sighed, though both he and Flick wore expressions of profound disappointment. "Youse guys got Flick an' me outvoted. It ain't a bad strategy, I gotta admit."
"But if dey come neah any Manhattan newsie again," Flick added menacingly, "God help 'em." Secret gulped quietly and pitied Queens with all her heart.