The rest of the walk was considerably strained and uncomfortable, with Bumlets glancing back over his shoulder every few seconds. When finally he opened the door to an unfamiliar restaurant, Dutchy had to breathe a sigh of relief, hoping that things would get a bit less uneasy.

Then he looked at the interior of the restaurant, and gasped. "Bumlets," he whispered, "we can't eat here!"

"Why not?" Bumlets whispered back. "I'se payin'."

"This place is too...nice for us," Dutchy responded, staring with an expression that almost amounted to horror at tables set with fine china and crystal chandeliers dangling from the ceiling. "I couldn't afford to stand in this place if I worked every day till I was thirty!"

"Well, you don't gotta, do you?" Bumlets said, smiling. "Like I said before, I'se payin'."

Dutchy blinked and shook his head, trying to work out what was going on. Something was not right, he was sure of that. "How much are you goin' to spend on this dinner?"

"Don't matter."

"What's goin' on?" Dutchy asked once more, his voice quiet this time, an ominous possibility forming in the back of his mind. "Look, before I sit down and eat on your money, you gotta tell me what's goin' on. You in some kind of trouble?"

Bumlets looked at Dutchy, his smile disappearing to be replaced by a quiet, grim look. "Yeah. You could say that. Let's sit down and I'll tell ya 'bout it."

"Excuse me," the maitre 'd broke in on their conversation, looking exactly as though he smelled something disgusting. "Can I do something for you... gentlemen?"

"Yeah," Dutchy said, deciding that he might as well go along with this. "You can take us to a table and give us some menus."

"I believe that you two may have stumbled into the wrong restaurant," the snooty-looking man said. "This is a respectable dining establishment, not a...a... street vendor."

"I got fifty dollars in my pocket here," Bumlets replied, ignoring the look of astonishment Dutchy sent at him. "If my money ain't good enough for you, I can always go an' spend it somewhere else."

Though the maitre 'd continued to look down his lengthy nose at them, he did grudgingly show them to a small table, as tucked away and invisible from the street as he could possibly make it.

When he had placed the elegant menus in front of them and beat a hasty retreat, Dutchy leaned back and looked at Bumlets, who was making a show of examining the menu.

"So," Bumlets said, eyes still trained on the menu, "what're you going to get?"

In response, Dutchy asked, "Can you read?"

Bumlets' eyes flicked up briefly. "No, but I ain't about to let the hoity-toity types in restaurant know that, am I?"

Dutchy sighed and opened his menu, mouth involuntarily dropping open at the sight of the ludicrous prices. "Two dollars for a steak? A dollar and two bits for lobster? Bumlets, we definitely don't belong here."

"One last time, I ain't worried about the money. Just pick whatever you want."

"Bumlets—" Dutchy said, but broke off when they both noticed other patrons of the restaurant glancing at them out of the corners of their eyes with a look of utter disdain. Immediately, both boys buried themselves in their menus. "Jus' look at these prices!" Dutchy exclaimed loudly. "Only two dollars for a steak? What do they make it out of, gristle? I think this restaurant ain't good enough for us. Bet they have rats in the kitchen."

Though Bumlets didn't look up from his menu, Dutchy could see that his eyes were sparkling merrily with the joke, and that he had a grin on his face. "Nah, I heard good things 'bout this place. They told me it was first-rate food at dirt-cheap prices." He glanced around at the other customers, shamelessly eavesdropping by now. "Though the company ain't the greatest."

"Well said." Dutchy looked down at the menu again. "Now, I know you'se used to steak, but let's go with the oysters this time. Me folks always told me to try new things."

"Oysters?" For a moment, Bumlets looked vaguely green.

"They'se the most expensive, so they gotta be at least decent, right?"

Both boys looked slyly at the eavesdroppers sitting nearby, and Bumlets smiled. "Oysters it is!" he said loudly. "If they ain't brought out still alive, though, I'se only payin' half price. They lose half their flavor if they'se dead."

They continued talking in that vein for several moments, extolling the virtues of several types of food (always brought up by literate Dutchy), until other patrons finally seemed to lose interest in the two dirty boys in the corner and returned to their own quiet conversations.

When the waiter came over and asked them what they would like to eat, Bumlets said, "Two steaks."

He grinned at Dutchy, who waited for their server to walk away before mock-moaning, "But what about my oysters?" Both boys chuckled, but Dutchy's smile disappeared quickly, and he said, "Now I think it's time to tell me what's goin' on."

Bumlets' eyes lost their luster. He sighed and said, "I'se in a bit of trouble, Dutchy. That was the real reason I stayed in the Lodging House today."

"So," Dutchy asked suspiciously, "what you told me 'bout your family and the circus..."

"Nah, that was all true. I did go to the circus yesterday. While I was there, I kinda ran into someone."

"Who?"

"Well, last time this circus was in town was 'bout a year ago, right? 'Course I went, and I made a bet with one of the clowns."

"What kind of bet?"

Bumlets ran his hand through his hair. "I was brought up in the circus, like I said before, so I knows when somethin' ain't right. D'you know the cannon that they use to shoot clowns into the air?"

"No...I ain't never been to the circus," Dutchy replied.

"It's a big cannon. The clown climbs in the front, an' they shoot him off into the air. He's supposed to do a flip, or somethin', and land on his feet on the other side of the tent. Anyway, I saw that they cut cannon's fuse too short. If it's that short, then the clown don't have enough time to prepare himself, and he gets shot off before he's ready. You follow?"

"I think so."

"So I made a bet with another clown that the one they shoot off wouldn't lend on his feet." Bumlets shrugged. "Seemed like it'd be a certain way to make some money. The clown lands on his rear, I get some money, no harm done, right?"

"Somethin' went wrong, though," Dutchy replied. "Didn't it?"

"Not really," Bumlets looked down at the glass of water the waiter set in front of him before hurrying away. "Actually, it all went accordin' to plan. The fuse burned, the clown went flyin', and he didn't land on his feet. So really, I won the bet."

"Did you get paid?"

"Okay, yeah, somethin' did kind of go wrong. See, the clown they shot out of the cannon was supposed to do a triple flip and land on a platform 'bout fifty feet up. Except that I didn't know that when I made the bet. So when he hit his head on the platform, fell fifty feet, and, well, died..."

"I heard 'bout that," Dutchy said quietly. "'Bout the clown who fell. It made all the newspapers."

Bumlets winced. "Yeah. It wasn't supposed to go like that. He was supposed to land on his bum and have a bruised ego, not break his neck."

"So you didn't get the money."

"Not just that, Dutchy," Bumlets confided dismally. "The clowns blamed me for it. They thought I'd sabotaged the cannon and killed their friend so I could win a few dollars."

Dutchy massaged the bridge of his nose. "How'd you get away from them?"

"Growin' up in a family of acrobats has its advantages."

"So," Dutchy said, the story starting to come together in his head, "you heard that a circus was in town, but you didn't know which one, 'cause you can't read. That right?"

"Yup."

"You went to see if your family was there, and instead..."

"I ran into the clowns, who remembered me."

"And they want you dead?"

"Exactly. So I ran... They trailed me back to Manhattan before I could lose 'em. They'se gonna find me, Dutchy. I don't got a prayer. So I figure that I'se gonna spend my money and have a little fun before they catch up to me again."

Dutchy stared at Bumlets in horror. "You think you'se gonna die?"

"Well, yeah. Look, maybe you think clowns is all laughs and smiles, but they ain't. They'se like the mob. They don't forget, they don't forgive, and now that they know they'se close, they ain't gonna leave till I'se dead."

"How can you talk like that? What're you doin' here?" Dutchy said in horror. "There's a bunch of bloodthirsty clowns lookin' for you and you'se about to eat steak? C'mon, we gotta get you out of here!"

He reached across the table and grabbed Bumlet's arm, leaping to his feet, trying to pull Bumlets with him. Bumlets, however, resisted with uncharacteristic firmness.

"I ain't runnin', Dutchy. Least, not till I'se eaten my steak."

Dutchy glanced around helplessly, then leaned in closer to speak confidentially. "I ain't gonna just sit here and let you die!"

"Listen, Dutchy, let's wait. Let's get our food and eat. Clowns ain't about to look for a poor kid in a joint like this. If it's gonna be my last meal, I wanna enjoy it." He looked up at Dutchy pleadingly. "Please, sit down?"

Dutchy bit his lip, wanting to pull Bumlets up, and to run, but Bumlets was staring straight at him with eyes that bespoke an iron will. After a moment, despite some serious misgivings, Dutchy sat down again, releasing Bumlet's wrist as an afterthought.

"I don't understand ya, Bumlets. You'se in trouble, and..." He shook his head. "And you'se takin' me out to dinner? Why ain't you runnin'? Get out of Manhattan for a while? You could go to Brooklyn. I know that Spot ain't the friendliest, but he wouldn't leave you out in the cold. Or Long Island, even? Anyplace?"

"I can't do that," Bumlets replied flatly. "They saw me with papes. They know I'se a newsie... What if they went after the rest of you to find me?"

"They wouldn't do that!" Dutchy exclaimed. "They... They'se clowns."

"You still don't get it. Clowns ain't nice guys. They'se angry, they'se bitter, and they'se mean. Don't fool yourself, they got a serious vendetta against me, and they ain't about to let anythin' stop them, now that they'se so close."

"That why you was alone in the Lodging House this afternoon? You was gonna let them come and find you?"

"You'se guys are my friends. How could I forgive myself if anyone got hurt?"

Dutchy swallowed hard, looking at Bumlets' serene face. "You really don't care, do ya? You'se just gonna sit there, eat your steak, and let them kill you?"

"'Course I care, Dutchy." Bumlets looked at Dutchy oddly. "'Course I care," he whispered, looking sad for the first time. "But my folks brought me up religious, and I made my peace with God. I got almost no regrets."

"Oh, yeah?" Dutchy said roughly. "Yeah, well, you may've made your peace with God, but you ain't made your peace with me. I ain't gonna let you die."

Bumlets blinked several times. "Oh, yeah? What're you gonna do 'bout it, Dutchy?" he asked sardonically. "Gonna take the bullet for me?"

"Don't know yet!" Dutchy snapped. "But I'll think of somethin'."

"Why're you so worried 'bout me?" Bumlets asked quietly. "You don't believe in helpin' people who ain't helped you, so why're you so worried?"

"I...I ain't!" Dutchy sputtered. "You'se a newsie, and newsies look out for each other, right? That's all."

Into that tense moment walked their waiter, carrying two plates, each with a large, dripping steak and fluffy mounds of whipped potatoes. They both muttered "thanks," and started eating hungrily, neither wanting to be the one to speak first.

Finally, Dutchy said around a mouthful of steak, "So you said that they ain't gonna leave till you'se dead, right? Well, what if you was dead?"

Bumlets choked on his potatoes, and had to down several gulps of water and hack a few times before, with streaming eyes, he was able to gasp out, "What?"

Waving his fork around with emphasis as the idea began to take shape in his head, Dutchy said, "Well, you wouldn't actually be dead. They'd just think you was."

"I don't understand..."

"If they thought you was dead," Dutchy explained impatiently, "then they'd leave. You wouldn't actually have to be dead, though."

Bumlets toyed with this fork, mulling this over. "An' how would we do this?" he asked eventually.

"'Member when Snyder came to the Lodging House lookin' for Jack, and we all told him that Jack had cheesed it a while before?"

"Yeah," Bumlets said slowly.

"Well, the clowns would do the same thing, right? They'd come lookin' for you, and we'd all pretend that you was dead and be all sad 'bout it."

Bumlet's face drooped again. "No good. Sayin' that Jack was gone was one thing, but tellin' the clowns that I'm dead is 'nother. They'd never believe it, and none of us is exactly actors."

"No..." Dutchy looked down at his half-eaten steak and drummed his knife against it. "What if," he said very quietly, "the rest of the boys thought you was dead too?"

"What?" Bumlets gasped. "Are you sayin'—"

"Yeah," Dutchy replied grimly. "You hide out somewhere, and I run into the Lodging House, sayin' that I saw you get knifed or shot, or somethin', and that you'se dead."

Bumlets winced. "I dunno. That doesn't seem right. I don't want the others to think I'se dead."

"Would you rather actually be dead?"

"You may have a point. But..." he looked up, "...they still might not believe it. The clowns, I mean. They'se gonna want to see me get killed or see my body before they'se gonna believe it."

Dutchy threw his hands in the air. "Well, why don't we just actually kill ya and get it over with, huh? Look, I'se doin' the best I can here. I can get people to think you'se dead, but how am I supposed to actually fake your death?"

"This ain't gonna work, Dutchy," Bumlets said. "Thanks for tryin', but there's no way out."

"Well, of course it ain't gonna work if you ain't even willin' to try," Dutchy insisted.

"...Where would I hide? I'se gonna need a place to lie low for a while."

Dutchy sighed, relieved, though he tried not to show it. "So, you'll do it?"

"I don't... really want to die," Bumlets said. "If you think it's got a chance..." He shrugged.

"Good." Dutchy nodded firmly. "You done eatin'?"

"Yeah, but... let's not go just yet, all right?"

"All right." All the same, Dutchy signaled the waiter to bring them the check.

"So, like I was sayin' before," Bumlets said quietly, "where could I hide?"

"Brooklyn?"

Bumlets winced. "Bad idea. I ain't exactly tough, and the Brooklyn boys know it. I wouldn't survive a day over there. I kinda want to stay in Manhattan, if I can."

Brushing his shaggy hair back, Dutchy shrugged. "How about at Medda's? She'd do anythin' for all of us, and there's plenty of places to hide in the theater."

"You really think she'd let me?"

"If her options are that or seein' ya dead, I really think she would," Dutchy replied dryly.

"I guess you'se right," Bumlets said uncertainly. He threw a few dollars on the table and continued, "Ain't no point in puttin' it off, I s'pose. You'se gonna walk to Medda's with me, right?"

"Course," Dutchy said, trying somewhat unsuccessfully to not stare hungrily at the dollar bills on the table. He hadn't seen that many of them in his life; in fact, ever since his family had died, the number of dollar bills he'd seen could be counted on his fingers.

Seeing the direction of Dutchy's gaze, Bumlets laughed, but it was a strained laugh, unlike his normal, carefree chuckle. "Try not to drool, Dutchy, yeah? I already got clowns after my life, I don't need snooty waiters comin' after me 'cause I tried to pay with soggy bills."

"Sorry," Dutchy apologized with an embarrassed smile. "Yeah, let's get goin' to Medda's. It should be safe enough... It's right 'round the corner from here." He stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets, fighting the urge to put his arm around Bumlets' shoulders. Bumlets was sitting, staring off into space, looking like nothing so much as a little lost dog. "C'mon," Dutchy urged, his voice rougher than he'd meant it to be. "This's gonna work, Bumlets. I... We ain't gonna let nothin' happen to you."

Bumlets glanced up at him with a funny little smile on his face. "Thanks for not laughin'."

"Laughin' at what?" Dutchy asked, confused.

"That clowns put out a hit on me."

"What's funny 'bout it?"

"...They'se clowns."

"Oh. Ohhhh," Dutchy said as realization dawned. "Yeah, I guess it is a bit—" He shook his head and broke off his words. "No time to laugh. C'mon, let's get ya to Medda's."