Slips was running.

Again.

Back to Brooklyn.

He darted around corners, dodging merchants and wagons as they began setting up for the day. The sounds of the waking city faded into the background, all he could hear was the steady pounding of his own feet.

He ran full out, legs pumping, lungs straining. As he neared the bridge, he pushed himself harder. His mission was urgent, but at the same time the news he carried weighed him down. In all of his short life he had never wanted to run and hide more than he did at that moment. He made himself cross in to Brooklyn, dreading what would happen when he reached his destination. This time he knew he was in trouble.

Being one of Spot Conlon's "boidies" had its highs and lows, but this was the part of his job that he really hated. The Brooklyn leader had a tendency to "shoot the messenger". Slips had the dubious privilege of bringing information he new would send his boss into a fury.

The sun had barely come up, so most of the newsies were still inside the barracks. A couple of early risers lounged on the steps smoking, and they caught sight of Slips as he passed the docks. They both jumped up and ran inside to alert Spot. Slips groaned to himself, he would have preferred to come in quietly and maybe give his report in private. Now the whole of the lodging house would be waiting.

He collapsed just inside the door, gasping for air. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Spot coming down the stairs, face already set in that unnerving, expressionless mask. The newsies parted to make way for him as he crossed the room. Only the tap of his cane against the wooden floor and the harsh rasp of Slips breathing broke the heavy silence.

Booted feet came to stop in front of the young boy, and he struggled to his feet, but he couldn't make himself look up. He kept his head bowed, desperately searching for the right words.

"Well?" Spot snapped impatiently. "What is it?"

"Trap." Still out of breath, the little spy could barely get the words out. "At the distribution office . . . . . . Crips."

That was enough for Spot. He beat his cane twice on the floor to call attention, despite the fact that every eye in the room was already fixed on him.

"Get ready boys," he ordered. "We'se goin ta Manhattan."

The newsies scattered, rushing for shoes, hats, and most importantly, slingshots. Fiver stepped up, offering Slips a cup of dirty water, which he gulped gratefully.

"Think we'll get there in time?" the older boy asked. Spot frowned.

"We should," he said. "Bell won't ring for a while yet. Jack should be able to hold 'em off till we get there." He looked down at his spy.

"What's Cowboy plannin' ta do?"

Slips cringed at the question. For a minute it had looked like he'd get away without having to tell this part. Spot noticed his reaction and tensed in fury, grabbing the little boy by the shoulders.

"What?" he asked, his low and threatening.

"H- He . . . Jack . . ." Slips stuttered fearfully. Spot's fingers tightened their grip.

"He don't know."

The words came in a rush, and Slips tried to back away, but he wasn't able to break free. Shaking him slightly, the Brooklyn leader bent down so their noses were nearly touching. His icy blue eyes bore into the younger boys, demanding an explanation.

"Ya didn't tell him?" Once again, his voice was so cold that Fiver and a couple of the other boys backed away.

Slips shook his head miserably. "I tried to warn them, honest." He tried to explain. "But ya said I weren't 'sposed ta talk ta nobody but Cowboy or Pocket, an' I couldn't find neither of 'em. I looked in all the usual places, but they weren't around, so I figured I'd bettah just hurry an come tell you.

Spot eased his grip a little, but didn't let go.

"Let me get this straight," he said softly. "Jack and his boys are about ta walk into a buncha Crips- Pocket is about ta walk into a buncha Crips, . . . . and they have no idea?"

Slips nodded helplessly as Spot's hand went to his cane. The little boy braced himself for a punishing strike but Spot stopped himself. Shoving Slips aside, he headed for the door.

"I'll deal with you later," he promised, then shouted, "Let's go! Jacky-boy's got hisself inta some trouble."

Too smart to question him, the newsies followed him quickly out onto the street. Slips went too, trying to stay in the back, but when Spot turned to make sure everyone was coming he noticed the boy immediately.

"I told you I'll deal with you later," he said.

It took every ounce of courage Slips had not to run back inside. But Pocket was his friend, one of the few real friends in his lonely life, and more than anything he felt guilty that he hadn't been able to warn her.

"Please," he squeaked, mightily fighting back tears. "Please let me go." Spot started to shake his head, but Slips rushed on. "I wanna go. Pocket might need me."

It was the mention of her name that changed Spot's mind. A strange look crossed his face before he nodded curtly and turned to lead his men. As they crossed the bridge, Slips kept to the rear of the group until Spot called him forward again. He jogged to the front where the leader was speaking quietly with a couple of his most trusted newsies. They all looked anxiously at Slips when he caught up with them.

"Tell us what you know," Spot demanded.

"Foist thing this morning," Slips began, "I headed over to the lodgin house but no one was up yet so I went on ahead to the distribution office to look around. That fat guy, Weasel, was standin by the gate with a coupla Crips. I couldn't hear what they was sayin, but then da biggest guy waved his hand and a whole bunch more guys came over. He let 'em in, but he locked the gate back up before I could get inside. I waited a while, den I heard voices so I hid behind some boxes. Dem Delancey bruddas walked by, and they was laughin, sayin that 'Cowboy an' his little friends don't know what they got comin to 'em.'"

Here the little boy stopped for a breath, looking anxiously from Spot to the others. Again, he tried to explain himself.

"I tried to find 'em. Really I did." Fiver put a hand on his arm.

"We know, Slips," he said. "Keep goin. Tell us the rest."

"That's about it," the little boy told them. " I went straight to the lodgin house but they said they hadn't seen Jack. I asked for Pocket, but they said she ain't been there all night." Spot's mouth tightened at this information and the other boys exchanged nervous glances.

"I checked at Medda's, and at the diner, and the market, but I couldn't find either of 'em nowhere. So I decided I better just come back here and you would know what to do."

Slips looked fearfully up at his leader, who was staring sightlessly ahead, deep in thought. Shaking his head, he looked down at his "boidie".

"Ya did ya best," he said, surprising not just Slips but the other boys as well when he patted the little boy on the shoulder. "Don't worry," he leaned down to whisper so no one else could hear. "I ain't gonna let nothing happen to her."

Slips gave a weak smile of gratitude. "Promise?" he asked.

Spot nodded. Reassured, Slips jogged off to resume his place in the back, leaving Spot to hope that he would reach Manhattan in time to keep his promise.

With each step closer, the look on Spot's face grew darker. His mind was a whirl of fears for Pocket. He cursed himself for not making her stay with him in Brooklyn, though he knew he couldn't have kept her from going. When he'd returned to the barracks last night he'd gone straight up to the loft, ignoring the card and dice games in the bunkroom. He'd spent the night staring at his ceiling, reliving the events of the afternoon. His mood alternated between pleasure that he'd finally kissed Pocket, and confusion about what exactly that meant. The strike had occupied very little of his thoughts other than Pocket's role in it.

Unable to stand the idea of her putting herself into danger, he had resolved to try to change her mind. After he finished selling the next day he would go over to Manhattan and convince her to come back to Brooklyn. If that didn't work, and he was pretty sure it wouldn't, he would talk to Jack about keeping her safe. That morning, Spot had risen comforted by the thought that at least he had a plan.

Then Slips had shown up, and Spot Conlon was on his way to Manhattan sooner than he'd expected.