Chapta Three

Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies.

A/N: Ah, the long-awaited chapter. Ain't da suspense bad? I may take a while to update, 'cause my parents don't want me going on the internet, but I promise I'll try my best. So have now fear, I am still here!

CRACK.

A rock flew out of nowhere and slammed Moris in the head, inches away from his left eye. The force of it knocked him back, and his hands flew out, with the knife in, and cut a gash down Race's leg and thigh, four or five inches long, but not too deep. His eyes widened, and he bit his lip.

Mush ran to get the goons who held him down off, and helped him up. Racetrack's face was wincing, but smiling. He made it out alive.

Again.

A few started going after the two, but were quickly dealt with by Spot, who, in built-up anger, whipped them with the cane and shot marbles at their eyes, and some well thrown punches here or there. Jack assisted him, and after about ten more minutes, the Delanceys fled when the police arrived.

But the same question remained in everyone's mind - Who had thrown that rock?

Spot and Jack followed a thin trail of blood and footprints to the dock, where Race was sitting and some of Spot's men, who had returned, were standing over him, thinking what to do.

"Look," said Jack, examining the wound, "I ain't no nurse, but I can tell ya the best thing for that is ta sit in tha river and let tha salt clean it out. It ain't that deep."

"You kidding?" asked Spot, "Ya know wha lives in dis wata (water)? He'll be eattin' alive 'fore he even gets in there. And dat was a rusty knife."

"It only be faw a second," insisted Mush.

Spot looked at them skeptically. "I know these watas betta than the lot o' ya." He shrugged. "Yer funeral."

Luckily for my Racetrack fans, nothing ate him. With an intake of breathe and eyes closed, the boys hoisted him over the side of the dock and halfway into the water from a thick rope, except for Spot, who stood there and looked pretty and did nothing in particular except be Spot. He had warned the boys that Race could not walk into the water due to the large amounts of broken glass and smashed beer bottles that lay at the bottom. (And who's fault was that?)

"It'll cut his ass off if he tries ta sit down," is what he had said.

Racetrack clamped his hand over his mouth and moaned, "Ahhhh... And the good lawd said, 'If hedon't die', let 'im have it.'" The stinging in his leg grew strong.

The other boys were laughing, and it was obvious that Race found this oddly funny. "Ah... Stop." He squirmed, since the boys on the deck were kicking seashells on him, and looked up. "K, take me in."

After much pulling, and quite a few drops, Racetrack was back on the dock, untying the tight knot around his chest, and inspected his leg. It burned more than anything, and bruises from his other beatings were developing all over. The cut had stopped bleeding, though, and was beginning to scab up.

"Jackie boy, Mush, Race," Spot called, from atop his perch, "Meet me in da tower." Spot's 'tower' was a little platform sitting on top of the wooden boathouse on the dock, where he usually talked with his boys and decided things. He had called his gang there to determine whether he'd fight in the strike or not.

About fifteen minutes of waiting, Spot entered. The house was big enough to hold about ten people at most. He reached into a little box and pulled out some beers and passed them to everyone.

"Alright, which one of yous threw that rock?"

No one answered. Finally, Mush spoke up.

"We's all saw it, even you, Spot. None a us coulda thrown it."

"Ain't nobody should be gettin' in the way when we's soakin' the Delancey bruddas." He took a swing of beer.

Jack paused for a minute, thinking, hand on his chin. "Spot," he asked, "D'ya know if there are any otha gangs 'round here?"

Spot eyed him. "We got da Delanceys, some goons that come 'round from Coney Island 'cassionly (occasionally). But dat's it." He sat in silence, looking at Racetrack. "Race, you got a bruise on yer neck."

Race ran his fingers over the place where he had been kicked. Mush slapped his lag and started laughing. "Wanna bet that ain't from da Delancey bruddas? Dat's prolly a sore he don't have a problem gettin'."

Jack cracked up, face red, and Spot was trying to stifle a laugh, his hand over his mouth and eyes shut closed. Race wasn't looking too happy, and he pulled a soggy cigar from his pocket. Jack threw him a working lighter.

"Oh, yeah," Race said, voice dripping and oozing with sarcasm, cigar through his teeth, "Couldn't have gotten it any otha way. A' course." A pause, and he stepped on the thing. "Least I can get goils." He rolled his eyes.

Mush snorted. "Liar," he laughed, "When's da last time ya brought back a goil to da lodgin' house? Five months, at least?"

Racetrack stared at him. "I ain't neva seen ya bring back anyone!" And, as an afterthought, added, "And I brought back goils, just da same one evwy time! Ya remember Madeline, dontcha Spot?"

Spot nodded, but was waiting until they quieted down. Yelling wasn't his thing.

Mush shook with laughter, and Race turned a deep scarlet.

After a few minutes, when all was done, it was time to resume their talk.

Spot leaned closer, leaning on his cane. "Anyways, as I was sayin, it was prolly onna (one of) da Delancey bruddas tryna hit Race but missed 'cause dey can't aim if dey had a gun that aimed faw 'em."

Jack shrugged. "Coulda just been a passaby (passerby), ya know, seein' the fight was gettin serious an' all..."

Mush blew the whole thing off. "What happened is what happened. No point in astin' (asking) who did wha if they ain't here now. We gots ta worry 'bout if da Delancey bruddas are gonna come back with deir (their) boydies and soak us. Ya know dey want ta. I'd want ta if I was dem."

Spot nodded and stood up, which made everyone else stand up and come to attention. "If you 'hattenins try an' walk back ta da city, you'll be jumped. As King o' Brooklyn, I'm lettin' ya stay in my lodgin' house."

He smirked, content. "But if ya ovastay (overstay) yer visit, I'm gonna hafta personally remove ya." He emphasized every syllable of personally clearly, as though it would result in punishment, and it probably would.

Kelly pulled off his cowboy hat and made a mock bow. "As you wish, yer honor."