Ok, folks, here's the next chapter. I would ask you guys to review, but I guess your keyboards are broken? Anyhow, here it is, hope you guys enjoy it. I might be posting the next chapter tonight as well.

Everyone stared at the door as it shut behind Pocket. Spot took his cane off Blue's neck. The young Brooklyn leader's face was set in cold, hard lines.

"Go back ta Brooklyn an get ya shit," he told his newsie.

"Wait, what?" Blue spluttered, stunned.

"Ya hoid me. I bettah not see ya face in me territory. Evah."

"But why?" Blue wanted to know.

"Got now place for ya, ya coward," Spot sneered, his tone laced with scorn. "Real men don't hit goils."

"But I didn't know she was a goil," the other boy whined plaintively.

"Yeah," one of the other boys agreed, "none of us did."

Spot swung to face him, eyes flashing silver. The unfortunate newsie wisely shut his mouth and retreated to stand behind his friends. Spot turned back to Blue.

"Ya knew she was a goil when her hat came off, an ya still tried ta hit her," Spot's voice vibrated with barely leashed fury. "Then ya went afta her again. Go back to Brooklyn. Get ya shit. I bettah not see ya face again."

The room was quiet. All eyes were on Blue, blinking confusedly at Spot as though unsure of what he'd heard.

"Now."

Spot's command cracked through the room like the sound of a judge's gavel. Blue jumped. He cast desperate glances at the other Brooklyn newsies, none of whom would his eyes. They knew better than to question Spot.

Shoulders slumped, defeated, Blue shuffled to the door. Once again he looked beseechingly at the gathered newsies. The Brooklynites turned away from him. The Manhattaners just stared. Head down, he left, pushed out the door by the force of Spot's glare.

Spot watched him go, and he couldn't help but compare Blue's retreat to Pocket's exit. She had walked out with her head held high and her pride intact. Even in defeat, Pocket had proven herself more of a man than Blue.

Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, Spot turned to his boys.

"We're leaving," he announced.

His tone brooked no argument, and his boys rushed to obey him. Spot gave a curt nod to Roller and followed them out. Just before the door closed he stepped back in, an odd expression on his face.

"Racetrack."

Race had been studying his feet, deep in thought. He looked up in surprise at the sound of his name.

"Yeah?" he answered cautiously.

"When Pocket comes back, tell her I got space in Brooklyn." The leader paused, a ghost of a smile lifting his lips. "Seems a bunk just became available."

The little gambler let out the breath he'd been holding.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Yeah, I will."

Spot turned to go; once again he turned back at the door.

"Race."

"Yeah, Spot?"

Spot gave Racetrack a meaningful look. "Prob'ly find anotha bunk, if I needed to," he said casually.

Racetrack nodded as the other boys looked on in confusion.

"Yeah," he gave his friend a weak smile. "Yeah, thanks."

He gazed thoughtfully at the door as it closed for the third time that night.

"What's he mean, he's got a extra bunk?" Skittery was the first to speak, asking the question on everyone's mind.

Racetrack only shrugged, shooting a sideways glance at Roller. With a sigh, the feisty Italian dropped heavily into a chair, his face troubled. He found his cigar and lit it, watching warily as Roller came to sit across from him. The others scurried hastily for seats and waited expectantly.

Roller lit his own cigarette and reached for his glass, knocking back the whiskey in one gulp.

'Jeez," he muttered. "Didn't see that comin."

A few of the boys laughed uneasily. Racetrack stared at the table.

"Who'da thought Pocket was a goil, huh Race?" Roller asked idly.

"Yeah, who'da thunk it?" Racetrack said quietly, his eyes fixed firmly on the table.

Roller sat quietly, watching Racetrack closely.

"Big surprise, right boys?" he called to the newsies, who mumbled and nodded in reply.

Arms folded, Roller turned back to Racetrack. The younger boys still didn't look up.

"Racetrack." The leader said his name impatiently.

This time Racetrack looked up and met his eyes. His face was pale but determined. Roller's expression was stern; Race smiled to himself. Roller's "Don't Cross Me" face don't got nothin on Spot's, he mused. The thought cheered him a little. If he could stand up to Spot Conlon, he could most definitely stand up to Roller.

"I knew." He spoke quietly, beating Roller to the point. "I knew she was a goil."

A low murmur rippled through the common room at his announcement. Racetrack looked at Roller, waiting. The leader's arms dropped to his sides.

"Why didn't ya say somethin Race?" he asked wearily.

"Well," Racetrack answered carefully, "didn't think it was my place."

"Ya didn't think I should know?" Roller questioned.

Racetrack shrugged again. "Pocket's got her reasons for hidin it, I guess." He took a pull on his cigar. "Didn't think it mattered."

"What!" Roller exclaimed. The rest of the newsies wore the same shocked expression.

"How could it not matter?" Skittery asked incredulously.

Another shrug from Racetrack. "I just don't think," here he paused, choosing his words carefully, "that it makes a difference. Pocket's still Pocket, even if she's a goil. Ain't like she's gonna act different." Racetrack looked around at the newsies. Most looked doubtful, but a few nodded thoughtfully. "There's been goil newsies before, rememba? Not many, but a few."

"Goils ain't newsies," Skittery proclaimed.

"Why not?" Racetrack wanted to know.

"Yeah, why not?" Blink spoke up. "Pocket sells as many papes as you do, Skitts."

All the boys started talking at once, raising their voices to be heard over one another. Roller let them talk, still eyeing Racetrack suspiciously. Eventually he yelled for quiet, waiting until the noise died out before he spoke again.

"So, Race, ya think I should let Pocket stay."

Racetrack blew out a heavy breath. He'd known that question was coming, and he knew what would come next. He sat silent for a moment, his mind racing, mulling over the whole thing in his head. Then he reached a decision.

"Yeah," he said firmly. "I do."

That set off another outburst among the Manhattaners. Roller waved his hand for quiet.

"An what if I don't?" he asked pointedly.

Racetrack stood and pulled his cap down lower on his head.

"That's your decision, ain't it?" he answered calmly. "Guess I'll be bunkin in Brooklyn."

Once again the newsies started shouting. Roller banged his hand on the table.

"Where ya goin, Race?" he asked, seeing the other boy had a hand on the door.

Racetrack looked at him, almost pitying. "I'se goin afta her," he said with the tone of one stating the obvious. "Make sure she's okay."

Roller sat in disbelief as Racetrack walked out.

A/N: I just love Racetrack. He's so saucy.