Lunch Money would have rather died than admit it to anyone, but living in Brooklyn was more difficult that she had anticipated.

At first they were able to pass unnoticed, given that there was just over half a dozen of them in the whole of Brooklyn. For the first week, Jack and the gang kept a low profile, collecting their papes as quickly as they could, avoiding eye contact with everyone, before dashing off to a far corner of Brooklyn to hock the daily headlines. It was not a system Lunch Money was partial too—she would rather face Spot Conlon's army of "Slingshot Sharpshooters" straight on. This passive-aggressive strategy was not in Lunch Money's nature. But when their quiet resistance was exposed, Lunch Money felt she could have lived without the daily fistfights.

It was Jack who had blown their cover, naturally. He was too easily recognized among newsies to slip through a paper line without being detected. And he finally was discovered, halfway through their second week in Brooklyn.

"Hey kid." A big newsie grunted from behind Jack, "I know you. But you ain't from around heah, are ya? Where might I know you kid?"

Jack was quick to whip out a lie, smoothly and charmingly told (as usual), but he had attracted the attention of another group of newsboys.

"I know who that is, Headhunt," A rat-faced boy piped up, "That's Jack Kelly. The big-shot strike leadeh."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah!" The big newsie (apparently called "Headhunt") sneered, "And accordin' ta Spot Conlon, you'se ain't allowed ta sell around these parts. Neitheh are ya friends." Headhunt had already zeroed in on the alien group, realizing that Lunch Money, Blink and the others had been red-flagged by Spot Conlon himself.

Lunch Money didn't see who had thrown the first punch, but in an instant, a fight was underway, right there in the pape line. She turned around at the noise, unsurprised to see Jack, Racetrack and Mush standing back-to back, fists raised, surrounded by a dozen of Brooklyn's burliest newsies. Just scanning the crowd, it was obvious their odds were bad. Even Racetrack wouldn't have put money on it in a million years. But that didn't discourage Lunch Money in the least. She dove right into the mayhem, engaging in the brutal kicking and punching that passed between the two opposing forces.

"Crutchy!" Jack yelled urgently through his already-bloodied lip, "Lunch Money! Both a' you'se get outta heah!"

At this moment, Crutchy and Lunch Money shared an indignant look. A look that clearly stated To Hell with him, let's go kick some ass! With a cry of effort, Lunch Money launched herself onto the back of a newsie who had Kid Blink pinned to the ground. She fastened her fingers around his neck, cutting off his air supply. He thus loosened his grip on Blink, who seized the opportunity to dish out a hard right hook. Both Lunch Money and Blink were back on their feet, grinning at the newsie that lay in between them. There was no time to celebrate; they were still surrounded by more newsies who wanted to do them in.

Given that it had been seven against seventy, Lunch Money felt their little renegade group had done rather well. Of course, doing 'rather well' when it's ten to one still isn't what anyone wants in a fight. A half hour later, Jack's gang regrouped across the street, panting and bruised. On the opposite side of street, the Brooklyn newsies did the same, though looked distinctly more cheerful than those led by Jack.

It was now that he chose to make his entrance. Spot Conlon turned on to the street, ready to collect his morning papers. He approached the two groups, that small, shadow of smile returning to his face when he realized what was going on. He gave his boys a quick nod of approval before turning to face Jack's group, grim expression back in place.

"So, Jacky-boy. You came back." Spot's observation was met with stony silence. "I told ya we didn't want our streets ovah crowded. I suggest ya take your papes and get outta heah."

"It's gonna take a little more than a few beatings to get us outta heah, Spot." Jack shot back, frustrated, "I thought you'd a' learned I was too stubborn for me own good."

"Enough jokes, Jack."

"I was serious, Spot."

"Awight," Spot nodded, his eyes intensifying into a determined glare, "Today wasn't too bad fa' ya. But think of getting' this soakin' everyday—anytime one of ya wants a pape ta sell, we'll be here." His cold eyes moved from face to face, focusing on each of them in turn. Boots, Racetrack, than Blink, Lunch Money and on through the newsies.

"Everyday, Jacky-boy, how long d'ya think your little friends can last? Let's be honest." Spot dropped his voice slightly, his eyes back on Jack, "You've got nothing. A pathetic bunch of newsies. There's what? Six of you? Maybe seven? And that includes the crip and the goil. Those two can't survive Brooklyn and you know it." If Lunch Money had paid enough attention, she would have noticed that Spot was not making fun of her and Crutchy. More, he seemed genuinely concerned about them, and was just stating the facts—a girl and a cripple were unlikely to fair very well in his part of town. Lunch Money only heard the stinging insult on the surface of Spot's words and her temper rose again. Blink was too quick for her again; he grabbed her upper arm firmly and whispered to Jack,

"We got our papes, let's cheese it before Lunch Money tries ta kill Conlon." Jack nodded and indicated it was time to depart. The seven street rats hurried away, giving the Brooklyn kids fierce glares and rude hand gestures.

Spot just watched them leave, silently basking in Brooklyn's momentary triumph. He knew they'd be back. Jack Kelly was not one to give up too soon.

No one said it out loud, but Spot was right. After more than three weeks of getting beaten up every morning (and then again most afternoons) the newsies began to lose heart. A routine had been established; no one sold alone, instead they ventured out in two divisions. Mush, Boots, and Crutchy all stuck together, while Kid Blink, Racetrack and Lunch Money split off into their own set. Jack alternated groups, torn between wanting to defend Crutchy, and needing to look after Lunch Money.

Lunch Money felt that Jack needn't have worried about her so much. She had Blink and Racetrack to do that for him. Honestly, she was quite sick of Blink and Racetrack constantly treating her like she was an invalid—it was always, "Lunch Money, don't get too far ahead of us!", "Lunch Money, don't start any fights today.", "Would you be careful, don't get yourself into trouble."

She greatly resented that they thought she couldn't take care of herself. Which was her motivation behind her action one night, about three weeks after their first fight against Brooklyn.

They had been living in an alley near the outskirts of town, trying to keep warm in the face of the cold November air. Meals were rare, but sacred, and the pile of ragged blankets even more so. Anytime there was enough spare money, they pooled their earnings and had a Friday night feast.

"Seventy-six cents." Racetrack counted up, pleased. "We can eat good tonight, boys." The others grinned and began to talk of what they should buy with the extra money.

"A packet of fish from the docks!"

"No, no, make it sandwiches from that café on Main."

"Bagels from the vender up the street."

It was much bickering before they came a conclusion. It doesn't matter what they decided on, as they never ended up getting to eat it, and the events that followed completely through such a meal from their minds.

"I'll go buy it." Lunch Money offered. Racetrack hesitated.

"It's kind of dark, Lunch." He said warily.

"And starting to rain." Boots added. Lunch Money scowled.

"Racetrack, fork ovah the money." She snatched the pennies out of her brother's open hand and stood. "I'm so, so, sick of all a' ya treatin' me like I can't do anything! I'm a goil, not a poircelain doll. Now, I'm getting dinner, I'll be back in bit." With a final irritable look around the alley, she stormed onto the adjoining street and disappeared around the corner. Jack whistled.

"Geez. Goils. I tell ya, fellas, never get mixed up with one a' them." He wasn't only thinking of Lunch Money at that moment, that was obvious, but the other boys said nothing and just shook their heads, exasperated. Goils.

Racetrack was right; it was quite dark. Lunch Money wove her way through the streets, bitterly cursing the boys for deciding on buying a meal from a café on the other side of Brooklyn. It was freezing outside. The frost had come early that year, and Lunch Money's wool jacket wasn't enough to stop her from shivering. She thought she must look rather pathetic limping along in the cold rain, barefoot, a few pennies in hand, with a blacked eye and a deep cut on one cheek from a scuff with Brooklyn's boys earlier that day.

It was likely that her pitiful appearance contributed to what happened when she turned the next corner. That combined with the natural poetry of her face. It was never said often enough, but Lunch Money was quite fetching. Her beauty was easily overlooked, given that her face was usually smudged with soot and dirt, and that if anyone suggested such a thing, Lunch Money's reaction would not be too favorable.

She started down the street. It was in a grim part of town; a tavern dominated the left side of the street, and the shadows cast about the road were deep and suspicious. Lunch Money quickened her pace. It was starting to get late.

A number of laughing, male voices broke the silence of the air, as a handful of young men exited the said tavern. They were probably in their early twenties, shabby-looking. And completely wasted. Lunch Money tried to avoid crossing paths with these despicables, but she did not escape their consciousness. One of them whistled. Lunch Money ignored them and kept walking, concentraing on the wet pavement beneath her. Another made a rather vulgar joke, and they picked up her trail.

"Hey, goilie, got a place ta stay tonight?"

"Yeah, yeah, goils as pretty as you shouldn't be left out in the cold."

Lunch Money was scared now. She looked neither left, nor right. She knew these young men were not going to be shaken easily, but there was no help within reach. All of her comrades were on the other side of Brooklyn. So, Lunch Money broke into a run, figuring she could outrun four drunken men. She was wrong.

Lunch Money felt a hand close tightly around her wrist and drag her out of the bleak light of the streetlamps. She could hear his friends laughing while they ran to help pin her down. Lunch Money yelled. She punched, she kicked, she scratched, she did anything she could to fight back. It was no use; her diminutive size, added to the fact that there were four of them and one of her, was no match for the awful drunken men.

She made a desperate attempt for freedom, but she had taken only a step when a searing pain shot through her foot. She had no time to wonder what she had stepped on, for the biggest of the drunks threw her to the ground. With Lunch Money still struggling, she felt fingers fumbling around her shirt and trousers.

"Hey!" someone shouted from the end of the alley, "You punks bettah clear out now, or you'll be answerin' ta Spot Conlon."