It was two days before Lunch Money could put any sort of weight on her left foot, and another five before she could walk well enough to go back to selling papers with the others. Those seven days made up one of the longest weeks of her life. Everyday, she woke up, watched the boys go off to sell, sat in the alley all day, and waited for them to come back (usually with split lips and blacked eyes; the Brooklynites were showing no mercy to the intruders.). The boys took turns staying the day with Lunch Money to "look after" her. Jack and Racetrack both agreed that it would be too dangerous to leave her on her own. While Lunch Money was impatient with their patronizing, she was grateful that one of her friends was always to distract her from her thoughts.

Now, ordinarily, Lunch Money was not the type of girl who lived in her head—rarely did she spend afternoons daydreaming or obsessing over her problems. But in the days following the adventure she'd shared with Spot, Lunch Money found that she could not get that stupid boy out of her head. She was inclined to blame Mush for this (Mush and all his insinuations… and, well, mush.), though her thoughts about Spot were always resolutely unromantic. He just kept popping into her head at the oddest moments. Playing cards with Racetrack— I wonder if Conlon's into poker…probably, most of us newsies can't resist a bet. Or discussing the slow headlines with Kid Blink—How the hell did Conlon spin that headline? I doubt even New York's most respected newsie could make anything of this waffle. Lunch Money was disgusted with herself. Spot Conlon had no right to take up any amount of space in her head. The arrogant bastard.

Though she put up a very good front for her friends, they seemed to suspect that something was wrong. Lunch Money caught Mush and Blink exchanging curious looks with each other whenever they were around her, and Racetrack was acting more paranoid about her than ever. Although that might have been because his little sister had recently been the victim of an attempted rape. Either way, Lunch Money was anxious to get back to work, where she could focus on creating hideous disasters in her headlines to entice potential customers.

"I'm sellin' tomorrow," She announced a week after Spot had rescued her from her would-be rapists. "Theah ain't no way I'm sayin' heah anudder day; I'm bored outta my mind."

"Are ya shoah, Lunch?" Racetrack asked immediately, "You'se still limpin' a bit, maybe you'se should rest heah one more day."

"Nuh-uh, no way," Lunch Money told her brother firmly, "I ain't spendin' one more day in this damn alley. I'm goin' wit' ya tomorrow. I'm fine." I'm fine. Lunch Money noticed that lately she had been trying to convince an awful lot of people that she was fine. She half-believed it herself.

Unfortunately, when the seven Manhattan newsies arrived at the Brooklyn circulation office the next morning, they found themselves looking upon an all too familiar sight. The gates were chained and the newsies of Brooklyn gathered outside them, looking concerned. Lunch Money's feeling of de je vu intensified when she noticed the wooden apparatus on the corner at the end of the block. A newsstand.

"No!" Racetrack gasped as his comrades shared outraged expressions. They were all thinking the same thing: this was it for the newsies. Newsstands would shut them out this time for sure. They had nowhere else to run; Brooklyn had been their last chance.

Around them, the Brooklyn newsies (unfamiliar with the newsstand situation) realized the corner Pulitzer and Hearst had muscled them into. None of Brooklyn's boys even bothered to take a swing at the Manhatten boys, as was the customary greeting, but one of them even tapped Crutchy on the shoulder to ask what was going on. The rivalry had been forgotten, now that they were all in the same trouble. For several minutes, the Brooklyn newsies wandered around the square in confusion, running from group to group, trying to figure out what to do.

"What's all this?" Lunch Money jumped. Wheeling around, she realized that Spot Conlon was standing right in the midst of their company. He had just arrived on the scene, and he couldn't for the life of him figure out why none of the newsies were lined up to get their papes.

"Newsstands, Spot." Jack said grimly.

"Newsstands?" Spot hissed, his eyes flashing dangerously, "Newsstands? We'll see about that." Without another word to Jack, he shoved his way through the crowd of newsboys, right up to the newsstand and addressed the manager so that most of the square could hear him:

"What is this?"

"A newsstand, boy, now clear out all yas, I got payin' customehs ta attend ta." The manager said crisply, not looking at Spot.

"Oh yeah? What about the newsies?" Spot demanded, fuming.

"What about the newsies? New Yawk ain't got newsies anymore, little boy. Why don't you go home now, son?" Spot gave the man a long, hard look, his jaw set.

"You gonna be sorry you eveh messed with Spot Conlon." He told the manager mutinously, and then, turning to the crowd of newsies behind him, he growled two words through clenched teeth.

"Soak 'em."

It was absolute pandemonium. The newsies rushed the newsstand; the manager shrieked and ran for his life. In a crime reminiscent of the vandalizing of The World's circulation office back in the strike days, the newsies tore the newsstand apart, leaving a heap of crumpled newspaper and a load of broken plywood. With their great numbers, the entire task took less than four minutes to accomplish, to Spot's obvious delight.

"Are we gonna let 'em shut out Brooklyn?" He roared to his league of newsboys.

"No!" They answered vehemently.

"Damn right, no! These are our streets, and they ain't gonna take it away from us!" Spot said angrily, "It may take all we got, but we ain't goin' down without a fight. We'll soak any goons who'se tryin' ta put us outta business. Who's with me?"

The Brooklyn newsies cheered. Jack and the Manhattan newsies then lost track of the leader of Brooklyn as he wove through the crowd, delegating tasks to his various followers. The defiant newsboys departed in bands of four and five, out hunting for more newsstands to illicitly dismantle. The Manhattan newsies watched the action excitedly; maybe Spot Conlon and his newsies could save the newsies.

The street slowly cleared, though the cries of Spot's friends could be heard from several blocks away. Spot glanced over at the knot of Manhattan newsies. With noticeable effort, he started over toward Jack. He was not at all happy about having to talk to them now, and he certainly didn't want to admit to Jack that he had been wrong. Nonetheless, Spot approached the group. Lunch Money glared at him. He made a face back at her before refocusing his attention on Jack.

"I'm done bein' an idiot, Jack." Spot stated, frowning at them, as if daring them to say 'I told ya so.' "I honestly didn't think the newsstands would be that much of a threat ta Brooklyn. But newsies gotta stick togetheh, so if you'll help us, we'll help you."

"Yeah right," Lunch Money muttered to Blink, "Why should we help him? He didn't help us." Her friends made noises and gestures of agreement, but Spot glowered at them and they quickly shut up.

"Excuse me? Whaddya mean I didn't help ya?" Spot narrowed his eyes at Lunch Money. She shifted uncomfortably; his eyes were intense enough when he wasn't glaring at her. "I saved your life didn't I? Or at least your virginity." He smirked.

"I dunno, Spot," Jack said, trying to steer the conversation back to the point, while Luney Money fumed. "They kinda got a point. We needed help, and instead a' helpin' us out, you tell every newsie in Brooklyn ta beat us up."

"I did not." Spot said quickly; "I just didn't tell them not ta. C'mon, Jack, this ain't about gettin' even wit' each otheh, this is about savin' the jobs a' newsies everywhere. And you'se good at fightin' the fellas up in the offices. Brooklyn's gonna need every newsie we can get."

Jack seemed intrigued at the opportunity to stick it to Pulitzer again. "What's the plan?" he asked, trying to sound skeptical.

"I told the boys ta go trash any newsstand they could find. Steal the papes outta their stock and we'll sell 'em ourselves." Spot shrugged.

"How will that make Pulitzer and Hearst give us our jobs back?" Jack asked.

"I haven't figured that out yet." Spot admitted, "Do you have any better ideas?"

"No." Jack muttered, "Whaddya think, fellas?" he looked around at his friends.

Boots spoke up first. "I wouldn't mind sleepin' inside fa' a' change."

"Yeah." Mush agreed immediately, "An' not gettin' soaked everyday sounds al'ight ta me."

The other boys quickly agreed. They were sick of living on the streets. They were sick of being cold and starving. And they were most definitely sick of the Brooklyn newsies ganging up on them. Spot grinned as the Manhattan newsies conversed among each other; he preferred things to go his way. Lunch Money on the other hand was not pleased at all. How could her friends forgive Conlon so easily? He was scum. He left them out on the streets to rot, and let his boys try to run them out of Brooklyn.

"Lunch?" Racetrack's voice shook Lunch Money from her thoughts. "Whaddya think?"

The other boys waited for Lunch Money to voice her views, as she was the only one yet to share her enthusiasm on the matter. Looking around, Lunch Money doubted her opinion would really dissuade anyone from agreeing to help Spot. They all looked pretty eager to live in a lodging house again. If she protested, Racetrack and Jack would have just made her go along with them anyway.

"I guess." She muttered grudgingly.

"Al'ight, Spot you gotcha'self a deal. We help you fellas out; you let us stay in Brooklyn." Jack and Spot spit-shook on it, and the all the newsboys looked relieved to be friends again. Lunch Money rolled her eyes. Now she would have to deal with Conlon every lousy day. She didn't know if she could handle that. Spot and Lunch Money exchanged yet another hateful look. Like Lunch Money, Spot was also wondering how he'd deal with this. It would be a miracle if they didn't kill each other.

"C'mon, then." Spot said, leading the Manhattan newsies out of the square, "We got some newsstands ta take care a'"