Several more days passed. They were relatively uneventful, in light of the various complications the newsies found themselves in. Lunch Money and Spot avoided each other when possible and fought nonstop when they were forced to endure each other's company. Ritz continued to glower at Lunch Money anytime she and Spot made any sort of contact. Racetrack kept an eye on his sister, still mindful of the conversation he'd overheard. Jack and Tease spent most of their time making out with each other (to the revulsion of Jack's friends), while Feivel picked the pockets of unsuspecting businessmen and extorted more money out of the older newsies, as she usually did. Nix merely looked after everyone, knowing, more or less, everything that went on among the newsies.
And between all of this, the newsies were still waging a war. Every morning they hit the streets, looking for newsstands to trash. It was shockingly easy, at first. A group of newsies would rush the stand and, typically, the manager would run for cover while the wild street rats stole his papers and dismantled his counter. But four days into the revolt, Pulitzer and Hearst got smart. If not smart, they got ruthless. The newsies first ran into trouble one morning when a group of eleven kids started their morning on a newsstand near Main Street.
"Look out!" Boots yelled to the others, "The crib!" There was a scuffle as the newsies realized they were surrounded. Lunch Money looked around. It was the seven Manhattan newsies, plus Spot and three other Brooklyn boys against half a dozen full-grown men ready with clubs and chains. Pulitzer and Hearst had tightened security; a battalion of armed men now guarded every newsstand in New York, and coppers maintained a close distance to arrest any hooligans who might try to fight.
"Bring 'em on!" Jack spat, clenching his fists and preparing himself for the fight. The other newsies shifted tensely, getting into position. One of the men attacked. He went for Mush first, who was standing slightly away from the rest. Mush darted nimbly out of the way, but still sustained a good blow from a rusted chain. The fight was on. The other men ran at the knot of newsies, swinging their weapons menacingly. The children's eyes widened with fear, but they stood their ground.
Jack and Blink were both able to wrest a couple of clubs away from two of the thugs, which helped their efforts considerably, but the newsies found themselves backed against the wall of an old warehouse, tightly cornered. The air was rife with flying marbles and small rocks; the four Brooklyn boys had pulled out their slingshots and were eagerly firing without mercy.
Lunch Money had just narrowly escaped a harsh beating from a large man wielding a jagged length of chain, when she noticed trouble. Spot was standing several feet away from her, focused on aiming his slingshot on some brute who had the heartlessness to go after Crutchy. He didn't notice the man behind him, club raised, ready to take him out with a good concussion. Lunch Money rushed forward.
"Spot!" Lunch Money seized his arm, pulling him down out of the path of the swinging bat. The man raised the bat again, aiming to strike both Lunch Money and Spot who were now crouched on the ground, but Spot was too quick. He grabbed the man around his knees, bringing him down to the pavement. Lunch Money jerked the club out of their enemy's hand and gave him a sharp blow.
"Thanks." Spot said breathlessly as they got back to their feet. Lunch Money nodded.
"No problem."
There was no more time for words; there were still more thugs to take care of. Spot and Lunch Money were right in the thick of the chaos, standing back to back, trying to hold their own against the crib. It was becoming steady more difficult; Lunch Money's foot was starting to hinder her movement. The overuse on such a recent injury was starting to catch up with her.
It was only a couple more minutes before the newsies pulled back; it was obvious the eleven kids weren't enough to take down the guards Pulitzer had hired. They were just sustaining more injury the longer they fought.
Lunch Money staggered, having just received a rough strike across the mouth. She tasted blood. Around her the newsies were tiring. She felt Spot grab her hand.
"Come on!" He cried, pulling her away from the scrap. Raising his voice he yelled to the other newsies, "Newsies, get outta heah! Scram, boys, scram!"
They fought their way through the battle, Spot leading the way. The other newsies took their cue and scattered. Once extracted from the mess, the newsies ran. On the chance that Pulitzer's goons would follow them, the newsies split up, getting as far away from the scene of the fight as they could. Sprinting like Satan himself was on their heels, Spot and Lunch Money tore off through a back alley. They wound through the streets, carelessly plowing through sparse crowds, cutting through another alley. At the end of this alley was Liam's. She and Spot skittered to a stop, breathing hard. They both suddenly realized that their hands were still tightly intertwined. They quickly let go, embarrassed.
The restaurant seemed to hold some sort of magnetic force, for all of the newsies who had taken part in the fight were appearing outside Liam's, along with Spot and Lunch Money, who were now inspecting their wounds. Neither were terribly injured; some dark bruises and bloody cuts, minor abrasions, but nothing too serious.
Racetrack and Kid Blink rushed onto the street moments later, both bloody and shaken, but alive. The other Brooklyn boys made it back alright too, as did Jack. But it was nearly twenty minutes before Mush, Boots and Crutchy were seen. After an anxious wait outside Liam's, the three boys finally came around the corner, Boots and Mush supporting Crutchy between them. The other Manhattan newsies looked scared to death; everyone was always worried for Crutchy. He preferred to take care of himself, but all the same, his friends were awfully protective of him.
"Crutchy!" Jack yelled, "Crutchy!" He met the boys at the end of the street, taking Boots's place on Crutchy's left. With Jack helping, they moved a little quicker, but it was still an agonizing process to watch. "Crutch, are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm great." Crutchy answered airily, "Don't worry about it." He didn't look great, however. He was pretty well beaten up, and he could hardly walk. His face was black and blue in bruises. The boys got him into the restaurant, where they all held court around one of the longer tables.
"They can't do this." Mush said, looking around at his fellow injured newsies. "They'se gonna end up killing us."
"There ain't enough a' us." Racetrack agreed.
"Whaddya think, Spot?" Jack asked. Everyone looked at Spot.
"We gotta keep fightin'." He said somberly, "What else can we do?"
The newsies were quiet. The war had to go on; they saw that. This was only a setback, something else to fight against before they could overcome the guys in the big offices. The small council was suddenly joined by the rest of the Brooklyn newsies, all looking like they'd also been involved in similar fights. Apparantly all of Brooklyn's newsstands' security had been beefed up by the club swings goons.
"Spot, didja see those bums out there tryin' ta keep us away from the newsstands?"
"What we gonna do, Spot?" All the newsies were anxious to hear their leader's views.
"We'se gonna keep at it." Spot said again, this time for the benefit of all the newsies, "Look, the way I see it, they can't have big all-out brawls every day in front a' their newsstands. It's bad fa' business. No one will buy their papes if there's some fight going on in the street right next ta the newsstands. They'se just tryin' ta scare us off."
No sooner had he finished this speech than a last pair of newsies came flying through the door. They each had a bundle of papes in the arms and they were pushing through the assembled newsies, struggling to get to the front of the throng.
"'Scuse us, outta the way," a high voice squeaked, "We'se gotta talk ta Mista Conlon." It was Feivel. She elbowed her way to the front, accompanied by Roundhouse. "Mista Conlon. We'se got a problem."
"Yeah, we kinda figgered it out by now." Spot said impatiently, "We ain't black an' blue fa' nuttin'"
"No!" Feivel exclaimed, tossing her stack of papers down on the table. "It's sumptin' else." She told him urgently. "Pulitzer and Hearst and some otheth rich fellas with papehs are hirin' boys ta deliveh papes right ta people's homes!"
"Yeah right!" Someone scoffed.
"Shuddit, Feivel, stop ya lyin'." The newsies knew better than to believe anything that came out of Feivel Cohen's mouth.
"I ain't lyin'!" Feivel insisted, "It's true! Heah—" The little girl who cried 'Wolf' grabbed one of the papers out of Roundhouse's arms and hastily scanned through it, looking for something. She quickly found the article she was looking for and shoved it under Spot's nose. "Says so, right there."
Spot's eyes roved over the page, taking in the printed words. Judging by the way his brow furrowed, the words were not at all to his taste. "You gotta be kiddin'. What else are they gonna throw at us?" he crumpled the page and tossed it onto the table, furious.
"They been runnin' the ad since they came out wit' newsstands." Feivel told him, making a face, "We been sellin' the ads that's gonna put us outta business."
"What?" Jack gasped, grabbing a paper for himself and finding the advertisement. "It's true? Home deliveries?"
"They'se gonna hire boys ta deliveh papes right ta people's doors?" Blink asked, knowing their worst fears had now been realized, "This is gonna bust us. We'll be outta business befoah next week." The others agreed vehemently, gloomily envisioning their lives without selling papers everyday.
"We ain't done yet." Spot said over the hubbub, "Why should we let some snot-nosed blue-collah boys get the betteh of us? Forget the newsstands, we can just pound on the little delivery boys. If the papes don't get delivehed ta customehs, they'll realize that the newsies are the only reliable sellehs out there." The Brooklyn newsies exchanged smirks, "It ain't oveh fellas. The home delivery boys are just one more bunch a bums we gotta soak."
The newsies cheered up marginally by the time their lunch orders had arrived, and, even though most of the kids were battered and bruised, the meal was a jovial one. Newsies were a resilient bunch; it took a lot to keep them down. Spot and Jack however, looked less than cheery. The two leaders sat in a table near the corner, away from the rest (Much to Ritz and Tease's displeasure. The red-haired whore had been looking forward to a make-out session with Jack, while Ritz was positively attention-starved and ready for Spot to flirt with her and maybe arrange something to look forward to that night.). Spot and Jack talked in hushed voices, discussing the various traps Pulitzer had set. Arming the newsstands, putting out a delivery service? Was Pulitzer literally trying to kill them?
Several tables away, the Manhattan newsies (minus Jack, of course.) chowed down on the paltry entrees that had been served. Almost everyone was running low on cash, and each newsie was now rationing his pennies day to day.
"How'd you guys come out a' the fight?" Boots asked between mouthfuls of tomato soup. The others shrugged.
"Al'ight." Blink shrugged, "Pretty banged up, but nothin' to bad."
"Yeah," Lunch Money nodded, "I got through okay. But me foot's killin' me. I think I stressed it too much when me an' Spot made a break fa' it."
Racetrack choked on his glass of water. He coughed loudly as he inhaled the liquid. Now that he thought about it, Racetrack did remember seeing Spot and Lunch Money escaping together. At the time, it hadn't registered; he had been a little distracted, trying to avoid getting his scull bashed into his brains. Why were Spot and Lunch Money together? Wiping his mouth, he tried to regain his composure.
"Race?" Lunch Money gave her brother a funny look, "Are you gonna choke ta death? What's up?"
"I told ya, ya shouldn't a' been walkin' on that foot yet." Racetrack lied quickly. It was a good lie too; it was something he might actually chide Lunch Money for under normal circumstances.
The next day, the still bruised and beaten newsies took once again to the streets. Lunch Money was relieved to be once again in the company of the newsboys. Ritz, Tease and Rodeo had given her a hard time the previous night, either about fighting like the boys, or more shit about Spot.
This time, the newsies didn't bother seeking out newsstands to destroy. Instead, they congregated outside the gates of the circulation office, the place the delivery boys were likely to come from. Sure enough, as the hour struck, forty or fifty boys poured out of the gates, messenger bags under their arms. The bags were full of papes.
"Soak 'em!" Jack roared to the renegade newsboys. And so they charged. The delivery boys scurried away in all directions, doing all they could to avoid a beating and deliver their papers. Newsies grabbed the ones too slow to get away, knocking them down and stealing their papes. The poor delivery boys never knew what hit them. Things like this was why you didn't mess with Brooklyn.
Lunch Money saw three boys who had escaped the newsies running down one street, newspapers protectively under their arms.
"Jack! Blink! Down heah!" She ran after the delivery boys, Jack and Kid Blink right behind her. As they closed in on the trio, Lunch Money gasped. She recognized that hat. The boy on the far left was wearing a gray cap, worn crookedly, at a distinct angle. Jack and Blink recognized it too. They couldn't believe it. The traitor.
"Snitch!"