"Well, boys?" Mr. Cromwell sat in his study, flipping through a faded books of records that sat on the desk in front of him.

"We...we..." Peter seemed unable to form a proper sentence.

"We got ridda 'im!" Mace crowed triumphantly. Mr. Cromwell gave him a glance, and slowly broke into a menacing smile. "You are quite sure of that fact, Mace?"

"Yeah," Mace nodded, but Peter shook his head. "It was the wrong kid, Uncle. We...got ridda the wrong kid."

"I see."

The study was quiet for a few long moments, enhancing the brother's fear at their failure.

"Look here." Their uncle's smile became a grim line, and he thrust a newspaper at their chests. Peter stumbled back a bit, but took the paper with his grubby hands. "News...News...boy..."

"Oh, give it here," Mr. Cromwell snatched it back, holding it up to the dim light to read. "'Newsboy Suffers Brutal Swimming Accident at Manhattan Harbor'." He shot a deadly glare at his two nephews. "I trust you had something to do with this?"

"It was an accident, Uncle, I didn't want to-" Peter started protesting, but Cromwell silenced him as he read on. "Sixteen year-old Crutchie Morris, a cripple, was found dead at the harbor yesterday. It is unknown if he was drowned on purpose-"

Here, Mace and Peter glanced at each other nervously.

"Or if he simply attempted to go swimming and drowned. His fellow Newsboys of Manhattan all will deeply miss him, says one Davey Jacobs. There will be a small funeral at Woodlawn Cemetery this weekend if the newsboys can raise enough money."

Mr. Cromwell threw the paper onto his desk where it lay discarded among the dusty books. "Congratulations, boys, you did break him."

"Wait, who," Mace frowned. "'Cause we jus' drowned the wrong person you said-"

"That boy was one of Jack Kelly's closest...accomplices," Cromwell smiled. "By killing him, you have successfully broken the very person I needed you to break. Thank you."

"So we won't be sleepin' on the streets?" Peter blurted out as Cromwell stood up. He placed a heavy hand on his nephew's shoulder. "Of course not, Peter," he said kindly. "Not this time. But if you fail..."

"With what?" Mace asked stupidly as Cromwell exited the room. "He means next time," Peter muttered, eyes downcast. He never wanted to beat up anyone again. He opened his mouth to speak, going after Mr. Cromwell. "Uncle-"

"Yes?" Cromwell asked testily.

Peter swallowed his words. He turned away helplessly. "Never mind. Good night, Uncle."

"Good night, Peter."

"Let's get some sleep," Peter added to Mace, who started to enter their little bedroom. The memory of their horrible deed weighed heavily on their minds that night, and it would be quite some time before they got a restful sleep. Even Mace, who had been proud of what he had done at first, could not get the boy's cries for help out of his brain.

The twins' sleep would be fraught with nightmares for the next two months.

Jack didn't know yet.

He hadn't read the papers that day, being busy with drawing the cartoons for The World. Jack had left before Katharine had come to visit, leaving a note that said he needed to tell the boys something. Which was, he thought with a nervous, jittery feeling in his stomach, that he was moving out. Going to live with Katharine. He cleared his throat, fixing his vest anxiously. The boys all were waiting on their beds, waiting for Jack. Only Race, Albert, Elmer and Crutchie weren't here yet. And Davey and Les, but he could always tell them later. Jack looked to the stairs, deciding to wait for them just a bit longer. Or maybe he was just putting it off.

"You got somethin' to say, Jacky boy?" one of the newsies asked, and Jack nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I do." He couldn't put this off any longer. "Alright. Fellas!" he raised his voice. "I got something to tell yous all. As you may know, Katharine-Miss Pulitzer-invited me to stay with 'er."

Silence. Jack took a deep breath.

"I've decided to accept that offer-"

"Jack! Jack!" Frantic footsteps thudded up the stairs, and the bedroom door was flung open, revealing a haggard Davey. Race, Albert and Elmer were all crowded behind him, with Race holding something that looked like a body in his arms. "Jack..." Davey trailed off. Something in Jack's chest seized up with fear. "What?! What is it?"

"Jack, it's Crutchie," Davey got the words out heavily. "He drowned. He's dead."