When they saw their warnings were going unheeded, Racetrack parted with a: "Nice knowing ya."
Fawkes shook her head and walked on.
If she ran into the same newsies as before, they might let her sell because they knew she was a girl. Somehow she doubted it. Her luck was never that good.
Her luck was actually surprisingly good. She sold about half her papers before noon. Before she ran into trouble.
It came in the form of: "Hey Cowboy, you're look a little far from home."
When she turned, Fawkes found herself facing the cane-wielding boy from earlier.
"You again, huh?" He thrust his cane into the ground in front of him and leaned his weight on it as he sized her up. "Didn't peg you as a newsie. Where'd you get your papes? You was headed north, away from the circulation bell."
Fawkes tucked her remaining papes under her arm as she crossed her arms, "Manhattan is where I got my papes. I don't know if you noticed this, but you crossed a bridge a ways back there. You ain't in Brooklyn anymore."
"Any place what sees the river is my domain. You care to dispute it?"
"Since you boys don't seem to have any qualms about hitting a girl? You bet your ass," Fawkes replied.
They dropped their piles of newspapers and approached to discuss terms. Fists only. The first one to go down and not come back up was to concede selling rights. Fawkes set down her bag. Spot was in the midst of giving up his cane when he thought better of it and flipped Fawkes's hat off her head. With a second flick, he broke the string that kept it dangling on her back when not in use. "I know one too many cowboys as it is," he told her as the hat dropped to the street.
Fawkes glared at him as she tried to re-do her hair so it was up out of the way. Next free second she got and it was getting cut.
Spot was smirking at her with a Peter Pan-ish posture, pleased with his accomplishment. He put down his cane and unearthed a slingshot and gave that up as well. She snatched the hat from his head and secured it on her own to hold her hair at bay. She had nothing among her belongings that would work. It did the trick-except for the part where she probably had lice now.
That wiped the smile off his face real quick. Fawkes just shrugged. Fair was fair. A hat for a hat.
They put up their respective dukes, but didn't dance. It was more of a circling, a pacing. Eyeing the opponent, sizing up their capabilities. Fawkes knew to be on her guard. First off, she was a fighting a newsie, and a Brookie to boot. She had no illusions about this being a clean fight. The name Spot tugged at her memory, but she couldn't place it. She'd been to a dozen different states, it could belong to a dog, horse, or a boy in any of them, but the particular one she was facing off against commanded a presence. If he was a big wig in his burough, there was a reason for it, and in the newsie world, it probably meant he was a decent brawler.
Spot threw the first punch.
Fawkes twisted away, but Spot was already doling out another. She reeled (he packed a hell of a wallop), and when she went to reposition her feet, he tripped her up. Fawkes stumbled and felt herself start to go down. She did a controlled flail, which resulted in her knocking him squarely in the eye. He recoiled, either not expecting the girl to land a hit, or the force behind it. It allowed Fawkes to regain her ground. She took to the offensive instantly, jab after jab wherever she could find an open spot. She was relentless.
The only good way to avoid her hits was to back up. Not that it helped. It resulted in her advancing on him.
Fawkes paused to catch her breath, a half second too long. Spot took advantage of the lapse in attack and prevented Fawkes from breathing momentarily by doling out a solid kick to her chest that sent her back some feet.
She fell hard. She felt her head bounce off the stone. She was dizzy, but was determined not to give in. When he advanced, Fawkes would have him. She caught his feet in a scissor hold and yanked him to the ground. His head slammed hard against the street and he didn't move for a second. Fawkes didn't trust him though. She maneuvered so she was beside him and laid him out with an extra punch.
She'd won—but now what? They hadn't really discussed the terms and conditions once there was a victor and the knockout had occurred.
Fawkes didn't have much time to think about it. Just then, a handful of newsies rounded the corner, saw her and an unconscious Spot, and Fawkes knew it was time to beat it. She grabbed her gear and her unsold papes and high-tailed it back to Manhattan.
They did not pursue, but Fawkes was certain once Spot recovered, she'd be as good as dead.
Fawkes wandered around Park Row for awhile, peddling her papes and ended up finding Cowboy, not working, but watching a boxing match.
She pulled up a seat behind him. She could use a few tips.
Cowboy turned when he spotted her. "Changed your mind, huh? And your hat?" He noted.
Fawkes reached out to pull down the brim only to remember she'd stolen Spot's tweed cap. "Yeah," she made a face, "I had a disagreement with a man down by the river. Seemed he didn't like my hat so he took it. I took his, figured it'd make me fit in better."
"It looks a lot like the one Spot Conlon tends to wear," Cowboy told her suspiciously.
"I'm fairly certain that his name was Spot. Not that we exchanged particulars," she grinned.
"But you did exchange something," Cowboy told her and pointed to his own cheek.
Fawkes did a tender inspection of herself. She'd gotten herself a bit of shiner. "A small price to pay for the win. And the hat," she added with a smile.
"Win of what?" Cowboy asked, turning his attention back to the boxers.
"Selling turf," Fawkes shrugged.
"You beat Spot Conlon in a brawl?"
"Warn't hard," she shrugged again. "He's just a bitty thing."
Cowboy laughed, "I don't think we ever exchanged names. What'd you say your name was? I'd like to shake your hand."
"Don't you mean: so you know what to put on my tombstone?" She smiled and extended a hand. The first time she came here, she'd gone by Ginger, he'd know who she was if she dropped that name. For her Brooklyn adventure, they'd called her Chauny, an abbreviated version of Leprechaun, because she was ginger and had, at one time, a propensity to wearing tweed. Most people just called her Fawkes, being where it was her last name, easy to shout, and easy to say in a condescending tone. "Fawkes," she said at last.
"Fox?"
"Like Guy Fawkes. The guy who tried to blow up the British Parliament. 'Remember, remember, the fifth of November'?" She tried a line of the old rhyme on him.
It was met with a blank expression.
"Nevermind then," Fawkes shrugged.
"Jack Kelly," Cowboy introduced himself. "Though some of the fellas call me Cowboy."
Fawkes nodded.
"You got a bit of schooling then?" He asked.
"Not really. I just pick things up."
Jack nodded and settled back to watching the match. Since he was done, or seemed to be, Fawkes took to selling the rest of her own papes. She was hocking her last one when she saw another familiar face in the crowd. He was well dressed, topped with a black bowler hat.
He wasn't aging well.
He saw Jack right off. The kid wasn't hiding, wasn't prone to it. The man pulled aside a copper and had words. After they parted, the man surveyed the crowd for other criminal element. He and Fawkes made eye contact and Fawkes knew it was time to go. She suddenly missed her regular hat. A brim pulled low could have avoided this whole scenario.
She made her way back to Jack. "Hey Cowboy, we got to beat it," she told him with a nudge.
"What are you on about?" There was finally a victor in the boxing match and the crowd had gone wild. Fawkes was reduced to pointing.
Jack cursed and pushed her into the crowd. They took to a side alley, knowing the man was hot on their heels.
They ran into a boarding house, up the stairs and onto the roof. Jack ran and jumped off the edge. There was another roof a few feet below. When Fawkes saw this, she followed suit. "We should split up," she whispered as they crouched below the roof.
He put a finger to his lips to shush her.
"You go north, Medda's can't be far from here," she continued. "I'll head south."
His jaw dropped, but Fawkes was already sidling her way to a nearby fire escape for her exit. She had just jumped the distance to the ground when she heard an enraged yell, "Sullivan! Kay! Just wait till I get you back to the Refuge!"