Spot knew this day was coming. He knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. If, he wondered, if he could go back in time to his day of glory, he would make sure it didn't happen. He often thought how that would change everything else. The strike would've never happened, and he wouldn't have met all the friends he had that summer day in 1904. But why did it have to be one of them?
He heard a knock on the door, and immediately went for his slingshot. It was Racetrack Higgins, Spot's best friend for five good years. The boy cautiously walked in, and sat next to the grieving king on the bed. It was silent for a moment, hanging heavily over the air. Then Racetrack took a deep breath and said quietly:
"How you coming along, Spot?"
The King of Brooklyn shuddered and twisted the slingshot in his lap. "Horrible."
"Hey. Everyone's got their time. Soon, we all gotta let go."
"I know. I just wish it don't got to happen. At least not like this." Spot looked in his friend's eye and saw the answer through the tears. "I don't get why we gotta stick with tradition."
"It's been good, though. Remember the strike? When we got our picture in the papes?"
"Who could forget the strike?"
Racetrack laughed, and instantly regretted it. The crowd outside grew louder and louder, chanting for their leader. He stood up, and reluctantly held out his hand. "You ready?"
"Hey." Spot smiled, yet his voice broke. "Carrying the banner."
The two walked down the empty halls of the Brooklyn lodging house. The only sound, his walking stick hitting the floor, roared in their ears as they reached the door. Racetrack opened for him, and everyone grew silent. The king walked out to the piers like he wasn't afraid of anything. But on the inside, he wanted to run back into the house. He watched as the newsies formed a fighting ring around the center of the lot.
"I'm not ready for this, Jack." said a voice, grown, but small and scared. Then there was a deeper voice, this time more demanding. "Come on. No more training. This is it."
Spot stepped into the ring, mustering all the bravery he could. Then he said to his opponent: "So where's your brother, Les?"
The boy swallowed hard. "Sarah and him are at school."
"Shame." Spot handed his slingshot to Racetrack. That was the rule – no weapons, except for steel and your fists. "Five years already. How old are you again?"
"Near fifteen."
Spot nodded and gave his cane to Racetrack. At first, his friend hesitated, and then took it. Fourteen was the coming age. Anything over 19 was too old. It had to happen.
Jack stepped forward and gave the Jacobs boy a shove. The boy tried to ram Spot's stomach with his side, but received a great blow instead, knocking him into the newsies of Manhattan. He quickly recovered and dodged the older boy and took his turn. Spot felt like throwing up as Les soaked him like there was no tomorrow, punching him in the stomach. Jack had trained him well – almost too well. The crowd went wild, cheering for both territories. Spot didn't even try to fight back, Les regretted every punch. It all happened too fast – they were rolling on the ground now, Spot had his hand around his friend's throat. Then there was the sun, blindingly white, a flash of steel, and all was silent. The earth stood still.
"NO!" Les screamed, his hands stained crimson. "Cowboy, Kid – help!"
Spot was on his back now, sobbing. He saw all the newsies surround him, even Jack and the others. He moved his hands to his stomach. It felt wet.
"Leave it alone." said Skittery, holding out his hand to stop Les from pulling out the blade. "It's over."
"I didn't mean to – it was – Spot?"
Spot couldn't say anything, he was too choked up. He tried to push himself up, but it hurt. His vision blurred, but only slightly. The newsies of Brooklyn picked him up and held him above their heads and paraded his body down the pier. The rest of the crowd mourned together, taking off their hats as Spot was placed carefully in the rowboat cushioned with papes. He held back his tears when he saw Les over him, his hands on the stern.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to kill you."
Spot cracked a smile, but a weak one. "I forgive you, kid. This is your coronation, not mine."
And then Racetrack was there, trying not to cry as well. He set the walking cane in the canoe next to Spot. Then the former king took his hand.
Racetrack looked at him. The king's eyes were bluer than the sky, permanently stuck in a fix of shock and sorrow. "What is it?"
It took energy to get out, especially in-between tears. This was the very end. "Do you swear you won't forget me?"
"Never."
Spot's chest stopped heaving and the tears stopped coming. He was no longer Spot Conlon, the King of Brooklyn. Now he was the most remembered. Racetrack felt his pulse, and squeezed the lifeless hand. It grew cold, and he couldn't help sobbing into it. Les, although sympathetic, pushed to boat off to wherever the current carried it. Racetrack had no choice but to let go.
He stood up and handed Les, the new King, the slingshot. Then he watched Spot Conlon drift off down the river, towards the sunset. It was silent for a moment, then he wiped his tears away and whispered:
"Long live the king."