Disclaomer: I do not own Newsies, I only own this fic.
Notes: First Newsie fic. I figured Spot wouldn't just randomly come back after Jack went scab. I wanted to make it longer, but that seemed pointless. The two girls and boy very briefly shown in one of the scenes are not important and have no connections to any canon character. They just move the plot along.
o0o0o
Les ran as fast as he could. He had to make it to Brooklyn before the night was half over. If the plan for a huge rally was going to pull through, he had to do this. He had to let them know. Let Spot know that Jack wasn't a scab.
The boy knew the way to Brooklyn. Racetrack had shown him the way there a little after the strike had begun. The Italian told him that if anything should go wrong and there was no one in Manhattan he could go to for help, he could always go to Brooklyn. It was a harsher borough, a completely different world from Manhattan. But Spot Conlon was the leader there, and he'd always kept the bond between the two areas from breaking.
However, it would be different now. Jack had gone scab on them, betrayed them to fulfill his own dreams.
Spot Conlon did not take betrayal very well at all.
Right after they'd found out Jack was a scab, Spot had pulled all of his newsies out of Manhattan. The alliance between Manhattan and Brooklyn was finished. And as far as anyone could tell, it would be a long time before Brooklyn chose to ally itself with another borough. Spot had a long memory. He never forgot and never forgave.
Les stumbled as he crossed the bridge and slowed. This was as far as Racetrack had shown him. After nightfall, he had no idea where the Brooklyn newsboys would be. During the day, they could be found on the docks or hawking headlines on the streets. Clutching his wooden sword, Les made his way towards the docks.
It was silent there, save for the quiet flow of water. Suddenly a shadow detached itself from the alley of one of the nearby buildings. "Whaddaya doin' here, kid?"
The voice belonged to an older teen with dark hair and a darker scowl. Les tried not to back up. "I'm looking for Spot Conlon," he answered. "Do you know where I can find him? It's really important."
"It's dangerous to be out at night in Brooklyn," The dark haired teen responded, ignoring the question and stepping forward. "Bad things could happen to anyone."
"Well, they ain't happening to him," a new, familiar voice cut in smoothly. Spot Conlon was standing there, simply watching them. The dark haired boy scowled and disappeared back into the shadows of the alley. "C'mon, kid. It's late."
They walked for a while, deeper into Brooklyn. Spot finally stopped at a small café and ordered a hot chocolate for himself. "Get something to eat or drink, kid."
"My name is Les," the boy reminded him after ordering a drink.
"So, why're you in Brooklyn, Les? This ain't a social call." Spot studied the boy, noting that he seemed extremely nervous. Spot had that effect on people.
"Jack came back," he told Spot after a few moments. "The Delanceys were soaking David, and he came back to help us. Jack's not a scab anymore."
Blue eyes were hard as diamonds. "So, he came crawling back as soon as it was convenient for him," he observed coldly. "You walked all this way t' tell me that? I think you wasted your time, kid. Brooklyn isn't Manhattan's ally anymore."
"He came back because he really cares about this strike!" Les protested. "If all he wanted was to leave, he would've! Jack had enough money to leave for anywhere-"
"Keep it down, kid, you're being noisy," Spot commanded and glared down the pair of teenage girls who were staring from the next booth. They looked away quickly, one cheerfully grinning at him. Spot turned back to Les. "Listen, kid. I don't like it when allies decide they're going to sell me out for a chance to help themselves. I hate it when allies do that to their own group. That just puts them lower in my eyes. Jacky-boy did both. And if he thinks sending over a kid to get me back on his side'll work-"
"He doesn't know I'm here," Les mumbled guiltily. He stared down into his cup. "They think I'm at home. Mum thinks I'm with Davey at the lodging house. But I know we can't win the strike alone. We needed Brooklyn to get the others to help, and we need Brooklyn to win. Right now Jack and David and the others are trying to make a paper to get the sweatshop kids in the strike. They forgot that we need you."
Spot was already shaking his head. "I'm not going to help him this time, kid."
Les looked absolutely crushed, but put his hat back on and stood. "Thanks for the drink, Spot." He paused after turning away. "Racetrack told me…if anything went wrong and there was no one I could go to in Manhattan, that I should come here, 'cause you've always been there for Manhattan. I guess he was wrong. See ya 'round, Spot."
The girl who had grinned at Spot turned to glare at him as Les left the café. "The least you could do is make sure he gets back okay," she reprimanded.
"Leave it," her companion sighed and stood. "Better the kid die on the street than see the Walkin' Mouth get carted off to the Refuge. That's what'll happen when the newsboys lose the strike. Mouth gets carted off, and Cowboy's as good as dead."
"It's not right," the first complained, but followed her friend out into the night.
Spot sat there for a total of fifteen seconds before his mind was made up. Muttering something about darn kids, darn Racetrack, and going soft, the Brooklyn leader stalked out into the hot summer night. The two girls were talking to Les on the street corner, asking repeatedly if he'd be all right crossing the bridge alone. "It wouldn't be too much trouble for us to go with you," the first one told Les. "Are you sure?"
"He's sure," Spot informed them, coming up. "C'mon, kid. Let's get you home."
"You really are such a nice fellow," the first one gushed, beaming.
"Good night," the second one said to Spot and Les before leading her friend off. "Honestly," they heard her saying as they left, "you act so childish sometimes."
Spot walked Les all the way to the lodging house steps. "Now stay outta trouble, kid," he ordered, serious. "You're too young to be out this late. Your brother's gonna-"
"Spot?" Racetrack appeared in the doorway, looking slightly confused.
"Just deliverin' a straggler, Race. See ya 'round." And before either boy could say a word, the Brooklyn leader was gone.
Racetrack turned to Les questioningly. "Why were you in Brooklyn?"
Les shook his head as he pushed past Race into the lodging house. "Doesn't matter, he won't come to the rally," he muttered, visibly upset. "He still hates Jack."
"Spot doesn't hate Jack, it's just not easy for him to accept that Jack would have even considered selling us out. So don't hate Spot for not wanting to be betrayed again." Racetrack fiddled with his cigar, considering lighting it up and thinking better of it since Les was around. "Brooklyn'll be there for us like always, just not for a while. They need to sort some stuff out first, Les. You can get that, right? They just need time."
The boy nodded, though he didn't believe Racetrack. The Italian had lied. He said that Brooklyn would always be there, and they weren't. "I'm going home."
"Stay for the night," Mush urged, coming out with Kid Blink. "Your parents don't mind, and it's too late for anyone to go walking out this late. Come on in."
Race sighed as Les followed Mush and Blink in and lit up his cigar.
o0o0o
The next morning all the Manhattan newsboys and Sarah were gathered around the statue of Horace Greenly. "When are the others coming, Kid?" Mush asked Blink.
"They're not coming," Jack said, almost in despair. "It's just us."
Of course, Les didn't want to believe that, like he hadn't wanted to believe Jack had become a scab. He walked to the other side of the statue. A little worried and somewhat curious, Racetrack followed. "When the circulation bell starts ringing, will we hear it?" Les asked, almost to himself, remembering how Jack had gotten everyone into the strike by telling them what David had told him.
"Naw," was Race's response. He took off his hat, wiped his forehead and then turned to Les. "What if the Delanceys come out swingin', will we hear it?"
"No!" Les declared as the other newsies gathered around them.
And suddenly they heard cheering and shouting. "When you've got a million voices singin', who can hear a lousy whistle blow?"
But that wasn't what Les was paying attention to. No, he'd noticed a large group coming up a different street with a familiar boy at its head. "Brooklyn!"
Spot Conlon had arrived.