Disclaimer: Let's see, now. Flick, Secret, Web, Brook, Trout, and all the Brooklyn newsies but Spot belong to me. Don't steal them; I'll tar and feather you. Spot and all the characters I didn't mention belong to Disney. No copyright infringement intended. No money was made. P.S. Racetrack does belong to me, actually. Disney doesn't know yet. One of those hush-hush things, y'know? You won't tell, will ya? Didn't think so.

Bittersweet

by Flare

September 21, 1899, 10:00 P.M.

Brooklyn

"Sorry, boys...four of a kind."

The response to this announcement was a round of heartfelt groans that seemed to shake the floor of the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House. The winner of the poker round grinned, holding out his hand to each of the boys seated around him. "C'mon, pay up."

The defeated boys paid up, and fast. None of them was fooled by the light, carefree smirk that seemed almost out of place on the otherwise blank, expressionless face of the victor. There was one New York borough where one could play poker without fear of any tricks; one place where no one ever used a rigged deck, palmed an ace, or even played on credit. And that place was Brooklyn.

On a bunk across the room from the poker game perched a tall black girl of about eighteen, with a face that managed to be tough, kind, severe, and understanding, all in one. Watching the scene, velvety eyebrows arched speculatively, she turned to a second girl sitting in a nearby chair. "A'right, Mulberry, whadda ya t'ink dis time? How many is 'e beatin' on skill, an' how many are lettin' 'im win?"

Mulberry looked up from her knitting, brushing a stray caramel-colored strand of hair out of her eyes. Her braids and freckled nose gave her a rather juvenile appearance, but her soft green eyes held a look of hard-won knowledge beyond her fourteen years.

"I dunno, Bat. I kinda stopped watchin' a while back. But from what I saw at da beginnin', it din't seem so bad. 'Bout fifty-fifty."

Bat chuckled drily. "Dat's what I'd say." She lowered her a voice a few tones, though she couldn't possibly be heard by any of the boys at this distance. "It's real sad, y'know? Dese t'ings are such a joke now. Shoah, dey ain't rigged, despite what some people say, but dey may as well be. No newsie's got da guts ta beat Spot Conlon."

"It ain't always been dat way, dough." Both girls jumped slightly at the voice, since its source was a head that had just popped out from under one of the bunks, topped with a hopelessly tangled mop of hair that more closely resembled dusty straw.

"What'd ya say, Broom?" Mulberry chuckled, leaning down toward her friend.

"I said dat dese big Brooklyn pokah games ain't always been such a joke. 'Memba when--"

"Say, Spot." All three newsgirls turned back toward the other side of the room. A Midtown boy had spoken the words...a boy who, Bat recalled, had once visited Brooklyn fairly often, but hadn't stopped by in quite a while.

"Yeah, Web?" Spot replied casually, still lovingly bent over his sparkling handful of newly-aquired coins.

"What happened ta dat Manhattan kid dat always useta show fer dese games?"

The lodging house suddenly went unusually quiet.

"Oh boy," the girl called Broom whispered nervously, "I jist rememba'd I got some moah sweepin' ta do." Her head popped back under the bunk.

Web, however, seemed oblivious to the effect of his words. "Ya know," he continued, "dat shrimp wit da big mouth dat useta sweep da floor wit all of us."

"Sweep da floor?" came a curious echo from under the bunk.

"It was a metaphor, Broom, don't worry 'bout it," Bat muttered distractedly, concentrating on Spot and wondering how he would react to Web's inquiries.

To her relief, and that of the entire lodging house, there was no explosion. "Oh, ya mean Race." Spot waved a hand dismissively. "He don't come ta Brooklyn no moah. Ain't been heah in ages, actually." Having established the fact that this topic was off-limits, he turned on his usual smirk. "So, fellas...one moah hand?"

Web seemed satisfied, as did most of the others; but one of the visiting newsies was not so easily suppressed.

"Speakin' o' old legends," piped up a sweet feminine voice, "whateveh became o' da dragon?"

In an instant, Bat was beside the girl who had asked the question, grabbing her arm and dragging her out of her chair. "Brook, I t'ink youse been cooped up in heah a bit too long. Why don't we go out an' get some fresh air, huh?" And with that, Bat dragged her captive out the door of the lodging house, pretending not to have noticed the murderous glint in her leader's ice-blue eyes.

"What da he** was dat!?" The moment they were safely outside with the door shut behind them, Bat whirled on Brook. "Yer da** lucky Spot don't soak goils, or I'd be tryin' ta piece ya back togedda right now..."

"A'right, so it was a bit stupid," the West Side newsie admitted sullenly. "But ya can't blame a goil fer bein' curious. I mean, we's tawkin' 'bout one o' da most excitin' events eveh ta hit Brooklyn." She grinned, voice lowering treasonously at her next statement. "A goil almost soakin' Spot Conlon."

Bat sighed and threw up her arms. "What's ta be done wit ya, Brook? Ya need ta get a handle on dat curiosity o' yers. A'right, I'll give ya da short voision. Flick's a Manhattan newsie now, along wit a friend o' hers, name o' Secret. Secret's only come ta Brooklyn once in 'er life, Flick ain't come at all since dat fateful game two yeahs back, an' no one mentions eidda name ta Spot if dey know what's good fer 'em."

Brook frowned, her curious nature still not satisfied. "Ev'ryone dat was at dat game knows da story wit Flick...but what's Spot got against dis friend o' hers?"

Slipping a cigar from her pocket and lighting it, Bat sighed. "Well, dat's a bit complicated."

"Why?" the younger girl persisted, eyes widening. "He hate dis Secret as much as 'e hates Flick?"

"Well," Bat replied awkwardly with a halfhearted puff on her cigar, not sure how much to say. "Well, no, 'e don't. Da t'ing is, ya see, I ain't so shoah he hates Secret at all."

While outside the lodging house, Bat and Brook were doing some catching up, inside, the poker game was drawing to a close. As was usual around this time, the chatting and gossiping began to reach a deafening pitch; some of these newsies were from boroughs so far apart that it might be months before they saw each other again, and if they had anything to say, they had better say it now. As was also usual at a gathering where the males outnumbered the females about seven to one, the talk soon turned to the subject of girls.

"C'mon, Conlon," a bold Bronx boy ordered, glancing up from his cards. "Spit it out. Who ya wit now?"

Spot's smirk was proud this time; he was far from ashamed of his famous, or infamous, reputation as a ladies' man. "Ta tell ya da truth...'cause ya know I'd neveh lie 'bout such an important matta..." Snickers greeted this comment. "...I happen ta be single at da moment."

"No way!" the boy protested, eyes bulging comically. "Wit seven gorgeous goils livin' heah wit 'chu?"

The Brooklyn leader snorted at this. "Well, let's see," he quipped, glancing around the bunk room. " Let's review da seven Brooklyn beauties."

"One o' dem hardly eveh sees da light o' day." He motioned toward the bunk Broom was under. "One o' dem's too young fer me."

"By two yeahs," Mulberry muttered.

"One o' dem'll give me a tongue-lashin' if I so much as look at 'er..."

"An' well desoived ev'ry time," Bat shouted back, to raucous laughter from the newsboys. Bat grinned; she was one of the few who could get away with teasing Spot, being two years his senior and the unofficial leader of the Brooklyn girls.

"One o' dem," Spot continued, "ain't interested in anytin' but dice, drinkin', an' drivin' ev'ryone crazy by speakin' Spanish."

"Falso," murmured a pretty Hispanic girl, in the midst of a game of craps with one of the visiting boys. "I'm interested in chicos, too. Just not that one."

Her companion laughed nervously, glancing at Spot, who, having fortunately not heard the comment, continued ruling out his newsgirls as love-life material.

"Two o' dem, I'se already tried, an' t'ings din't end up woikin' out." He nodded toward the door that led into the girls' bunkroom, and the girls who were present exchanged glances of sympathy for Dagger and Valentine.

"An' da las' one," Spot finished triumphantly, "would be pretty hard ta go out wit, considerin' she neveh tawks."

Most of the eyes in the room swiveled toward a dark, isolated corner. There, curled up with a book, reading by the dim flicker of a stubby candle, was a ridiculously tiny fourteen-year-old girl. Mousey brown hair framed her face. Huge, round brown owl eyes never left the pages they were so engrossed in. This was no surprise, Scrap being slightly deaf.

"Well, Spot," laughed Web, "now dat ya's insulted all yer goils an' won all our money, guess we should all be goin'?"

Spot snickered, tossing down his cards and rising from his chair. "Guess so. I'll be seein' all o' youse, den. Carryin' da banna."

There were numerous calls of "bye" and "g'night" and "carryin' da banna", as all around the fair-sized lodging house, newsboys left chairs and bunks, gathering up dice, cards, and cigars, and pouring out of the building. Broom wriggled out from under one of the bunks, broom in hand. Bat finally came back inside, and most of the girls headed into their own bunkroom to get changed and get some sleep.

"Well." Once it seemed that only the Brooklyn boys remained in the room, and the majority of them were getting ready for bed, Spot turned to a sandy-haired boy called Mott. "Dat went pretty well, din't it?"

Mott smiled offhandly. "Shoah, Spot, it went fine." Aside from da fact dat most o' da newsies in New Yawk are now broke. Seeing Spot's face, however, his mild irritation was replaced by concern for his leader and friend. "Ya okay, Spot?"

Spot shrugged, leaning against his bunk. "'Course, I'se fine."

Other than his current thoughtful expression, Spot seemed to be in a really good mood tonight, so Mott decided to take a gamble.

"Still t'inkin' 'bout dat beauty from Manhattan?" he teased, keeping his tone light.

Spot made no threatening moves, only raising his eyebrows. "Yeah, t'inkin' dat if she wasn't a goil, I'd o' gone an' soaked 'er real bad by now."

"Ya'd break 'er heart if ya did," Mott answered with a grin.

"Nah," Spot protested carelessly. "Dat one's prob'ly got 'er cap set fer one o' da Manhattan boys. Maybe Mush; she was hangin' 'round 'im when she came heah."

"Could be..." Mott's tone was sly. "She shoah was pretty, dough. An' I ain't neveh known ya ta let a pretty goil go befoah."

Spot was definitely in a good mood tonight. His smirk stretched ear-to-ear. "Was dat a challenge?"

"Don't."

The two boys both jumped a mile, spinning toward the voice as if it had been a ghost. Which it may as well have been; there in her corner sat Scrap, book draped over her knees, staring intently, unblinkingly, at them with those huge owl eyes.

"Scrap?" Spot spoke loudly and slowly, approaching the small girl. Something about her almost made him nervous. None of the Brooklyn newsies really knew whether she was quite "all there" or not. "Ya okay? Ya oughta go back ta da goils' room."

"Don't," Scrap repeated clearly, standing up and tucking her book under her arm. Spot frowned.

"Don't what?"

That unnerving stare was fixed directly on him now, even though she had to look up five or six inches to accomplish this. "It can only end wheah it started," Scrap whispered. And suddenly her eyes were fastened to the floor, downcast and shy, as they usually were; and without another word, she retreated into the girls' bunkroom.

Spot went to bed that night pondering the incomprehensible nature of girls...whether they were winning poker games without cheating, whispering cryptic messages, or pushing him into the East River.