The boy was toying with an object: the gold-tipped cane, once his father's, that so many had come to familiarize the King with, was firmly grasped in his right hand. His mind had been wandering as his eyes perused the bay. He heard footsteps approaching, "Jacky-boy. What ya doin' out-and-abouts?"

"Just come to check on my ol' friend, how are you, Spot?" came Jack's quick response. It had been just over two years since the murder of Spot's family was solved. William Hearst was resting uncomfortably in jail for his mastermind behind the murders and rumors spread that Hearst's health was rapidly deteriorating not that Spot cared any. He knew it may be heartless of him to act that way but he had every right to choose whether to forgive or not. He had chosen the latter.

Spot and Jack had remained friends through the uphill journey following the events of 1897, but it in the past two months Spot had distanced himself from everyone, even his own Brooklyn newsies at times. Though thoughts of his sibling and his parents haunted his dreams occasionally, Spot's main nightmare concerned his brother, Sam, the baby that had survived the fire. Left to the protection of Mrs. Elaine Allen, Sam had grown healthy and had quite the vocabulary for a five year old, as Spot discovered from the letters Mrs. Allen sent him. She normally sent letters every two weeks, and therein was Spot's concern: he had not received any letters for the past month and was starting to become restless. He had come close to leaving Brooklyn for Albany but Donny continually reassured him things were okay.

"How's sellin' in Brooklyn?" Jack asked, trying to sound interested though he could easily tell Spot was not listening to half of what he said. He repeated his question, to which Spot snapped, "It could be better, though I ain't givin' it my fullest attentions, Jacky-boy." Jack needed know explanation. No one newsie in all New York needed the explanation. It was obvious, Spot was depressed again. He wanted his brother with him but he knew he couldn't take in a five year old boy to live amongst a bunch of rough, dirty, uncouth teenage boys, especially Brooklyn. They'd respect Spot's brother because they respected Spot, but the decision was purely up to Spot and he was not one to risk it yet.

"Come on over to Tibby's, Spot; let's get some grub. Clear ya head, brotha." Spot shrugged his shoulders stubbornly before sliding off his throne and landing with a loud thud on the deck below. "Thanks, Jack." He said softly as they walked along.

"It's been awhile, Spot, ya got a goil?" Spot shook his head. It is true, despite all the fame that was bestowed him after Hearst's arrest, Spot Conlon remained single. Girls came and went, some loved him for his fame, some for his body, but none for his soul and that was what mattered most to him. It was all that failure coupled with the tragedy that turned Spot into the Spot Conlon known today, the cold, brutal, fearless newsie leader from Brooklyn. Feared and respected, he had his way anywhere he went from Brooklyn to the Bronx. Many said he would never settle down with a girl, never have a family, and never have a normal life because of the way he was. Spot could have cared less. He had Brooklyn and that suited him just fine. You can't do this forever, a voice in his echoed. He smacked his head discreetly. He hated the voices in his head and he sure as hell did not want Jack or anyone else know he was being troubled by his mind, otherwise everyone would think he was a psycho.

"How's you and Sarah?" He said with a slight bit of depression in his voice, trying to distract himself from his inward problems. Jack gave a small grin, "We're gonna get married in a year. Her parents said we could." Spot smiled, turned to his friend and patted him hard on the back, "Congrats, Cowboy. Ya make me proud."

"Thanks, Spot."

When the two finally arrived at Tibby's, Spot was greeted with a thunderous hello from Race, "Spot!" he cheered running to Spot they spit in their hands and shook. Race led Spot and Jack to a booth nearest them. He was excited, like he had something to tell. Spot look awkwardly at Race, "What's da spill, Race? Either ya just pissed yaself or ya got some news." To this, Jack laughed heartily.

"I met a goil." Race grinned from ear to ear.

"What's her name - Black Beauty?" Spot joked. He jabbed Race, who simply rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"She ain't a horse dimwit." He shot back.

"Watch ya tone with me or I'm gonna hafta soak ya." Spot threatened sarcastically. He and Spot had grown close, about as close as he and Jack were; these two were the only ones Spot could trust. Spot had power over Brooklyn but no trust, it had happened with Wiz and Spot wasn't about to take chances. Spot worried about his control over Brooklyn, with little trust in his second-in-command, Donny, and very little in any of the other Brooklyn boys, he felt as though he was losing Brooklyn. Having Manhattan to fall back was comforting but he was Spot Conlon, he embodied Brooklyn, if he were to lose it, he was sure to become the butt of every newsie's joke.