Author's Note: My sincerest apologies on the six-month-long chapter update. I have no excuse for myself, so I suppose I will just have to hope for your forgiveness and say that I will try not to do it again. I hope you have not lost interest, as I certainly haven't. Good news, however: I'm on break right now and hopefully will be able to squeeze out another chapter or two before I go back to school.

Disclaimer: None of its mine.

Winter was not offering the boys of Kloppman's Lodging House any relief from its wrath and Mush, for one, was not having it.

"It ain't fair," he complained to Blink one frigid afternoon, looking in at the windows of the well-to-do. "Dey can sit inside with their fires an' their hot dinnah's, an' we ain't got so much as a solid pair a' boots tah share between us."

Blink could say nothing, for he knew his friend was right. Their days had been brutal, their nights worse; and although no one would say it, they had all been thoroughly demoralized by Racetrack's sudden disappearance. Many a night had the Manhattan boys sat in pubs and discussed the likelihood of such a break coming their way, and each one had sworn up and down that he'd never leave, while his brothers assured him that if he didn't, they'd kick him out. It was never serious, however, because it was never reality. Now that the abstract had become alarmingly concrete, every boy could say with certainty that while they'd force a fellow newsie to cash in on his good fortune, it hurt that Racetrack had done just that

The collection of newsies housed beneath Kloppman's roof was, after all, rather special. Of course some boys came and went, but those who had been there longest, and especially those who had stood together and defeated the World, all had a special bond. Something didn't feel quite like it fit, after Racetrack's disappearance. As Crutchy so poignantly put it: it was like someone had taken the purple out of the rainbow.

So Mush and Blink commiserated in companionable silence, scrunching their toes inside their holey shoes for warmth and watching the snow pile onto the snow that was already there, frozen and ice hard and no longer seasonably festive.

On the other side of town, Jack Kelly was commiserating with Spot Conlon. The pair had decided to shirk their responsibilities and sit in Central Park, passing a bottle between them. Their bottoms were cold upon the bench but the liquor was warming the rest of them. It was still quite early, and yet our boys were well on their way to becoming rather drunk. It was at this moment that a young boy, no more than twelve, came to cross their paths, with a pitifully terrified expression upon his face. Poor Martin, you see, had not been in the city for many years, having been cooped up within the walls of Higgins Estate, undergoing his training. Unfortunately for him, Spot Conlon was not a warm-hearted sort of a fellow and the Brooklynite's first thought upon spying the boy was to enliven his afternoon with some harmless harassment. Said harassment came in the form of three perfectly aimed shooters, striking Martin's left shoulder, right ear, and left shoe in quick succession.

Thus was Martin, the butler-in-training, painfully introduced to the one person in New York he'd probably have been better off never having met at all. Jack magnanimously managed to stifle his laughter long enough to ask if the boy was lost.

"No sir," said Martin with his eyes on Spot's slingshot, "I'm looking for someone."

"Well," said Spot brutishly, "Ya tawkin' tah kings right now, m'boy, and we knows just about everybody dere is tah know in dis town. So tell me. Who ya' lookin' fah?"

"Jack," Martin stammered, "Jack Kelly."

Jack raised his eyebrows, but before he could say anything, Spot smirked and pounded his chest. "Why, dat's me! What have you got tah say tah me, huh?"

Martin's respect for his new master increased significantly at the knowledge that Mr. Higgins counted among his acquaintances such intimidating figures as this. He held out a trembling hand, clasped in which were two items: a folded up bit of scratch paper, and a shiny penny. "The – the penny's for a newspaper, and the note is for you… sir."

Spot took the paper but shook his head at the coin. "Kid, I ain't sellin' tahday. But if ya go down tah dat corner, just dere," and he pointed, "tell dat dark coily-haired kid to give ya a pape. Keep ya penny and tell him Spot Conlon said ya get da pape free of charge. Ya got dat?"

"Who's Spot Conlon?" Martin asked sagely.

Jack – that is to say, the real Jack – laughed gaily at this, but the Brooklyn king shoved Martin on his way and said: "Nevah you mind."

Once Martin had departed, Jack reached out for the note, believing Spot's antics all to be in good humor. But Spot held back. He may have been half Jack's size, but he was twice as bright and his intuition three times as keen. He knew exactly whose hand had penned the note; indeed Jack's name written in that familiar handwriting on the front only confirmed Spot's already formed suspicions. This note was Racetrack's first attempt at contacting those from his former life. Spot would be damned if Jack read those words before he did – little matter to whom the note was actually addressed.

Spot fended off Jack's outstretched hand. "Hey hey," he said, "Not so fast, huh? Finder's keeper's, and all dat…"

Jack frowned.

"Hey, how 'bout 'dis, huh? You can pay me for it. One dollah."

Jack's exasperation was visible upon his face.

"Yeah," Spot continued, "One dollah an' you got yourself one bea-u-tiful little note. Dat's fair."

"Spot, c'mon."

Well, Spot thought, if he ain't gonna do it easy, we're gonna have to do it hard.

"Of course," he said, standing, "Ya could fight me foah it."

Jack watched Spot's fingers twitch near the handle of his golden-tipped cane, and grimaced.

Now, as we have previously discussed – and I'm sure you've been astute enough to notice, dear readers – Jack was a little drunk. He was a little drunk and a little cold, and he happened to know his friend very well. Often was Spot taken by such outrageous whims as this. Jack supposed it was part of being king. One must demand and have those demands met – no matter how extreme or silly – and every once in a while Spot would demand something utterly ridiculous just to see who would prove accommodating. Anyhow, if the note were something truly important, it would have been sent by one of Jack's own messengers, not some schoolboy half-scared of his own shadow.

So while his curiosity was piqued, Jack decided – and wisely, I am sure – that it would be better to let Spot have his way. Chances were Spot would come around sooner rather than later and show Jack his note anyway.

"Fine, Spot," he said, and left for home.

The easy camaraderie and silly drunkenness of the afternoon were lost after the confrontation, but Spot couldn't have cared less. He waited until Jack was out of sight, crept a little further into the shadows, and unfolded the note. The paper was clean and the penmanship a little neater than he'd remembered, but it couldn't fool Spot. It even smelled like Race.

Jack-

Sorry I beat it so fast.

You won't believe this place.

We gotta talk.

Come home with Martin, I'll wait at the gate.

Race.

Spot hadn't even finished the letter before stuffing it in his pocket and running off in the direction he'd sent the young servant. He came upon Mush's selling spot all in a rage. He tried to calm himself so that Mush wouldn't tip Jack off that something was up.

Mush pointed him in the right direction and Spot was off, pushing past pedestrians and other newsies, leaving many a bewildered and insulted individual in his wake. Finally he caught sight of Martin and sprinted to catch up.

"Kid!" he shouted.

Martin turned around and saw the look on Spot's face. It was resolve, but one cannot blame poor Martin for mistaking it for murderous rage. Spot's features generally tend to cast his expressions at least two shades more malicious than they are originally intended.

Martin took off as fast as he could, but his domesticity could not compete with Spot's determination, and Spot was upon him almost instantly. He tackled the child in one easy leap and Martin instantly lost all his fight.

He rolled over and raised his hands in front of his eyes, "Mr. Kelly!" he cried, "Oh please, Mr. Kelly! I don't know what my master wrote in the note, but I knew nothing of it! Please, please sir, don't hurt me, I'm surely not to blame!"

Spot gave Martin one good punch merely to vent his frustration and waited while the unfortunate boy cried it out. When he had finished, Spot pulled him to his feet and directed: "Let's go. Da note said tah take me back, ya snivelin' good-fah-nothin' little wankah."

Martin trembled, but what could he do? Poor fellow.

He led Spot along, tilting his head back to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. Spot would have much preferred to move faster, but his conscience pricked ever so slightly as he watched Martin limp ahead in front of him. Spot did not enjoy feeling guilty, and so he avoided looking at Martin as much as possible. Instead he watched as the scenery changed around him. The dirty streets and bustle, the evening crowds of the city were giving way to neat, narrow alleys where prim little buggies drove past at a leisurely pace.

When they arrived finally at the Higgins Estate, dusk had fallen. A figure was leaning against the wrought-iron gates, and while it looked slightly off without a cigar or a cap, Spot could tell just from its posture that it was Racetrack.

Three weeks and not a word. Spot wanted to soak the bum. He wanted to take him by the collar and bash his head against the gate and tell him it was one thing to go off and enjoy his new life, but it was a whole other thing to do so while completely forgetting all his old friends.

Martin fled the scene without a word and brooded past Race to get inside. Racetrack took one look at him and turned to face the other individual. The look on his face was not hard to read – which is, of course, why Racetrack made such a truly terrible poker player.

Spot chuckled smugly, all his anger evaporating like his hot breath on the winter air. "Ya missed me, Higgins? Ya doe-eyed Nancy …"