Again, I'm so sorry for the wait! Enjoy this one!

Part I, Chapter X

March 17, 1899

Brooklyn, New York

There were only a handful of days when Spot slept in. Holidays were most of them, and St. Patrick's Day was especially no exception. As Spot rolled onto his back, he opened his eyes to an empty and peaceful bunkroom. A smile of satisfaction spread across his lips. It was ten o'clock and the seventeen year-old newsboy had gotten nine hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep. Better than sex, thought Spot. Well, sometimes.

As Spot hopped to the floor and stretched good and hard, Oliver entered the bunkroom. His feet dragging the floor beneath him, Oliver had a weird, euphoric look on his face. The Brooklyn leader fell onto the mattress near Spot. His feet dangled off the edge and unsold papers dropped to the floor. He stared up at the bunk above him with the dopey look still on his face.

"Good night?" guessed Spot. He sat on the bed near him and lit up a cigar.

"I got no sleep. Opium room last night with…what's 'er name…Got no sleep."

"No sleep after smokin'? Jesus, what'd you guys do all night?"

Oliver smiled with his glazed eyes half open. He turned his head to the side and revealed small bruises What's 'er name had given him—love bites. "All night. I mean, I'm sore."

Spot laughed with him. He took another cigar from his nightstand and tossed it to Oliver with pride. Oliver blew out the match and relaxed, his ankles crossed over the mattress and one arm tucked comfortably behind his head.

"Props ta you. I heard nobody could get they'se hands on 'er," said Spot.

"I ain't nobody, Conlon." Oliver exhaled deeply. He sat up to face him as if telling Spot a secret. "An' get this…her brother's the leader 'a Thayer Street."

"You'se lyin'."

"Swear to God, Conlon!" He put his right hand over his heart and laughed dreamily. "Swear to God…"

"Then my hat goes off ta you."

"Well, you'se still with that one goil, right?"

"Oh. Yeah." Spot nodded with a complacent smile as he twirled his cigar between his thumb and index finger. "Yep, still with her."

Emma. Spot stopped spinning his fingers when it hit him that he was supposed to meet her for breakfast. Spot cringed and cursed to himself. It was already an hour after they agreed to meet. But it's St. Patrick's Day, he thought to himself. She's gotta remembah I don't worry today. Spot thought for a moment and shrugged it off. He would apologize, she would yell, they'd each go home, and he would see her the next day as if nothing had happened. Emma was all too predictable sometimes; time always worked against her.

"You'se goin' out tonight, ain't ya?" inquired Oliver.

Spot scoffed as if offended. "Oliver, please. I'm gettin' started heah in a few hours!"

Oliver laughed obnoxiously. "'Swhat I like ta heah, Conlon! Gimme a good hour 'a sleep an' I'll join ya. I'm gonna need some energy."

He rubbed out his cigar on the nightstand and rolled over. Within a few short moments, Oliver was sound asleep. Spot shook his head and made his way over to the showers. He ran through the events of the day in his mind, all of which included an endless supply of liquor or girls, all celebrating their heritage in high spirits. He would stop by to see Emma for a little while, though she would understand their evening would be cut short because of the celebration.

"It's a great day to be Irish, gentlemen!"

A gin-soaked old man toasted to the crowd of drunken, merry Irish immigrants in the basement of a pub in the Irish area of New York City. The people clunked their glasses together and downed the everlasting alcohol. Spot whipped his head back as he and Oliver slammed their umpteenth shot glass onto the table.

Spot's eyesight waned for a moment. "'S only six o'clock! And I'm…unbelievably drunk."

Oliver dug change from his pocket and slammed it on the table, motioning for a server. "God, I love you Irish wops. Sure know a good party."

Spot chuckled, paying no heed to the insult. It was St. Patrick's Day. He was drunk and happy. For the time being, life was perfect. Ireland was all around him, in the pub and outside. He was proud of his heritage that day as he watched the innocent parade through the streets and curly-haired, freckled children scamper through the city. He was even prouder once he and Oliver stepped foot into the pub and got really Irish. He even thought he heard himself take up an accent.

The festivities lasted until Spot could hardly keep his head up. Oliver, who had always been able to hold his liquor better, kept ordering more and more rounds until Spot was flat broke and blacking out. A bouncy, heavily made-up girl had sat down next to him and Spot only acknowledged her presence in and out of consciousness. He felt her run her fingers across his check and hug him close to her chest.

"Wha' time 'sit?" slurred Spot.

The girl dug into his trouser pocket and pulled his watch. She looked at it and pressed it back into his pocket hard, waking him up significantly.

"Wait, what'd ya'say th' time was?"

"Nine thirty," she giggled. "But we don't have to worry 'bout that now."

"I gotta go."

Spot stood up, carelessly dropping the girl to the floor. His head lolled and he felt as if he had spun around a hundred times. He grabbed the table behind him and crashed back into his chair.

"Ya a'right there, Conlon?" Oliver patted him on the back.

"I gotta see Emma." Spot held his head to control the dizziness. "I want to see her."

"A'right, let's getcha outta heah."

Spot hardly remembered walking all the way from Manhattan back to Brooklyn. For all he knew, he could have been tossed into the back of a wagon and dropped onto the cobblestone. But he knew Oliver was with him the entire time; he used him as leverage for however they got there.

"This is the place, right Conlon?"

As he regained consciousness, Spot saw the sign on the building in front of him reading, Corwell Bakery. He nodded and dusted himself off. He made to straighten the tie he was not wearing and fastened the cap on his head. Oliver grabbed the back of his collar and dragged him up the fire escape up to Emma's bedroom.

Oliver tapped against the glass lightly and as he waited, composed Spot by picking his head up and smacking him in the face. Emma pulled back her curtain, an annoyed look on her face, and hesitated to open the window.

Turning around, Oliver smiled joyously and waved his hand energetically. He pointed to Spot and Emma nodded. With a sigh, she broke the barrier between the two.

"Heya Emma!"

"Hi Oliver."

"Got yer boy right heah, been talkin' 'bout ya all night."

"Okay. Bring 'im inside, I guess."

"Don't worry," said Oliver as he picked up Spot and hoisted him inside, "he won't make too much noise."

Emma said nothing and helped Spot to her bed. Without saying another word to Oliver, she shut the window and he leapt down the staircase.

"I love you Emmy."

Spot looked at her as deeply as he could while she took off his hat and shoes, sliding the suspenders from his hunched shoulders. She made no reaction to what he said to her and continued to get him ready for bed.

Spot knew Emma didn't respond to him. He grabbed her hips and stopped her from moving. Though all she did was sigh and look away, Spot pulled her on top of him as he landed back on the bed.

"I really do, Em! I love you."

Emma groaned and sniffled. She buried his face into his shoulder as she was pinned against him, her whole body forced into his embrace. Spot's hand flew to her cheeks and he positioned her face in front of his. She was crying.

"Em, what's wrong…"

She shook her head, tilting her face downward to hide it. Tears streamed from her eyes into his hands.

"Tell me," he urged.

"Nothing, Spot." Emma got up and rolled onto her side of the bed. "Just go to sleep."