Ironically, Spot had never been happier. Sure, he and his few remaining friends were trapped in the refuge. He would probably never work as a newsie again, and it even seemed unlikely that he would set foot outside the walls of the refuge before he was twenty-one. But she loved him. She'd said it, right there in the courtroom. Lunch Money loved Spot. Spot was convinced he could die right then and have lived a full life.
It was later that night, just before bed. Most of the newsboys were looking glum at the results of the morning's trial. Spot observed the exanimate newsboys from his bunk, lying propped against his pillow, comfortably daydreaming. One hardly needed to wonder about whom those daydreams involved.
"Hey."
Racetrack sat down on the bunk across from Spot's. Spot sat up quickly, banging his forehead against the bottom of the upper bunk. He rubbed his head; it was still tender and bruised from his arrest the other night.
"Hey." He said warily.
It struck him as very odd that he should be so nervous about talking to Racetrack—Racetrack, of all people! The little smart-aleck Italian kid from Jack Kelly's gang. Ordinarily, Racetrack would the one quaking in his at the thought of having a serious conversation with Spot, rather than the other way around. Of course, that was back when Racetrack was just a fellow newsie, a friend. Things had changed. Racetrack just seen Spot make out with his little sister for the second time in less than three weeks. Things had definitely changed. Doing anything with a friend's sister was rarely a good idea. Davey and Jack were a good example. They used to be the best of friends, but once Jack and Sarah's relationship fell apart, so did the friendship between Dave and Jack. Spot braced himself.
"So." Racetrack began awkwardly, clearing his throat. "Sorry."
He paused a moment, giving Spot the opportunity to speak, if he desired to. When Spot did not take advantage of the silence (as he really had no idea what to say to Racetrack, and was wondering whether he had heard an actual apology come out of his mouth.) Race continued.
"Lunch Money, uh, talked wit' us the otheh night… Explained some things." He shifted uncomfortably, "So, I guess I was wrong about ya…Ya really were tellin' the truth, weren't ya?"
Spot nodded, "I was."
"Gawd…" Racetrack shook his head, at last appreciating the irony in their situation. "Okay, so you are in love wit' Lunch Money?" He laughed.
Of all the girls in the wide world, his baby sister, tough-and-tumble tomboy of NYC, was the girl who finally landed Spot Conlon. It wasn't Ritz Barkley who'd finally melted his heart… It wasn't Mush either! Racetrack thought suddenly, as a most amusing memory from several weeks ago resurfaced. It was Lunch Money who had won over Spot. It was impressive. It was unexpected. It was sweet and romantic. It was likely to make Racetrack nauseous if he thought about it much longer. Older brothers should never think about their younger sister's love lives too much. It's too unsettling.
"Geez, if I eveh get used ta the idea of you'se two ta'gether, it's gonna be awful hard not ta make fun of ya." Racetrack came close to cracking a joke for the first time in a very long time.
"Is it an idea ya think you'll eveh be able ta get used ta?" Spot asked earnestly, aware that most of the Manhattan boys were watching the conversation from across the room, straining to hear what Spot was saying, "Me an' Lunch Money? Are ya gonna be okay wit' that?"
Racetrack exhaled slowly. Would he be okay with this? Racetrack wasn't sure. His little sister and Spot Conlon? It seemed like a nightmare. But, if they were serious about being together, Racetrack knew he couldn't stand in their way. Racetrack studied Spot. The boy's face was anxious; ears pricked for Racetrack's response. The idiot boy really was in love with his stupid sister. It was like a sign of the apocalypse.
"Yeah." Racetrack said finally, nodding, "Yeah, I think I'll be okay. Just do me a favoh?"
"What?"
"If it all woirks out between you'se two… When all'a us boys are hangin' out, discussing goils, ya know," Spot raised an eyebrow knowingly. Racetrack was of course referring to the evening washroom conversations that often revolved around which boy scored with what girl. Conversations that were sometimes fairly graphic. "Please, oh please, fa' the love of Gawd, neveh let me heah any details about you and me sistah."
Spot looked relieved. That was a favor he'd been happy to oblige. He smirked. So did Racetrack.
"Done." Spot said, laughing, partially with relief, partially at Racetrack's second almost-joke. Racetrack laughed too. The boys were just glad to be friends again; sure, it would take a while to get over the awkwardness of Spot seeing Racetrack's younger sister, but they had definitely started to make things right again. Racetrack spat into the palm of his hand. Spot did the same. They clasped hands firmly, shaking in a gesture of finally coming to an understanding.
Christmas passed with little to-do and extravagance. The year 1901 was brought in with a similar apathy. It was difficult to find any cheer in the traditionally celebratory season when they were all trapped in such a grim institution. Januarys always seem bleak and hopeless, but the first week of that year was almost unbearable.
Under Snyder's hawk eye, the boys and girls in the refuge were strictly segregated. Thus the three Brooklyn girls had only each other to seek comfort in. But even that was difficult, as every day was spent performing chores or fulfilling punishments in austere silence. Nix, Feivel and Lunch Money were only able to commiserate their misfortune after they were settled into their bunks for the night. Apart from the awful slop served twice a day at mealtimes, the only thing that kept Lunch Money alive was Spot. They never had the opportunity to speak, but occasionally, they would see one another and the looks that passed between them vitalized the two newsies more than the horrid mess hall food ever did.
While Lunch Money carried the dirty laundry carts to the laundry room she'd pass Spot, polishing the wooden floor with some of the other boys, and he would smile at her. When Snyder was lecturing Spot for starting a soapsuds fight when he should have been washing dishes, Lunch Money happened to walk through the kitchen to clear away the last dinner dishes. She came up behind Snyder, just outside his line of sight and mimicked the warden's fury in an outrageous, mocking mime, and Spot would try not to laugh.
It was those brief connections that made their existence in the refuge worthwhile. Not to say that the newsies had abandoned all hope of a getaway. But security had been tightened yet again, and there wasn't enough opportunity for anyone to slip off without being caught. And the remaining eighteen newsies refused to escape unless the entire gang could be freed too. As much as they wanted to find a way to escape the bars of the refuge, the newsies were hitting dead ends everywhere and it was starting to seem impossible that they would ever be free.
It was a awfully good thing that the eighteen newsies inside the walls of the refuge were not the only ones concerned about their freedom. It was true, the newsies were not quite so alone as they thought. The unshakable brotherhood of street rats that Jack had once so fervently believed in appeared to have crumbled in the last few months. But even as the other Manhattan newsies, and the traitorous Brooklyn newsies were scattered about the great city of New York, try as they might, they could not forget. Once and for all, every kid is our friend, every friend a brother.
"Nah, lemme do it." Skittery whispered, taking the rope out of David's hands. "I think I owe it ta them. 'Sides, I wanna see their faces."
The tall, wiry, pink-clad boy slipped the rope around his middle, and carefully lowered himself over the edge of the building. David gripped the rope tightly, gently lowering Skittery to the window. Skittery rapped three times against the glass. The window slid open, and a boy of about twelve greeted him.
"Hey, Skittery, long time no see."
"'Crimony, Ten Pin, you'se still heah? It's been what, t'ree years since ya been arrested?"
Ten Pin shrugged. "I guess, ya kinda lose track a' time in heah."
"I'd imagine." Skittery said airily, "Listen, can I talk ta Jack? An' Racetrack? An' any otheh newsies ya might have around heah?"
"I'll get 'em fa' ya."
Skittery grinned widely as the boys he had requested approached the windows, their jaws hanging down around their knees. They were shocked. What was Skittery the Scabber doing here?
"Heya fellas." Was Skittery's response to the overwhelming daze that befell the other boys.
"Skittery, whaddya doin' heah?" Racetrack demanded, sneering slightly. He hadn't forgotten the last time he'd seen Skittery. The damn grafter had gotten Racetrack arrested last time the two boys made contact.
"Ain't just me." Skittery was almost beaming. Most unusual for the infamously "glum and dumb" young man. "Know who's on the roof?"
"Who?"
"Dave."
"Is that Dave?" Jack demanded, leaning as far out the window as the constricting bars would permit.
"Shh!" They heard The Walkin' Mouth hiss from someplace far above their heads.
"Yeah, an' that ain't all." Skittery told them, "Dutchy's up there too. An' Bumlets, an' Snitch, an' Snipeshooteh, an' Pie Eateh, an' Tumbleh an' Swifty an' everybody. And know who's down coverin' the ground?" Skittery didn't even wait for any of them make a guess, "Most a' Brooklyn."
Spot looked very satisfied with his boys. He folded his arms imperiously, acting as though he knew all along that his newsies weren't sell-outs. The Manhattan newsies were equally cheered by this news. With numbers like these, a breakout was actually feasible. Certainly not a secret, silent breakout, but an all-out, overwhelming jailbreak.
"Whatcha waitin' fa'?" Skittery asked impatiently, "Get ya stuff! Let's get outta heah!"