Morning came quickly for the boys. As soon as one woke up, he woke up his neighbor and he woke up his neighbor and so on and so forth. The group of boys who were already up, sat at the top of the stairs waiting for the others and craning their necks so as to try to get a glimpse of the downstairs wonderland. The older boys were awakened by the younger ones, teasing them by rolling over and refusing to get up. But when they were finally all awake, they stood on the top of the stairs, waiting for the signal. "OKAY! ITS ALL CLEAR!" A female voice yelled, starting a stampede of boys running down the stairs.
What they saw shocked them. Under the tree was thoroughly bare. Bright Eyes, Kloppman, Sarah, and Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs sat nearby, sipping tea and looking thoroughly amused. "Alright Bright! Dis is mighty cruel! If dere's no presents," Jack began, frustration edging his voice. Bright Eyes laughed. "Ya boys gotta find me bag wit all da stuff in it foist." She said carelessly. The boys quickly spread out, searching every nook and cranny. They didn't have long to wait, for Fish had wisely gone around the room, crawling on his hands and knees, finding it in a very easy place. "ITS HERE! UNDA HER CHAIR!!" came the call.
The boys gathered round Bright Eyes chair, who patted Fish's head and pulled out a small package. "Since you found the bag, you my friend get the honor of opening the first present." Bright Eyes said proudly as the paper on the package was ripped by the tiny hands. Inside was a miniature locomotive engine, painted in bright, bold colors. The boy stared at it in delight and awe, then threw his chubby arms around Bright Eyes' neck, surprising her. "Danks so much Bright Eyes! I ain't eva had such a wondaful gift in me whole life!" Bright Eyes arms went around the small boy as she drew him up in her lap. Almost as an afterthought, the boy whispered into her ear, "Kin I take ya fer me mudda? Spot's me brudda, but I've always wanted ta have a mudda, dat I could rememba. Please Bright?" Tears slid uncontrollably out of the girl's eyes as she squeezed the boy closer to her. "Sure ya kin. I'd be honored." She whispered softly.
The room was silent, partially because of the seriousness of the moment and partially because they couldn't wait to get their own presents. Finally Bright Eyes wiped her eyes and motioned to a certain package on top of the stack. Fish grinned and picked it up, giving it to Jack. "Dis is fer you Cowboy!" He exclaimed. The boys crowded round Jack as he eagerly tore into it, Sarah watching him intently. Out of the mounds of shredded paper, came a black leather hat, with a tall brown feather sticking out of it. When it was turned upside down, a slip of paper fell out of the bottom. Jack picked it up and gazed lovingly at the small drawing of a sunset and a desert, with the words "Santa Fe" written carefully across the top. "I didn't know where I was gonna go when I left, so I hitched meself a ride on a train an' dat was one of da stops. I had ta sketch dat an' git ya da hat, knowing dat ya've always wanted ta go dere." Bright Eyes said modestly. Jack plopped the hat on his head, and grabbed her hand and kissed it. "Thank ya me lady fer yer kindness." Bright Eyes smiled seeing behind the sarcasm of the comment, the true gratefullness that he felt.
"Aw don't git all lovey dovey on us! Lets jest open da rest of 'em!" Blink protested loudly. Bright Eyes laughed and began to distribute the presents to the grinning boys. Racetrack's eyes gazed at the packs of cards from every gambling place that Bright Eyes had been in admiration, along with the programs from the races in St. Louis and Chicago. Crutchy accepted the small medal with the Blessed Mother etched on its surface with awe, while leaning on his much sturdier pine crutch. Mush practically squealed with the delight of the new shoes and matching black laces, causing laughs to explode around the room. Snipeshooter immediately dug into his Havanna cigars and his very own pack of cards. David attempted to put on the new red and blue bowtie, but was forced to ask for help, causing Sarah to laugh at him. Kid Blink carefully put on the new blue shirt, admiring himself in the reflection of the mirror.
The laughter seemed like a curse to Spot Conlon, as he sat with a fake smile on his face as he watched Fish play with his engine.
I shoulda known dat dere wouldn't be a present fer me! Why did I even get me hopes up? He thought viscously to himself.
But just then a shadow passed in front of him. When Spot looked up, the figure of Bright Eyes stood in front of him holding a large box. "Who's dat fer?" Spot questioned, trying not to sound curious. Bright Eyes smiled and pulled up a chair. "Well Spot, its fer you." Spot started and gazed at Bright Eyes suspiciously. "Jest fer me? No one else?" Bright Eyes laughed and she set the box on the boy's lap. "Jest fer you. Open it!" She said excitedly.
The boys gathered around as Spot carefully unwrapped the paper from around the box. Then he slowly lifted up the lid and stared. The contents weren't many, but were enough to cause the color to drain from Spot's cheeks. He turned to Bright Eyes. "Where'd ya find 'em?" Bright Eyes smiled as she gazed at her friend. "I was doin' a little research of me own while I was in Chicago." Spot turned his attention back to the box and began to shuffle around in it, lifting the contents out one by one and gazing at them fondly. A business card lay on the bottom of the box. Spot picked it up and read the inscription.
Mr. John M. Conlon
Business Industrialist
6104 Central Ave.
New York, New York 67943
Spot slipped the business card into his pocket and now began to take up the items of the box and finger them one by one. Inside there was an odd collection of things, a top hat, a pair of once white satin gloves, an opera glass with one eye missing, a small little doll, with smudges covering her china face, but the smile still brilliant as in the olden days. There was also a straw hat, with a faux flower perched in the side, a picture of revolutionary soldiers and a small faded train engine, its colors worn off by loving play.
When Spot picked up one of the gloves, a slip of paper fell out of the inside. When Spot picked it up, he gave a little moan to himself. It was a photograph. There was a tall, stern looking man, but with eyes that looked like they could be full of mischief when they wanted to be, a rather short, but beautiful woman with fair hair, her arm around her eldest son, who was tall like his father. There were two girls, one in her teens, with dark curly hair falling over her shoulders, the other girl who was younger, had rather fair hair, also falling over her shoulders, with a straw hat perched atop her head. An impish smile was etched across her face, her hand in the lap of a little boy sitting by her side. The boy was small, with elvish features, a grin spread across his face, his slightly snubbed nose wrinkled with the grin. "That boy looks familiar Spot. Who is he?" Fish asked curiously. Spot took a deep breath. "Dat kid's name was Michael. Dems his ma and dad, an' his brudda Francis an' his sistas Martha an' Janey." Spot said, as he fondly touched the blonde haired girl's face.
"What happened to 'em?" Fish asked. Spot stared unseeing for a few moments before he spoke again, in a small quavering voice. "Dey're all dead." Fish gasped and grabbed Spot's limp hand. "Even da little boy?" Spot nodded a lone tear falling off his cheek. "Even da little boy." Spot turned to Bright Eyes. "Where did ya get dis?" Bright Eyes smiled almost sadly as she spoke. "Dat was all dat was left. It was jest in da vault waitin' fer someone ta claim it." Spot stood up and carried the box upstairs with him, the rest of the boys staring after him.
"What was all dat stuff, Mama?" Fish asked as he spun the wheels on his engine. "It was his stuff. His family's stuff." Fish stared at her in confusion. "But Spot said that they were all dead. Even da little boy!" Bright Eyes smiled wistfully. "That little boy is dead Fish. He changed greatly." Suddenly the front door slammed, surprising all the people in the room. Snipeshooter ran to the window. "Its Spot! He's leavin'!" Fish's eyes widened in horror. "He didn't tell me good-bye!" Fish ran out the front door, leaving his coat behind. Jack raced up and followed him, Bright Eyes and the others following Jack's lead.
Fish raced across the snow and ice of the front yard with reckless abandon, his one focus on the figure ahead, holding the large box. "Spot! Spot! Wait fer me! Ya didn't say good-bye!" Spot either didn't hear, or he refused to hear, for he kept walking. Fish ran into the road, dodging and barely missing a carriage as he went, the driver yelling. Suddenly, Spot turned, and at the same moment Fish crossed an icy stretch in the sidewalk near a large hill. The boy's feet flew out from under him, his head impacting hard on the cement, his lifeless body rolling down the snowy hill. A strangled cry came from Spot as he slid down the hill, Bright Eyes, Jack and the rest doing the same. The boy was resting in Spot's arms when they reached the bottom, Spot's coat covering his body, Spot's cold, red hands trying desperately to staunch the flow of blood coming from the boy's head.
Bright Eyes slid down beside the boy and felt the smaller boy's pulse. It was still beating strongly. Bright Eyes' expert hands then felt through the dark head of hair, trying to find the wound. She found it. It was not a large cut, but still one that needed attention, attention that she knew how to give. She touched Spot's arm tenderly. "He's gonna be okay Spot. Its nothin' much. He'll be okay."
Spot gazed at the girl, his eyes glazed over. "Its my fault. I didn't stop to say goodbye. Its my fault. Everything. Fish dyin'. Momma an' Dad dyin'. Even Martha, Francis, an' Janey. I didn't even say goodbye ta them eitha!" Spot stood up quickly as if to emphasize his words. "Now look at me! It'll be my fault if he dies! Mine all mine! Jest like normal! I was mad at Momma dat day! Ya wanna know why? Because she wouldn't let me go ta Brooklyn ta see a friend! So I left anyway an' slammed da door an' didn't care if I said goodbye or not! I came back, an' da place was boined to da ground! It was all my fault!" Spot stepped back as if in a dream, then took off, running across the snow as fast as he could without tripping. "Spot! Come back! Please." Bright Eyes' yell slowly deteriorated when she realized that he wouldn't stop. The body in her arms moaned and turned on his side, asleep. "C'mon, les git dis kid back to da Lodgin' House an' git him bandaged up." Bright Eyes said as she shouldered the boy gently and stood up, accompanying the boys back home, Racetrack's reassuring arm on her back.
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The boys didn't see Spot for a long time afterwards. A few went to Brooklyn and inquired about him, but the boys would shrug their shoulders and say that he was out. "He's always out!" Jack grumbled after his tenth visit and attempt to see the Brooklyn leader. Fish had long since recovered from his injury, and was anxious to tell Spot so. But because of his stubborness, the Newsies were at an impasse with Brooklyn. So, they went back to their all day duty, carryin' the banner and sellin' the papes.
Bright Eyes stayed low, working only a few hours a day. "Why aren't ya woikin' days Bright? Its kinda weird da way ya jest sit around da house afta you've finished sellin'." Racetrack commented. "I gotta do dis. I'm plannin' sometin' big." She would reply, saying nothing more. She was certainly planning something, for at times she didn't even emerge from her room in the morning till about noon. Then she would eat lunch and sell papers for a few hours, then go home. Whenever any of the boys asked what she was doing in her room, she would smile sweetly and threaten to hit them so hard she would knock their socks off if they tried to get in. The boys knew that she would never do it, but still they weren't that curious.
Finally one morning, Bright Eyes walked out of her room at the waking hours. The boys stared. Bright Eyes was again dressed in what they called, "scabba clothes." Under one arm she held a suitcase, under the other she held a fashionable umbrella. "What da heck are you doin'?" Kid Blink blurted out. "Nothin'. Jest workin' wit' me plan. I'll see ya tenite." With that said, Bright Eyes practically waltzed out the door, waving as she did so. The boys stared at each other, then resumed their duties, trusting that Bright Eyes knew what she was doing.
Bright Eyes gave a sigh of relief and put up the parasol with look of disgust. "Who needs da stupid tings, when ya got skin ta obsorb da sun? Whateva, gotta look da part I guess." Bright Eyes walked daintily to the downtown area, where she walked around the stores until exactly 8:00. When the bells began to chime the hour, she headed toward the large building, with the beautiful golden ball atop its spire. Inside the building, it was rather hot and musty. There was a front desk with a large, burly man sitting at it, shoving papers around.
Bright Eyes gulped and walked up to the man. "Excuse me sir?" The man looked up and smiled. "Yes missy, what kin I do fer ya?" Bright Eyes nodded. "I would like to speak with Mr. Pulitzer please, on account of his searching for a journalist to write an article for a few weeks time, until his and Mr. Hearst's reporters get back from India I believe the paper said." The man smiled wanly. "Yeah, but I'm afraid he didn't mean women." Bright Eyes colored. "I do not understand your meaning. I have rights. I am a professional journalist. I have written papers in St. Louis, Boston, and Chicago. I assure you of this. My papers." With that she shoved a handful of papers into the man's hands which he accepted readily.
"Miss Anne "Andy" McClaen, eh? I mighta heaid of you. The last name sounds familiar anyway. An' who knows? Maybe Pulizer has too. Excuse me for a minute." The man walked to the back of his office and up some stairs. Bright Eyes took the opportunity to locate all of the doors in and out of the place, making sure of herself. The man walked back down the stairs and motioned to her. "This way miss." Bright Eyes breathed deeply, then followed the man up the stairs. When she reached the landing, she saw that it was much cooler, due to all the open windows, and it was also much nicer than downstairs. Bright Eyes walked past rooms where men were eagerly writing their stories one by one and sending them to the presses to be printed.
Finally, the two reached two large elaborately designed wooden doors with brass knobbs. The man opened it and Bright Eyes walked in alone. As she entered the room, the man at the desk stood, the other man in a chair nearby remained seated. The man at the desk spoke first, in a rather raspy tone of voice. "My dear Miss McClaen. An honor to finally meet you in person. I am Joseph Pulitzer and this is Seitz. I would like it if you would take a seat please." Bright Eyes sat smiling at Pulitzer, who had changed in the last year. His hair and beard were a tad white, wrinkles were overtaking his face. Seitz on the other hand had not changed in the slightest.
"I hope that you will not find me rude by coming and asking for this section of your paper Mr. Pulitzer. I mean it is truly rather silly, that I a woman ask to have a part in your paper." Bright Eyes said modestly. Pulitzer nodded. "I wondered that myself. But I have read your work Miss McClaen, under your false name Andy McClaen, and I quite like your style. Now suppose you wrote the column from your home and then sent it to me with the name 'Andy' instead of Anne on them, we might have a deal. Of course you understand the special circumstances I'm stating don't you?" Bright Eyes nodded. "Of course. You don't want your paper to fail because a woman is writing a section of your paper." Pulitzer nodded. "Precisely! Precisely! Will that do for you Miss McClaen?" Bright Eyes stood and curtsied. "Of course Mr. Pulitzer. And thank you again. I shall have the first entry written by tomorrow." With that Bright Eyes exited the room.
"Well Seitz. That was the famous 'Andy McClaen.' Charming girl I think. What do you think?" Seitz sighed and stood. "Well if you really want my opinion sir?" Pulitzer nodded. "I think I've seen her somewhere before. I can't place where though. I have seen her before." Pulitzer shrugged. "I don't know Seitz. I'm sure I've never seen her before and unless you're seeing people behind my back, well I think you're mistaken." Seitz nodded, though Pulitzer could see that he was still not convinced. "You're wrong Seitz. That girl is going to make me famous. And even better than Willy Hearst, remember that Seitz. And Willy won't have a clue what is going on!"
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Spot Conlon laid sprawled out on his bed, absentmindedly toying with his slingshot. The afternoon and morning papers were sold, and the evening papers were in the printing press. Spot sighed and tossed the slingshot in the box he kept under his bed. He sat up and stretched then laid back down again. He was restless. Spot wanted to have some fun with the boys, but he wanted to share it with the Manhattan boys, and maybe even the lone Manhattan/Brooklyn girl. But since Fish's accident, Spot refused to visit, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that Fish had to be dead. He had seen the blood. The small boy's fate had been signed in that blood, that was all there was to it, and it was his fault.
Sure, he had heard that Fish had in fact lived from the runners that came through from Manhattan, but Spot figured that they had to be mistaken. The same thing had happened to the older Fish. Fish had been the former leader of the Brooklyn Newsies and a surrogate father to young Spot. Fish had fallen and hit his head during an attack with some other bigger and stronger newsboys. Spot had ran to him and tried to stop the bleeding, just as he had done with the younger Fish. He hadn't helped him and the older Fish had died. This was the same situation, and he believed it was his fault again, and nothing would convince him otherwise. Runners are usually wrong about information anyway. Spot thought. A knock on the door sounded, drawing a sigh out of Spot. "Whaddya want? Tell da guys dat I ain't goin' ta Gus's fer food tenite. I'll jest stay here! Ya got dat?"
The door creaked open. "Yeah, I got dat Spot. An' I'll tell 'em, but I tink dat dey'll be mighty disappointed." Spot jumped at the sound of the feminine voice coming from the doorway. "Go 'way Bright. I don't wanna talk, AT ALL!" Spot said firmly. Bright Eyes nodded and entered anyway. "Look Bright, I know what yer gonna say. Fish is dead an' dere's nothin' else to say. I already know. So go back to yer dear Manhattan, that ya HAD ta go to all those years ago! Jest go! Yer happier dere dan here wit' me anyway." Spot said sullenly.
Bright Eyes sighed and plopped herself on the bed next to Spot, who scooted a few inches away from her. "Look Spot, lets face it. I need you an' you need me. Ain't dat da way its always been? Eva since we was little, we knew dat we needed each udda ta get trough each day. Jest te know dat eitha one of us was close by was enough to make us feel safer an' betta about ourselves. Don't end it on dis Spot. I need ya, even if ya think dat ya don't need me." During this time, Spot's gray-blue eyes stared stormily into nothingness, and as she spoke they softened. "I don't need nobody." Spot said, but not with as much emphasis as before. "Yeah ya do. An' da soona ya admit dat da betta. It ain't good fer dat hot pride ya got boinin' in yer chest. Listen now. Fish ain't dead an' he ain't gonna die any time soon, God ferbid." At that Spot's eyes closed momentarily as if in thought. "I ain't gonna say yes or no if I need ya or not Bright. You accept dat." Although Spot meant to sound determined in his decision, Bright Eyes could tell that he was gradually weakening.
"Okay, dats all right. I'll accept dat. But I do need ya fer a little scheme I've got up me sleeve." Spot turned to her, questioningly. "I's woikin' fer Pulitzer," She began as Spot interrupted. "Well 'corse ya are! Ain't we all woikin' fer dat miser?" Bright Eyes rolled her eyes. "Don't interrupt! 'Memba when I came back an' I said dat I was a journalist?" Spot's forehead furrowed in thought. " Yeah. How could I ferget?" He answered uneasily. "Well I's woikin, woikin' fer him! I's a journalist unda a fake name fer him!" Spot nearly jumped off the bed in surprise. "What? You'se doin' what?" Bright Eyes laughed and pulled him back down to a sitting position. "I's woikin' fer him. Now listen, I's got an idea fer dis guy, but I cain't do it widout you. Now listen." As Bright Eyes whispered into the Brooklyn leader's ear, his eyes twinkled mischieviously and the old, energetic spark came back into his eyes as he listened closely to his friend's devisings
