Chapter 2: The Almighty Spot Conlon
Francis, having no particular place to go, cautiously roamed the dark streets of New York until finally, somewhere around noon the next day, he found himself wandering the streets of Brooklyn. And at that very moment, a short, but dangerous nonetheless, boy seemingly seeped from the shadows of an alleyway. Both stopped and sized the other up for a moment.
"What'cher name, kid?" he finally asked.
Francis eyed suspiciously at the boy before him. He was impatiently thumping the end of a cane on the hard-packed floor, and he wondered just what was the purpose of the item. "Who wantsta know?" he asked guardedly.
The boy narrowed his eyes. "Who d'ya think asked ya?"
Francis returned the glare. "The warden" was his retort.
The boy growled at the comparison. "I asked for ya name."
"You first."
The boy arched a brow. "Ya mean ya don't know-" He stared hard at him. "Nah, I guess not. You's too stupid. The name's Spot. Spot Conlon."
"Jack Kelly," Francis lied easily, bitterly ignoring the 'stupid' comment. No need for Spot to know the truth. He'd learned the hard way that very few people in his world were trustworthy. 'What kinda name is Spot?' he wondered, slightly amused, after a moment. 'Sounds a lot like the name of a dog.'
"Jack, eh?" Spot stated simply, almost as if he didn't believe him.
"Yeah. Jack," he snapped. "Ever heard the poem 'Jack be nimble, Jack be quick'?"
"Sure. What, now you's gonna jump over a candlestick, or somethin'?" he taunted. Then his voice hardened. "Whad'ya doin' here in Brooklyn, Jacky-boy?"
"Who wantsta know?"
Spot rolled his eyes. "We goin' through this again?" He folded his sinewy arms over his chest. "Ya better get off my turf b'fore I soak ya, boy," he warned.
The newly declared Jack Kelly clenched his fists. "You's gonna soak me, eh? I'd like t' see ya lay one fist on me," he sneered, his tone suggesting that he would be the one dealing out the beating, should Spot start anything.
He snorted. "Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Ya did not just threaten the Almighty Spot Conlon!"
"An' what if I did?"
Spot's knees bent and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "You's just askin' to get soaked, ain'cha?"
Jack mimicked his stance and motioned for him to approach. "Think you's so tough, Spotty? Try me."
With a yell, he launched himself towards Jack, slamming his shoulder into his chest. The boy back-peddled several steps before hitting the ground hard, with fists flying. Grabbing a handful of Spot's hair, he yanked back hard, throwing him aside. Spot rolled to his feet and leapt onto Jack's back, dragging them both to the ground once again. He crammed his elbow into Jack's gut and rolled around to give him a sharp punch in the face. While he was rising to his feet, Spot shoved him down, face to the ground, again. Angry, Jack shoved his elbow back, striking him in the mouth
When they stood again- Jack, with a bloody nose, and Spot with a split lip- neither were prepared to surrender to the other. They eyed one another, and Spot circled him like an animal going in for the kill. Suddenly, loud whistles split the air.
"The bulls!" he yelled. He and Jack broke into a run. "I'll get ya later, Jack," he added bitterly, splitting off to the left.
"I doubt it," Jack muttered to himself, slipping into a cramped alleyway as the police ran past. When he was certain the coast was clear, he crept out of the alley, wiping the blood from his nose. Stuffing his hands into his empty pockets, he shuffled down the street, whistling to himself. 'Jack Kelly,' he mused thoughtfully. 'Good name. Strong name. I think I'll keep it. Francis Sullivan? No, no, no. I's Jack Kelly!" He grinned to himself, pleased with his quick thinking. He prided himself on his ability to formulate believable fibs on the spot.
His stomach rumbled viciously at him, insisting that sustenance fill it immediately. Passing food vendors, his mouth watered from the delicious aromas that emanated from their carts. He wasn't going to steal anything, though. 'Not yet, anyway. Not until I's got to.' After all, he didn't want to end up back in the Refuge, or any other prison, for that matter. And so, he kept walking, mulling over the issue of his money problems- the fact that he didn't have any, being the main one. His mind was filled with options to go about earning some money.
'A fact'ry?' Quickly, he shook his head. Factories were too stifling, too dark, too much like the Refuge. 'An errand boy?' Glancing down at his worn, faded clothing, now dirty and ripped from his scuffle with Stain, or Rover- whatever the boy's name was- he dismissed the idea. No one would hire an untrustworthy street rat to run errands for them, or even to pick fleas off the family mutt. Jack was so absorbed in thought that he ran into an unsuspecting newsboy before he had a chance to see him.
"Hey! Watch where ya goin'!" the boy yelled.
Absently, he tossed an apology towards the newsboy and shuffled past, mentally thumbing through a list of occupations. 'Stable hand?… No, I don't know the first thing about horses. Street performer? Yeah right, an' amaze 'em all with my lack of talent… Soldier?… Not a chance!'
His thoughts slowly ended up wandering back to the Refuge, and he wondered about the chaos his escape must have created. Snyder had, without a doubt, sent out a vigorous search party for the escapee. The warden hated Jack just as much the boy hated him. He sympathized momentarily with the other boys the punishment they must have endured for not giving up information they didn't even have the privilege of knowing. The system was cruel that way.
'But that's all behind me now. I's gonna start over. New life, new identity…' Then he recalled Danny's comment, about resembling a cowboy. Deciding that he rather liked the nickname, he made it his priority, second only to finding food, to gear his "new identity" to the name.
* * *
Jack no longer felt the pangs of hunger. He was past that stage, running on sparse sleep and the occasional snatched bit of water. He was also beginning to wonder if escaping from the Refuge had been such a good idea. He prided himself to being a survivor, but how long it would last, he didn't know. Without paying attention, he wandered into the docks, and, without knowing it, wandered into trouble. He had been doing that a lot the past few days.
He was pulled out of his daze when something small and hard pinged off the back of his neck. "What the…" he muttered, slapping his hand to his neck. He looked back, and saw no one. Suddenly, he was peppered with small stones from the opposite side. Whirling around, he saw a group of six or seven- some his age, some younger, one that possibly was older- loading slingshots and preparing to fire once again. And in the middle of them all was the Almighty Leader himself.
"Ah, if it ain't me good friend, Jacky-boy," he commented snidely.
"Oh, how ya doin', Rover?" Jack replied just as viciously.
The boys surrounding him shook their heads, all groaning and voicing comments such as "Ya gonna pay for that one" and "Whatcha gonna do, Spot?"
Spot narrowed his eyes. "I told ya I'd get ya later. Just me luck ya stumbled into our docks." He jumped down from the crate he was perched upon, and sauntered over to the intruder, pushing him roughly on the shoulder. "An' lucky you, I gots me boys t' back me up."
"Can't fight me on ya own, Speck? Gotta get ya flunkies t' fight me?"
He yawned, shoving Jack again. "Naw. I ain't got th' need to mess up me clothes fightin' wit' ya again. But theys ain't had a good fight in awhile, Jacky-boy." He gestured to the posse behind him. Taking a step back, he announced, rather indifferently, "Soak 'im."
"Whatta you's, a girl?" he yelled taking a mighty swing at one of the advancing boys.
"I ain't no girl!" the leader of the pack shouted in return.
"You's a girl!" Jack rammed his foot into the gut of the same boy he punched, and was dragged down by two others, as they pummeled him with their fists. He struggled to get free, screaming, "Fight me fair, Spot! I's gonna soak ya so bad ya won't be able t' walk for the rest a ya life!" He spat a mouthful of blood onto one of the boys, wrenching his arms free and grabbing one's head, slamming it onto his knee. A big guy slammed into him from behind, shoving his face into the gravel. Agony ripped through every bone in his body, but he valiantly fought to regain control of himself before something embarrassing happened. He slammed his elbow into the boy's face, similar to the way he had on Spot, and scrambled out from underneath him. Turning to the other boys, he yelled, "Come an' get me, cowards!"
"No!" Spot held up his cane to stop his boys. He threw Jack a feral glare. "Ain't nobody soaks me boys like that… This un's mine." He dove for Jack, cramming his fist into his gut and driving it upwards, forcing all the air out of his body. Jack collapsed, wheezing. "Who's th' girl now, eh, Jacky-boy? Get up!" He kicked him in the side.
Jack groaned. Just when it seemed that he wouldn't rise again, he staggered to his feet.
"C'mon… Gimme… gimme ya best shot," he gasped, wiping the blood from his nose.
Spot stared at him, with a rather amused expression on his face. Suddenly, he wasn't in the mood to fight Jack. "Ya jus' don't know when t' give up, do ya?"
"I don't give up," he growled. "Now let's finish this."
"Listen kid, you's bein' outright stupid. I don't really wanna kill ya. So don't get me angrier. 'Sides… I kinda admire the way ya handled ya'self against me boys. Even though I wanna soak th' hell outta ya."
"Why don'cha try it?"
Spot rolled his eyes. "Like I's sayin', you's bein' stupid. Now, c'mon, me and you, let's have a talk." He motioned for Jack to follow him.
Jack eyed him warily. "How'll I know I can trust ya?"
He glanced back and smirked. "On my word… as a newsie." He spat on his hand and held it out. "Ain't my word good enough?" he asked, as the other stared at the limb suspiciously.
Mumbling curses under his breath, Jack spat in his own hand and clasped the Brooklyn newsie's hand in the unfamiliar handshake. "C'mon, why don'cha follow me."
Jack grunted in annoyance that the request sounded more like an order that he was just expected to follow, but, tired of fighting, tired of starving, tired of sleeping in boxes in the alleys, he followed Spot.
"Now, lemme guess. You's in need of a job, eh?"
"What makes ya think that?"
Spot arched an eyebrow. "There ain't nothin' I don't know, Jack."
Jack shuddered at the way the boy said his name, as if he really did know all. 'Guess I shouldn't doubt 'im… It'll get me in a lotta trouble, I's sure…' He nodded and replied casually, squinting at the sky, "A job'd be nice."
The Brooklyn leader smacked the butt of his came onto the ground, insisting his follower pay attention to what he had to say. "Then I's got jus' th' job for ya."
"An' what's that?"
"You, Jacky-boy, are gonna be a newsie."
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